Author's Note: My first multi-chapter story for Game of Thrones! This first chapter came out much more fluffy and sexy than I'd expected and not every chapter will be like this, but it will be very Jon/Dany centric as it follows their journey, their budding but complicated relationship, their arrival at Winterfell, attempts to unite the North + other kingdoms, and who knows what else. Comments appreciated. :)

She can't take her eyes off him – the heaving of his chest, the contracting of his mottled abdomen as he tries to calm his breathing while waves of pleasure still ripple through his body.

It had been incredible to watch him come undone. The honorable Jon Snow.

She shouldn't have been surprised, really. She was the last dragon, and he a wolf. He'd nipped at her lips and neck, let out little growls of approval as her hips had rocked against his. Fire had burned through their bodies as they rose and fell together.

He was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

Drogo had fucked anything he wanted. She'd grown to love him, it was true, but more out of necessity than of her own free will. Daario was, well, not as good as he thought he was – and he thought he knew everything, which meant he didn't pay much attention. Jon, on the other hand, was like a little boy who'd been given his first sword, eager to please, awaiting each reaction he elicited and learning from her every gasp and move.

And that was just the sex. Nevermind the fact that their relationship hadn't started out physically, but had been born of mutual respect, adoration, trust, and a healthy dose of truth. The way they felt about each other had been brewing for months, mounting with every glance and comment, but neither of them had realized the depth of it until they gave in.

She'd seen the very moment he realized how he felt about her when, amid searching hands, hungry mouths, and thrusting hips, he'd had to stop and take her in. She'd realized then, with a softening of her gaze and emotional tilt of her brow – and he had, too, judging by the way his eyes widened and blinked disbelievingly.

He is in love with her.

But that – that she can't think of right now. Love makes people do stupid things. Love has lost and started wars, made great rulers weak. She simply cannot afford it, and neither can he.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's not polite to stare?"

His voice brings her back to the present, where her legs are still tangled with his, her body is tucked against his side, and her hand rests atop his chest along with her gaze.

Aside from her name – Dany – breathed out once or twice, it's the first thing he's said to her since knocking on her door. It makes the corners of her lips curve upward, the way he can challenge her while still fully submitting and the fact that she respects it.

"No," she answers honestly, an edge of playfulness in her voice as her leg slides against his. "Not all of us were raised by lords and ladies."

"And who were you raised by then?"

"A few men who remained loyal to my family, until they died or left for more profitable causes. Magisters and their attendants." She raises a brow and then her eyes grow distant. "My brother Viserys, mostly."

One day, he wants to know the whole story; he can sense it's not a pleasant one. But for now he simply reaches up, fingertips brushing her forehead as he gently tucks a strand of silver hair behind her ear.

Her eyes soften as they focus on him again, somehow knowing he's aware of the contrast of his actions with how she's been treated in the past.

"I mean no offense against your family, but I don't think I would've liked your brother very much."

"You would've hated him," she assures, turning her cheek into the warmth of his touch.

A sad smile spreads across Jon's lips at her approval. For all he thought he'd missed out on and for all the holes in his past, hers was riddled with just as many gaps and losses, and more than her share of pain.

As his fingers continue their exploration of her skin, skimming over her neck and tracing the curve of her collarbone, he notices the goosebumps forming on her skin and pulls a layer of furs over her. She settles in beside him, the feel of her curves pressing against him nearly stirring something within him again already.

Despite the comfort of her tucked beside him, her head propped against his shoulder, he has to ask before it's too late. "Should I leave?"

She knows why he's asking. That damned honor of his – why he's truthful and harsh and loyal and kind all in one. They shouldn't be here right now, together, he a bastard king and she an ambitious queen. They have reputations to uphold and alliances to protect, wars and people to win. They can't just be two young people with feelings, as they are now; they're bargaining chips, chess pieces.

She doesn't care – doesn't concern herself with the opinions of others, doesn't believe in a world where people are traded for lands and armies and gold. But that's the world they're in, and their survival might depend on it.

She turns, resting her chin on his chest as her eyes meet his again. "I don't want you to."

She actually looks vulnerable in that moment and it nearly breaks him, her eyes heavy with the weight of someone who hasn't done a thing she truly wants for herself in quite some time, who's sacrificed nearly everything for her people, her dragons, her purpose.

"I don't want to either," he admits, his hand settling at the curve of her waist beneath the furs. He waits, studying her eyes as he hopes for some command or ultimatum.

But she offers him none.

"I said I should've trusted you all along and I meant it." She tilts her head and presses her lips to his chest while intimately holding his gaze. "If you think you should leave, I won't hold it against you."

Jon swallows hard as he threads his fingers through her hair. "I'm right where I need to be."

There are many kinds of honor, and he's hell bent on doing them all justice.

He urges her towards him, but she's already pushed herself further up his chest, her skin gliding against his body as her lips capture his. Unlike the hurried, seeking crash of their lips earlier, this kiss is slower and sweeter – a promise that neither of them may be able to keep.

She wakes at dawn to the sun sending beams across the horizon, sunlight seeping into her chambers. Her body is cocooned by his, his chest pressed against her back, their legs intertwined. One of his arms holds her close, enveloped by her own arm wrapped around his.

They're a tangle of limbs and bare skin, so she uncoils her body slowly, careful not to wake him. But he stirs, his arm drawing her closer, his legs stretching with hers.

As his eyes flutter open, he becomes all too aware of her curves tucked against his hip, the swells of her breasts pressing against his arm. The dangerous realization that he could get used to this washes over him as he takes in the delicate slope of her shoulder and creamy skin in the daylight. It's both too much and not enough.

"Are you awake?" she asks, running her finger along his arm.

"Mmm," is the only response he can muster, and she smiles at the realization that the brave, strong, and wise Jon Snow might not be a morning person.

She's pretty confident she can change that.

When he wakes enough to smooth his thumb over the curve of her breast, she turns in his arms to drag lazy kisses along the base of his neck, the column of his throat. Last night had been a clash of hips, mouths, and desires, but this morning is slow and deliberate. And while last night he'd seemed determined to make every bit of her feel as incredible as he thought she was, this morning she's in control.

Their lips meet as she pulls her body over his, arching into his hips as she pulls kiss after kiss from his lips. His hands find her hips as a slow rhythm starts between them, and soon her lips abandon his so she can sit astride him. As their eyes lock, he feels the weight of the last twelve hours overwhelm him again – waking up to her soft skin, watching her atop him as the sunlight sets her light eyes on fire, her hair slipping from its neat braids into wild waves.

She can't think about the way he's looking at her right now, so she tilts her hips to take him within her, watching his eyes grow dark with desire as she moves against him. Every muscle in his torso stands out as he rises to meet her, pitching his hips against hers to drive himself deeper.

Her eyes flutter closed contentedly as he shifts his weight to free his hands, gliding them over her curves to rest at the small of her back. But as pleasure coils deep within her, there's a fire in his eyes she can't resist and she meets his gaze, afraid of what she might find but unable to look away. Cupping the back of his neck, she presses her forehead to his as his hips roll with hers, bringing him closer and closer.

She dips to capture his lips, but he changes their angle and all that can escape her mouth is a breath of pleasure at the intensity. He's playing with fire, watching the way her eyes grow heavy as he takes her to the edge, ignoring that falling in love with her is the absolute last thing he should be doing.

/

He slips away when the sun hangs high above the horizon, much later than he should be leaving her quarters. Her cheeks and chest are still flushed, a warm glow bathing her skin that's barely covered in a thin dressing gown.

Fortunately, Missandei appears to have slept well their first night on the ship – but not well enough.

As Missandei turns down the hall to check on her queen, Jon Snow emerges from her door looking a little less kingly than usual. He has all the trappings of a northern ruler, but his breastplate isn't secure, the strap haphazardly hanging unbuckled. Although his hair is pulled back, it's not neatly tied down, curls escaping the sides.

"Your grace," she says with an air of surprise as they pass, still respecting that he's a king, or lord, or something in the North.

"Morning," is all he can offer her – except for a look they share like he's a boy somewhere he's not supposed to be but she doesn't know quite what to make of it.

She knocks on the door and it opens swiftly, a touch of disappointment on her queen's face as she lets her in. Missandei attempts to ignore the flush of Daenerys' usually pale skin, her state of undress this late in the morning…but her hair – that she can't ignore, the neat braids she'd swept into perfect position just yesterday half gone, leaving wild waves in their wake.

"Do you need my help this morning, your grace?" Missandei asks politely, although she knows the answer already.

"My hair could use tending to," Daenerys states, her eyes conveying her appreciation even as she straightens her posture to keep her queenly composure.

As Missandei takes her place behind Daenerys' chair in the corner and works her way through the tangles, an unusually awkward silence passes between them. She's her queen's attendant, that is true…but they're friends, too, and she doesn't know where the line is drawn.

"Forgive me, your grace," she begins, and her queen raises a brow at her in the mirror like she'd been waiting for her to ask. "But what was Jon Snow doing in your quarters?"

A pleased smile creeps its way across Daenerys' lips, the likes of which Missandei has never seen before from her.

"Many things," Daenerys repeats back to her coyly, their eyes meeting as they revel in the secret.