#jonerysfics

After a long break, another chapter is up. Hope you all enjoy.

After suffering physical and emotional trauma in the aftermath of a case gone wrong, Detective Jon Snow is determined to crack his current one. Daunted by years of minimal progress, Jon receives help from an unexpected source.

But it doesn’t come cheap.

Jon must decide if wants to play it safe or take a chance and risk getting burned.

It’s up, sluts. Click below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31005875/chapters/79213534#workskin

It’s far too late for his liking when he makes it back to their chambers. A meeting with some lords from The Vale taking unnecessarily long and without the aid of enough ale, but he has too many things already planned for the morning and did not want to start his day greeted by their sour faces. 

He catches the heavy sigh before it releases, his whole body leaden as he enters the rooms as quietly as he can manage. His heart clenches when he notices Daenerys’s huddled form under the furs, her back towards him as she sleeps facing their little miracle. The hands of mother and daughter resting beside each other despite the slats of a crib, and Jon feels his breath catch in his throat. He resists the need to pinch himself, something he finds he needs to do increasingly, at the fact the keepers of his heart are contained in this room; at the fact his heart has keepers at all. 

He removes his cloak and places it over the back of a chair, before sitting to remove his boots. The quiet groan is long as he stands and stretches slightly, allowing himself a moment. He moves to add more wood to the fire, knows he won’t want to get up later to refresh the flame. He’s answered with a crackle of burning wood, and it’s a sound he’s not had to take solace in in some time. He’s poking and rearranging the logs when he hears the beginnings of a whine, and he can’t help the small smile that twitches at his lips. He thought he would have to go to sleep without seeing the eyes he loves the most. 

He quickly removes his gambeson and places it on top of his cloak before making his way to the crib, careful not to wake Daenerys with his actions, hoping she stays asleep until their daughter is ready for her next feed. He softly shushes as he leans over, eyes that should be closed in sleep beginning to stir and he doesn’t hesitate to pick her up and cradle her in his arms. 

She knows it’s him, her Papa, as she nuzzles into him and Jon can feel the tears springing in his eyes, struggling not to fall. Joy spills from his heart and spreads through his body, the warmth it causes providing more heat than any fire he’s ever known. He bounces slightly as he paces the room with her, half hoping she quiets and doesn’t fully wake as he taps her back. The other half of him hopes she does open her eyes, if even for a moment, because being able to look into his daughter’s eyes makes the love in his life feel less like a dream. He feels and hears her stirring less gently, and knows that he will soon be greeted by one of his most favourite things. 

He deposits himself carefully in the other chair by the fire, and with one hand tentatively undoes the laces by the neck of his tunic. A gurgle has him looking down, and he cannot keep the delight from his face as his daughter peers up at him, blinking, the purple of her eyes bright with the glowing embers of the fire, and it makes his very soul ache with devotion as they remind him of her mother’s. 

His greeting is murmured, but his girl responds anyway. “Good evening, my brilliant girl. Have you been good today? Papa has missed you.” He leans down to place a kiss, then another on her forehead, unable to stop himself from nuzzling his nose into the whispers of hair that lay atop her delicate head. “I love you so much.” He is gradually becoming accustomed to being overwhelmed with the fierceness of his love whenever he thinks of his daughter, but when she is in his arms, it threatens to consume him whole. 

ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

chapter three: weirwood

Last Christmas AU

• • •

Jon stands in front of her, his small smile soon fading, leaving his lips slightly parted in confusion as he stares at her quizzically, and all she feels is relief. Not fear, nor anxiety of messing up for the umpteenth time. Just pure, genuine relief, as if his presence is an invitation to finally relax. Judging by his expression she must have been speechless for quite a long time by now, but she can’t help it. Her heart is hammering in her chest, whether from surprise or something else she doesn’t know, and even without checking she knows her knuckles on the door must’ve turned white now from resisting the urge to jump into Jon’s arms. When she finally speaks, her voice is so quiet she can barely hear her own words. “It’s not Friday.” It’s all she can bloody say, right before mentally cursing at herself. Jon’s mouth turns into a smile, his brows arching in fake disillusion. “‘M not gonna lie, I was kind of expectin’ another reaction.”

• • •

masks that monsters wear, to feed | part 2 of the blood and candy revenge tour series (the first part needs to be read first obvs

Wherein we learn what Daenerys is doing with the mysterious bowl of snow!

So I really felt (and loved) this ask so much, anon! I hope you don’t mind that I turned this into a very angsty drabble haha. I wanted it to be hot and fun but it wound up super broody. That’s fitting for Jon, right???

Jon had never been overly fond of sailing. The swell of the ocean rocking the ship and the ever-present creak of the wooden construction made sleeping hard and concentration harder.

But it wasn’t the sea that kept him up tonight.

Shutting his eyes did nothing to stem the flood of images burdening his mind—Daenerys’s eyes, the color of spring lilacs. The lick of fire in them when she found his gaze across the Painted Table back at Dragonstone. We sail together.

Was it a political measure, a strategy for courting favor when they arrived in the North? Something more? An invitation? No.

Jon shoved the thought aside, turning over in his narrow bunk with a frustrated sigh. He couldn’t get comfortable. He couldn’t relax at all.

For months he’d been distracted by the Dragon Queen, awed by the strength of her convictions, the power of her words, the sunny warmth of her rare smile.

From their first meeting he’d been thrown by her beauty and her confidence. Even when they’d argued, when she’d exasperated him to the limits of his composure, he’d been unable to deny the attraction he felt.

But there wasn’t time for that. That’s what he’d told himself late at night, huddled in his quarters on Dragonstone, haunted by the scent of her hair, the glow of her face in the torchlight. She was lovelier than he’d ever imagined.

Yes, lovely, driven, uncompromising, and entirely out of his reach. He’d known it from the beginning, from the first moment he’d glimpsed her small but imposing form on the dragonglass throne. Daenerys Targaryen was more dragon than woman.

Or so he’d thought.

He could remember clearly the first time he’d seen a chink in the armor, a vulnerability. Pain. Pain that he’d caused. If it hadn’t been for his foolhardy plan, her dragon would never have died. The guilt ate at him still, taunting him. Even after everything she’d suffered, after everything he’d asked of her, everything he’d taken, she’d done nothing but give.

He could still picture her, sitting at his bedside. She’d been there when he’d awoken, haloed in light from the window, tears shimmering in her eyes. Her dragon was dead. Her dragon was dead and it was his fault, and still she swore to help him. To help the North. To save his life. Again.

He remembered her hand, small and delicate and cold in his, the unexpected surge of helpless anger that bubbled up in his heart at the evidence of her heartbreak. If he could he’d take on the whole of the undead army himself, cleave the head from the Night King’s cursed corpse so he could never hurt anyone again. So he could never hurt her.

It was then he knew it—that he loved her. She’d risked everything to save his life, and he realized with startling surety that he’d do the same for her. Gladly. It suddenly seemed absurd that he’d ever doubted her, ever resisted her. It was an easy decision to swear her fealty. Gods, he wanted to swear her his heart, his bloody life.

And when he proclaimed her his queen at last, she hadn’t responded with polite detachment, hadn’t rewarded him with pretty words or haughty satisfaction. She’d cried. The Mother of Dragons was only human after all, human and fragile. She’d reached for his hand like safe harbor on a stormy sea. She’d clung to him, and bared her heart, her fears. I hope I deserve it, she’d whispered.

There’s no one more deserving, he'd thought fiercely. She deserved the whole world, and he wanted to give it to her. Instead, he’d let her go, watched her struggle to collect herself and hurry away, like she was afraid, ashamed to have shown him weakness.

And for the ensuing weeks he’d noticed her quietly suffering, her emotions shuttered, her confidence crippled. He’d detected the unshed tears in her voice when they’d spoken in the dragonpit. She was different, her expression distant, spirit broken.

He’d wanted to make it better. He’d tried to make her laugh, to lift to her up. He’d assured her that she wasn’t like everyone else, not at all.

She was the most extraordinary person he’d ever met. But it wasn’t enough. So when the time had come for them to journey North, he’d made sure to travel at her side. He told himself he’d never part from her again. He meant it.

Because she was alone, just like him. But she didn’t have to be. They didn’t have to be.

We sail together.

Jon wanted it to mean something. He wanted her. He wanted to hold her, to warm her sun-kissed skin against the Northern chill, to kiss the worry from her brow and coax a smile to her pretty lips. And a deeper, shameful part of him wanted more than that. He wanted to tear away every layer of her queenly raiment until the smooth expanse of her flesh was his to touch, to taste. To kiss the sweetness of her cunt until her only cries were those of pleasure.

He swore under his breath, sitting upright in bed and throwing off his covers. Arousal heated his blood, hardened his resolve.

They’d be at sea for a month at the least, more if the winds didn’t favor them. Perhaps there was time.

Daenerys had offered the first bit of hope he’d felt in a long time—a glimmer of light penetrating the clouds. Even so, they were sailing to war, perhaps to death. He’d once told Sam it was the end of the world, back when his friend shared the news of his relationship with that wildling girl, Gilly. If these were indeed their final days, Sam could face the end without regret. He’d followed his heart. Could Jon say the same?

He stepped into his boots, clumsily shrugging on his gambeson. Aye, Daenerys was a queen, but a woman, too, and he’d treasure her more than any man. She’d trusted him enough to share the loneliness of her duty. The ache of it.

Jon started for her cabin with purposeful steps. She needed him, just as he needed her. There was no shame in that. For years he’d balanced the demands of duty with the desires of his heart, and he’d done it alone. For the first time, those competing instincts were united together. The King in the North and the Dragon Queen.

His steps quickened, anticipation coiling in his belly.

When he arrived at her door he hesitated for a beat, nerves crowding in at the edges of his determination. What if he’d misinterpreted her regard?

She was a queen—not some Winter Town harlot to fetch in the night. She might consider his visit an impertinence—an insult even—and dismiss him in a rage.

Jon considered the ornate carving on her door, the Targaryen sigil, the dragon. He recalled Daenerys on Drogon, flying beyond the Wall to save him without a thought for her own safety. He thought of the gentle clasp of her hand in his, the soft flicker of heat behind her striking purple eyes when she looked at him. She was brave, and he could be brave, too.

He knocked, quickly and firmly, and when she opened the door, all his doubts fell away.