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"They’ll hang me from the nearest tree when they drag me back,” Jaime Lannister muttered, rubbing his chafed wrist against the jagged edge of the frozen rock. The iron cuffs had left angry red welts, but the cold was worse, gnawing through his stolen cloak like a living thing.
Above him, the sky was a bruise, the kind of grey that promised more snow. He'd lost track of how long he'd been running—hours? days? The Wall was behind him now, swallowed by the howling wind. Somewhere beyond it, Brienne of Tarth went about her duty no doubt. While he froze his way through the North, she had found her place among wolves. The thought still sat bitterly with him.
A scream split the air.
It was neither human nor animal. Jaime froze. Wights. His breath came too fast, frosting white before his face. He needed shelter. Now.
Just then darkness swept over him, vast and moving, blotting out what little light remained. The wind shifted with it, heavy and hot against his face, carrying the scent of ash and something ancient. Then came the roar, sharp and deafening, rolling through the woods like thunder.
Jaime did not need to look, but he did all the same.
Dragons didn't belong this far north. But there she was, perched atop the black beast of nightmares like some conqueror, scanning the snow for him.
Of course they'd send her.
Jaime ducked behind a gnarled oak, heart hammering against his ribs. The dragon's wings cast monstrous, writhing shadows over the snow, and for a wild moment, he considered surrender.
Bran Stark’s hollow gaze flashed behind his eyelids—no. Not yet.
Drogon's claws carved trenches into the frost as he landed, sending up plumes of powdered snow. Daenerys slid from his back with practiced ease, her breath curling in quick, visible puffs. She looked absurdly small next to the beast, her fur-lined coat and riding leathers doing little to hide the tiny frame beneath.
"Kingslayer," she called, voice cutting through the wind.
Jaime stepped out, hand raised in mock surrender. "Your Grace," he drawled, though the title tasted like ash. "Come to collect the Lannister trophy yourself?"
Dany didn’t react at his tone. Instead, she took a measured step forward, her boots crunching in the snow. "You’re worth more alive than dead," she said, though her eyes flickered with something icey. "And I’d rather not have your blood on Drogon’s claws."
Jaime smirked, but his muscles were coiled tight, ready. "How noble." He shifted his weight, feigning relaxation. "Tell me, did Snow send you, or was this your own—"
Drogon’s growl cut him off, low and vibrating through the frozen earth. Jaime’s pulse spiked. The dragon’s tail lashed, sending snow spraying against his legs. Daenerys raised a hand without looking, and the beast stilled, though his molten red eyes never left Jaime’s face.
"Enough," Dany said, crisp as the air between them. "You’re coming back. Now."
Jaime lunged before the last word left her lips. He caught her around the waist, hauling her backward against his chest with one arm while the other clamped over her mouth.
"Breathe fire now, beast," he hissed against her ear, "and you roast your mother alive."
Drogon's snarl shook the trees, but the dragon didn't strike. Jaime felt the exact moment Daenerys stopped struggling. Her body went taut, then deliberately slack.
“Good girl," Jaime murmured.
He eased his grip a fraction. That was his mistake.
The moment his grip loosened, she drove her elbow into his ribs and twisted free, her boot catching him square in the thigh as she scrambled back. Jaime staggered, more surprised than pained.
Once, that would never have happened.
Jaime swore under his breath.
"Call him off," Jaime panted, nodding at Drogon, who was mantling like a gargantuan hawk, "or I'll—"
Jaime never got to finish his threat. The air turned thick with the scent of death—just before the blizzard hit them like a wall. Snow whipped sideways in sudden, violent gusts, stinging his exposed skin like needles. One moment, he was staring down Daenerys, her silver hair lashing wildly around her face; the next, the world vanished into white.
Drogon’s roar was swallowed by the wind. Jaime lunged for Daenerys again, not to subdue her this time, but because instincts screamed at him not to lose sight of her. His fingers closed around her wrist just as something moved in the storm—shapes, too many, too fast. Wights. Their ragged silhouettes flickered between the trees, skeletal hands clawing at the snow.
"Run," Jaime snarled, yanking her forward. Daenerys stumbled but didn’t fight him. Together, they crashed through the underbrush, branches snapping underfoot. Behind them, the wet crunch of the dead followed.
Daenerys gasped, her breath ragged. "Drogon—!"
Jaime clamped his hand over her mouth again, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.
"Look," he hissed, pointing with his free hand. Between the swirling snow, a figure stood motionless—pale as frost, its armor shimmering like cracked ice. An Other. The creature tilted its head, as if listening to the wind, and Jaime felt Daenerys go rigid against him.
She bit down on his palm hard enough to draw blood, and Jaime jerked his hand away with a curse.
"Call your dragon again," he whispered furiously, "and we'll both be dead."
Dany's eyes burned with defiance, but she nodded once, sharp. The Other hadn't moved yet, but its presence alone seemed to thicken the air, turning their breaths to visible, trembling clouds.
Jaime dragged her backward, step by silent step, until the trees swallowed them. The moment they were out of sight, he spun her around, gripping her shoulders.
"South," he breathed. "Now."
They ran, boots sinking into drifts that reached their knees, the cold seeping through their clothes like a second skin. Jaime's stolen cloak was worthless against this—Westerosi wool, not meant for the true North. Beside him, Daenerys stumbled, her cheeks flushed red with exertion.
They didn't stop until the forest thinned, the blizzard lessening just enough to reveal a rocky outcrop ahead. Jaime shoved Dany toward it.
"There!"
She scrambled up the icy slope, her fingers clawing at the rock, and Jaime followed, his muscles screaming. The overhang was shallow, barely enough to crouch under, but it was shelter.
The ceiling was low enough that Jaime had to hunch, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged the cramped space between them. He was out of shape.
Daenerys crouched opposite him, her back pressed against the stone, her fingers flexing as if itching to summon fire. Outside, the wind howled through the cracks in the rock, carrying with it the distant, clicking chatter of wights.
Jaime peeled off his glove with his teeth, wincing as the fabric tugged at the half-frozen cuts on his palm where Dany had bitten him.
“Next time," he muttered, spitting the glove onto the ground between them, "try not to draw blood. They can smell it."
Dany’s eyes flicked to his hand, then away. "Next time," she shot back, "don’t handle me like a sack of grain.”
Jaime barked a quiet laugh, incredulous. "Noted." He flexed his fingers, watching the blood bead sluggishly in the cold. The cave smelled of wet stone and something older, something that reminded him of the crypts beneath Casterly Rock.
Jaime looked at Daenerys, really looked at her, for the first time since tackling her in the snow. Her braids had come undone, silver strands clinging to her flushed cheeks, and her lips were chapped from the cold. She looked less like a conqueror now and more like a lost girl—which she was.
"You’re shivering," he said, because it was true. Her shoulders jerked with tiny tremors, though her expression remained steeled.
"I’m fine," she snapped, but her teeth clicked together on the last word, betraying her.
Jaime rolled his eyes, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it at her. It fell into her lap, still holding the last of his warmth.
“Put it on before you freeze solid,” he said. “You may be the Unburnt, but I don’t recall anyone naming you the Unfrozen.”
Bad jest, he thought, wincing.
Dany stared at the cloak in her lap like it was a live scorpion. "I don’t need your pity," she hissed, but the way her fingers curled into the fabric betrayed her. The cold was winning.
Jaime snorted, rubbing his arms for warmth. “Call it self-preservation. If you die, your oversized lizard will roast me before I’ve gone ten paces.” He jerked his chin toward the cave mouth, where the storm still howled. “Unless you’ve taken a sudden liking to frostbite?”
She swung the cloak around her shoulders with a haughty jerk. The fur-lined collar swallowed her slender frame, making her look even younger and more lost. Jaime tried not to notice.
Silence settled again, heavier this time. The wind’s howl was the only sound until Dany spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Drogon will find me."
Jaime exhaled through his nose, watching his breath curl white in the dim light. "Before or after the Others pick our bones clean?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and caught the way her shoulders stiffened at the mention of the creatures. Good. Fear kept people sharp. "Your dragon’s clever, I’ll grant you that. But he’s not a bloodhound."
Dany’s fingers twisted in the folds of his cloak. "He’s flown through storms before," she said, but the words lacked their usual fire.
A gust of wind rattled the loose stones at the cave’s entrance, sending a fine spray of snow skittering across the floor. Jaime tilted his head, listening. No clicking. No footsteps. Just the endless, keening wail of the storm.
"You ever been this far north before?" he asked suddenly, more to break the silence than anything.
Dany's mouth twisted. "Further," she said. "I flew beyond the Wall a moon ago. The dead were already stirring." She tucked her hands under the cloak, her fingers pale as milk. "You?"
Jaime exhaled sharply. "Never had the pleasure." His toes had gone numb in his boots, and he flexed them experimentally, wincing at the prickling pain. "Cersei always said the North was a frozen wasteland full of barbarians. Turns out she was right about the frozen part."
Something flickered in Dany's eyes at the mention of Cersei—recognition, and no small measure of distaste.
“Your sister," she said carefully, "doesn't strike me as the adventurous sort."
Jaime smirked.“Oh, she is,” he said. “Only not in ways that put snow in her shoes.” He rubbed his hands together, brisk and restless, trying to coax some feeling back into stiffening fingers. The cave kept the worst of the wind at bay, but the cold lingered all the same, creeping in and settling deep.
He shifted, his knee brushing Dany’s on accident, and she pulled back at once, putting space between them.
"You’re afraid of me," he observed, not unkindly.
Dany’s chin lifted. "I’m not afraid of anything."
"Liar," Jaime said, almost fondly. "Everyone’s afraid of something." He watched her throat move as she swallowed. The cloak’s fur brushed her jaw, softening the line of it.
Jaime stretched his legs out, boots scraping against the rough cave floor. "You know," he mused, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, "for a queen who conquered cities, you’re wretched at keeping yourself alive.”
Her glare might have melted the Wall. "And you’re wretched at holding your tongue.”
"True," he conceded with a lazy grin. Outside, the wind howled like a wounded beast, rattling the stones at the cave's entrance. A draft curled around them, carrying the scent of ice and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe.
Jaime shifted, his shoulder pressing against the damp wall. "We can't stay here forever."
He watched Daenerys press deeper into the shadows, her fingers clutching his cloak tighter. Her breath came in quick, visible puffs, each one a testament to the cold neither of them could outrun.
"Stop looking at me," she muttered, her voice muffled by the chill.
"Just admiring my cloak," Jaime lied smoothly. "It suits you."
Dany’s lips thinned, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she tilted her head, listening. The wind had shifted—no longer a constant scream, but something erratic, broken. Jaime tensed. He knew that sound. Something was moving out there.
The scrape of bone against stone sent Jaime's hand flying to his belt—empty. He'd lost his sword days ago, left it buried in a wight's skull somewhere between the Wall and this gods-forsaken cave. Dany's breath hitched beside him, her fingers curling into fists beneath the cloak.
"Don't move," Jaime mouthed against the shell of her ear, his lips barely brushing skin. She stiffened but didn't pull away.
Outside, the wind carried the wet click of joints moving wrong—too many legs, too many arms. Jaime could picture them now: wights with fingers like broken twigs, jaws unhinged like snakes'. His pulse hammered against his ribs, so loud he was certain Daenerys could hear it.
A shadow passed the cave's mouth—too tall to be human, its silhouette distorted by the storm. Jaime's stump throbbed where his sword hand should have been, phantom fingers itching for a hilt that wasn't there. Gods, he was useless. If it came to a fight, he'd be as helpless as the girl pressed against him.
He glanced at Daenerys. Her eyes burned violet even in the dim light, jaw set like she was moments from spitting fire herself.
Well. Maybe more helpless than her.
The scraping intensified. Jaime's muscles locked, every instinct screaming to bolt even as logic pinned him in place—running would only draw their attention. Dany shifted imperceptibly beside him, her thigh pressing warm against his. He could feel the tremor in her frame, whether from cold or fury he could not say. The cloak's fur brushed his forearm where their arms touched, absurdly soft against his skin.
Then—silence. The wind still howled, but the clicking had stopped. Jaime didn't dare breathe. Somewhere beyond the snow, something was listening.
Dany's fingers dug into his wrist. He followed her gaze upward—to the cave's low ceiling where shadows pooled thickest. Ice crystals glittered like stars in the cracks. One fractured, tumbling silently toward them. It landed between Jaime's boots with a soundless splinter.
The ice crystal dissolved into the damp stone between them. Jaime barely registered it—his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, where shadows clung like tar. Another crack spiderwebbed across the ice above, too deliberate to be natural.
Dany’s grip on his wrist tightened to the point of pain. Slowly, so slowly, Jaime angled his head upward.
A face stared back.
The Other’s features were sharp as shattered glass, its eyes blue enough to burn. It clung to the ceiling like a spider, its fingers—too long, too many—curled around the ice. Jaime’s breath stopped. It hadn’t seen them yet.
The Other’s head tilted, its crystalline armor shifting soundlessly. Frost bloomed across the cave ceiling where its fingers pressed. Jaime had seen what those hands could do—men frozen solid before their screams left their throats.
Dany’s breath hitched beside him, her thigh pressing harder against his. Jaime glanced at her and caught the way her lips had parted, a mix between horror and wonder.
The Other shifted. Ice cracked under its weight as it lowered itself inch by inch, its head twisting to scan the shadows. Jaime’s heart was in his throat.
One wrong move, one stray sound—
Dany’s fingers found his wrist again, her nails biting into his skin—wait.
Jaime swallowed. The creature’s breath misted in the air, blue as witchfire. Its head snapped toward them.
Jaime's body locked, every instinct screaming to run even as his mind whispered, don't move, don't breathe. Dany's grip on his wrist was a brand, her pulse thundering against his skin.
Then the Other stilled, nostrils flaring wide.
It smells us, Jaime realized with dawning horror.
Dany's fingers spasmed against his wrist. He turned his hand slowly, catching hers, squeezing once—trust me. Her palm was clammy, her knuckles sharp as daggers under his touch.
Jaime moved first—not toward the creature, but sideways, dragging Dany with him in a single, fluid motion that scraped his back raw against the cave wall. The Other hissed, a sound like cracking glaciers, and lunged.
The lunge sent ice shards raining down—Jaime yanked Dany sideways just as crystalline fingers grazed the space where her head had been. The creature's snarl vibrated through the cave walls, its breath frosting the air between them in jagged blue plumes. Dany twisted free from Jaime's grip, her back hitting the damp stone beside him, her chest rising too fast.
"Dragonglass," she hissed, fingers scrabbling at her belt. Jaime barely caught the glint of black stone in her palm before the Other struck again—this time with a swipe that sheared through Jaime's sleeve, leaving frostbite in its wake. Pain lanced up his arm, white-hot and immediate. He snarled, kicking out blindly, his boot connecting with something brittle. The Other recoiled with a sound like shattering mirrors.
Dany lunged, dragonglass dagger flashing. The blade bit deep into the creature's wrist, and for a heartbeat, nothing happened—then the Other's arm shattered, fracturing from the point of impact outward, ice-blue veins of light spiderwebbing through its flesh before it dissolved into mist. The creature howled hideously, and Jaime seized Dany's wrist, hauling her toward the cave's mouth.
"Run!"
They burst into the blizzard, snow stinging their faces like needles. Behind them, the cave's ceiling collapsed in a roar of ice and stone. Jaime didn't look back—he could hear the Other's pursuit, the unnatural skitter of its limbs over snow. Dany stumbled, her boots sinking into a drift, and Jaime caught her elbow, wrenching her forward.
"Faster, damn you!"
Jaime's lungs burned with each breath. The drifts deepened with every step, the snow clinging to his legs like grasping hands. Dany stumbled again, her dragonglass dagger slipping from her fingers to vanish into the white. She didn't stop to retrieve it—didn't dare. The Other's shrieks echoed behind them, closer now, weaving between the trees in a way that made Jaime's skin crawl.
"Left!" Dany gasped, veering sharply toward a cluster of frost-rimed boulders. Jaime followed without question, his boots skidding on hidden ice. The rocks formed a crude semicircle, their tops dusted with fresh snow. Dany ducked into the narrow gap between two of the largest, pressing herself flat against the stone. Jaime crowded in behind her, his chest heaving against her back.
The space was too tight—he could feel every panicked rise of her ribs, could count the rapid flutter of her pulse where his forearm brushed her throat.
The Other's steps slowed. Jaime held his breath. Through the gap in the rocks, he watched the creature pause, its head cocked at an unnatural angle. Frost spiraled from its fingertips, crawling across the ground in intricate patterns. Searching.
Suddenly it froze mid-step. A soundless tremor passed through its crystalline armor. As if plucked by some invisible string, its head snapped northward, nostrils flaring at something beyond the storm.
Jaime held his breath, his stinging forearm pressing Dany harder against the rock as the creature's gaze swept past their hiding place without pause. Then, with a crack like splitting ice, it was gone—swallowed by the blizzard.
Dany sagged against him. Jaime couldn’t move, every nerve still ringing from the chase.
Her body molded against his in the space. Her breasts were crushed against his chest so hard he feared he could feel her nipples. Her thighs bracketed his knee where she'd twisted to fit. He could feel the frantic gallop of her heartbeat through the stolen cloak, could smell the sweat and snowmelt in her hair where it tangled against his lips.
Fuck.
His pulse hadn't slowed—if anything, it hammered harder now, a traitorous rhythm that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the way Dany's breath hitched when his hip shifted against hers.
She tilted her head to glare up at him, her lips parted on some sharp retort, but the words died when her thigh brushed the unmistakable hardness straining against his breeches. Her eyes widened. Jaime swallowed a groan. Of course his body would betray him now, when death had been seconds away and his arms were still full of trembling, furious queen.
Dany struggled against him and Jaime felt the last vestiges of his self-control splinter like rotten wood. The cloak’s fur had slipped from one shoulder, revealing the flushed skin beneath, damp with melted snow and something far more dangerous.
"Stop. You're still shaking," he murmured, though his own voice sounded foreign—rough as gravel, too thick with want. His fingers flexed where they gripped her hip, half-expecting her to jerk away, to curse him for the scoundrel he was. But Daenerys didn't move. Her breath came in shallow hot puffs against his throat, her lashes fluttering where they brushed his jaw.
Jaime tilted his head and caught the exact moment her gaze flicked to his mouth. The air between them crackled, taut as a bowstring. He leaned in.
Dany recoiled.
"Don't." The word was a whip-crack, sharp enough to make Jaime flinch. Her palms shoved against his chest, her nails biting through fabric. "Don't you dare."
The cold rushed back in. Jaime released her as if burned, his cheeks flushing hot with shame. "I didn't—"
"You did," Dany hissed, her voice trembling with something fiercer than anger. She shoved past him, knocking his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble back into the snow.
Jaime clenched his jaw, watching her stalk away through the swirling white. His pulse still hammered, but now it was all frustration, all self-loathing.
Idiot. He dragged a hand over his face, his palm stinging where her teeth had broken skin earlier. The bite mark had frozen over, a jagged crescent of ice and dried blood.
He caught up to her easily enough and they remained in stiff silence, putting distance between themselves and the rocks. The blizzard had lessened, but the wind still cut like a blade, whipping Dany's loose hair across her face like silver banners. Jaime kept his eyes on her back, on the way his cloak hung on her frame, the hem dragging through the snow.
The alcove they found was little more than a shallow scoop in the hillside, but it was sheltered from the worst of the wind. Daenerys ducked inside without a word, curling into herself at the far edge, her arms wrapped tight around her knees. Jaime hesitated, then followed, keeping a careful distance.
The silence between them was a living thing, sharp and crackling.
He risked a glance at her.
She was still angry. That much was plain. Jaw set, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed anywhere but him.
Jaime exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the cold stone. It had been nothing, he told himself. She was simply too close and he was but a man, with a man’s desires.
His gaze flicked back to her despite himself.
She was not his sort anyways. Too young, for one. And all that righteous talk of justice and goodness—by the gods, as if the world had ever cared for such things. The sort of woman he'd have laughed at with Cersei once, back when they still shared wine and secrets.
Cersei would loathe her.
For she was certainly comely.
The dragon queen was light given flesh. Her silver hair caught each stray beam like polished Valyrian steel. It almost felt perilous to look at her, yet those haunting eyes of hers offered a strange kind of shelter—astonishing amethysts rimmed in silver that, even when blazing with fury, never quite lost their quiet melancholy.
It was there, more than anywhere else, that she reminded him of Rhaegar Targaryen. The rest of her face was her mother’s.
Jaime knew she was not made of anger. He had seen it in the way she spoke to others, the quiet patience she showed even when tired, the ease of her pretty smile. It sat ill with him, knowing he had stripped that from her, that the sharpness in her now had his name upon it.
He found, to his own annoyance, that he would rather have seen her as she had been—smiling still, even if it was never meant for him.
Jaime grimaced at the thought.
Seven hells.
His mouth tightened, and he turned his face away, as if he might shake it loose before it settled into something worse.
And she hated him.
That, at least, made sense.
Still… He found it rankled more than it should have.
Jaime cleared his throat. "You're acting like a child."
Dany's head snapped up, her eyes blazing. "And you're acting like a—"
"Like what?" Jaime challenged, spreading his hands. "A man? Gods forgive me if there’s still a spark of warmth left in me—something you seem to have long since buried beneath all that frost. You’ve near turned yourself to ice, Your Grace. An ice-cold bitch, if truth be told.”
Jaime was wrong of course. She was warm—burning hot like a dragon’s breath.
“Don’t touch me again,” she spat, the words raw and sudden. “I hate you.”
“Hate me?” he said. “For what? For killing your father?”
She flinched.
“Aerys was no father. He was a monster. You know what he did. What he tried to do.” His voice rose before he checked it. “Do you still mourn him, then? A mad man you never even knew?”
Dany opened her mouth, but nothing came. The truth was, she did not know. The anger was there, hot and clawing, but its roots were tangled in things she couldn't name.
Jaime gave a short, bitter laugh. “That’s what I thought. You know nothing of him. Nothing of what he was.” His jaw tightened. “You’ve no right to sit in judgment.”
She had not expected the force of it. The heat in him matched her own now, and for a moment it stole the breath from her. She tried again to speak, but her voice would not come.
“Childish,” Jaime said at last, quieter, but no kinder.
The word stung more than his anger. Dany turned her face away, but too late. A tear slipped free, hot against her chilled skin. She dashed it aside at once, furious at herself, though another followed, and then another.
Jaime watched her struggle in dismay. "Do you even know what he—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "Your mother. Rhaella. Did prince Viserys ever tell you about her?"
Dany's breath hitched. She swallowed hard.
"He only said—" Her voice cracked. "He said I killed her."
Jaime flinched. "Your brother really was Cersei with a cock, wasn't he?"
Like himself, she had lost her mother to the birthing bed, he realized. Cersei had never forgiven Tyrion for it; he could imagine well enough how Viserys had treated her.
Dany didn't answer. Her cheeks stung as salt traced a hot path down. She swiped at it in vain.
The ghost of Rhaella Targaryen stared back at him through her daughter's face, and that pain was sharper than any sword.
"You look like her," he said at last, the words hesitant. "Especially now."
Dany sniffled. His words didn’t help her tears, but her breath steadied, as if she were holding onto the words like an anchor.
Jaime shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping against the ice. "I don’t— I try not to remember much. But her… I never could quite forget.”
He let out a breath, gaze fixed somewhere past the stone.
“She was kind," he said, the admission heavy. "Too kind for that pit of snakes. Too kind for him."
Dany still didn't speak, but her fingers unclenched slightly in her lap. The storm howled outside, but within the alcove the silence between them had changed.
Jaime leaned his head back against the ice, his eyes fixed on the swirling snow beyond their shelter. "I could tell you about her," he offered quietly. "If you wanted."
She looked up then, and the tears in her eyes made them seem too large for her face.
She didn't say yes. But she didn't say no.
Jaime spoke longer than he meant to, the past heavy on his tongue as if waiting years to be unleashed. He told her of her mother in fragments—of a soft laugh that seldom lasted, of how she would start at sudden sounds and pretend otherwise, of the high collars and long sleeves she favored, even in the heat.
Once, he admitted, he had been marked for punishment—some boy’s misstep, nothing worth the king’s notice, yet Aerys had taken notice all the same. It had been the queen who intervened, her voice low, her hand light upon her royal husband’s arm, and somehow the matter had passed. Jaime had never forgotten it. Nor the terrified look in her eyes after, when she thought no one saw.
She had saved him, and he had never been able to save her.
At some point they had fallen asleep—Jaime upright against the ice, Dany curled into herself beside him, their fingers brushed where the cold had driven them together.
When next he woke, it was to the storm’s absence—and to the wrongness of her stillness.
Her chest didn’t rise.
Jaime lurched forward, his numb fingers fumbling for her throat. The pulse was there—thread-thin, fluttering—but her skin was waxen, her lips tinged blue. He cursed, pressing his bare palm to her cheeks.
“Daenerys!" Her eyelids didn’t so much as twitch.
He dragged her into his lap, chafing her arms with forearms that felt like blocks of ice. Useless. He was useless. He bundled her in his cloak, until she was swaddled. Her breath came in shallow, rattling gasps, her body limp as a doll’s.
"Wake up," he growled, shaking her once—too hard. Her head lolled. Panic lanced through him, sharp as a knife. He crushed her to his chest, his breath hot against her frozen lips as he exhaled for her, again and again, until his lungs burned. "Breathe, damn you."
Dany stirred, murmuring something unintelligible into his collarbone.
Jaime jerked back, gripping her shoulders. "What?"
Her lashes fluttered. "Mother," she sighed, her voice slurred with cold.
His throat tightened. "Yes, keep talking," he ordered, hauling her upright. Her knees buckled immediately. He caught her, his stump braced against her back as he struggled to stand. "Anything. Recite your titles. Curse me. Just speak."
She mumbled something about stars—or maybe swords—her words dissolving into a hum. A song. It was pitifully, painfully beautiful, her voice cracking on the high notes like thin ice.
He hauled her onto his back, her arms slipping loose about his shoulders as he dragged them into place. He hooked his forearms beneath her legs to keep her from falling.
She sagged there, still humming that broken song into his collar.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, unbidden, came a memory of Brienne. Caves, she had said, could be found where the wind scoured the snow thin, where rock showed through and the ground lay harder beneath the drift.
Jaime tried to look for it—tried to see anything beyond the white—but the snow thickened again, turning the world to blur and shadow. The wind rose, driving it into his eyes until he could scarcely see a step ahead.
He pushed on regardless.
Jaime’s vision blurred. He wasn’t sure if it was the snow or his own failing strength, but her weight grew heavier with every step.
His knees buckled.
The impact sent a jolt through his frozen bones, but he barely felt it. Dany slid from his back into the snow, her face upturned to the storm like she was welcoming it. Jaime caught her before she could sink entirely, his fingers numb where they clutched her shoulders.
“Stay with me,” he rasped, but his own breath came in weakening bursts. He forced himself onto one knee, dragging her with him. She slipped, and he caught her again, though his grip had gone clumsy.
He took a step anyway.
Then another.
Until his legs failed him once more and he sank down into the snow.
The cold had won.
Jaime slumped forward, his forehead pressing against Dany’s. He’d failed. The realization settled over him like the snow—heavy, inevitable. He’d failed Rhaella. Failed her daughter. Failed every oath he’d ever sworn. His breath fogged weakly in the space between their lips, mingling with hers.
Somewhere beyond the storm, he thought he heard hoofbeats. Jaime forced his head up, blinking against the white. A shadow loomed, darker than the storm, its edges wavering like smoke.
Ravens cut through the wind in scattered bursts, circling low and restless, vanishing and returning as if the storm had no hold on them.
A hand reached down.
Black as old ice, fingers closing around Dany’s wrist. Jaime snarled, jerking her back against his chest with the last of his strength. His vision swam, the edges tunneling inward. The hand retracted, then returned, something small and dark between those frozen fingers.
The cold was in his bones now, in his lungs, in the sluggish crawl of his pulse. He couldn’t fight it. Couldn’t fight anything anymore. He slumped sideways, Dany cradled against him, and whispered a curse into her hair.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Jaime woke to fire.
It took three tries to pry his eyes open, his lashes felt crusted with frost. The space he found himself in was small.
A hooded figure crouched near the flames with it’s back to him. Jaime’s breath stuttered.
He blinked against the sting of smoke—real smoke, thick and resinous—and realized with dawning clarity that he wasn’t dead. His fingers twitched against roughspun blankets, his throat raw as if he’d swallowed shards of glass. The figure by the fire didn’t turn, its silhouette hunched and shrouded in a cloak darker than the charred wood it tended.
“Where is she?” Jaime croaked, his voice a ruin.
The figure stilled, but did not answer.
Jaime shoved upright, his muscles screaming, and immediately regretted it. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
“The girl. Daenerys,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “If you’ve—”
He would what?
The threat died in his mouth. He sounded strange to his own ears.
He should have taken the chance to leave her. Should have gone the moment he could. He had known better than to stay.
And now he was near to trembling with rage at the thought of anything happening to her.
The figure stood in one fluid motion, towering despite its crooked posture. A gloved hand rose to adjust its hood, and a sliver of pale skin showed beneath it, bloodless as old bone before it was hidden again. Jaime’s stomach lurched.
The…creature turned toward the door, its boots soundless on the packed earth floor, and left without a word. The latch clicked shut behind it with terrible finality.
Jaime didn’t waste time wondering. He rolled sideways off the pallet, his knees hitting the floor with a thud that reverberated up his spine. The cabin was small, barely more than a hunter’s hut, its walls lined with frost-rimed pelts. The fire crackled in a stone hearth, its light guttering against the ceiling beams. And there—
Daenerys lay swaddled in furs to his right, her silver hair fanned across a wolfskin, her cheeks flushed an unnatural red. Jaime crawled to her side, his breath catching at the heat radiating from her skin, more so than usual.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts, her lips parted around ragged breaths. Jaime’s hand hovered over her forehead before he caught himself—hesitant, as if she might shatter under his touch.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, as his fingers finally brushed her temple.
She was scorching but her pulse beat strong. Alive. Feverish, but alive. A knot in his chest loosened so suddenly it left him lightheaded.
The scent of roasting meat reached her first, along with the weight of furs heaped over her, warm and close, as Dany stirred awake.
Firelight painted Jaime Lannister’s face in gold and shadow as he leaned over her, his features sharper than she remembered—hollowed by exhaustion. He held out a wooden bowl, steam curling lazily from the broth inside.
"Eat," he said, his voice rough with disuse. "You've slept a full day."
She took the bowl with stiff fingers, her muscles protesting even that small movement. “What happened?” she asked, her throat tight.
Jaime’s mouth twisted. “Winter,” he said, as if the words tasted bitter. “Alas, we are still alive. Courtesy of our silent benefactor."
He jerked his chin toward the door, where a fresh pile of firewood and a haunch of meat lay wrapped in oilcloth.
“He leaves us supplies,” Jaime went on, “never speaks, and never stays.”
Dany frowned into her broth. The steam curled against her lips, warm and fragrant, but her stomach churned at the thought of trusting a stranger's charity. "And you've seen no one?"
"Only tracks in the snow," Jaime admitted, flexing his left hand where fresh blisters had formed. "Whoever he is, he knows his way around a forge." He gestured to the corner where a mismatched assortment of weapons gleamed—daggers, a crude short sword, even a rusted axe. All made of dragon glass.
"Left these too. As if we're meant to stay and play house."
She pushed herself upright, ignoring Jaime's sharp inhale as the room tilted. Her legs buckled instantly. Jaime's arm shot out, catching her elbow before she could crumple. His grip was firm, his palm cold through her sleeve.
"Stubborn," he muttered, easing her back onto the furs.
The days blurred together.
The hut became their whole world, a low timber space that held the cold at bay just enough to matter. They kept their distance at first, circling one another like wary dogs, sharing little more than the space and the silence between them.
Each morning, something new would appear at the door—dried meat, bitter herbs, once even a squat bottle of sour northern wine that made Jaime’s mouth twitch toward something like a smile. Their unseen savior fed them, but the rest fell to them.
Dany took to the cooking first.
Jaime let her.
The stew she produced was… memorable. Thin, over-salted, with a bitter edge that lingered on the tongue. He tried a spoonful, then another, as if the second might prove kinder.
It did not.
He laughed.
He could not help it, the sound filled the small space before he had the sense to choke it down. Dany stiffened and the next instant the ladle struck him smartly upside the head.
“Seven hells—” Jaime caught it on the second swing, still grinning despite himself. “I deserved that.”
She said nothing, but she did not touch the stew again.
After that, the cooking fell to him. Jaime found he did not mind it. It gave his hand something to do besides remember what it had once been capable of.
When he was not tending the pot, he took to working through what swordplay he still could—slow, careful movements, the ghost of old forms. The blade he used was only a length of wood he had shaved down himself, rough in places where his patience had worn thin.
Sometimes, when he turned, he would find her watching.
She never spoke when he caught her at it, only looked away, too quickly to be anything like disinterest.
It happened often enough. Sometimes he'd catch her staring and smirk, spinning the blade in a lazy arc that he hoped would get a reaction out of her. She only crossed her arms and kept her eyes away.
The next day, he carved another sword.
It took him longer than the first. He told himself it was the wood.
“You’ve two good arms,” he said one morning, tossing her the wooden blade. “Might as well learn to use them.”
She caught it on reflex, staring down at it as if it might bite.
“I don’t need a sword.”
“Everyone needs a sword,” Jaime said. “Or the sense to stand behind someone who has one. Since you’ve no one here but me, we’ll settle for the first.”
She frowned at that, but she did not throw it back.
And that was answer enough.
Jaime circled her slowly, the practice blade loose in his hand.
“You’ve been watching me,” he said. When her mouth parted to protest, he cut her off with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t. Tell me what you’ve learnt.”
Dany’s grip tightened on the wooden sword.
She had been watching. Even with one hand, he moved differently from any man she had seen.
He did not move like a lion, she thought, for all the name men gave him. There was nothing of pride or display in it. It was closer to a cat’s way—sly, patient, quick, always where it needed to be a moment before it was needed.
Ser Barristan had moved differently. Straighter. Cleaner. Each stroke placed with a care that spoke of long years and hard discipline. He had been the better sword, she did not doubt it.
And yet this one came close.
Even now, diminished as he was, there was something dangerous in him, something half-leashed. It was easy to see what he had once been. Easier still to wonder what he might be, with both hands as he was meant to be.
“I hear Ser Barristan the bold was in your service,” Jaime went on, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “No doubt he filled your ears with tales of my glory.”
What little light there was caught along his throat, catching in the damp golden curl of his hair, and for a moment she glimpsed the man he had been.
“Some,” Dany said.
She moved then.
The strike came clumsy, her grip too tight and the angle wrong. Jaime turned his body a fraction and the wooden blade cut empty air where he had stood.
“Careful,” he jeered. “You’ll hurt yourself before you touch me.”
Dany drew back, already breathing heavily.
Jaime watched her as he rolled his wrist as if to loosen it. “Though I see the problem. Seems Ser Barristan spent more time telling tales than teaching you anything of use.”
“Watch your tongue,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “He taught me more than enough.”
“A pity none of it stuck.”
Ser Barristan had never spoken down to her. He had served, protected, guided—always with a quiet kindness she had not known she needed until she had it. He had stood beside her when others would not, had risked everything for her cause, had—
Anger flared, hot and sudden.
Dany came at him again and this time the swing carried weight. Anger lent it strength, drove it harder, faster, her whole body behind the blow as she aimed for him.
Jaime slipped aside just as easily.
The strike had missed him clean, and she stumbled past, her balance breaking under the force of her own strike.
“What did I say,” Jaime called after her.
Dany pushed herself up swiftly, snow clinging to her gloves and coat, and turned on him with a glare.
He was grinning.
It changed his face, softened it, made him look younger than she had thought him. And much more handsome.
She caught the lapse, and shook it off hard.
Dany rose to her feet, brushing snow from her skirts with quick movements. The wooden sword lay where she had dropped it. She left it there.
“I’m done,” she said, marching away from him.
Jaime scoffed. “We’ve barely begun.”
Behind her, she heard his steps in the snow, unhurried but persistent.
“Come now,” he went on, as if coaxing a sulking child. “You fall once and that’s it? I took you for better, Your Grace.”
Dany kept walking.
He moved faster then, circling ahead of her until he stood in her path, close enough that she would have to brush past him to go on.
“I didn’t think you the sort to give up so easily,” he pressed.
She let out a breath, sharp through her nose, anger still simmering beneath her skin. He was right, and that stung more than his jests.
“Fine,” she said at last, exasperated.
Dany turned back, retracing her steps through the churned snow, and bent to snatch up the fallen sword.
Jaime pressed his lips together, struggling to contain his laughter. There was just something about her, something disarming, that made it difficult not to.
“Do you want to learn the secret to the sword, Your Grace?”
Dany did not bother to deign him with an answer. She had little patience for his games, and less for the way he seemed to enjoy them.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Your Grace,” Jaime said, and there it was again—the title, spoken like a coin he liked the weight of, especially when it annoyed her.
“I have always been of the mind that you should fight like you fuck.”
Heat rushed to her face.
“You’re awfully vulgar, Ser.”
“And you’re awfully proper for someone from Essos.” Jaime shifted his weight as if considering her more carefully now. “I’ve heard all manner of things of your cities—Breaker of Chains and Queen of Meereen. Though I once heard from Tyrion that when he met you, you had a breast bare.”
Dany stiffened. She did not ask how he had come to speak with Tyrion; she already knew the answer. Her councilor had never been as obedient as she wished, especially when it came to his brother.
“Most men would not speak to me in such a manner,” she said instead, coolly.
Jaime’s eyes flicked over her slowly. “I doubt that.”
That made her flush deeper, which only seemed to amuse him more.
He had the truth of it.
“Those that matter,” Dany added, more carefully now, “they do not speak so. They dress it up in courtesy and in honeyed words.”
Jaime tilted his head slightly, considering her. “Those that matter?” he repeated, slow.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, wary of whatever trap might be waiting in the question.
His gaze lingered on her. “Is this your way of telling me you want me to matter?”
Dany felt, dimly, that if she flushed any further she might truly lose herself to it.
It made no sense, this effect he had on her. She was no stranger to men or their flirtations.
It could not have been his age—she had known older men her whole life. Daario Naharis had been older than her, and near enough the same age as Jaime Lannister, and yet Daario had never made her feel like this—never left her so unmoored by something as simple as a look or a question.
With Daario, she had felt desired. Adored, even. But always at a distance she could not quite close. It had always been the Queen he wanted, not Daenerys. Never Dany.
Jaime Lannister did not look at her as something to be reached for or revered. He looked through the Queen, and what lay beneath was already plain to him. It left her exposed in a way she could not quite defend against, as though there were no place left to hide.
It should have been unbearable.
And yet she found, with a quiet unease, that she did not wholly mind it—perhaps even liked it more than she ought to have.
This time, Jaime moved first, rushing her.
Dany startled, more instinct than thought, and barely leapt out of his path. Cold air whipped past her as he closed the space, too fast to track cleanly. She gasped, as a sharp smack landed on her rump as he passed.
“Pay attention,” Jaime said, laughing.
Dany spun on him. She rushed him in return, hard and intent. Jaime was already waiting, as she knew he would be, blade lifting to meet hers, half bored at the predictability of it. She saw the opening in his stance as he reached to knock her strike aside.
At the last instant she dropped low instead, sliding between his legs through the snow.
It was all she needed. She came up behind him and drove a kick into his back with everything she had.
It did little more than force him forward, but it was enough—his grip slipped as he caught himself, and the sword fell from his hand into the snow.
Dany was still on the ground, half-sunk in white, and she looked up at him with a wide, toothy grin.
He let out a snort. “You must like it rough.”
They went on after that, circling and striking again and again, neither speaking so much anymore, until the snow thickened around them and time seemed to blur into the wind.
Only when the light faded and the cold deepened did they finally break apart and make for the small hut, shoulders dusted white with drifting snow.
Dany quickly shed the snowy coat and gloves, until she was only in Jaime’s cloak and a tunic she had found that must have belonged to their savior.
Jaime stretched by the fire, his spine cracking audibly. "Gods, I'm getting old," he groaned, rolling his shoulders. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his chest, revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband. Dany's gaze snagged there, on the trail of golden hair disappearing beneath fabric.
Jaime sat down with a thump and winced when his hand struck the wood.
Dany noticed. “What is it?”
Jaime looked at his hand, hissing in irritation. “Nothing.”
She did not believe him. A moment later she was beside him, taking his wrist before he could pull away.
The hand was littered with splinters from the crudely fashioned wooden sword, the skin split where old bite marks had reopened. A bit of blood had dried in the grooves.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, though it was not clear what she meant to be sorry for.
Jaime only shrugged, watching the way her silver hair fell forward as she worked, firelight turning it into pale flame. “It’s not your fault. I’ve never had much talent for carving wood.”
She frowned. Only then did she seem to register that he had no gloves to guard him from the cold or the rough grain of the wood. Dany also noted that the sword she had been given was far better fashioned than his own.
Wthout another word, she fetched warm water and a rag.
She worked carefully, picking splinters from his skin with small, precise fingers, wiping away the dried blood. It was the first time she had touched him like everyone else—without anger, without haste. Jaime let her, though he made a show of flinching now and then, so that she might not stop.
As she leaned closer, she pushed his sleeve higher up his arm and stopped.
Her breath caught.
Dark claw marks ran along his bicep, ugly even beneath the healed skin.
“What is that?” she demanded.
“From the Other. The one we ran from,” he said lightly, as though it were nothing. To him, perhaps, it was.
“You should have come to me sooner,” Dany chastened.
Jaime snorted. “Why? Is your healing better than your cooking?”
It was meant for a jest, one to lull her ire but she only sighed.
“You love to suffer, Kingslayer,” she said quietly. “I believe you enjoy imagining me cruel.”
Jaime frowned at that, then, more sharply, “You are cruel. To me.” He paused. “Or you were. Best be precise about it.”
Her gaze lifted to his then, guilty and stricken as she realized the truth of it.
“I am sorry.” Not for the first time, but as if she were still trying to understand what the apology was for.
“I know what my father did—what he tried to do,” she began, and stopped there, catching.
Burn them all!
The words hung between them, unspoken.
She went on after a moment, voice lower. Years of hatred, of blame laid on dead faces and living ones alike—for her father, her brothers, her mother, her good-sister, her niece and her nephew, even herself. It was easier when there was a shape to the anger. Harder when there was not.
“I know it is unfair,” she said at last. “But after resenting you for so long… it is not so easy to stop. Even knowing the truth.”
It left her unmoored, confused, and a little ashamed. Yet she could not pretend he had not been a hand in what had wrought her misery.
Jaime listened, something unreadable in his face. He had to clear his throat when he spoke again.
“You do not need to soften it for me. I did my share of harm.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “More than my share. I stood by when Elia Martell and her children were murdered. I was meant to protect them and I did nothing. And after that I stayed. I watched. I served. The crimes I have committed against the Starks—how is that any different from what your father did? I have been everything I once claimed to hate.”
At that, Dany reached for his hand again. She did not argue. She simply held it between both of hers.
“I used to tell myself,” she said slowly, “if I look back, I am lost.” Her grip tightened on his hand. “It was what I said whenever things grew too hard. I would not look. I would not remember.”
She drew a breath. “But someone wise once told me that to go forward, I must look back. And when I did… I found I could endure more than I thought—and breathe easier for it.”
Her eyes held his now, steady despite the flicker of doubt beneath. “When I met you, I think I forgot that. Or chose to. It was easier to be angry.” A small pause, then, quieter, “But I cannot go forward that way.”
Her fingers closed around his. “We are each other’s past as much as we are each other’s present. And if we are to go forward we must reconcile both.” She gave his hand a small, earnest squeeze.
Jaime only stared at her.
This little queen, he thought. Would he cease to be amazed by her.
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them, the firelight low and wavering, her hand still warm in his. Something had shifted.
Dany drew back first and rose to her feet, the furs giving a soft rustle as she broke the contact.
The rag still lay damp in her hands. She turned from him, stepping out into the cold to wring it clean, hang it just beyond the door, and wash her hands in the basin. When she returned, she did not sit back in her pallet. Some small, unspoken thing held her nearer the fire…and nearer him.
Jaime watched her take her place, saying nothing.
They ate in silence, the simple fare set between them. He found himself glancing at her more than the food, his thoughts turning back to her words, until his mind was full of her.
She did not press him for an answer, though once or twice her eyes flicked up to his.
When the meal was done, they settled back. The silence that followed was no longer so clumsy. Though it was no less heavy.
The fire snapped and popped between them like the tension in Jaime's shoulders. He leaned back against the rough-hewn wall, watching Dany across the flames as she tucked a loose strand of silver behind her ear.
The motion pulled her borrowed tunic tight across her chest, revealing the soft swell of her breasts beneath the thin fabric.
Jaime broke it at last.
“Perhaps,” he mused, almost to himself, “you’re not so much of a child after all.”
Dany arched a brow. “Oh?”
“I’m only saying… I may have misjudged you.” His voice was a husk.
Dany's fingers curled into the furs piled around her hips. “Only may?” Her own voice was lighter than it had been in weeks, but there was steel beneath it—the same steel that had carried her across deserts and battlefields.
When she tilted her chin up in that infuriating, regal way of hers, Jaime's gaze dropped to where her pulse fluttered beneath the thin fabric of her ill fitting tunic.
She must have felt his gaze, for color crept down the length of her throat, into the hollow of her pretty collarbone and across the strip of her chest left bare, before disappearing beneath the tunic.
Here, wrapped in furs with her bare toes curled against the wolfskin, she was something out of a song.
He had always liked songs.
Dany pressed her knees together beneath the furs, acutely aware of his gaze tracing the lines of her body.
“Stop that," she said, but her voice lacked its usual bite.
"Stop what?" Jaime leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knee. The movement brought him closer—close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the thickened stubble darkening his jaw.
"Looking at me like you want to eat me." The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
The space stretched taut between them.
Jaime's lips quirked, as he flexed his fingers.
“Maybe I do," he murmured lowly, watching the way her throat bobbed around a swallow. The fire popped, sending embers spiraling upward like tiny stars.
Dany's fingers tightened in the furs.
Whatever this was…she should distance herself. For though she no longer begrudged him—it was not enough. Only the bindings had been pulled away, the wound was still raw and tender and needed time to heal. She needed time.
Jaime’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering on the slight part of her plump lips. When he spoke, his voice was more ragged than the northern gale.
“Do you want me to be truthful, Your Grace?” This time, the title did not sound so ill.
The only answer was the falter of Dany’s heartbeat.
"I think I want you.”
Her heart seemed to grind to a halt. Jaime did not blink, his gaze fixed on hers with a raw intensity that left no room for pretense, as though something in him had been stripped bare and laid down before her like an offering.
Dany’s fingers loosened in the furs, and she let them fall aside as she shifted forward on her knees, the rough wood biting through cloth as she closed the distance between them. Her knees brushed his where she came to rest opposite him.
The contact sent a jolt through her, sudden and hot as dragonfire. So close now, she could see it in him—the green of his eyes blown black, heavy with desire.
"You think too much," Dany breathed against his mouth—and then she kissed him.
Her lips crashed into his, arms slipping around his neck. Jaime melted into her mouth, dragging her closer still until the softness of her belly pressed against his aching cock.
She tasted like their supper and smoke from the fire and something far sweeter, something that was hers alone, and he was lost.
He tried to slow it, tried to gentle the kiss, his palm cradling her jaw. Dany made an unhappy noise, biting his lower lip hard enough to sting. She ground her hips against his thigh. The heat of her burned through the fabric, scorching.
To hell with it.
He flipped her onto her back in one smooth motion, pinning her wrists above her head. The covers scattered, revealing her bare legs tangled with his, the tunic riding up to expose creamy thighs. Dany arched beneath him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her breath coming in needy pants.
"Better," she sighed—then yelped when his teeth found her throat.
He laved the sting with his tongue, grinning against her skin as she squirmed. “So you do like it rough.”
Her hips jerked against his in answer, seeking friction, and gods, he could smell her, the musk of her arousal thick in the air between them.
Jaime released her wrists to paw at her tunic, his fingers brushing against peaked nipples through the thin fabric. Dany hissed, her back bowing off the pallet as he pinched one between thumb and forefinger, rolling it just shy of pain.
She clawed at his breeches, her nails scraping against the laces. He caught her wrist again, pressing it back into the furs.
"Easy," he rasped against her collarbone, nipping at the delicate skin there, though the warning was as much for himself as for her.
She writhed, her free hand sliding between their bodies to cup him through his breeches, her fingers squeezing just so.
Jaime swore, his hips jerking against her palm. He could feel the dampness gathering at the tip already, soaking through his smallclothes like some green boy.
Dany smiled, the little minx, and Jaime retaliated by ripping her tunic clean down the middle. The sound of tearing fabric drowned her gasp as cool air hit her bare skin, her nipples pebbling instantly.
His hand slid down, fingers questing through silver curls and when they met bare flesh he moaned.
“Seven hells, where are your smallclothes?”
Her cunt wept for him and he slathered her slick warmth around her folds. The scent of her was driving him mad—as mad as King Aerys.
“I don’t wear any,” she said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her pretty face was scrunched up in pleasure as he stroked her.
He worked her slowly, learning the rhythm of her breath, the hitch in her throat when his thumb brushed the swollen bud hidden in her curls. His thumb pressed harder against that pearl, the pad rough with callouses.
She whimpered, her hips rocking against his hand with instinctive urgency. Her little noises stoked the fire in his gut.
"You're so wet," he soothes, as he slipped a finger in her.
Dany’s head tipped back, her silver hair spilling loose beneath her, the firelight catching the column of her throat. Jaime bent to trace the fluttering pulse there with his tongue and her body clamped around his fingers like a vice.
A silky growl of approval thrummed in his throat as he lowered his mouth and latched onto her nipple.
“Please," she whined, a plea so raw it shattered the last remnants of his restraint.
Jaime withdrew his fingers. He didn’t give her time to protest; he ducked between her thighs, his breath hot against her cunt.
Dany jerked away. "What are you—" Her words dissolved into a squeal when his tongue swiped up her slit.
Jaime groaned against her, the reverberating sound making her thighs tremble. She tasted like salt and honey, like fire waiting to ignite. Her hands slid into his hair, unsure whether to push or pull despite her hips rolling against his mouth.
"I’m eating you," he replied between laps, nipping at her inner thigh just to hear her cry out. His tongue lashed her nub in one flat stroke.
Her moans pitched higher, louder—dangerous—but Jaime didn’t care. Let the Others come. Let them freeze solid at the sight of Daenerys Targaryen unraveling beneath his tongue.
She bucked off the furs, her thighs clamping around his head as she bit down on her lip hard. Her body didn’t know what else to do with the pleasure shredding through her.
Jaime placed his palm over her mound, pressing down a bit on the soft flesh as his tongue circled that wicked little button again, grazing over it with his teeth.
A high, keening sound tore from her throat, her fingers twisting in his hair hard enough to hurt. She gushed quickly with a sob, her hips stuttering against his mouth, her cunt pulsing around nothing.
Jaime didn’t let up. He licked her languorously through it, savoring the way her muscles fluttered around his tongue, the salt-sweet taste of her climax.
Dany whimpered brokenly, her legs trembling where they hooked over his shoulders. When he finally lifted his head, her cheeks were as wet as his, silver tracks glinting in the firelight.
"Your Grace," he smoothed a thumb over her inner thigh, his touch gentler now. Dany’s breath slowed; her lashes fluttered open, revealing dusky eyes gone wide and dazed.
"Was that—" He hesitated, his voice coming rawer than he liked. "Has no one ever done that for you before?"
Dany managed to shake her head, the motion slight, almost bewildered. Jaime did not know whether to be furious or smug—no one had ever tasted her, worshipped her like this. The thought sent a thrill through him.
"Did you like it?"
Dany nodded, her lips parting on a sigh. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Jaime surged up her body, catching her mouth in a searing kiss. She gasped as her own taste flooded her tongue but Jaime didn’t let her pull away. He licked deeper, swallowing her moans as if he could drink her in.
The slide of their tongues was obscenely wet, loud enough to drown out the wind rattling the door.
Dany kissed him back as sweetly as she could muster, forgiveness on her tongue. Kissing him until her mouth feels tender, chin pink from the rasp of his stubble.
Jaime hummed into her mouth, his hips jerking against her thigh; he was hard enough to hurt, his cock straining against his breeches.
Oh gods, he could spill like this—just from her mouth, her taste, the way her little sounds trembled against his lips.
But no. Not yet. He needed to feel her.
Jaime tore his mouth away, stripping his tunic over his head in one rough motion. Dany’s breath hitched as she took him in—the broad planes of his chest, the scars mapping his skin like battle lines, the golden hair trailing down his torso. He hooked his thumbs in his breeches, shoving them down his hips, and Dany moaned pathetically at the sight of him freed—thick and flushed, the head glistening. Jaime kicked the fabric aside, his gaze locking with hers as he crawled back over her. He paused to kiss her belly, his tongue tracing the dip of her navel, and Dany arched with a cry.
Positioning himself between her thighs, Jaime groaned at the first hot brush of her cunt against his cock. She was soaked, her slick coating him as he rubbed between her folds, the sound lewd in the quiet hut. He tapped her nub once—just to watch her jolt—then again, slower, savoring the way her hips chased his touch.
“Please,” Dany begged, her voice ragged.
“Please what?”
“Please, I’m…” she inhales, grasping. She bent her knees wider, her thighs trembling as she spread herself for him. “Jaime—”
Her lips shaped his name for the first time, and Jaime thought he had never heard it sound sweeter.
He pressed into her with a groan that scraped his throat raw, the heat of her engulfing him inch by torturous inch. In his pleasure, Jaime had the odd thought that, so long as he was inside her, he need never fear freezing.
Dany whined beneath him, her nails scoring down his back as her body stretched to fit him—tight, so tight, like molten silk squeezing every ridge of his cock. The slide was obscenely wet, her slick easing the way even as her inner muscles fluttered around him in startled, rhythmic pulses.
"Gods," Jaime gasped against her collarbone, his hips stuttering as he bottomed out. Her walls clung to him with every shallow thrust, and for one delirious moment, he forgot how to breathe.
He should stop. Should pull out, should think—but then she rolled her hips experimentally, and Jaime's vision whited out at the drag of her around him.
He was dying; his body was shaking, falling into a pool of base desires. She had an effect on him no one ever had. Each time he touched her, his body betrayed him, wanting more, heedless of what his mind knew.
"Fuck," he snarled, his hand snapping down to grip her thigh, hauling her harder against him. The angle shifted, and Dany cried out, her back bowing off the pallet as he hit something deep inside her that made her toes curl.
Jaime watched her face—the way her lips parted on gasps, the flutter of her lashes like wings against her flushed cheeks—and something dark coiled low in his gut. She was so young, her skin unmarked by time, evident in the way her body clutched at him like she didn’t know what to do with the pleasure shredding through her. The thought should have shamed him. Instead, it sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock.
He was damned already—had been since Aerys, since Cersei, since the moment he had flung Bran Stark from that tower—but this? Jaime groaned against Dany's mouth as her tongue curled around his, hot and slick and wrong in ways that made his cock twitch inside her.
He would go to the depths of hell smiling.
The slap of skin on skin filled the hut, mingling with Dany's gasps and the crackle of the fire. She clung to him, her nails biting into his shoulders as her legs locked around his hips, pulling him deeper.
"Jaime, Jaime. Lannister—" His name was a beautiful babble that broke on her lips, half-plea, half-curse.
He could feel her tightening around him already, her body trembling on the edge so he rolled his hips in slow, deep strokes— savoring every inch of her.
Jaime dragged his teeth along her collarbone, his breath ragged.
"Daenerys. So fucking beautiful,” he rasped—then bit down when she arched against him, her hips jerking erratically. The sting made Dany sob, her fingers twisting in his hair as he sped up.
He hadn't wished for his other hand this desperately since he'd lost it—to palm her bouncing breasts, to pinch and mold them as he fucked her, to feel her heartbeat flutter against his palm. His phantom fingers flexed with the ache of wanting to touch her.
Instead, he growled into her throat, his stump braced beside her head as his hips pistoned relentlessly.
Dany's moans climbed even higher, her thighs trembling where they clamped around his waist. The angle shifted, just slightly, and she sobbed when the head of his cock dragged over that sweet spot inside her. Jaime groaned at the feel of her fluttering around him, her cunt gripping him like a vise.
"There?" he gritted out, adjusting his thrusts to hit that spot again, and again, watching her face as she unraveled beneath him. Her lips parted on a silent scream, her nails scoring down his back hard enough to draw blood.
“Ah…mmmh,” incoherent sounds tumbled from her lips as his thick length gave her what her body had been begging for since he first sent her senses on fire.
“I don’t understand, sweetling.”
“Yesyesyesyes.”
The pain only spurred him on. Jaime hauled her hips up higher, driving into her with enough force to rock the pallet beneath them. Dany's head tossed back, her silver hair tangling in the furs as her pleasure crested—then shattered.
Her climax ripped through her with a choked scream, her cunt clamping down on him in pulses that nearly undid him. Jaime snarled, his hips stuttering as he fought to hold back, to prolong this—her, writhing beneath him, her walls milking his cock with each spasm.
But it was too much. The sight of her—flushed and gasping, breasts heaving—was his undoing. Jaime buried himself to the hilt with a roar, his release hitting him like a warhammer to the chest. His vision blanked as he spilled inside her, his hips thrusting erratically as he rode out his climax, his cock twitching with each pulse.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the crackle of the fire. Jaime remained still, buried inside her, his forehead pressed to her shoulder as he came down from the peak. Then, slowly, he withdrew—just enough to watch his seed seep from her swollen cunt, glistening in the firelight. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around her thighs to hold her open wider.
Dany shuddered at the sensation, her body still thrumming.
“You're staring again," she murmured, her voice hoarse—from screaming, she realized belatedly.
Jaime hummed, low and satisfied, his thumb brushing the inside of her knee.
"A man should admire his handiwork," he said, his gaze lingering on the way his spend dripped down her flushed skin. The sight sent a fresh pulse of heat through him, his cock twitching against his thigh. He'd marked her, claimed her—and gods help him, he wanted to do it again.
Dany giggled—a girlish sound that startled them both.
“You're a bad man," she accused, kicking weakly at his ribs with her heel. The motion only made more of his seed trickle out, and Jaime's grin turned lethal.
“Come kiss me again.”
They didn't speak of it afterward. The morning found them tangled together in the furs, Jaime's arm draped heavily over Dany's waist, his breath warm against the back of her neck. His fingers flexed unconsciously against the curve of her hip before she stirred, blinking blearily at the fire's embers.
Neither mentioned the way their bodies had sought each other again in the night, nor the whispers exchanged between kisses. Some truths were too fragile for daylight.
By noon, they'd christened the pile of furs twice more—once slow and drowsy with sleep still clinging to their limbs, the second time fierce and hungry, Dany riding Jaime with her nails scoring his chest as he cursed hoarsely into her throat. He'd rolled them before the end, pinning her beneath him to finish with his teeth at her pulse point, his release hot inside her. They'd lain there afterward, sticky and spent, Dany tracing idle patterns over his stump while Jaime pretended not to shudder at her touch.
The third time began with Jaime catching Dany's wrist as she reached for the water skin. The fourth started with her straddling his lap while he sharpened wood into a dagger, her amused huff of breath against his lips as she whispered,
"Pay attention, Jaime.”
By the fifth, they'd abandoned all pretense of restraint—Jaime pressing Dany against the hut's rough-hewn wall, her legs locked around his waist as he fucked her raw, her bitten-off cries lost in the wind howling outside. Then she’d taken him into her mouth, and he’d been the one left howling.
Dawn of the second day found them sated and strangely quiet, the hut smelling of their coupling and woodsmoke. Jaime watched Dany dress—his tunic now, hanging loose on her frame, her silver hair tangled from his fingers—and felt something perilously close to tenderness twist in his chest. She caught his look and arched a brow, her lips still kiss-swollen.
“Are you having regrets?" she asked lightly, as if it didn't matter.
Jaime's smirk felt brittle. "Only that we'll have to leave eventually," he lied.
Dany giggled, tossing his belt at his head. "You’re very good at lying."
Their reprieve ended abruptly.
The door burst inward on a gust of snow-laden wind, revealing a fur-clad figure silhouetted against the storm—Jon Snow, his dark eyes widening as he took in the scene: Dany sprawled across Jaime's lap, her fingers twisted in his hair, his cock still sheathed inside her beneath the furs.
The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Jaime—ever the rogue—grinned up at Jon and tightened his grip on Dany's hip, watching with vicious satisfaction as the younger man's face drained of color.
“Good of you to knock," he drawled.
Dany's elbow found his ribs. Jon looked as though he might be sick.
And Jaime—Jaime knew he'd remember that expression until his dying day.