Chap 4: Alive

He studies her face as she sleeps.

Her face is serene in its repose. Although her porcelain skin has a translucent quality, it is not unblemished. Soot and ash mar her fine features. They stumbled into Dany's chambers in the wee hours of the morning exhausted from the night's chaos. He peeled off his clothes while Dany plopped the borrowed wrap on the ground before they both collapsed on the bed. He pulled her tight to his chest and the last thing he heard was Dany mumbling something about a hot bath before they both passed out. At some point, she rolled off him onto her back, where she now lies. He turns to his side and props himself up by his uninjured arm to examine her features further.

He had heard that Targaryens described as almost otherworldly in their beauty, and nothing about Dany dissuades him from that notion. When he first saw Daenerys, he remembered the time he got caught in the Wolfswood during a summer storm and saw lightning strike a tree near him. Seeing her felt like a jolt through his body and his mouth tasted like the blade of a knife afterwards. He suspected she would be beautiful, but he didn't think anything could have prepared him for it. He tried to hide how much her mere presence thoroughly rattled him, which he supposed she used frequently as a strategy.

After they started to share a bed, he once clumsily tried to describe how she looked like a goddess. She put her finger to his lips, "Please don't. That's not me," she insisted. It was almost a plea for him not to get caught up in the myth of Daenerys Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Grass Sea. A myth she willingly cultivated. How often through the years did she wear that persona like a cloak? How many people saw the woman beneath it? Even among her closest allies, there remained a distance. Men clearly desired her; he could see that in Jorah, he even suspected it in Tyrion and he now imagines all White Harbor has her vestige clearly burned in their brains. Deep down though, he didn't think many people knew her. Never forget who you are, wear it like armor and it can never be used against you. He knew that feeling all too well and the loneliness that followed with it. He supposed she wanted him to see her as a normal person, not something unusual.

Tonight's events proved that this wasn't the truth either.

The Unburnt.

Missandei practically spat out the word when she named all Daenerys titles the first time he met her. Like he wasn't even worthy of hearing the Queen's titles, let alone stand in her presence. And although a part of him did feel like a boy standing in front of Lady Stark after he did something to displease her, he quickly brushed that intimidation tactic aside and got down to the business of what brought him to Dragonstone in the first place. He never thought about what that word meant.

Until last night.

Unburnt. She stepped through fire for him and the flames did not touch her. She saved him, without a moment's hesitation. Just like she saved the group when they were beyond the Wall. She saves people from monsters. Even from the human variety. He can still feel the sting of his arm where the fire licked him. He holds his arm up and sees some blood had seeped through the bandage.

Unburnt, but not untouchable. He lightly traces side of her face; his thumb grazes her full pink lips as she sighs. She's dead tired, and doesn't rouse. Here, she seemed like just a young woman, vulnerable and open. Lovely, yet human.

And alive. Wonderfully alive.

He shudders thinking of the visions he saw in the flames. Did the Lord of Light finally make an appearance to him after all this time? To extract the payment for his life restored? What did it all mean? Did it mean anything at all? Was this the future? The past? Or just the delusions of a man on the verge of death?

Madness. He reflects on Melisandre and her flames and the ruin of lives that followed with it. That way lies madness. He pushes it from his mind and concentrates on the woman besides him.

He caresses the side of her neck and feels her steady heartbeat. It's strong and true, a good heart. His fingers move lightly down the center of her neck following a path of smudge marks. A slight laugh escapes in her sleep; she's ticklish. He stops and takes the covers and lifts them off her body. He can see goosebumps form on her skin, her nipples stiffen as they are exposed to the colder air. He touches his finger nail to one and grows even harder. His fingers dance over her flesh, under her breast, the slight curve of her belly and then tangles in the silky silver-gold at the apex of her thighs. He has an overwhelming urge to taste her there. His tongue soon slides smoothly between the lips of her sex. He inhales her and she smells of smoke and wood, the remnants of an ancient castle cling to her. She tastes of cinnamon and warm mead on a frozen winter's day. His tongue laves every fold, circling her sweet spot and then dipping into her center. He feels her grab his head. "J . . . Jon," she breathes between a gasp of pleasure.

He lifts her leg and scoots in between her to get in a better position. She holds his head steady to her by one hand, massaging it as he methodically works her sex. "Ahhhh," she cries out. He takes a moment and lifts his head to see her face contour in desire. Her expressive eyebrows are knotted together in concentration, her free hand grips the headboard as she rides waves of pleasure. Both of his hands rub her upper thigh, then his right arm moves up her body and he nearly screams in pain as his bandage catches on her body causing friction. He ignores the discomfort and finds her breast. He can feel her heart thumping loudly against her chest.

Alive. Very much alive.

She places her left hand on top of his right and clutches it. "J . . . J . . . Jon . . . I . . . nnneed . . ." She doesn't finish the sentence, just moans loudly as her breathing becomes more irregular. She squeezes her thighs against his head and toes try to find purchase on his bare back. He doesn't relent, he waits to taste her release. When he finally does, it is sweet and pure in his mouth. He lingers there between her thighs lapping her up until he knows she's sated. Then he crawls up her body, favoring his left side and protecting his injured arm. He kisses her, knowing she can taste herself. She gently strokes his face and scratches his beard. Her eyes beam as she says, "What a splendid way to wake up, I'll have to return the favor sometime."

"The least I could do for you saving my life."

"If this is the reward, I shall endeavor to find more ways to save you, Jon Snow."

"Not if I save you first," Jon counters. She gives him a tender kiss, her lips soft and pliable. His erection presses against her belly, he lifts his body a little and she adjusts under him before he slips inside her. He takes his time, the frantic energy of last night has dissipated. He finds a steady rhythm which she soon matches. Only the throbbing of his burnt arm impairs their passion. He tries to ignore it, propping both of his arms to the side of her. She seems to sense his discomfort. She rolls him over to his left side and wraps her leg over his waist, pulling him close to her. He stretches his right arm above him to find purchase with the headboard, careful to keep it from touching anything. They gently rock together, their bodies pressed and becoming slick with sweat. The passion in him steadily increases, but he remains controlled, determined to make this last. She climaxes again, but he tries to hold on to the feeling of sharing different heartbeats yet somehow being one. When he can hold out no longer, he finds his release and then rolls over on his back. She rests her ear right above his heart. He knows she likes to do that. Perhaps she wants to reassure herself that it still beats.

After a while, they both drift back to sleep. As he wakes up, he knows that they have much work to do. "We probably need to get up. It's nearly midday and we still have to oversee what we will do with the injured troops and plan for the road ahead."

She doesn't move, but murmurs into his chest. "I need a bath. I'm not going anywhere without a hot bath."

He knows how much she loves her baths. Even in the cramped quarters of the ship, she made it a daily ritual. She always smelled so clean and pure and vaguely of spices from faraway lands.

"And you are most definitely going to get one too. We need to make sure that your wound is clean so it doesn't get an infection." She doesn't speak of her husband often, but she did tell him that the great warrior died of an infection made worse by a vengeful maegi. Death is the first enemy and the last. That's what Beric told him. It lurks around every corner and just bides its time. Sooner or later, it always wins.

He thinks of the vision in the flames of her crying out in pain and he pulls her tightly to him. I will not let that happen. If he held any sway in the universe, this is his most steadfast promise.

After they rest a bit more, she calls for the servants to draw a bath and Jon feels exposed after clearly spending the night, or rather the morning, with the Queen. He thought about getting up before they came and awkwardly returning to his assigned bedchambers, but his exhaustion won over any potential embarrassment of a scandal. He had thrown his thoroughly grimy pants and shirt on for decency but that doesn't stop the handmaids surreptitiously glancing in his direction.

"Please bring Lord Snow's belongings and clothes here," instructs Dany to the servants. If he was less tired, her presumption might irritate him. But as it was, he just numbly nods his assent when they turn for confirmation. Lord Snow. He hated that title. He can still hear Alliser Thorne's mockingly address him by that name. It was just one of the many tools his former instructor used to try to insult and break Jon when he first got to the Wall. He supposes there's not a better name for Daenerys to address him formally now. He willingly gave up the title King in the North when he pledged to her. He told himself he didn't care about titles so long as it helps in the bigger objective in fighting the Great War. And yet . . . he couldn't deny the thrill he felt when the Northern Lords first named him the King in the North. It was the cumulation of a thousand dreams he played out as a boy with Robb. What will the other Northern Lords say about me giving up the title? What will Sansa say? Would I have a different title if Daenerys and I stood before the heart's tree? He wants to get back to Winterfell, to his own space with his own things. Not constantly being a guest to strangers. Before he left for the Wall, he had never really traveled at all. He knew his own place and could map out every crevice of Winterfell by heart.

He watches her as she disrobes and eases herself into the steaming hot bath. He wants her as his guest for once in his own chambers, to show her the glass gardens and the godswood. She smiles and holds out her hand to him. "Will you join me?"

He shrugs out of his filthy clothes again and puts a foot into the bath. It almost scalds him. "Gods be good, that is hot. You really are The Unburnt, aren't you?"

She shrugs and hugs her knees. "I like the heat."

He grits his teeth and bears the heat as he slowly eases into the tub that is big enough to hold two and faces her. "There are hot springs under Winterfell, I'd like to take you to them." His mind flashes to an image of Ygritte and the springs of Gendel's cave. I wanted to take Ygritte there too at one point, he thinks unhappily, but Death found her first.

"I'd like that." She takes a washcloth and lathers soap on it and starts washing his unbandaged arm. "Keep the other arm outside the tub until the water cools more," she instructs. She scrubs his finger nails first, then works his way up his arm, massaging the muscles as she goes. She scours his chest, removing the grime and leaving him pink with new skin. She lingers over his scars, but says nothing. She knows he doesn't like to talk about it. He grabs her arm and pulls her into a kiss, slopping water over the side of the tub. His arm moves down her back and settles on her round bottom that peaks above the water. He traces her crack until he finds the folds of her sex and delicately parts them. She groans and then lightly catches his lower lip between her teeth. "Don't distract me," she admonishes.

Dany stands up and the water cascades between her breasts and down her body. She slips behind him and cradles his back. Dany instructs him to dunk his head and then lathers soap on his hair. She detangles his locks with her fingers and Jon's scalp tingles with pleasure. "You're good at this," Jon acknowledges as he strokes her left ankle and calf absently.

"Thank you." She kisses the side of his neck gently. After she rinses the soap out, he sinks lower in the tub and rests the back of his head on her breasts. He feels so relaxed, he could fall asleep right there and for a moment, it looks like he does. Then the sensation of falling wakes him up with a start. "Let's look at that burn." She carefully removes the bandage. It doesn't look that bad. I've had worse burns, he thinks as he flexes the hand he burned when he killed a wight and saved Lord Commander Mormont. She gently cleans the new burn with soap and water. "We'll put an ointment on it and bandage it up again."

"Have you ever been burned," Jon asks curiously.

She thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. "I don't believe so, but I don't know. I don't think I really know what it's like to burn."

"Are all Targaryens fireproof?" Jon thinks of Maester Aemon and wonders if he had a skill he had been holding out on at the Wall.

"No," she says definitively and a hard line forms at her mouth. "My brother certainly was not. King Aegon V and most of the other Targaryens of his generation perished at the Summerhall in fire."

Jon remembers the story from Old Nan. Aegon V had already become a legend with tales of his boyhood spent as a squire to the Hedge Knight, Duncan the Tall. He was considered a good and fair king who wanted to make changes to how things were run in the seven kingdoms. But the noble Houses resisted him at every turn. In his old age, he thought what he really needed to enact his vision for Westeros were dragons. He began to pursue every legend on how to hatch them. Summerhall exploded in fire and ended his reign after one such experiment.

"My oldest brother Rhaegar was born on the grounds of Summerhall on the very night of the tragedy," she acknowledges solemnly. Jon thinks he might have heard this once, but after what Rhaegar did to his Aunt Lyanna no one really liked to talk about him in the Stark household.

He flexes his arm and stretches it out trying to determine how badly the burn would affect his ability to fight. It didn't stop him from slicing Marlon's head off. She was about to see that man burned alive. Like Stannis did with Mance. Like Melisandre did with Shireen. Like Aerys did with his grandfather and uncle. He heard she burned Sam's father and brother when they wouldn't bend the knee. Maybe she is quicker to burn people because she doesn't know what it feels like to be burned. Then again, he does not know how much pain a person felt when his head was chopped off.

Jon did not want to dwell on these troubling thoughts, so he changes the subject. "I guess it helps to ride a dragon if you can't be burned by one." He turns around to face her and takes up the soap and starts returning the favor of washing her body. She smiles as he cups her breasts and polishes them with the washcloth.

"I guess it does," she replies absentmindedly. He holds out her arm, scrubbing it from her armpits to the tips of her fingers.

"So, tell me what flying is like," he asks as he soaps up her belly, dipping into her belly button.

She thinks about it for a moment. "Flying is like becoming one with the elements. You are the mist in the clouds, the pure, open sky and the terror of the storm." Jon stills his hand and watches her intensely, his dark eyes focused on her light ones. "If you ride a horse you can feel the wind blow in your hair, but you are the wind when you ride a dragon. You slip off the edge of the world and you can almost touch the sun." The room is as silent as a crypt now.

Then Jon speaks, "Sounds like a remarkable experience."

"It is," Dany softly replies. "One day you should join me, Jon Snow."

He smiled at that, thinking of how as a boy he would play he was Prince Daeron riding on his dragon. Perhaps one day I will. He recalls the vision of flying over Westeros. He wonders what the Lord of Light is trying to tell him. You are not my god.He banishes the intruding thoughts of foreign gods in his mind by leaning over to the woman before him and kissing her. Not a god nor a goddess, but my Queen. He slips his hand under the water to find another way to show his devotion. She makes that soft little moan that drives him wild.

A knocking at the door stops any other notions that Jon entertains. "Beg your pardon, your Grace . . . er . . . Jon . . . are you in there?" Jon can hear the distinct Flea Bottom accent of his advisor through the door. He sounds apologetic, and slightly embarrassed, but he's talking loud enough to hear though the heavy wooden doors. Anyone else will surely hear him too. "We have found more conspirators from last night."

There's really no point in hiding it anymore, is there? "We'll be there shortly. I think it's time to face the day, Daenerys the Unburnt." He stands up and holds out his hand.

She sighs wistfully before she grabs his hand and stands up herself.