#ceo!dany

Chapter 19

 Woken the dragon. Vis had always said that growing up, whenever she annoyed him—which was often. Now, staring down the barrel of his silver revolver, Daenerys felt another dragon wake inside her. A wild thing of rage and betrayal, ready to burn all who stood in her way. For herself. For Jon.

Viserys’s features were a narrower, masculine echo of her own. The expression he wore was one she recognized, composed but triumphant. Daenerys didn’t dare break eye contact, but she felt Ramsay looming behind her. On the edges of her periphery, she saw the car lurch and one, two, three bodyguards emerge. Ramsay jabbed the back of her head with the gun.

“Kneel,” he said. Daenerys did so. The bumpy asphalt dug into her knees. Five armed men twice her size and all she had was a two-bit nail.    

“Why?” she said, the word trembling in the air. Viserys’ face creased into a moue of displeasure.  

“I didn’t want all this, Dany. But you refused to cooperate.”

“Cooperate? What in the seven hells are you talking about?”              

“I thought you understood. The goal was to get it back, get everything back, no matter the cost!” Daenerys’ lips felt numb. She licked them, striving for patience, for calm. The tone she found was an old one, from when he would rage and throw things, railing at the unfairness of the world. A soothing medley.  

“To get our home back. I know, Vis. There’s been government red tape around Dragonstone. You’ve been to the meetings. We’re working on it.”

Dragonstone was their home, that was the thing that unified the two of them—the last Targaryens against the world.

“But the Dragon is mine! My birthright! A throne not meant for a sniveling girl who couldn’t keep her legs closed.” Gods, he was beyond his usual self-absorbed bullshit. This was some god-level projection coupled with delusions of grandeur. Daenerys went cold. Just like Dad. Still, the fire in her belly pushed words out before she could stopper them.  

“Dragon is mine, Vis. I built it. With my sweat and blood, I built it from the ground up. Breaking Chains as well.”

“Everything that is yours is also mine. I made you,” he hissed and prodded her forehead with the barrel of the gun, “If only you’d cooperated. Daario would--”

“What does Daario have to do with--” she began. Viserys slapped her so hard her cheek tingled and her ear rang.

With sudden blinding clarity, she understood. Viserys had taken loans from Stormcrow and had—she clenched her eyes shut at the fresh wave of betrayal. Two hot tears eked out. Daario had taken her as payment. Why else would Daario look so confused when she broke it off? Why else would Viserys demand she return to him, no matter the circumstances?

“You sold me.” Vis was unmoved.

“It worked out fine for you, didn’t it? You were even going to marry him. It was Daario who gave me the idea. He kept whining about the increased expense of your security detail after the death threats from the Harpies. They’re nothing but Ghiscari scum, they had no real power to make good on those threats.” Viserys’s lilac eyes took on a glazed, feverish shine.

“But then—ah ha!—think of the news coverage. The philanthropist CEO, Daenerys Targaryen, dedicated to bettering the downtrodden, slain by very villains she fought. So tragic. So cinematic. Dragon’s stock would go through the roof! Televise the funeral, rake in donations, weep a little for the cameras, and then . . . Dragon is mine and only mine. As it should be.” The tinny taste of blood leaked from the opened cut in her lip.  

“You’re insane,” she whispered. Viserys’s eye twitched and he gestured. Ramsay hauled her up by her bound hands. Pain shrieked through her shoulders and she bit back a cry. Ramsay drew a long, wicked knife and set it at the base of her throat.

“Oh yes, sweetling. We’ll get to play,” he whispered in her ear. Viserys stalked closer, patting Daenerys’ cheek with deceptive gentleness.

“You made it very difficult for me. You and this Jon Snow. It was a stroke of luck Ramsay extracted the name out of that Lorathi woman before she died. Such a little slut, aren’t you? How long had you been fucking the masseuse? He trotted after his bitch like you were in heat. I staged it to echo Dad’s death. Dirty and pathetic in an alley. My origin story, right? After my sister, my only family, dies tragically, I take up the reins of the company. Then you thwarted me. I admit, the machine guns on Loom Street were a bit much, but I was just so angry. Selmy was a good man, I trusted him. I do regret that.”

“You shot him in the street like a godsdamned dog! He--” Ramsay grazed her throat suggestively with the knife and Daenerys swallowed her choler.

Viserys plunged on as if he hadn’t heard her. Perhaps he didn’t.

“And then poof--” he snapped his fingers, “you dropped off the face of the earth! It wasn’t until I found the footage. You and Snow were still together. You sunk your hooks in deep, you wicked girl. Still, it’s a big world, and Snow had connections to Stark wealth, nearly as prodigious and ancient as the Targaryen’s. Lucky for me, Ramsay is a northman too. Loathes the Starks.”

“Self-righteous cunts,” Ramsay agreed.

“He thought to look for something smaller, more remote. And there it is, plain as day on public record microfiche, a deed for a house billed to Eddard Stark—Jon Snow’s father.” Jon. Dead. Burned to ash. A fresh wave of grief buffeted her.          

“Viserys, please,” she croaked, “I’ll step down. I’ll cede Dragon to you, I swear it. Just don’t do this.” He had the gall to look sad about it. He bent and kissed her forehead.

“I’m sorry, sweet sister. It has to be this way.”

Daenerys glared him down. She tucked the nail between her fingers. There was only one chance to use it. She dragged in a deep breath, her heartbeat thudding loud in her ears. Wait. Wait for the right moment. Viserys snapped his fingers, gesturing for one of the burly guards. Too much of a coward to pull the trigger himself. The shadow of a snake.

“You are no dragon,” she said, mutinous.

Bam!

Bam bam!

Daenerys blinked dumbly as one of the bodyguards crumpled, bleeding from behind the ear. Viserys was cursing and shouting, ducking behind the remaining two, who shot blindly into the thick woods surrounding the tarmac. The noise and smoke filled her senses. Shots went wild, cutting holes in the sedan like cheese. Shattered glass tinkled on the ground. Ramsay cursed. He dropped his knife to draw his gun, yanking her tight against him.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?” he hissed in her ear. I wish. Even if there was a park ranger or police officer who happened by, they would have announced themselves. Her security team was hundreds of kilometers away. And Jon was—Daenerys bit her lip.

The gunfire ceased. Her ears rang from the noise. Daenerys craned her head to look for Viserys. She saw his expensive leather shoes beneath the shattered door of the car, cowering. Where were the guards?

“Got him, Boss!” a rough voice said. Him? Her mystery defender? Her knees gave out when the burly men emerged from the brush.

“Jon?”

 ~

 Fuck. He was a fucking idiot. The calvary was on its way, all he had to do was stall. He could have picked off another one of the thick-necked fuckers, scared that chickenshit Viserys into spooking. On the other hand, seeing a gun pointed at his heart-and-fucking-soul made him a little twitchy. Jon had pushed the Old Bear’s beat-up truck to its limits to reach the airstrip, praying his hunch would pay off. And now all it did was get him a front-row seat to watching Dany die.              

The hunting rifle jammed, but he’d broken one of the goon’s jaw for his trouble. The utility knife was rolled in his sock, not that it did him much good at the moment. Goons One and Two had his arms in a lock behind his back, dragging him down the shallow hill to the tarmac. Dany’s sobs tore already pulverized heart into tinier shreds.

“Jon, Jon, I thought you were dead!” she said, her voice thick with tears. Jon flicked his gaze over her from her braid to her ziptied wrists to her bare feet. A bit battered, but whole, still—thank the gods. He turned his baleful gaze on the source of their misery. Viserys—the skinny little fuck—sneered at Jon. What kind of sick fuck wanted to assassinate his own sister?

“The unkillable Jon Snow.” Starks are hard to kill, Dad always said.

“The chickenshit Viserys Targaryen,” Jon shot back. Viserys made a curt shooing gesture.

“Gods. Let’s get this over with before anything else goes wrong. It’s going to cost me a fortune to clean all this up.”

“Boss, can’t I just shave off a--” The bug-eyed fuck who held Dany brandished the knife, nicking the curve of her jaw. Dany gasped, and Jon saw red watching the blood seep from the cut.

“Come try and shave off a bit of me, you little shit!” Jon shouted, lunging. He made a show of thrashing around until Goon Two backhanded him hard. He tasted blood, his ear rang. Jon sagged in their grip, snagging the knife with his fingertips.

“Shut the fuck up!” Viserys bellowed, shocking them all into silence. He jabbed a finger at the bug-eyed fucker.

“Ramsay, we’ve been over this. If you’d pulled off the job like you were supposed to, my sweet sister would be yours to play with as long as you like. As it is, I need her dead. Now. We have a schedule to keep.”

“What about the boyfriend?” Goon One said. Viserys scowled.

“He’s a complication. If he’s here in one piece and armed, he’s called the authorities.” Jon allowed a grim smile. If they made it out of here, Viserys would spend the rest of his pathetic life staring at the walls of Iron Island Penitentiary.

“We better move fast,” Ramsay said gleefully. Viserys kicked aside the body of one of his guards, fishing a pistol from a pool of blood with a moue of distaste.

“Yes, exactly. Any last words, Daenerys?” he said. Daenerys looked at Jon and in her violet eyes, he saw everything he ever wanted. Home. Gods, she was so beautiful.

“I should have told you before. I love you,” she said.

And the world exploded.

 ~

 “I love you.”

Daenerys slammed the nail up and back with all of her strength. It stuck and Ramsay’s shriek rang in her ear.

“You fucking bitch!”

Daenerys ducked down, scrambling away from a staggering Ramsay. Gods. She’d been lucky. Through the sieve of his clutching fingers, she saw the head of the nail stuck in Ramsay’s left eye. Blood and snot poured down his cheeks from his blinded eyes. A flurry of movement. Jon, struggling with the remaining bodyguards. Viserys advanced on her.

“Gods, you’re such a troublesome little cunt! I’ll be glad to be rid of you!” Spittle clung to his lips, his face an inhuman rictus of rage. Daenerys crawled back on her hands and bare feet, feeling the hot bite of the shattered glass.

“Vis, please!” Daenerys screwed her eyes shut.

The loud rapport of the gun.

Bam! Bam! Two shots. A heavy weight landing hard on her. Daenerys snapped her eyes open.

Jon.

Jon: between her and Viserys.

Jon: sticking a knife in Viserys. A struggle. Jon was stronger, skilled. He wrenched the gun away from Viserys. Snaked an arm around his neck, squeezing. Vis fell facefirst. She heard a crunch.

“Dany,” Jon wheezed.

Jon: bleeding.

“Gods, Jon. Jon, you’re shot,” she whispered, pressing at the sticky red spot growing on his chest, awkward with her hands still bound. His breath was wet, rasping.

“Dany.”

Daenerys cast a wild glance around. It looked like a battlefield with destroyed car, dead bodyguards, Ramsay writhing and cursing, Viserys in an awkward heap. And Jon, her hero, her love, bleeding in her arms. Blood made his shirt sticky, another wound in his thigh. No, no, no. She had nothing, nothing but her empty hands to help him.

“It’s ok, Jon. You’re going to be ok. You’re going to be fine,” she said, frantic. She’d seen the world without him. A bleak, lonely stretch of empty road. She couldn’t go back to that. Panic kept inching up her throat, strangling her. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks.

Daenerys looped her arms around his shoulders and heaved him up to rest on her knees. Jon grunted in pain, though his breathing was better. His beautiful eyes were dark with pain.

“Dany. Dany . . .” His brows puckered in a familiar intent scowl. She bent and rained kisses on his face, wishing there was more to do to help.

“Shh, don’t talk. Just focus on—”

“Dany, I love you. I was a . . . a coward before. I love you. Marry me.” There was barely enough breath to push the words out. A weak sob escaped her. Faintly, she heard the peal of a siren.

“Hold on, Jon. Help is coming! I love you, Jon. I love you. Hold on!”

Chapter 15

 Jon woke to the now-familiar torment of Daenerys curled into the curve of his body. Predictably, his morning erection ached against the small of her back. Fuck, he was ruined for sex without her now. That wicked combination of sincerity and shyness, hunger and trust made for a potent cocktail. He was hooked. Strung out on it. Just thinking about it made him want her again.

“Dany,” he whispered, floundering through her thick curtain of hair. Dany shifted in his arms, rolling over to look at him.

“What time is it?” she asked around a yawn. Jon groped for the square burner phone on the nightstand.

“Shit. We slept in. It’s ten after ten,” he said.

“Mmm, I never sleep this late. Only when I’m with you. I can’t seem to want to get out of bed,” she said with a shy smile. Gods, he was truly fucked. Head over ass in love with her.  

“Me neither. I can’t stop wanting this,” Jon said, leaning close to kiss her. It started as a simple brush of lips, meant to be sweet and playful. Also, predictably, the passion caught, and soon they were kissing madly. Daenerys rolled on top of him, her mouth hot and greedy on his. Jon hummed against the seal of her mouth, hands kneading her back. His stomach gave a long embarrassing growl. Daenerys stopped all manner of delicious grinding and kissing, to his dismay. The sight of her flushed and smiling above him, violet eyes almost glowing in the half-dark, made his heart stutter in his chest.

“Maybe we need breakfast before we start up again,” she said. Jon pulled her down for another lingering kiss. He nibbled on the plush softness of her lower lip.

“Later,” he said, his voice sleep-rough and husky.

Daenerys hummed in agreement, her tongue slipping into his mouth. Jon slid his hands over the sweet lines of her body. The ticklish caress of her hair, the bumps of her vertebrae, the soft plumpness of her arse. He spread her cheeks, settling her on his hips. His cock throbbed, trapped against his belly. Daenerys broke the kiss, moving to suck along his jawline, down his throat. Half-smothered by her hair, Jon shivered at the delicate scrape of her teeth.

“Dany,” he gasped. She arched her hips in sinuous little circles, lubing him up. Jon thumped his head back on the pillow. If she kept that up, he might come before he was even inside her. The sawing of his breath rang in his ears. Breathe it down, breathe it down, idiot! He sucked in air, breathing in the lavender tang of her shampoo, the sweat and musk of sex. Jon’s hands gripped her hips, trying to urge her up, to take him inside.

“Hmm-mm, not yet,” Daenerys breathed in his ear, bending to suckle his nipple. Pleasure was a sharp-sweet burn. Sweat broke out on his face and chest.

“Please,” he whispered, reaching between them to fist his cock. Fuck, her pussy was so slick and hot against the backs of his fingers.

Daenerys rose above him, batting away his hand. Grinning wickedly, she moved above him, rubbing her clit against the weeping head of his cock. Glancing touches. Not enough. Jon uttered a sound caught between a whine and a groan. At last, she took pity on him. A breathless slide down. A slow, rocking rhythm. Yesss. Jon gasped, shuddering. Gods, she was so hot and wet around him. A silken heaven made just for him. Despite all she’s been through, Daenerys was so sweet and open with him. His eyes fogged up. Fuck! Jon clenched his eyes shut, feeling a tear leak out.

“Jon?” Daenerys said, soft with concern. Jon hid his face in his hands.

“I’m ok,” he bit the words out. Hated the thick, hoarse tone. A hot knot of emotion choked him. How fucking embarrassing! Getting all weepy during sex. Daenerys peppered his hands with kisses.

“Come here,” she whispered. Jon let her peel away his hands and sought her mouth. That was better. The hot magic of their kisses. Jon fisted handfuls of her silky silver hair, holding her head as he fucked her mouth with his tongue. Panting, she peeled back. She was so beautiful. Eyes dark with pleasure, a sheen of tears making them shine. Oh Dany, I love you. Be with me. The words rested on his tongue. He swallowed them.

“Dany, fuck me,” he said instead. Daenerys bit her lip, nodding. Straightening above him, hands braced on his chest, Dany did her level best to fuck him into the mattress. Hard, heavy strokes. Her breasts jiggled gloriously with each thrust. Through the wild veil of her hair, her lip curled into a snarl.

“Uhh, you feel so good inside me. I love having your cock in me,” she said. Jon groaned, his arousal skyrocketing up toward madness. Yesyesyes he wanted to drink her in, drown in her juice, fuck her until he couldn’t remember what it was to be without her. The madness of passion was easier than surrendering his own soul to her. The bed squeaked beneath them. He felt the tension building, heard it in her grunting little cries. He braced his heels on the bed, guiding her down, kneading her clit with his pelvis.

“Jon!” she cried as she came. Slick inner muscle fluttered around his cock, milking him. He couldn’t hold back, couldn’t so much as whimper as he came. Hot pulses of come filling her. Behind his eyes was a red-black nothing, shot through with gold. A warm, sweet emptiness where there was only him and Dany. When he could marshal his vocal cords, he hissed her name. The intensity never slackened. Nope, it was world-ending orgasms along with soul-deep intimacy. A dangerous combination. How was it this good, every time? He'd been in love before, years ago with Ygritte, and it had been that sweet consuming passion of first love. Even that paled in comparison to what he felt now.

An idle passing thought remarked on the glut of unprotected sex. Going at it every chance he got since nearly the day he met her. He always wore a condom. Always. Jon couldn’t bear the thought of getting a woman pregnant. Like father, like son. Ned Stark was a great man in many ways, and Jon adored him, but Jon could never forgive him for the circumstances of his birth. And yet . . . when he thought about Dany pregnant with his child, there was none of the ubiquitous self-loathing he usually felt whenever the thought crossed his mind. No. It terrified and delighted him in equal measure. Maybe she would marry him if she got pregnant. Maybe she would feel trapped in a relationship with him.

"Fuck," he whispered as the thunder of his heartbeat began to slow. He shoved that train of thought down deep. It didn’t matter. She was on birth control. And they had bigger problems at the moment. Daenerys gave a soft laugh.

"Eloquent as always," she said, resting her chin on his chest. Thank the gods, he could grope his way back to playful lightness. No declarations of undying love, no vows of willing sexual slavery, no blurting out worries about babies. Jon grunted, giving her ripe arse a light smack. Dany squeaked, squirming in his grip. After some playful back and forth, she nestled into his side with a sigh. The silver tumble of her hair tickled his nose but he couldn't stir himself enough to care.

Outside, he could hear the musical din of rain on the roof, and a distant grumble of thunder in counterpoint. Perfect day to laze around indoors. Or better yet, in bed.

"I love rainy days. Especially when you don't have to work. I wonder how long we can stay. It's . . . nice being here with you," he said. Wan, weak words but true nonetheless. He hoped she wouldn’t bring up his earlier weepiness.

"We could stay here a thousand years and no one would ever find us," she whispered. Fuck me. Humor, sweetness, and a deep romantic streak. In seconds, he was right back in that emotional loop. Jon's throat closed at the sentiment.

"W--We'd be very old," he croaked finally. Daenerys snorted, leveling a narrow violet look.

"Yes, well come on. I'm hungry."

Daenerys, true to form as a high-strung intellectual, was hopeless in the kitchen. The steak from the fridge was in the oven, warming in a puddle of butter and thyme. Jon set her to the task of scrambling the eggs. Salt, pepper, and a touch of milk.

"Don't rush it, Dany," Jon said, covering her hand with his on the spatula and moderating her stirring.

"It looks good enough to me," she said. The yellow puddle of egg began to congeal in the pan. A suggestive wiggle of her hips teased his groin. Jon hummed, his free hand splayed on her hip. Gods, breathing her in, teasing and touching together doing something as mundane as cooking breakfast. It made him feel giddy. Or worse, lovestruck.  

"If we do it my way, it'll be edible," Jon whispered the words, punctuating them with a nibble on the curve of her ear. Her silver hair lay piled in a messy bun on top of her head, smelling of lavender shampoo and the faint tang of sweat. Hmm, she was certainly edible.

"Such exacting standards, Chef Snow," Daenerys said in a breathy tone. Jon let her stir, his hands dipping low to find the sash of her robe. Underneath, she wore a purple bra and matching panties, a shiny satin kind. Jon slipped his hand in the cup of her bra, teasing her nipple with his thumb. Couldn't keep his hands off her. Drinking in the neat shape of her, the warm energy humming on her skin.

An acrid smell curled in his nose. The roasted rosemary potatoes smoked on the island burner. Jon cursed as Dany laughed. Jon lunged and snagged the skillet. A bit over-brown on the bottom.  

"Looks like I'm not the only one who's distracted," she said. Jon pulled a face in her direction while trying to salvage the potatoes.

The eggs were perfect. Fluffy and hot. The steak miraculously didn't overcook, but stayed a tender medium. Jon usually preferred his steak a bit rarer, but not bad for reheating. They both tucked in. He loved her tidy table manners, even sitting cross-legged with her robe half undone. The silence was companionable as they ate.

From the kitchen nook, the two of them could look out at the expense of the lake reflecting the deep stormy grey of the sky. Jon watched the evergreen trees sway and the rain ripple like curtains in the wind. All the terror and noise of the past couple days melted away.

"Mm, the potatoes are delicious. A bit of a smoky flavor," she said with a wink. Jon's heart stopped. In that moment, across the breakfast table after a teasing joke, he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life making her happy. Some of the humor bled from her expression as he stared, trying to jumpstart his short-circuiting brain.

"I'm sorry. I--"

"I--It's not my fault my kitchen assistant drives me distraction," he said at last.

Daenerys rolled her eyes, but the wattage of her smile returned. Jon scooped a bite of egg onto his jellied toast. Get it together. Eat your fucking breakfast.

"Yuck," Daenerys said, pointing to his toast with the prongs of her fork. Grateful for the distraction, he mustered a smile as he chewed.

"You think this is bad? Robb likes mustard on his eggs," Jon said. Daenerys wrinkled her nose.

"Mustard? The only good thing on eggs is hot sauce," she said, around a bite of steak.

"Objection, Counselor," Jon said in his best lawyer voice. Daenerys straightened in her chair, like a queen on her throne.

"Overruled. Hot sauce makes everything better. Let the record show that my opposing counsel is agreeing with me," she said. Jon chuckled, leaning back in his chair. He took a sip of tea from his mug. Delicious. The tea was a bold variety from here in the North, softened with a bit of honey. It tasted like home.

“I’m stuffed,” he said. Daenerys murmured in agreement, snagging one last bite of egg off his plate. Casually, she took his hand. A comfortable silence fell between them as they sipped their tea and watched the rain.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you and your family once all this is over. How about an island? I can buy you an island in the Summer Isles.”

Jon uttered a startled laugh even as he winced inwardly. The chasm between them yawned wide. A billionaire lawyer and a two-crown construction worker? A Targaryen princess and a bastard-born black sheep? In the grand scheme of things, the money didn't matter. He was proud of what Dany had achieved, at such great personal cost. Kicking ass and spitting fire, he liked her best that way. Still . . . his pride smarted a little.

"Aim smaller," he said, occupying his hands with his mostly empty tea cup. Daenerys nibbled on her lower lip in a way that was deeply distracting. 

"You're right. Individualized gifts are better. Vis has a bunch of old Targaryen memorabilia. Bran might like that. A new sloop for Rickon, a trip to the Arbor for-" Jon stoppered the sweet words with his mouth. Daenerys' lips moved, sliding against his. Pleasure was a slow, building throb. 

Fuck. He was stuck right back in the thick of it. Words of undying devotion bubbled up and stuck in the back of his throat. Jon wanted to sweep the dishes off the table and ravish her right there. Just listening to her talk about gifts for his family made the future so achingly tangible. Instead, Jon kissed her, stretched awkwardly over the table (and he was pretty sure his elbow was in the butter). It didn't matter. The world fell away when Daenerys Targaryen kissed him. Jon tugged her arms and she obeyed, climbing into his lap. Tangled together. Making out like teenagers. 

"What was that for?" She asked when they broke away to breathe. Violet eyes dark as twilight, Dany was just as affected as he. Jon nuzzled her cheek with his nose, pecking soft kisses on chin, her jaw, her throat. Mmm, he loved that little shiver when he found a sensitive spot. 

"You're just so . . . so . . . good," he said, cringing at the inane wording. He wasn't a bleeding poet. Daenerys watched him flail with a gentle smile.

"You've worked hard to get where you are, but you still care about the little guy. It's a noble thing." The smile faded. 

"Don't build me up into some shining paragon. I'm not perfect. Rising Dragon has so many arms in so many areas, I can't manage them all. And look at what my good intentions have done. A trail of bodies littered behind me." Jon playfully pinched her arse, earning a squeak.

"Fuck that. You're not responsible for the decisions others make."

Daenerys heaved a sigh. 

"Yeah. Hero complex. I can't help it," she said. Her gaze wandered to the rainy day outside.

"Let's take a walk."

"In this?" Jon said with an incredulous look, “I seem to remember a certain someone hating the rain.” Daenerys squinted at him.  

"I was unprepared. I seem to recall I was in spike suede heels and a silk shirt at the time. Under normal circumstances I love walking in the rain. Before Mother got sick, we would walk all over Dragonstone in the rain," she said softly. The words stirred an ancient grief for his own mother. Jon coughed.

“Let’s go, then,” he said.

They chatted as they cleaned up their breakfast dishes and dressed. Robb had left him some of the clothes left at Winterfell, supplemented by a few of Margaery’s purchases. He chose old denim jeans and a black t-shirt. Daenerys joined him downstairs in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, her hair in a single braid down her back. Jon opened the door to a gust of cold, rain-scented air swirled around them.

                                                         ~

 The rain was a cold, heavy pounding on her head and shoulders, soaking her to the skin within minutes. Cold! A gust of wind blew in from the lake, buffeting the two of them. Daenerys heard Jon curse and she uttered a shaky laugh. Northern thunderstorms were much colder than she was used to. Daenerys breathed deep of the cold, crisp air. Gods, she loved this. The peace of nature and solitude washed over her soul. Jon’s hand was warm in hers. She couldn’t look at him very long. Sustained eye contact meant she’d tumble into those dark eyes and get lost. After yet another devastatingly erotic and emotional sexual encounter this morning, Daenerys couldn’t deny it another second. Somewhere amidst the craziness of the past five days, she’d fallen in love with Jon Snow.

The ground squelched underneath their feet as they walked. Daenerys kicked water from a few puddles.

“Are you sure about this? We might catch pneumonia.”

“Where is your northern stoutness? We’ll walk to the pier and back. Besides, part of the fun is the getting clean and warm after. That tub in the bathroom looks nice,” she said. Jon’s slow, sultry smile stole her breath.

“Or the hot tub?”

“There’s a hot tub?” Daenerys asked, nudging his hip with hers playfully, “Jon Snow, you’ve been holding out on me.”

On the pier, surrounded by the din of the rain, Jon tugged her close. Their breath mingled in a thin white cloud. His face filled her vision, brooding and soulful and so overwhelmingly handsome. The kiss tasted like rain and home. Jon pressed her hand over his heart.

Another chapter up!

The wound didn’t look good. Rakharo was bleeding, a steady trickle of bright red. The warm brown skin of his face was ashen, lips parted to suck in noisy gulps of air. The bullet had probably punctured his lung. Selmy was unconscious, wounded, though Jon could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Still kicking.

“You have to go. You have to go now,” Rakharo said. Jon could hear the wail of sirens. The paramedics would be there within minutes. Thank the gods.

“No, we’ll wait until the paramedics get here, the Watch--” Dany said, pressing the wadded-up fabric of her torn sleeve to the wound. Soaked almost black with Rakharo’s blood. Even smeared with soot and blood, shaking like a leaf, she was still a spitfire. Jon hovered behind her, anxious and twitchy that she was out of touching distance.

“No, Miss,” Rakharo tried to shift position, winced, then lapsed back against the SUV bumper, “T—They found us on without cell phones, without a paper trail. Miles from your apartment. If they can do that, they might have contacts with first responders. You have to go. Now.” Jon’s shoulders bunched, unnerved by the accuracy of the words. A fresh jolt of adrenaline chased away the looming exhaustion. Stress hormones pumping through him, sharpening his senses.

“But you and Barry--” Dany said, her brow forked.

“I’ll keep the old dog alive until the cavalry comes,” Rakharo said with a travesty of a smile. Daenerys scowled, but nodded. She braced Rakharo’s hand against the bleeding wound, ignoring his groan.

“Fine. I’ll go. Use firm pressure. If you think you’re going to pass out, take deep breaths in through your nose.”

“Yes, Miss,” Rakharo said, looking up at her with black eyes blazing with ferocity, “Cash only, find a fresh burner if you can.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said. A yank pulled her bag from the SUV with a petulant tinkle of glass.

“Leave it! They might have smuggled a tracker on your belongings,” Rakharo wheezed. Daenerys huffed out a breath, her shaking hands the only indication that she wasn’t quite as calm as she seemed.  

“Ok. I’ll go then,” she said. The warble in her voice hurt. A blazing thought pierced the fog: she said ‘I’ not ‘we.’ Jon grasped her arm, loosening his grip when she bit back a cry of pain.

“You’re not going alone.” She gave him an anguished look, tears standing in her eyes.

“Jon, you’ve already suffered so much because of me, I couldn’t--” Jon yanked her close to him, swamped by a strong storm surge of emotion. Anger or fear, love or desperation, he wasn’t sure.

“Get this through your head: I’m not going anywhere,” he rasped. He bit down on more dangerous words like ‘I’m all in’ or ‘You’re mine.’ It wouldn’t do to throw his heart at her feet. He wasn’t sure if she’d treasure it or inadvertently stomp on it.

“Let’s go,” she said her voice strong and steady. Jon folded Daenerys’ hand in his own. Beneath the grimy slick of blood, her steady warmth comforted him. The siren’s shriek grew louder, coming down the road from the direction of the Street of Sisters.

“This way,” Jon said, tugging her toward Visenya’s Hill, where Ghost circled on his lead.

“You brought Ghost here?” Dany asked incredulously. Jon’s back went up.

“I heard gunshots and came running,” Jon snapped, untying the lead with a sharp yank. Even that cut too close to an admission, so Jon kept his gaze on what his hands were doing. He felt the weight of her eyes, and rolled his shoulders. Gods, he was a damned fool. Chasing after her, wanting to be her hero. It would get him killed. The smart thing would be to back away slowly. It was passing thought that just barely punctured the thick grey fog. Ghost nosed Dany gently, whining at the smell of blood. Dany crooned, petting the soft fur behind his pointed ears. Who was he kidding? He was in way too deep for that.  

“Come on,” Jon said, ushering both Ghost and Dany through a narrow winding alley. Jon crouched beside a dripping faucet and washed the blood off him. A twist of his shirt and the flap dangled between his shoulder blades. There. Semi-presentable.

Dodging grimy puddles and reeking dumpsters, they wove through backstreets until they found a small tenement house.

“Where are we?” Daenerys asked.

“A friend’s. I need a place for Ghost,” Jon said, shooing her to stand out of sight. Daenerys Targaryen stood out in any circumstance, but looking like a warzone survivor stuck in a person’s mind. Jon rapped on the door. Faintly he heard the stomp of her boots.

“Who is it?” she asked through the door.

“Jeyne, it’s Jon. Open up!” he said. A twist of the deadbolt, a rattle of door-chain and Jeyne yanked the door open. Her utility scrubs were in King’s Landing Veterinary Hospital’s colors of plain black, with high, work-scuffed boots. Her long dark hair tied in a bouncy ponytail, her hazel eyes wide in her lovely round face.

“Jon? Is everything all right? Come in!” she said, with an ushering gesture. Jon’s smile was stiff and uncomfortable. Weariness sapped his strength along with his patience.

“I can’t stay, Jeyne. Something came up suddenly, and I have to leave town. Can Ghost stay with you a couple days?” Her brow furrowed, but she automatically reached for Ghost’s lead. Jon knelt and scrubbed Ghost’s furry sides. His tail wagged uncertainly. Poor pup, he was confused.

“Anything, Jon. Are you sure everything is--”

“I’ll explain later,” Jon interrupted, glancing over his shoulder, “I owe you. Thank you. I’ll call you later. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“O—Ok. Call me later, then,” Jeyne said with a hopeful smile. Shit. Not that kind of call. Jon finished his goodbyes with Ghost and stepped off the stoop. That was a problem for another day.

Daenerys was uncharacteristically quiet as they took a meandering path to the train station. Jon shoved away the thought, focused. One: Getting Out of the Fucking City Safely, Two: Smashing Any Bad Guys in their Path, Three: Calling for Backup. Thankfully, Number Two proved unnecessary as Dany slipped into a seedy thrift store to buy Jon a new shirt. Meeting him around the corner, she tore open the plastic sack. A black button-down for him—wafting a strange mix of must and mothballs—and a baggy drab green army coat and cricket cap for herself. Jon shrugged on the shirt over his torn one, wincing as it stretched the scabbing cut on his chest.

“How do I look?” she asked with wide-eyed glance. Jon gave her a once-over, some of the tension bleeding away. His grimace softened. The coat swallowed her, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. Her distinctive hair was shoved under a King’s Landing Crowns hat and flyaway strands fell in disordered curls. His chest felt tight.  

“Beautiful.” A smile bloomed on her lips, so gorgeous his heart twisted inside him. The light died in her eyes as the smile fell.

“I don’t look like a fugitive businesswoman running from a multinational crime syndicate?” she asked.

“Nope, just another poor slob,” Jon joked weakly. The smile he earned was cooler, but no less beautiful. Jon cleared his throat.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The warm moment carried him through the tedium and nerve-shredding anxiety of joining the monitored masses of King’s Landing’s busier thoroughfares to hail a cab. Waiting under the orange glare of a streetlight, Dany made an abortive gesture, the army coat’s sleeve pooling around her wrist. Her nervous habit of chewing on her fingernails. They were still rimmed black with Rakharo’s blood, despite their hasty wash. Jon’s teeth ground together.

“Where to, gents?” the cabbie asked in sharp intonation of an Iron Islander.

“Stone Heights, corner of Queen Street and South 127th,” Jon said, as Dany slid into the seat. He felt the curious pass of her gaze, but he didn’t want the cabbie to overhear his plans. Bad guys bursting out of nowhere made him twitchy.

“In this traffic, that’ll take over an hour,” he whined.

“You’ll get a good fare then,” Jon said, slamming the door shut.

And that was that. One of his buddies Pyp, who worked with Tormund lived in Stone Heights, a semi-respectable neighborhood outside the city walls. The ancient walls of where the medieval King’s Landing stood was preserved, the reddish stone and crenellations lit up with floodlights. Past the wall sprawled suburbs and businesses, neighborhoods and office buildings, absorbing the old town of Rosby into an extension of King’s Landing. Jon drummed his fingers on his jumping knee, jittery energy shredding his insides. Creeping in metal box, just like before, with only him left to protect her . . . Dany stilled his knee with a touch of her hand.

“Breathe,” she whispered. Jon offered a weak smile, taking a deep breath in through his nose. Jon covered her hand with his. So warm, the bones of her hand so delicate in his grip.

“Thank you by the way,” she said, her gaze turned toward the window. “For what?” Jon asked.

“For saving my life. Again.” I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. But he didn’t say that.

“Don’t mention it.”

                                                          ~

 Gods, Ramsay loved his work. The two men on security detail offered a challenge. Both were smart and fierce. So refreshing. The second in particular, was strong as a bull and had nearly broken his arm. Ramsay repaid him, though. The .22 was his favorite weapon. It wouldn’t kill, not unless at a lucky angle or point-blank range. No, instead the small bullet would ping around like a pinball inside, doing all sorts of delightful damage without killing the victim. It made things much more interesting. The silencer took care of the pesky side effects of ‘witnesses.’

All that was left now was his favorite part: interrogation. And such a pretty victim too. Not Westerosi, with those dark, exotic eyes. She huddled in her closet, clutching a butcher knife. Mm, she has some fire, then. Good! He liked that. A part of him wished there was time and space enough to take her home, play with his dogs. Such vicious things.

“Hello, Shae. I have some questions for you about this . . . Jon Snow.”  

                                                        ~

 The hours trickled away. Like a Monday afternoon, where time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Daenerys glanced at the car clock: past midnight. Her thoughts drifted, nodding against Jon’s warm strong shoulder. The cab smelled of stale cigarette smoke and old takeout. A wilted chicken salad had been her dinner, washed down with weak iced tea. Jon’s arm tugged her close, a warm clasp at her hip. Thankfully the cabbie had the radio switched to a classical station. The second attempt on her life would be splashed all over the news. She sent up a brief prayer for Barry and Rakharo’s well-being. Gods, I hope no one else was hurt. At least Vis was safe, as was Dragon in Tyrion’s hands.

The two of them switched cabs at Stone Heights, and again in Rosby. Jon paid the third cabbie with a brusque gesture, herding her out toward a cheap motel. The promise of quiet and rest, a shower and a bed—no matter how dubious—was heavenly. The train station was within sight.

“We’ll board a train north in the morning. Let me make a quick call,” Jon said, pointing to an ancient pay phone languishing outside the motel office door. Daenerys trailed after him, bleary-eyed, a headache pounding behind her eyes. Every inch of her ached and she stretched subtly to ease it.

“Robb, thank the gods. I know, I know, my phone broke. Listen—” Robb, Jon’s stepbrother. The handsome face she’d seen on so many magazine covers. Wealthy, goodhearted, dating Margaery Tyrell, the gorgeous actress. The press ate up their story like candy.

Daenerys’ attention drifted. The night was warm and soft, with the rhythmic screech of trains in the background. Sweat dewed on the back of her neck, under the thick canvas coat. Crickets chirped. A niggling sense of déjà vu prickled. She dismissed it, shivering at being out in the open. What eyes watched from those distant windows? Knives and guns in the dark. Daenerys checked the impulse to lean into Jon. She’d done enough clinging to him already. Gods, seeing him bloodied and frantic on Loom Street would be forever burned into her memory.

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Give Marg my love,” Jon said, before hanging the phone on its cradle with an inward tinkle of change. Jon found a tired smile.

“I’m sorry about the rough accommodations. Dad had an old place on Silver Lake. The train will take us north tomorrow.” Daenerys gave the motel a scrutinizing glance.

“Looks like my first apartment,” she said. That was it. The sound of trains and a maze of broken concrete reminded her of the squalid apartment she shared with Vis while working her way through college. Always she came home feeling the same way she felt now: exhausted, lonely and heartsick.

Their room was on the third floor, interior hall. Yellowed wallpaper peeled off the walls, the dark green carpet worn thin and grubby. Jon locked the door behind them and set Barry’s spare gun on the nightstand. The microfiber blanket on the sagging mattress was patterned with gold roses. Jon clicked on the bedside lamp, washing one side of his face in the garish white light. He sat at the head of the bed, his expression closed and grim. No doubt ruing the day he’d ever laid eyes on her. He rubbed his eyes.

“Take your turn in the shower. I’ll stand watch,” Jon said, with a jerk of his chin. Daenerys was too tired and wrung out to argue.

The bathroom echoed the motel’s general sense of neglect: hard water stains on the shower glass, mildew growing between the chips in the countertop, an age-fogged mirror. The woman who stared back at her in that murky glass had her features, but the eyes were smudged and haunted. A woman hunted, running, running, running. How long before they caught up to her? What about Jon? He’d already risked his life for her. Twice. How long before he decided it was enough? Or worse, they hurt him?

Daenerys twisted the tap on full blast. With a throaty gurgle, rust-tinged water burst from the showerhead before running clear. There were no good answers, and flogging her tired brain wasn’t helping. One simple thing she could do was get clean. Daenerys peeled off the musty coat, the bloodstained shirt, the torn jeans, and stepped under the pounding spray. One thing in the motel’s favor: the water was blisteringly hot. The beat of the water and swirling steam were soothing, even the tepid water pooling from the slow drain didn’t bother her. A soak for her achy feet.

Three little vials of cheap shampoo and conditioner worked the worst of the tangles out of her hair, along with ground flecks of broken glass. A washcloth and bar soap scrubbed away all memory of the day. Soot and blood, fear and grief. Only the thought of Jon not having enough hot water kept her from spending the whole night under the hot deluge.

Daenerys wrenched the tap off and wrung out her hair. Sound echoed strangely in the shower stall, water a hollow drip. Daenerys scowled at the heap of her discarded clothes as she toweled off. No way. She would rather sleep naked than climb into those clothes again. Through her tiredness, a tendril of heat flickered to life. If Jon could comfort her, make her forget the madness of the day with the patented heat and skill of his loving . . . then they would both feel better. Predictably, her busy brain listed alphabetically how and why he would reject her, and she chickened out. Instead, Daenerys swathed herself in a towel, gathered her clothes in a wadded knot, and emerged in a cloud of sweet-scented steam. Jon looked up, the same fierce scowl plastered in place.