A Dream of a Red Door Ch. 05

FIRE AND BLOOD

Drogon's arrival at his eyrie atop the Royal Tower precipitated, as Daenerys had feared, a riot of activity within minutes of their landing. The entire Kingsguard, seemingly half the household guard, Tyrion, every member of the small council who could make the climb to the top of the tower, and myriad others, all rushed to see if their eyes were deceiving them, or if king and queen had returned to the Red Keep.

Immediately after he had lifted her off the dragon's back, and shortly before the horde of concerned onlookers arrived, Jon had grabbed a spare coat hung in the tack room and slipped it over Daenerys's shoulders. She pulled the collar of the hood close and slipped her arms far down the sleeves in order to hide the bruises around her neck and wrists ... the marks on her ankles she could do nothing about, so she simply hoped no one glanced down. A pair of slippers, thankfully, had been left on some prior occasion, and she slipped them onto her feet.

Brienne, hand on the hilt of her sword, which Daenerys found somewhat humorous as the notion of an enemy having flown all the way back via dragonback was somewhat laughable, was the first to arrive. Jon's blood-soaked, horrifying appearance gave her, along with everyone else who clustered in the space of the tower's stairwell, pause.

"Your grace, are you or the queen injured?" Brienne immediately asked.

"No," Jon announced. Daenerys simply shook her head. As the stairwell became crowded and the king and queen's irritation at being unable to reach the royal quarters increased, finally Jon reached the limit of his patience.

"Get back!" Jon eventually roared at them all. He pointed at Brienne. "Keep the maester, Tyrion, and a few of the kingsguard around, send everyone else to the bottom of the tower." A thought occurred to him, and he turned to Daenerys. "Do you want your handmaidens."

She could see them, young women of one house or another, their eyes beaming with both curiosity and horror at the king's blood-soaked chainmail, and she mouthed no.

I've had my fill of handmaidens, current or former, for a while.

After issuing the orders, Jon had used his body to shield his wife from view and waited until Brienne and the rest of the kingsguard had done what he bid.

He leaned over and whispered to her, "Do you want the maester to look at you? I think it might be a good idea."

Jon's voice was thick with concern, and she loved him for it, but the last thing she wanted was for anyone to see her. Maesters could never be trusted to keep their mouths shut ... there would be time enough after the bruises had healed to visit with everyone.

Her husband nodded, and in short order had conversed with Tyrion about calling off the search for Daenerys, instructed Brienne to have masons brick off the balcony used by the kidnapper, and had informed the strenuously objecting maester that the queen was fine and was uninterested in an examination at the moment. Objections were voiced by all, but eventually, they did the king's bidding.

Daenerys stayed back, answered questions as simply as she could, and when Jon had eventually begun repeating some variation of 'we will discuss what happened later,' everyone ultimately understood and filtered away. Two Kingsguard, however, remained posted outside the royal chambers.

Tyrion, Jon let through to speak with the queen.

"I'm glad you're back," the dwarf announced somberly as he drew close. "We were worried about you, Dany," he said softly. His eyes were sharp and inquisitive as he looked her over. If he glanced at her ankles, however, she didn't notice.

"Thank you," she said. "And Tyrion, I wanted to ..."

As if knowing she was about to apologize for the prior day, he raised his hand and shook his head. "Let us not speak of it again. This has been a frightening day for the kingdom, and for you. Get your rest, we'll talk later."

A few minutes after that, with the maester still protesting while two kingsguard kept him back, they were inside their quarters. Jon closed and barred the door with a sigh of relief, then he immediately began the cumbersome process of removing his armor. Daenerys winced as blood went flying everywhere, and she pitied the poor steward who had to clean up the mess.

The curtains were open, and a chill wind blew in from the balcony as she headed for the bedchamber. Upon entering the room, she gave thanks the blazing hearth was keeping the room warm, then she removed her coat, flung it onto a nearby chair, and immediately headed for the air bath. The blood-soaked blue and gold dress she let fall from her body along with her smallclothes as she kicked off the slippers and stepped over the stone border between the air bath and the bedroom. The effect of the wine had long since worn off, but her entire body ached from the strain of kneeling for so long, and a headache had begun to pulse in her temple.

Please let the water be warm.

She triggered the air bath mechanism and sighed in relief when near-scalding water began to pour down. She closed her eyes, placed her hand against the wall, and let the water cascade over her for a long time. Jon eventually entered the bedroom, and she could hear him fumbling about as she enjoyed the hot water. When, after several minutes, she realized he wasn't entering the air bath, she poked her head out.

Jon had stripped down to his own small clothes, and the sight of his hair and face matted with blood while the rest of his body was clean struck her as morbidly humorous. Despite the exertions of the day, he did not appear tired, and not for the first time she wondered if she should summon Samwell Tarly to King's Landing to answer some very sharp questions about what the magic Melisandre had placed inside her husband was doing to him.

"Aren't you coming?" she called out.

He looked at her with hollow, worried eyes. "I thought you might want to be alone."

Her heart broke for him, and she shook her head. "I'm going to stay in here till the hot water runs out, how ever long it takes, and I could use the company."

He had given her a half-smile and shed his own smallclothes as he walked in.

Jon did not press her or even do anything more than stay near, though if she seemed to want to be held, he wrapped a protective arm around her and held her close. Usually, the sight of her nude form was enough for her to spot the obvious sign of his attraction, but not that night. Though she had said little about the nightmare of the cargo hold, she knew he could tell.

And she loved him for knowing that at that moment, the only thing she needed was for him to be there for her.

When the water began to go tepid, and they had finished scrubbing away the accumulated filth of the day, they both dressed in soft robes, Jon dragged two chairs in front of the hearth, and they clasped hands and warmed themselves before the fire.

After a while, Daenerys's thoughts began to drift to the peculiar notion that the flames were whispering to her, a desperate plea that she finally open her ears and listen, and when she blinked, she occasionally thought she saw odd, small figures dancing upon the stone of the hearth.

"Jon," she finally asked. "Where did you come up with the idea for me to stare into the fire when we ... you know ..." She could feel herself blushing.

Will I ever get used to how Jon makes me feel?

He had looked at her in surprise. "Why do you ask?"

She hesitated, then continued, "I'm ... not sure."

I don't want to sound crazy.

Jon tightened his grip on her hand. "Tell me."

"I feel like ..." she took a deep breath and decided to voice what was undoubtedly a delusion brought on by the horrors of the day, "the flames are trying to tell me something." She recalled a rumor ... a wild claim, really ... she'd heard when she first came to Westeros but had forgotten until that moment. "Melisandre could see visions in a fire, could she not?" She turned her head to gaze at Jon.

Her husband didn't scoff at the question, didn't seem concerned that she might have gone mad, nor did he question her in any way. His shadowed eyes considered her query, and the fire of the hearth glittered in their dark depths.

Just before she'd concluded he was not going to answer, he said, "I've been thinking the same thing for a while now."

. . . . . . . . .

Tyrion, concerned etched on his face as the three of them sat on the balcony of the Royal Quarters, glanced at Daenerys shortly after Jon had finished outlining his plan to wreak bloody, dragon-fire fueled vengeance on Qarth. The king and queen had put off the topic of retaliation for a few weeks, until that morning in fact, but it appeared Jon's anger still ran hot.

"Jon," Tyrion said hesitantly after he'd digested the enormity of the king's plan, "this Xaro, he was a merchant prince, not a king. Making the entire city of Qarth answer for his crimes, via dragon fire, seems rather ..."

"Mad?" Daenerys suggested when Tyrion appeared at a loss for words. She tried to lace her tone with just the barest hint of snippy irritation, but perhaps went overboard.

Tyrion raised his hands and coughed nervously. "I did not say that!" he protested.

In the weeks since the nightmare in the cargo hold, the bruises on her neck and limbs had faded to the point that she felt comfortable meeting with their closest advisors. In another week, she was sure, she'd be ready to leave their quarters. Jon, who absolutely detested holding court and typically stalked about the Great Hall while she sat the Iron Throne, had magnanimously decided to do his job as king, for once, and listen to petitions and grievances.

He had made it quite clear that he hated every second of it.

I've grown too accustomed to these chambers. The people need to see me.

Jon, at Tyrion's suggestion, had proclaimed immediately the morning after her rescue that anyone, highborn or low, who publicly suggested that the queen had not, in fact, been kidnapped, and that the entire scenario had been a ruse to throw off possible assassins, would answer to the king. He'd then had brought several prominent members of court before the Iron Throne to confirm they understood the crown's views in this regard. The nobles in question had immediately begun proclaiming that they were innocent of spreading any such rumors, but Jon merely glowered at them and repeated his question.

Jon was becoming quite good at glowering.

His pronouncement, of course, had the exact opposite effect of its seemingly intended purpose ... which was the entire point ... and within a few days nearly everyone in King's Landing assumed that Daenerys had never been taken, at all, and that it had all been an elaborate ploy of some sort. She had hugged Tyrion when he told her that his scheme seemed to be working, and after a few moments of shock, he had hugged her back.

"Jon, my king," Daenerys continued, "while I appreciate the strength of your feelings, I would prefer to let this entire matter quietly fade away. This was a personal grudge, not a declaration of war." She gestured towards Tyrion. "We've uncovered no evidence that Xaro was in league with anyone else, and we sent a delegation ... along with as many soldiers as could be packed onto two ships, to Qarth to ensure they were unaware of his plans."

"It would be a pity to set fire to the city immediately after our emissaries arrived," Tyrion added. "We paid for the ships and everything."

"So, what do you suggest?" Jon growled. "We cannot let this go unpunished. Drogon and I can burn Qarth to the ground and be back within a month."

Daenerys's bunched her brows in consternation at his comment.

Drogon is still mine!

She decided not to voice a protest. For now.

"No," she said gently. "Jon, we'll let the emissaries do their work and see if Xaro was in league with anyone."

Given his fiery demeanor, she expected an argument. Instead, Jon's face erupted into a broad smile, and he proceeded to lean back in his chair and lace his hands behind his head. A moment later she realized what had happened.

He tricked me again.

She grumbled in irritation and stared down into the city.

"That was not funny, husband," she stated through a clenched jaw.

He wanted to see if I would be willing to burn down Qarth ... he may not be a bastard, but he's a bastard.

Jon continued to smile at her.

Tyrion, with a confused expression, glanced back and forth between the two of them, then politely cleared his throat. "Somehow, I suspect that I have been made a part of a mummer's farce without receiving a script in advance, and I'm not sure how I feel about it." The dwarf stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I'll let you two finish ... whatever it is you're doing." He glanced over at Jon. "Congratulations on not being eaten by Drogon."

"Thanks," Jon said as Tyrion left.

Daenerys picked up an apple from the tray sitting on a nearby table and threw it at him. Jon nimbly dodged out of the way and the fruit bounced off the far wall of the balcony.

"Happy?" she asked frostily. "Satisfied that I didn't want fire and blood?"

"Actually, yes," her husband confirmed.

She sighed and shook her head. "Have I seemed particularly bloodthirsty as of late?"

Mostly, I just want to forget about what happened.

"No," Jon admitted. "You seem happy."

Am I?

Sometimes, as she pulled on her gowns, she could feel Doreah's fingers upon the hem of her dress. Nausea would grip her, the room would spin, and she'd have to fight to steady her racing heart and control her breathing. Jon and she hadn't been ... together ... since the day he'd rescued her. He hadn't pressed, not even once, and when she realized that he would respect her feelings for as long as she needed, she loved him more and more each day.

If only the call of the fire would stop waking her at night. She'd lurch upright in bed, sweaty and feverish, and feel compelled to stare into the depths of the hearth.

What does it want from me?

Jon stretched, then stood from his chair and walked into their quarters. On days with no petitions or affairs of state, he'd taken to spending the hours with her in the chambers. He had to be bored out of his mind, she was sure, but he'd brooked no complaint. Feeling a bit foolish sitting on the balcony by herself, she followed him inside. Truth to tell, the boredom was starting to set in for her as well.

She found Jon in their bedchamber, seated by the hearth, staring into the flames, as was happening more and more frequently with both of them.

Maybe we're both going mad.

Daenerys looked for something to say, then the shadows pressed in, and words rose seemingly unbidden to her lips, "Jon ..."

The fire.

He glanced at her. "Daenerys?"

She stepped closer to the hearth and extended her hand towards the blazing fire. "Can you make the fire hotter."

Jon frowned at her. "I can, but haven't you been yelling at me to wait until Sam gets here before trying something like that?"

The fire.

The flames were screaming at her. Every day, louder and louder, demanding that she hear whatever they were trying to tell her.

Jon hadn't wanted her collared and kneeling before the flames merely because he found the sight of her submissiveness arousing ... though he undoubtedly did ... but some other purpose was working its way through him, compelling him to compel her. Trying to make her see.

"Make it hotter," she whispered. The heat was reaching out to her, wrapping around her throat, tickling at her heart.

Jon started to protest, then he seemed to shudder for a moment, and finally he nodded.

He feels it, too.

Jon stood, stepped to the hearth, and laid a hand upon the stone. His eyes grew shadowed and then the flames intensified. The yellow-orange tongues began to lick the further up the stone walls, hot enough that the heat of them rippled the air.

"Hotter ..." she commanded.

His eyes grew blacker still, and this time the flames leapt strong enough that she could see them start to reach beyond the stone walls. Her heart began to rage in her chest.

Something was missing.

She glanced around wildly, then followed her instincts and walked over to the bed. She crouched, felt around until she felt Jon's trunk of torments, a name she considered profoundly clever, then struggled to pull it free.

Jon walked over and without comment, pulled the trunk from under the bed and set it on a nearby table. She looked at him, and the reflection of the fire raged in his eyes, as she was sure it raged in hers, as well.

Above them, Drogon roared from his eyrie.

Silently, Jon pulled the key from the cord around his neck and unlocked the chest.

Daenerys flung it open. She'd wanted to rummage through it for a long time, but she needed one thing ... whatever the fire was telling her she needed.

She closed her eyes and reached, her fingers grasped a small handle, and she pulled whatever the object was out of the trunk.

Daenerys opened her eyes, and the Valyrian straight razor Jon had purchased years ago, and which she'd refused the use of, glittered in her hands. The blade was a rippling blue-gray, the color of ice, and the pearlescent handle was a bright red.

The sight was not what she expected, and she tried to release the razor, but whatever magic was at work in the room forced her hand to remain tightly closed.

"Jon," she whispered. "What is happening? Is this your doing?"

He reached out and closed his hand around hers, and she could feel the handle pressing against her palm. "I don't know ..." he whispered.

By some silent mutual accord, they stripped the bed of blankets and piled them in front of the hearth. When a few of the threads began to blacken, they ignored it. Even if the fabric went up in flames, it would not matter to her and Jon.

Fire cannot kill a dragon.

She did not recall undressing, but she found herself naked before the hearth, so close that the fire lapped at her thighs and licked at her waist, and she could feel her entire lower body pulse with the heat. She tried to let go of the razor, fling it aside, and she couldn't make the muscles of her hand work. The flames held her gaze, and the panic had just begun to rise when Jon was there, and she felt his arms reach around her body and caress her breasts.

She moaned then, the first sound she'd been able to make for several minutes, and she tried to turn to him ... but it was as if the heat of the hearth had her head in a vise, and she could not look away.

"Jon ..." she whispered fearfully, "help me."

The feeling of being trapped overwhelmed her. She was back on the ship, locked to the slave pillar, and she couldn't move, couldn't get away. Daenerys commanded the muscles of her body to break the grip of the flames, and they refused to obey.

"Please ..." she whispered.

Jon pulled her more closely to him, and the panic vanished, burnt away into nothing by the comfort that he was holding her. She could tell from the feel of his body against hers that her husband was naked, too. His arousal felt like an iron bar pressed against her back, and he quivered, no vibrated with his need for her. Flesh called for flesh, and fire called for fire, and she felt hemmed between the hearth and her husband. Jon was as hungry as the fire, no, Jon was the fire. Her body responded to the nearness of his, and she could feel a growing warmth between her legs.

One of his hands slipped free from her breast, cradled her chin and, mercifully, turned her head away from the sight of the flames. Once her eyes had been freed, she found she could move again, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she rotated her body. Jon craned his neck down, kissed her, and the taste of his mouth, of his tongue, scorched and sizzled on hers. It sunk deep into her, and she gasped at the intoxicating heat of it.