#I love the shift from casual garb to full armor

[age-of-moonknight]

“Doctor,” Moon Knight (Vol. 7/2014), #9.

Writer: Brian Wood; Penciler and Inker: Greg Smallwood; Colorist: Jordie Bellaire; Letterer: Travis Lanham

[greyias]

FIC: The Waiting Game

Title: The Waiting Game Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: T Genre: Angsty angst angst Synopsis: The worst part about all of this was the waiting. Theron hated standing on the sidelines as everyone else risked their lives. He needed something to do. Anything to keep him distracted from his own thoughts. Spoilers: So many spoilers. For the end of Onslaught and its epilogue, for 6.1/“The Task at Hand” and for the upcoming storyline in 6.2. Warnings: Considering what’s going on in the world right now, I’m tagging this as “Covid19 related”, as parts of this may be uncomfortably familiar with the current state of events. There’s also a lot about Theron and his very fraught and complicated relationship with Satele in this. So if you’re not a fan of her, or you just think she’s the worst, you should probably skip this. Because I love her and their very complicated dynamic.

Crossposted to AO3

The crash was loud enough to hear from the senior staff meeting room.

It pulled Theron from the datapad he’d gotten lost in, and had him poking his head out the door into the hallway. He managed to just catch sight of Scourge’s dark armor disappearing around the corner as the Sith stormed off. Not that Theron hadn’t gotten used to Sith temper tantrums since coming to live on Odessen, but it still was enough to pique his curiosity.

Stepping out further into the hallway, he could just make out both Kira and his wife talking solemnly at the door that Scourge had stalked away from. Whatever the conversation was, both Jedi were clearly concerned. Grey gave the little astromech at her side an affectionate pat on the head, before she looked up, squinting down the hall until she caught sight of him. They were all far enough away where Theron couldn’t see their expressions clearly or even eavesdrop on what they were talking about, but the tense postures let him know that something was amiss.

As he walked up, he could see the remains of the crates that had splintered upon impact with the wall, and the rows of cracked monitors ringing the room. He quirked an eyebrow as he looked back at both Jedi. “You guys felt like redecorating? Not sure that ‘Warzone Nouveau’ is going to catch on as an aesthetic.”

Kira shot him a look, but he couldn’t quite decipher what it meant. Maybe she didn’t find his joke funny. Of course, he’d gotten that look a lot. Things had been a little awkward since she and Scourge formally joined the Alliance, but Theron hadn’t been able to figure out if they were just having a difficult time adjusting or if something else was going on.

He was saved from pondering on that further by his wife gently laying her hand on his arm. “Let’s take a walk.”

A familiar feeling of dread settled in his gut, and he swallowed before fixing a smile in place. Even if he had a feeling what this was about, he could pretend for a few moments more. They were quiet as they made their way to the elevator, and were about halfway down when he finally decided to break the silence.

“So, are we walking to any particular place?”

“I thought a stroll in the woods might be nice.”

“Are we going on an adventure?” His humor was a little forced, but he was trying for normalcy here. It’d been a while since they had that. About as long as since Kira and Scourge arrived on Odessen.

“Not the same type of adventure as the last time,” she said, a lilt of amusement tinging her voice.

“Pity.” Even if they were alone in the elevator, his voice was just a murmur as he leaned in closer.

He wasn’t really planning on doing anything inappropriate, was just angling on getting a reaction out of her, but the lift’s doors opened up onto the crowded walkway before he could push it any further. He let out a frustrated sigh and straightened up before anyone saw and got any ideas. The last thing he needed was to start rumors about improprieties in the lifts. Not that he really cared about the rumors about himself, but he’d already caused Grey enough trouble with his undercover stint. He didn’t need to give people more reasons to whisper about them.

Even if they were married.

They ambled on out, towards the cantina. He was trying to act casual, normal even, but Grey hadn’t said anything about what that conversation with Kira was about. Or why Scourge felt the need to redecorate the room quite so violently. But Theron had an idea anyway. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because her hand found his and intertwined their fingers together.

When Theron had gone undercover, Grey had still been wearing the armor from her time before her carbonite sleep. Sometimes he’d wondered if she had worn the giant pauldrons, embroidered cape, and heavy gauntlets as some sort of armor against all the change in her life. But since his return, she’d adopted a new outfit. A much simpler garb, a deep blue tunic that was very Jedi in fashion. As silly as it sounded, it felt like some sort of evolution — like she was somehow more comfortable in her skin and her role in a way that she hadn’t been before. 

He liked it though, from the way the color of blue set off her eyes, to how the long trailing scarves on the tunic liked to pick up the wind when they stepped outside. The change from the heavy gauntlets to fingerless gloves was also a benefit, and especially nice in moments like these, as he was able to feel the warmth of her fingertips against his.

Of course, he’d also changed things up a little too. The long gray overcoat had long been discarded — the charred hole in the back where he’d been stabbed wasn’t a keepsake he wanted to hold onto. While he hadn’t abandoned his old style completely—his old, faithful red and black jacket was definitely still around—Theron had felt the need to integrate a little bit more variety into his style. Like the lighter coat he was wearing now, with a set of fingerless gloves of his own.

They were a little more comfortable to wear when he was just working around the base, and the tactile feedback of his bare hands was nice. He was of course referring to the fingers intertwined with his. For a few moments at least, the soft reassuring pressure and warmth of her touch chased away the anxiety welling up in the pit of his stomach. Although he supposed the gloves helped with the coding too, and his endless research with the HoloNet and beyond.

The sight of the two of them walking hand-in-hand didn’t raise too many eyebrows at this point. There had been a time where he’d tried to strictly keep the personal side of their relationship behind closed doors — but that had gone out the window a long, long time ago. At this point, Theron was pretty sure that the only person who scoffed at the public displays of affection was Lana, and that was just habit. Well, and maybe Grey’s older brother would make a comment or two about how disgusting and saccharine they were. But the jerk was probably just trying to get a rise out either of them with that sort of thing, because he got bored easily. It was like having a large, very old and very loud toddler as a brother-in-law. Sometimes Theron was thankful that he was an only child.

For now though, he and Grey were content to walk in companionable silence, meandering through the cantina, and out into the woods. It was springtime on Odessen, and it was a nice day. The variations in the season on the planet was still something that Theron was adjusting to, even years later.  If he had to pick a favorite, though, it would be spring. The fields beyond the military hangar would fill with these beautiful white flowers, and the sight of them brought to mind his homecoming from Nathema. The frequent rains kept the air humid, especially out here in the forest where there was less sunlight filtering through the canopy to speed up the evaporation. It made the ground smell fresh and new — and it reminded him of life.

These days, he really liked that reminder.

The temperature was still just cool enough where wearing a jacket outside wasn’t uncomfortable and gave him an excuse to draw his wife in a little closer under the guise of sharing warmth. She leaned into the embrace, and was happy to just walk along in ambling steps for a few more moments and let this quiet moment of peace linger. 

Then she let out a sigh, long and wearied, and it told him that whatever she was about to say next wasn’t going to be good news. But he’d already suspected that from Scourge’s temper tantrum.

“The quarantine has failed.” Her voice was quiet, ringing with an air of defeat she let show where no one but him could see.

His blood froze in his veins, his own steps slowing to a halt. “What do you mean ‘failed’?”

“The transport with Satele—where the infected were being contained—it’s not responding to our signals, and there was no sign of it at the next scheduled stop.”

That certainly explained the Sithly destruction. Theron couldn’t even blame Scourge, as a thousand conflicted feelings began to well up within himself. For the past few weeks, he’d been trying his best to keep them tied up. Like he was rolling every single thread of worry and anger and anxiety around each other, like it was some nervous ball of string. He wouldn’t let it unwind, he couldn’t. But the news picked at the fraying edge near the end, and if Theron wasn’t careful it could unspool into a mess that he’d have no hope of cleaning up.

The breath he blew out was long, whistling past clenched teeth. He needed to say something, because Grey was staring at him in the way she always did. Full of concern and warmth and understanding — and he loved being on the receiving end of that but also hated it because it just picked at that loose thread more. Her fingers shifted in his, holding him just a little tighter, and he let out another breath, giving her hand a squeeze in return. He swallowed, forcing the rising lump in his throat to go back down where it belonged, and managed to seize that thread of unease before it snagged on something and undid the tattered fabric of his composure.

He was fine. He just needed to focus. That was all. Preferably on the problem at hand.

So that’s what he did. “What’s our next step?”

“Right now Teeseven is heading out with an escort and as many probe droids we can spare. They can scan and sort through the data faster than we can.”

“And there’s no chance of them getting infected,” Theron pointed out sourly.

“That too,” she added with a sigh. “It’s just safer this way.”

She was right. Of course she was. The droids could do the job faster than anyone, cybernetics or no. He just hated being on the sidelines. Doing nothing.

“Do we know… how the ship disappeared?” He hated the hesitation in his voice, in the question itself. Hated the emotion in betrayed, even if he was sharing it with the safest person in the galaxy.

“No.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

He’d had a nightmare last night. Where that ship of the damned had landed in some busy spaceport. Some place like Kuat. Or Nar Shaddaa. Or even Coruscant. And as the passengers of the transport walked out among the unsuspecting, all of the hapless victims fell into line one by one. And at the front of the crowd was someone that looked remarkably like his mother — but was definitely not her. The woman with Satele’s face had sightless, unseeing eyes that glowed with a malevolence. When she spoke, it was not the soft, calm measured tones he’d come to know, but with a deep chilling voice of a long vanquished ghost that Theron had first heard back on Yavin. Then the woman that was not his mother had turned on the unseen watcher and attacked.

Theron had awoken with a start. A fine sheen of sweat soaking through the thin sheet covering him. Somehow he hadn’t made enough noise to stir the woman sleeping next to him, still cocooned in all of the blankets and comforters on the bed. It had taken him a few moments to reorient in the darkness of their bedroom, let the familiar stone walls ground him back in reality. To remind himself that the dream had just been that. He hadn’t wanted to wake his wife to talk about the nightmare, even if he’d lain awake for a long time afterwards. Trying to shake the images from his head.

If someone were to ask him, Theron would tell them that he didn’t believe in ill omens. The timing of the dream with today’s news was just a coincidence. Or it was the product of a stressed mind trying to cope. His subconscious just trying to get him to pay attention to the things he kept pushing to the back of his mind during his waking hours.

In the light of day, he could see more clearly what was wrong with the dream. The last time the ship was seen, everyone on it was in a comatose state. Trapped in both a nightmarish slumber and stasis. The only thing amiss before today was the Force rumblings from Kira and Scourge that some thing was joining the consciousnesses of the infected together. His subconscious had just morphed that into something familiar — something a lot like Ziost. Another thing he didn’t like to think about.

There were a lot of things he didn’t like to think about. Too many mistakes and unpleasant things in his past to dwell on — and getting through the day right now sometimes felt like walking a very winding and narrow path to keep his thoughts focused and productive. Rather than take one of the branching paths into speculation about what was waiting for them when the ship was found.

As much as he tried to stay focused though, his mind still strayed. And he thought about Satele. A lot. He’d thought he’d excised that particular bad habit a long time ago. When he was growing up, he and Ngani Zho had talked about his mother, of course. Zho had never kept her a secret from Theron, and had told his young charge about his favorite student. For the longest time, Theron had this image built up in his head of this perfect, heroic Jedi that he’d someday meet. If he just tried hard enough, focused enough, and applied himself enough, he’d finally be able to wield the Force, and he’d have a chance of meeting the fabled woman that Zho talked about.

Even when both he and Zho had still been foolish enough to think that Theron had a chance at becoming a Jedi, they had never talked about mother and son ever being able to have that type of relationship. It would have been against those strict detachment edicts, as would have Satele taking her flesh and blood on as a Padawan. Even if the Force had deigned to grant him the ability to wield it like the rest of Revan’s bloodline, he probably would have had someone else train him. Maybe someone like Gnost-Dural. But if Theron was being honest with himself, not something he did often, in some of his more carefree moments as a child he’d imagined the two of them fighting side-by-side with lightsabers in hand.

He’d tried to scatter those stupid, childish notions away when he’d left Haashimut. Along with the selfish, immature longing for his mythical heroic mother to come save the teenage runaway when the shadows grew too dark during the night. He told himself that at thirteen he was too old to be wanting his mommy, especially since he’d never even met her. He reminded himself at fourteen too. By fifteen, he’d just about beaten that feeling away with bitterness. And at sixteen, he’d just learned to forget he’d ever even had the want to begin with.

Theron was approaching forty years old now. He was married and mostly happy with his life. There was still a small part of him, a part of him that he liked to pretend didn’t exist — to pretend had never existed — that still wanted his mother. Maybe not the one that he had, but that mythical, heroic figure of his childhood musings. Perhaps it was human nature, he thought, to crave the security and comfort provided by a parent.

A long time ago, before Ziost and Zakuul, before he’d even met the woman at his side, Satele had told her son that she would always be there for him if he needed her. All he had to do was ask. That same part of him he liked to pretend didn’t exist panicked at the thought that he might not have that anymore.

They’d never had a chance at a normal relationship. Not when Theron had been a young boy, dreaming of being that idealized Jedi like his mother before him. Definitely not as a bitter teenager out to prove that the galaxy was wrong about him. Nor even as adults, when they were working towards a common cause. Outside of a professional capacity, almost all of their conversations devolved into arguments — and since Theron was being honest with himself at the moment — a lot, though not all, of those had been started by him. Clinging to that old bitter feeling because the alternative meant opening himself up to being that scared, vulnerable kid again.

But not everything had been bad. They were precious few, but he did have a few pleasant memories with Satele. Most of them had been after Yavin, but before the Ziost incident. 

Mostly he remembers taking afternoon tea on Coruscanti terraces, a pleasant breeze teasing the air. He and Satele would take a break between the endless debriefs on the Revanite incident. Even during these moments of downtime, Satele would sit straight, posture perfectly poised as if she’d forgotten how to relax. Theron would sprawl back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the table just to see if he could get a reaction out of her. Maybe get her to lecture him on proper decorum. He’d been careful not to kick any of the serving ware, just act like a bit of an uncouth ass.

She hadn’t lectured him though, just let a small smile quirk at the corner of her mouth. As if his attempt to rile her was both transparent and amusing. She would ask him politely about work, careful to keep the subject on something he was comfortable with. As if just the act of having this time together was enough for her, even if they never said anything of substance. 

It was funny. He hadn’t realized how much he’d actually enjoyed those quiet moments. At the time he’d just been focused on how awkward it was, trying to navigate the weirdness that was getting to know this stranger who was somehow not so strange. Now when he looked back on it, the awkwardness had faded, and the good stood out more. Time had a funny way of distorting things.

Theron didn’t know what he wanted at the end of all of this. He wasn’t sure if he and Satele could ever really have those quiet moments out on a Coruscant terrace now. Hell, he wasn’t sure if they’d be able to maintain a civil conversation. All he knew, as that when he was faced with the prospect of it, it crystalized in his mind clearly — he didn’t want his mother to die. She would one day, he knew that, by old age if nothing else. But he just wasn’t ready for that eventuality yet — even if they didn’t talk or hug or do any of the things normal families did. 

He was just not ready to live in a world where he didn’t have the opportunity to… do something different. And he didn’t want the last things expressed between them to be anger and bitterness. He didn’t want her to leave life thinking that he hated her. Because he didn’t. He just… just…

Without even realizing it, Theron started walking again. His pace brisk as if he could somehow escape the place that his mind had taken him to. Grey’s grip around him tightened but she kept in step with him, despite the fact that his legs were much longer than his and she was practically jogging to keep in stride. She was just there, a quiet, comforting presence at his side. Willing to wait on him to be ready to talk, always so patient and understanding.

He didn’t say anything yet, but slowed his steps a little so she didn’t have to try so hard to keep up even as he lifted his eyes up to the canopy. Counting the branches above as a way to think about something else.

Several years ago, this was the path that Grey had disappeared on when she had tried and failed to get intel from Valkorion for a mission. Where that ghost had stranded her out in the wilds. Where had Satele had found her, taken care of her — brought her to the ship that the former Jedi Grand Master had called home. Grey had eventually told him about all of what had happened, including all of the belongings and keepsakes that had been stowed away. Including some old toys Theron had when he was a child — and a locket with a picture of him after he’d joined the SIS. For a woman who had based so much of her life on not clinging to attachments, Satele apparently had quite a lot of things she was attached to. 

He still hadn’t figured that part out. Most people wouldn’t hoard the past possessions of children they didn’t want. Nor steal holos from sealed government files to have a memento of their long-lost son. There was a part of him that wanted to see Satele again so he could demand why she had those. The rational part of him knew it would be a stupid question, because there was really only one logical explanation.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure if hearing her say it aloud would make it better or worse. Hearing his mother actually tell him in words that she cared for him — maybe even loved him — would it make it easier or harder to accept whatever her fate was?

And beyond everything to do with Satele, and all of his stupidly complicated family drama, there was the woman at his side. His wife, his partner. One of the few people who was immune to the sickness that had overtaken his mother. The one who supposedly could walk into the heart of the contagion without fear of infection. Theron should have all the faith in the galaxy that she would save the day. Because she had never let him down, not once since they’d met. 

Yet the question still hovered. What if? What if she’s not immune? What if whatever had taken over Satele and all those following her took Grey too? 

Theron couldn’t lose his wife. He just couldn’t.

He knew that he would lose some unquantifiable part of his life if his mother died, even if he didn’t understand what that would look like until it happened. But he knew what his life would be like without the woman at his side. He’d already lived through that hell for nearly five years. He knew the emptiness of waking up each morning alone. Of the anger and impotent rage that never went away. Of the grief that bled away the brighter, happier moments. How even sleep wasn’t an escape, because then the day would just start over the moment he woke up.

It was why he’d so willingly thrown himself into danger when someone was conspiring to kill her. Better him than her, he’d thought. It was both a selfless and selfish desire. Keep her safe from harm — save himself from the pain again.

When he looked down from the canopy, it took him a moment to realize how far they’d walked. He blinked, breathed, and tried to reorient himself. Reminded himself to not pick at that thread of anxiety and what ifs. To not look too far beyond this moment. The future wasn’t guaranteed, only the present.

“Is there anything that I can do?” he finally asked, deciding not to ruminate on how long they’d probably been walking in silence.

“Right now, the safest thing to do is let Teeseven do his work.”

“So all we can do is wait?”

“It could be a few days. Or weeks. Or months. I can’t give you any certainties.” She let out a sigh. “I know it’s not ideal.”

Of course it wasn’t. Theron wasn’t good at waiting. For all his childhood training, all of the meditation techniques and special education that Zho had given him, he’d never quite been able to cure Theron of his natural impatience. His drive to just do. It was probably written somewhere in his SIS personnel file, hell, Lana had probably scribbled it in every single margin of his Alliance personnel file too. “Impatient.” ”Impulsive.” “Keep away from trains.”

Theron hated standing on the sidelines as everyone else risked their lives. Or in this case, as a bunch of droids did the searching for him. He needed something to do. Anything to keep him distracted from his own thoughts.

He hated this.

The waiting was killing him. Part of him wanted this to just be over. See where the cards fell and then let life get back to normal. He was also dreading the end of the waiting. The moment it ended, it meant that the danger arrived. Whatever this infection was building towards, something in his life was going to change. He could lose his mother. He could lose his wife. He could lose them both.

So the waiting was a blessing. And it was a curse. And right now, it was all he had. All he could do was focus on the present, even as the future came barreling towards them.

“You know, we’re already in the woods,” he said.

“We are.”

“What do you say we get lost here for a while…” Theron let his voice drop low, and watched as a little warmth raced into Grey’s cheeks. “We could have us another adventure.”

She snuggled in closer, laying her head on his shoulder. The proximity lit up a fire in his gut, and for a few moments, it knocked away that fraying thread of unease. In this moment, it was just the two of them.

“You know, I think that sounds like a good way to spend our time.”

And so they walked on, hand in hand. Still waiting. Together.

[sheikah]

Distraction

My entry for the @jonerysnetwork @jonerysfics Fic Contest [Smut] [AO3]

On their second day in the Red Keep, Jon makes an interesting discovery.

In his new rooms, the sun coming through the vista windows warms his back and the smell of cooking food beckons him outside. It is all very distracting, being in a new place, and he finds it difficult to focus on menial tasks like unpacking his things. Every few minutes he glances out at the Blackwater to confirm that this is real—they finally sacked King’s Landing. He doubts he will ever get used to it.

His new quarters aren’t a good fit, more sumptuous than he needs or wants. They are royal quarters, possibly the former rooms of princes or princesses, and truthfully they don’t suit Jon’s taste. But the large windows give him a wide vantage point from which to observe the city below, and he can see far out over the bay. It is breathtaking, a different kind of beautiful than the snowy haven of Winterfell.

The chamber’s interior is equally impressive. The ceilings are high with ornate moldings all around, the walls a rich crimson. The large bed is fitted with luxurious linens, hung on all sides with cloth-of-gold curtains. Jon supposes he should be grateful that the queen insisted he take up residence in such a place, but it feels altogether wrong, nothing like the cozy simplicity of his room back at The Wall. But he keeps his doubts to himself. This is his home for now, where he most needs to be. A defensible position from which to plan the assault on the Army of the Dead. And besides, he would follow Dany anywhere.

Just now Jon is supposed to follow her to the small council chambers and meet with the gathered lords to discuss their next move. But first he means to change out of the armor he wore about the city into something a little lighter. Even in Winter, King’s Landing is still far warmer than what Jon is used to, and the muggy coastal air has his clothes sticking to his skin. Strolling over to the trunk in the corner, he unfastens the latch and flips the top open with a creak of the hinges.

A moment’s look is enough to tell him that something is wrong. Instead of dark surcoats and sturdy wools, the trunk is filled with brightly colored silks and carefully wrapped pieces of jewelry. It doesn’t take long for Jon to recognize it as Dany’s trunk, not his. He has never seen her in these clothes himself, but many of them have clasps and embellishments ornately carved into dragons and “DT” is embroidered in the plush satin lining of the trunk’s lid.

His first instinct is to close the trunk and leave it be. They aren’t his things to disturb. But there is still so much Jon doesn’t know about Dany even though he has been with her for the better part of a year. So curiosity gets the better of him and he begins rifling through the vibrant contents of the chest.

He is clueless when it comes to fashion and truthfully, he doesn’t much care about it. But the thought of his pretty queen in bright, summer silks, colors that would complement her lilac eyes and smooth, silver hair is more than a little intriguing, so very different from dark, regal winter garb she has worn for as long as Jon has known her. He loves the thought of her strolling through gardens half a world away, her arms bare and dappled in sunlight.

Rummaging through the trunk, he removes long, flowy gowns of ocean blue, striking and intricately designed tunics of purest white, and even an odd, painted leather vest. At the bottom of the trunk, one dress stands out from all the others.

The fabric is strange, silky like those that were stored on top of it, but richer, thinner, and more delicate. The color is pale lavender, almost white, and it is impossibly smooth beneath his fingertips. Jon lifts it out of the chest carefully to find that there are no sleeves—something unthinkable to his Northern sensibilities—just slender trips of fabric that hold it together at the shoulders, clasped with silver pins carved into the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen sigil.

When the dress is clear of the trunk, the afternoon sun hits it—doesn’t just hit it, but shines straight through it, the glare hitting Jon in the eyes. He is confused. What kind of silly, pointless garment is this? It is almost entirely translucent in the light, so it certainly can’t be a dress, must be part of some bigger ensemble. But the more Jon looks at it the more he realizes that it has to be a dress. It seems too small and form-fitting to be a cover or cloak of some kind, and it is far too decorated to serve as an undergarment.

But if it is a dress all its own, it is entirely impractical. Even more, it is daring, indecent. If Dany wore this, well . . . her smalls would be on full display for anyone interested enough to look. And who could resist such a sight?

Jon feels an unexpected stab of jealousy at the thought. They may not be married, may not be sharing their secrets with their many and varied companions and allies, but Dany is his, just as he is hers. So why is he so disturbed at the thought of her parading around in this obscene dress?

He doesn’t fancy himself an envious man, even when he can see how other men look at his lady, their eyes lingering a moment too long. Even though he notices the way a room quiets when she enters it, how everyone seems to gravitate toward her like the sun. No, Jon has never been jealous. Because what he has with Dany is not a clandestine attraction. She spent weeks patiently assuring Jon that to her, he is more than some nameless bastard, not just a King in the North to support her bid for the throne—and Jon finally accepted that her love for him burned as brightly as his for her.

Yet for all his faith and surety, seeing this peculiar, brazen dress still makes his blood run hot, sends a jolt of possessive longing through him that makes him almost lightheaded. He imagines Dany walking about in a dress that might as well be made of air—tantalizing everyone she passes by. It is almost unbearable; but it is also . . . strangely exciting.

Shaking his head to clear it Jon decides to go and see Dany, to get an explanation for the singular dress and more importantly, see her in it for himself.

He just has to get through a small council meeting first.

Inside the council chambers Jon sits opposite Dany, Tyrion and Davos on his left, Lord Varys and Tormund at his right. It is stifling in the close, dimly lit room, and Jon struggles to ignore his restlessness and boredom, to focus on the conversation.

“We need to make official appointments to essential positions,” Tyrion announces, turning to Dany. “We aren’t planning a coronation with a war on, but while we’re here we need stability. And just like a queen in peace time you’ll need capable people at your side.”

“Who do you recommend?” Dany asks, perusing a list of names.

Jon looks up at the sound of her voice. She is all business today, hair braided tight, the long rope of it draped over her left shoulder. Her elegant black dress is high-collared, and she sits up straight and serene, her hands folded on the table before her. She looks every bit the queen, even without a crown on her lovely head.

“For Master of Ships,” Varys begins, “Perhaps a Greyjoy?”

“The obvious choice,” Davos chimes in, his thick accent drawing Dany’s attention. “But I also have experience in this area, Your Grace.”

Jon watches Dany’s face as she considers the suggestion, serious as ever, her expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But he knows her well, can see that she is tired, in no mood to make these decisions just now. Jon can’t say he blames her. He can think of about a thousand things he would rather be doing at the moment, most of them involving her.

That train of thought takes his mind to places it really shouldn’t go in mixed company, takes him back to the last time they slept together. Suddenly Jon is swept up in memories of Dany rising over him, naked as her name day, rolling her hips into him roughly, the blissful friction, the squeeze of her body. He sits up to give her perfect breasts the attention they deserve, and then—

Beside him Tormund clears his throat and elbows Jon hard in the ribs, looking pointedly from Jon to Dany across the table.

“Do you agree?” she asks him, and Jon can tell from the edge in her voice that it isn’t the first time she has addressed him. He has no idea how much of the conversation he missed, no context for Dany’s question.

Jon sits up a little straighter in his chair. “Um. Yes, I agree,” he offers cautiously.

“So it’s settled then,” Tyrion proclaims. “We will have a Master of War, but only as a temporary position, since Her Grace believes it might send the message that we expect war. And Jon, you will name one of your own men to fill the position.”

Jon sighs. Another responsibility. He should be paying better attention to the discussion.

“There are some potential men you might appoint on this list.” Dany indicates the parchment before her. “Come have a look,” she says, waving Jon over.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, suddenly painfully aware of the physical consequences of his daydreaming, a very conspicuous and very poorly-timed tightening in his pants. Damnit.

“Pass it over.” Jon holds his hand out, trying to act casual, trying to ignore the straining between his legs, and the puzzled look on Dany’s face at his refusal to move beside her. Wordlessly she hands the list to Tormund who gives it to Jon with a curious glance into his lap.

"Now then,” Tyrion continues. “We need to talk about some of the fighting we’ve already done. It is important that we answer for the damage we've caused," he argues, looking at each of them in turn. "Right now we can get the people on our side with only a small acts of goodwill. After my dear sister’s stunt at the sept I can assure you they followed her out of fear, not love. That is no way to rule."

"I agree," Dany nods. "So what must we do?"

"Send aid," Tyrion replies. "Gold, supplies, possibly a few men if we can spare them. To help rebuild."

"And you will gain more than just favor for assisting Highgarden, Your Grace," Varys adds smoothly. "They are the largest producer of food in all the seven kingdoms. We need them as much as they need us."

“Aye, that’s all very well,” Davos interjects gruffly. “But what of the North? The Others are going to hit them first. If anyone’s getting more of our men it ought to be the Northerners.”

Jon senses the oncoming argument and finds himself tuning them out once again, preoccupied. It is important, of course. Highgarden was absolutely decimated in the battle with the Lannister army, a battle they caused. The destruction would not have been nearly so pronounced if Dany’s dragons hadn’t been in play, and Jon supports the idea of taking responsibility and helping the people. He also worries for Winterfell and for his friends at The Wall.

But he knows that the deliberations are all but pointless, that there will never be a unanimous agreement on the best course of action. There never is. And try as he might, Jon can’t gather his thoughts into a coherent argument of his own, can’t pry his mind away from Dany.

His mind wanders again, picturing her in that gown he found, carefree and heedless of how the men all stare. Jon can almost see her strolling through the bright, dusty streets of Meereen, shining with perspiration and smiling at something Missandei said, happy and younger, blissfully unaware of what horrors await her across the sea.

Jon wants her like that. Joyful and gorgeous and real. Not the queen but the woman. And he is flustered and fidgeting at the thought of her in that dress because he knows all too well what waits for him beneath the silk. He knows the weight of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her flesh on his tongue, the sound of her sighs at his ear. And he knows, too, just how to make her sigh like that, knows the heat between her thighs, the—

“Jon?”

He jerks in his seat, his cheeks burning at the realization that they are all watching him, Dany most of all, her eyes hard, lips pressed into a thin line of irritation.

“Jon,” she repeats. “I asked for your input.”

Jon swallows, his fist clenching irritably on the table before him. His eyes dart from face to face, looking for a lifeline, stopping at Tyrion. “I agree with Lord Tyrion,” he ventures.

For a moment everyone is silent, the quiet broken when Tyrion clears his throat to speak. “Well, I thank you,” he says, bowing his head at Jon with a smirk. “Smart choice, as I am always right. But I haven’t actually said anything just now.”

Davos shakes his head and Tormund can’t suppress a snort of amusement. Dany’s sigh is loud and exasperated. “I apologize for Jon,” she says, her eyes flashing. “Clearly, he’s thinking of something more important than the war.”

“Maybe I am,” Jon fires back, frustrated. He has given all of himself to duty for so long. Even gave his life for it once. Are even his thoughts forfeit to this war? Looking at Dany he is overwhelmed with the urge to whisk her away, just for an afternoon. To kiss the worry from her brow and leave his own stress behind in this horrible little room. They have so little precious time together and Jon is tired of watching it slip away in arduous meetings.

Taken aback at Jon’s uncharacteristically forceful reply, Dany’s expression is somewhere between outrage and confusion as she fumbles for words. Sensing the tension in the room, Tyrion mercifully steps in. “Your Grace, I think we are all a little tired from this move. Let’s adjourn for today, shall we? I’ll concede to His Grace’s wise companions,” he says, waving a hand at Davos. “We’ll send aid to the North first. With your approval of course?”

Dany ponders for a moment and then nods in agreement.

“Excellent. My lords.” Tyrion nods at them all in dismissal. There is a noisy scraping of chairs on the stone floor as everyone rises to leave, but Dany remains, gathering of pile of letters into a neat stack and glaring coldly at Jon over the table.

On his way out Tyrion pauses to say something to her but Jon has had about enough of listening to others talk for one afternoon. He has better things in mind for his queen, things that can only be done within the privacy of his chambers.

When Jon moves to Dany’s side he is drawn in by the spice of her bath oils on the air, the dulcet tones of her voice as she speaks with Tyrion. Jon knows only he can break through her mask of regality to the passion that hides underneath, yearns to have her to himself. She won’t sound so calm and bored when he is through with her. . .

But when Dany looks up at his approach, her eyes are narrowed angrily, her arms crossed over her chest. Jon hates it when she is cross with him but he has more than a few ideas of how to cheer her up this afternoon.

“Your Grace,” he greets her, nodding curtly, his hand moving to her waist to draw her in. “I need to speak with you.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion addresses Jon, his eyes falling on Jon’s hand at Dany’s side. “I was just telling the queen that—”

Jon ignores him, moving his other hand to Dany’s arm and leaning in close where only she can hear. “Now,” he adds, trying to control the urgency in his voice.

Predictably she hardens at his commands, stepping back as far as his arm around her will allow. “Jon, as you can clearly see I’m having a discussion with Tyrion and—”

Jon stares Dany hard in the eyes, lowering his hand until it rests on her butt, a faint smirk playing across his lips to convey his intentions. Understanding slowly dawns on her and for a fraction of a second Jon can see her fight back an answering grin. But then she wrenches herself away and stands up a little straighter, clearing her throat and turning to Tyrion with an apology in her eyes.

“I have some private business to see to with Jon but we will continue this over dinner.”

Tyrion nods slowly before bowing and taking his leave. Jon is sure the Hand of the Queen knows exactly what their “business” is. He doesn’t care.

The moment they’re alone Dany wheels on him, her hands flying to her hips. “What was that?!” she demands. “These meetings are important, Jon. They’re about our future. You don’t get to just—”

“Why don’t you come with me and I’ll make it up to you.” Jon takes her by the hand and begins backing out of the room, wheedling her along with him until Dany finally relents. She sighs, looking up at the mischievous glint in his eyes, and follows him out the door, her stack of correspondence forgotten on the table.

Lacing their fingers together Jon leads her through the keep, still unfamiliar with its winding halls and dark corridors. But he finds the shadowy alcoves particularly convenient today and every few steps he presses Dany’s back into a corner and silences her exhilarated giggles with his mouth on hers.

“What. Has gotten. Into you today?” she asks breathlessly, her question punctuated by hungry kisses from Jon and her own laughter.

He doesn’t answer, instead trekking on through the castle until they arrive at his room at last. Inside, the retreating afternoon sun casts everything in a brilliant gold. Dany most of all is stunning to his eyes, a little out of breath from their hurry, a pink blush creeping up her neck and cheeks.

She turns to face him when they’re inside, moving her hands to his shoulders. “Tell me what you brought me here for.”

For a moment the pull to touch her is so strong Jon forgets the dress entirely, couldn’t care less what it looks like or why she has it.

But then Dany’s eyes leave his, settling on something behind him. “That’s mine,” she says suddenly, startling him to attention, pointing to her open chest on the floor. “Jon, why . . . do you have this?”

“Our trunks got mixed up,” he explains dismissively, moving over to the enormous leather chair near the window and gesturing to the dress draped over the back. “What is this?”

Dany comes over to examine it for herself, smiling faintly when she recognizes it. “Viserys gave it to me in Pentos. It’s one of my favorites.”

“It’s why I brought you here. Put it on,” Jon instructs, his voice husky. “For me.”

Dany lifts the gauzy dress from the chair back and shakes her head. “This is not what I expected. You . . . want me to try on a gown for you?” she asks, raising a brow at Jon incredulously.

“Aye. I’ve been picturing you in it all day. What you’ll look like in it. What I’ll see through it.”

He steps in closer, speaking at her ear. “What I won’t be able to see until I take it off you. What you’ll sound like . . . ” He lays a hand on her waist, dragging it across her ribs and around to her chest, his knuckles grazing the underside of her breasts. “When I put my hands on you.” On a whim he dips his head and nibbles lightly on her ear. “And my mouth.”

Dany’s shoulders quiver at the contact. “Alright,” she assents, barely finding her voice, looking at Jon with wonder. “Turn around.”

He complies, turning his back to her while she changes. In front of him the window shows the city bustling with activity below but none of it can hold his attention, not while Dany’s intricate royal garb falls to the floor behind him with the clink of buckles and the swish of fabric.

“I’m ready,” she announces after a moment, and he faces her again.

Jon holds his breath when he sees her. She is a vision, everything he conjured in his fantasies and more. Her hair hangs loose now, and the sun through the window bathes her in a bright, warm light that turns it from silver to honey. The thin, silky gown hangs over her luscious curves with a tailored fit, but most alluring of all—the dress is the only thing she is wearing. No smalls, no silly corset to constrict her lovely figure. The gown apparently is meant to be worn this way, and Jon is struck dumb at the sight. Through it he can see the creamy glow of her pale skin, the pink bloom of her nipples pressing against the sheer gossamer. She spins slowly before him, removing any doubt that the view from behind is equally enticing. When she faces forward again, Jon steps closer, his eyes roving hungrily, pausing at the joining of her thighs. It is all he can do not to close the distance between them and fall to his knees before her, to push the dress up and get an unobstructed view of the delights beneath.

“I feel like a girl again,” Dany says wistfully, looking down at the dress, clearly unaware of Jon’s frantic anticipation. “I was so nervous the last time I wore this. But it did its job well. Drogo was impressed.” She glances at Jon, flashes him that scintillating smile. “Seems that you like it, too. How do I look?”

“You look like sin,” Jon growls, striding to her in two long steps. He winds one of his hands in the thick curtain of her hair and splays the other across her butt, pulling her roughly against him.

“Oh!” Dany has time to exclaim before he crushes his lips to hers. The kiss is desperate, a mess of teeth and tongues and the scrape of his stubble on her hot mouth. Usually Jon is slow and tender with her, as if his lips and hands could somehow show her the contents of his heart. But now he unleashes the whole day of pent-up, frustrated longing, claiming her, caging her in his embrace.

Dany is a willing prisoner, her surprise quickly overtaken by her own desire as she grabs at the sides of his face, kissing him back in earnest. Jon’s body is wound as taut as a bowstring, his muscles tense with expectation, but Dany is soft under his touch, so soft and inviting. She may be hard and cold in front of the rest of them at court, but he knows better, knows she isn’t cold at all. She is warm, sweet and lovely and he is melting into the kiss, her lips parting under his and his under hers with a probing flick of her tongue.

“Can’t. Get close enough,” Jon rasps against her lips, lifting her off the floor and clutching her to him.

Dany wraps her legs around his waist, knotting her fingers forcefully in his hair, and the dull pain coupled with the pressure of her thighs is electric, almost too much. Even through his jerkin the drag of her breasts against his chest drives him mad and Jon kisses her deeper. His mouth muffles the quiet, needful sounds from her throat but they’re enough to make him ache for her. He shifts her impatiently in his arms, his hard cock straining his leathers. Her full bottom lip slips between his own and he catches it between his teeth in a possessive bite.

Dany gives a little yelp of surprise, loosening her legs at his waist and dropping to her feet. Jon looks down at her, her breathing ragged, hair mussed, lips red and swollen. She meets his gaze with indignation and lust mingling behind her violet eyes and then shoves back into him, pushing him a step. Jon just smirks at her fervor, digging his fingers into the curve of her hips to pull her close again.

When Dany leans into another kiss, her lips parted wide to suck at his tongue, it takes all the force of his will not rip the pale silk of her gown away. Gods but he wants her, wants to reach under the blasted dress and find her wet and waiting for him, wants to lick circles around her tightening nipples. He wants to slide a hand down her chest and over the smoothness of her belly, to press his fingers inside of her and feel the hot clench of her body. He wants to bend her over his ironwood desk and fuck her until she begs him for release. He wants . . .

Jon breaks away with a quavering gasp, tangling his hand in the cascade of her silver waves. He forces her head back, exposing the elegant line of her white throat. Dany sighs, falling trustingly under his sway, giving herself over to him as if she isn’t a prize far beyond his deserving. And something in him ignites at the sight of her so willing, eyes closed, biting her lip between her small, even teeth. He drags open-mouthed kisses down her neck, pausing to suck at the sensitive spot under her ear he knows she loves.

“Jon,” she whispers, grinding her hips, her cunt against him. It tests his resolve, having to refrain from taking her right then, from bearing her down on the rushes and rutting into her like an animal.

“How do you do this to me?” he demands, his breath puffing at her throat. He moves his mouth to her naked shoulder, applying his teeth to the give of her flesh, and she trembles in his arms.

“What,” Dany gasps dazedly, “do you mean?”

Make me lose myself, Jon thinks. Completely. No control, and gods damn the consequences. With Dany he becomes someone else, a man who takes what he wants, who acts on his impulses. It is as dangerous as it is thrilling.

Jon lifts his head to look over her shoulder and then pushes her backward toward the cushioned bench at the foot of his bed. Dany follows his lead but lets her hands roam to his waist where she works at the buckles on his belt with deft fingers. Knowing she wants him as much as he wants her gives Jon a rush of masculine pride, but he has other plans for her this evening. He has had all day to think about it thanks to the bloody meetings and his untimely discovery of that damnable dress, and he has thought of nothing else except what he plans to do to her now.

His hands find hers and he moves them down by her sides as they take the last few steps to the bench, the back of Dany’s knees grazing the edge. Jon takes her by the shoulders and shoves her onto her back on the velvet cushions.

For a moment he can see the familiar flash of defiance in her eyes. Dany likes being in control and ordinarily, she is. But Jon is having none of that this evening, and he can see her curiosity winning out over her anger as she settles back with her elbows on the bed behind her, stretching lithely out before him. From this angle he can see every line of her body, the swell of her breasts against the too-thin fabric, the dip where it pools between her legs, and Jon wants nothing so much as to kiss her, stroke her, suck her there; but not yet.

He locks his eyes on hers, and unfastens his sword belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clunk before kneeling in front of her. The porcelain skin of her thighs is close enough to kiss and his eyes rake over her, lingering at the hem of her gown that has ridden up to her knees. Dany is coy under Jon’s scrutiny, as she gathers the skirt of her dress in her hands, beginning to pull it up with agonizing slowness. Inch by inch her pale, flawless skin is revealed to him, and Jon leans in, watching enraptured as the silky smooth fabric rises away slowly, so bloody slowly, whispering along her legs as it goes.

Dany’s grin is equal parts devilish and demure, and Jon swallows, fighting to keep still and wait. But he wants her so much, craves her like a starving man craves a meal, and he is achingly hard for her in is too-tight leathers. He needs to touch her.

Able to resist no longer, he grasps her roughly by the hips, yanking her toward him so she is balanced on the edge of the bench, her legs hanging off. Jon’s palms brush up the smooth expanse of her flesh, stopping at the hem of the dress where it rests just below the meeting of her thighs. It is insolent and cruel, her teasing him like this, but it is perfect, delicious torture. She trembles under his hands and Jon longs to press his advantage, to part the burning core of her with his fingers so he can lick his way inside.

As if sensing his thoughts, Dany pulls the hem to her hips. Without any smallclothes she is revealed to him fully, and Jon blows out a breath. He can see Dany squirm with anticipation at the sound, her knees parting to invite him in.

He dips his head, fenced on either side by her soft thighs. Her head falls back, the long waves of her hair trailing on the bed, her back arching; and fuck, it is so tempting. Jon spreads her legs, almost dizzy at the sight of her glistening with arousal. “Fiendish woman,” he scolds, his voice rough and low. “For making me wait. I can see how much you want me, too.”

Dany doesn’t respond, just lifts her hips up to meet him, giving Jon room to slide his hands under her, to let her rest her weight in the strength of his arms. But still he takes his time, forcing himself to make it a tease of its own, watching as her breath hitches, her skin flushing all over. It would be so easy to tear away his own irksome clothing and barrel into her welcoming tightness. Instead he drops his head to trace his tongue along the delicate skin of her inner thigh.

Dany whimpers at the touch of Jon’s mouth. The rough stubble of his cheek scrapes against her sensitive flesh as he turns to kiss her other leg and she wriggles in the firmness of his grasp.

“Tell me what you want,” he orders, watching her, eyes pinched shut, nails digging into the cushions.

“You,” she pants. “You.”

She is so wet he can smell the heady scent of her on the air, can almost taste it, needs to taste her. So finally, finally he puts his mouth on her and Dany jerks at the first press of his tongue, sucking in a breath.

The carnal, familiar taste of her is its own reward and Jon sighs against her flesh. “You have,” he purrs, lifting her closer as she crosses her legs around his neck, “the sweetest cunt.”

“You’re filthy,” she says breathlessly, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling it loose from its tie at the nape of his neck. Jon hardly notices, fixated only on her pleasure, dragging his tongue up through the slick folds of her. He rides out the sharp buck of her hips, holding her fast and stroking his tongue up to swirl across the sweetest spot, teasing it with the very tip before laving down on her again, again.

Jon frees a hand, the roughness of his scarred fingers sliding along her thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He slips his hand between her thighs, his fingertips grazing her teasingly before he dips two finger inside. Dany lets out a breath at the fullness, clenching around him, warm and snug.

“Jon,” she moans, long and low, and the sound of his name on her lips shatters the last of his restraint to draw it out any longer. He pumps his fingers roughly into her, greedy for the desperate little sounds she makes when she is near the height of her pleasure. His lips close over her in a sucking kiss, and Dany rocks shamelessly against him, begging unintelligibly.

He glances up to see her shining hair plastered to her face with sweat, droplets of it glistening on her skin, the dress clinging to her with a lover’s caress. She is never more lovely than in these raw moments.

“I want you so much,” Jon murmurs, crooking his fingers inside as he speaks and eliciting a plaintive cry from Dany. “Always wanted you, from the beginning. So beautiful.” His lips seal the words against her flesh and she arches and shudders, coming with his name in her throat. And it is everything to him, knowing he is the one to make her feel this way, to make her thrash and cry out and beg, him to leave her pleased and sated and breathless.

“Jon,” she manages after a moment, catching her breath. She reaches to rest a hand against his cheek. Her eyes are tender with affection when they find his, and her smile is soft and lazy. “Thank you.”

Jon chuckles. “You don’t need to thank me. I like it,” he explains, urging her back down. He pushes his boots off with his feet and climbs over her until his face hangs above hers. “Because you enjoy it,” he goes on, and she giggles.

“Yes. I certainly do.”

“Because I enjoy it. Feeling you, tasting you, seeing you like this.” Even now, his chin damp with her, her legs still splayed wide, Dany glances bashfully away at his words. “And because you’re mine. Because I’m yours.” He takes her hand from his cheek, placing a soft kiss to her wrist. “Because I love you.”

And he does, desperately. Dany is everything he never knew he needed: a partner, a confidant, a friend, an equal, and of course, a lover. When he met Daenerys Targaryen it suddenly made perfect sense why he had to die, to leave the Watch, why he was brought back. To find this woman, his pillar of strength, this person who needs him as much as he needs her. The Mother of Dragons, the greatest queen the realm would ever know. A savior.

But not today. Today she is all human, sighing contentedly as he takes her by the hips and scoots her up the bed, depositing her over the pillows before lying down beside her.

“This was unexpected,” Dany remarks, rising up on an elbow. She looks down at her dress, now almost entirely translucent, sweat adhering it to her skin. “I suppose I should wear it more often. Maybe you’ll pay better attention at council meetings.”

Jon laughs, squeezing her hand. “No! Absolutely not. I’d ever get anything done. And your lords! They wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off you.”

“Jon! Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

“No,” he answers, a bit indignant. “Of course not.”

“Good. There’s no need. There will never be anyone else.”

Jon grins. “Is that so?”

“Because you’re the only one who can keep up.” Dany winks, grabbing him by the front of his jerkin and pulling him in for a kiss. “And I believe it’s your turn now.”

Sorry this is so long . . . and so explicit lol. Trying a more assertive Jon POV for fun :P Thanks for reading!