Daenerys knew the North very well by now, as much as she knew it wasn't hers.
She'd spent practically her whole life in Winterfell, under Lord Eddard's -- protection? Care? Watchful eye? Possibly some combination -- and truly, she was grateful of it. Surely her life could have taken other, less civil turns: exile, perhaps, or being killed like the rest of her family. She wasn't a Stark, she had always known she didn't quite belong, but she was looked after by the Starks, this for reasons she was only just beginning to understand. (It fascinated her that not killing children was considered a matter of politics and not of basic decency, but then, she was only a young girl, she wasn't meant to understand these things.)
It wasn't uncommon for the once-princess to seek out privacy and quiet when her day's work was done. She'd been a striking girl and she'd grown into an even more striking woman, and even despite the whispered worries about her lineage, she had always received a great deal of attention; she was as good and polite as she could be when approached, but this tendency to run off and hide, though not entirely ladylike, stemmed from a desire to avoid such attention. She often retreated to the godswood, though not from any particular religious inclination so much as that she knew it was unlikely she'd be disturbed there, at least by anyone who wasn't welcome to disturb her.
Today's earlier raven from King's Landing, though innocuous enough, had sent Daenerys into a mood: carefully disguised, hardly noticeable to most, but nonetheless one she felt she needed to be alone, or mostly alone, to sort through. If anyone were to look for her, or just to stumble across her, they'd find her in the godswood, bundled in a cloak and deep in thought.
She'd spent practically her whole life in Winterfell, under Lord Eddard's -- protection? Care? Watchful eye? Possibly some combination -- and truly, she was grateful of it. Surely her life could have taken other, less civil turns: exile, perhaps, or being killed like the rest of her family. She wasn't a Stark, she had always known she didn't quite belong, but she was looked after by the Starks, this for reasons she was only just beginning to understand. (It fascinated her that not killing children was considered a matter of politics and not of basic decency, but then, she was only a young girl, she wasn't meant to understand these things.)
It wasn't uncommon for the once-princess to seek out privacy and quiet when her day's work was done. She'd been a striking girl and she'd grown into an even more striking woman, and even despite the whispered worries about her lineage, she had always received a great deal of attention; she was as good and polite as she could be when approached, but this tendency to run off and hide, though not entirely ladylike, stemmed from a desire to avoid such attention. She often retreated to the godswood, though not from any particular religious inclination so much as that she knew it was unlikely she'd be disturbed there, at least by anyone who wasn't welcome to disturb her.
Today's earlier raven from King's Landing, though innocuous enough, had sent Daenerys into a mood: carefully disguised, hardly noticeable to most, but nonetheless one she felt she needed to be alone, or mostly alone, to sort through. If anyone were to look for her, or just to stumble across her, they'd find her in the godswood, bundled in a cloak and deep in thought.
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He nods when she asks her question. "Would you think less of me if I said, Gods, yes?" In point of fact, Jon doesn't wait for a response to that. He bends down to repeat the same process, kissing the pale skin that he lays bare as he pulls her skirts downwards. By the time the fabric is over her hips and halfway down her thighs, he pulls it quickly free.
Now it's his jaw that goes slack, his eyes that widen as he devours the sight of her. Daenerys is stunning, in every sense. "Thank you," he whispers hoarsely before lowering down and stretching out over her and holding her tightly, trapping his stiffness between them.
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"Of course not," she murmurs. "How could I?" But he's already tugging at her dress, already pressing kisses to her skin, and the closer he gets the more she trembles with need.
She's not self-conscious or even strictly speaking shy, but it does unnerve her to watch him watching her with such -- admiration, perhaps? It's a look she likes, but not one she's used to seeing aimed at herself. "Thank you," she says, and she wraps her arms around him, whimpering just slightly at the way their bodies press together.
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And they fit. Jon doesn't need to think, or worry. Maybe it's just instinct and nature, but they just seem to fit together so perfectly, and he cannot be happier, especially with the way his stiff length is now trapped tightly against Daenerys' belly.
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She feels her heart jump at the sensation of him pressed so close against her. "You're quite ready," she whispers, giggling a bit and letting her gaze dart down.
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His eyes drink in Daenerys again and he resumes doing exactly as he said. Jon holds her tight and kisses her deeply and it's as if he's desperate to prove to her that all he said was true, and that there was nothing in the world he would want more to be doing than making love to her. If he were more clever, more smooth, perhaps there were songs or poems or the like.
But Jon knew action. He would show her. He had to.
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All Daenerys is in much of a position to do is return the kiss, tentatively wrap a leg around Jon's waist and urge him on with the gentle pressure of her heel. She's run out of words just now, she's just curious where he'll take it.
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He can feel Daenery's leg move and feel her urging him. Jon looks down on her with the plain, open concern he's always shown for her. "Are, uh, are you ready?" That he could hurt her quite a bit if she wasn't, Jon was aware, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
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That, for example: the way he looks at her, the way he cares for her (does anyone else, really? Beyond just the perfunctory ways of doing). He's -- he's always been so good to her, she can't imagine him doing any different now. "I'm not sure," she whispers honestly, and it's the shyest she's sounded yet. She feels like she might be, but then, it's not as if anyone's ever told her what ready really is for women.
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She's warm, almost hot to the touch, but not very much what he would call wet. The men were always adamant that would help things along considerably. Hoping that their outrageous claims as to how to arouse a woman quickly and thoroughly were at least a little true, he starts to slide down the bed, kissing the line in the center of Daenerys' body, between her breasts, down her stomach and ending between her legs.
Taking a breath, he began to kiss her as passionately there as he had minutes before her mouth.
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But every single though seems to fly from her mind when Jon's mouth reaches her center. She's heard mention of men doing this in passing (they seem to quiet in respect when Sansa or Arya or Lady Stark pass by, but if it's Daenerys on her own their voices seem to get actually louder, as if their bragging would get her eager to transgress with them) but she's not paid it much mind, she couldn't have known how utterly -- wonderfully --
"Oh," she sighs, fisting a hand in the blankets they're laid out on.
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One thing the men were wrong about, though-- she tastes wonderful, as far as he's concerned, and he could keep this up so long as his jaw holds up. He looks up at Daenerys with an expression that clearly asks, "Good?"
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She thinks she'll have to make Jon feel as good as he's making her feel right now, but she can't be bothered to think too much about it just now, not when she's already so close to floating away with the sensation. When she notices Jon looking at her, she finally gives into the urge she's been trying to suppress and whimpers out a very delighted "Yes."
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It does occur to him, though, that it'll be the most pleasing race he's ever seen. The whole mixture of sights and sounds and Daenerys is somewhat taking its toll on him, though. Jon shifts his weight, trying to relieve the hardness that is almost painful.
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"Jon," she breathes, "Yes, keep -- there." She braces one hand against his shoulder, fingertips pressing into his skin so as to urge him on.
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Jon concentrates his efforts wherever makes Daenerys moan the loudest, drunk on the taste of her, his own lusts temporarily forgotten in his need to satisfy her.
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"I -- I think --" Her body feels so wound up tight, shivers and waves of heat rush through her alternately, and all she can think is close.
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"Jon," she wails, and just like that her grip on him lessens and she knows she's reached it, she's sated and feeling so, so wonderful.
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When it seems her body has calmed from the experience, he crawls back up her body, wiping his mouth on his arm before kissing her stomach, her breasts, her throat. Jon notices immediately that in his concentration on Daenerys, his own readiness has slipped a little. Moving on instinct, he gingerly guides her hand to his cock.
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When she notices where he's moving her hand, though, Daenerys smiles slow, playful as she can in the aftermath. Here, the hold she has on him is nothing but careful, tender even, and it's almost testing the waters as she runs her hand up his length then back down it. "Let me," she whispers. It's the least she can do after he managed to bring her to that
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The words sound entirely inadequate, but they're the best Jon has got at the moment. If the stories are true and his manhood has even more pleasures to experience, Jon's not sure he'll survive them.
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She brushes her thumb over the head, circling it and then moving to trace the tip. His expression tells her that her goal is very much being met.
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He groans loud and long. There's lightning and fire coursing all through him, and they haven't even started doing it yet. "As much as it would be heaven to have you do that some more... I'm ready again." Which is an understatement. He's seen bars of iron in the blacksmith's shop less rigid.
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"Good," she murmurs, but her hand doesn't yet leave him. She's waiting for him to prompt her, really. "Good, because I -- I need you."
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"I need you, too," he whispers. "And as far as I have a say in it, you'll always have me, Daenerys." Jon shifts back into position, stretching out above her, with his cock pressed between her legs. He reaches down and between his hand and hers, Jon finds himself at her entrance and slowly begins to press inside.
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