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The alarm pulled her out of a dream she couldn't remember. Dany reached for her phone, silenced it, and lay still for three seconds with her eyes closed. Then she swung her legs off the bed.

Ghost was already at the bedroom door. The white husky mix sat with his ears forward, tail sweeping the hardwood in slow, patient strokes.

"Yes, I see you. Give me a minute."

He did not give her a minute. He followed her to the kitchen, nails clicking on the tile, and sat beside his bowl with the gravity of a creature who had never once been fed late and would not tolerate a first offense. She scooped kibble, added a spoonful of the wet food the vet said was fine twice a week, and set it down. Ghost buried his face in it without ceremony.

"You're welcome."

She filled his water bowl, then padded to the bathroom. The shower was hot enough to pink her skin, the pressure good. She'd chosen this apartment for the water pressure as much as the view, and she'd never regretted it. She washed her hair with the rosemary shampoo that cut through the recycled-air smell, scrubbed her face, stood under the spray until the last of the sleep fog burned off. Stepped out. Toweled off. Wiped the mirror.

Her reflection looked back, violet eyes still a little soft from sleep. She combed her hair out wet, sectioned it with practiced fingers, and worked it into a tight three-strand braid that she coiled at her nape and pinned. Neat. Clean. The kind of style that survived a fourteen-hour flight and still looked intentional at landing. Two small silver studs in her ears. A thin layer of moisturizer, then primer, then the quick neutral face she could do with her eyes closed: concealer, a brush of color on her cheekbones, mascara, a slick of nude lip. Done.

In the kitchen she assembled breakfast without sitting down. A bowl of Greek yogurt with a handful of almonds, dried apricots, and a few blackberries she'd bought on Tuesday that were just at the edge of too ripe. She ate standing at the counter, one hip against the edge, and thumbed the television on.

The anchor's voice filled the apartment, bright and practiced.

"...Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife Elia Martell were spotted leaving separate entrances of the Four Seasons last night after what sources describe as a heated argument at dinner. This is the third public incident this month for the couple, who..."

Dany chewed an apricot and watched her brother's face fill the screen. Rhaegar in a dark coat, jaw set, not looking at the cameras. Elia three steps behind him with her chin up and her publicist's hand on her elbow. Both of them beautiful. Both of them miserable in the specific, photogenic way her family had perfected.

"Lovely. Really making the name proud, Rhae."

She was about to change the channel when the graphic shifted.

"...and in other Targaryen family news, Viserys Targaryen was involved in an altercation at a charity gala last evening. Footage obtained by Westeros Today shows the younger Targaryen brother approaching actress Ashara Dayne on the terrace..."

The clip was shaky, phone-shot. Viserys leaning in, that smile he thought was charming. His hand reaching. Ashara Dayne's palm cracking across his cheek so fast the camera barely caught it. Then Viserys doubling over, and the angle was bad but you could see Ashara's knee come up between his legs with the kind of precision that suggested practice.

Dany stopped chewing. Watched it again on the replay. A laugh broke out of her, sudden and real, loud enough that Ghost looked up from his empty bowl.

"Good for her. Good for her."

She set her bowl in the sink, rinsed it, and wiped the counter clean. The uniform was hanging on the back of her bedroom door where she'd steamed it the night before. She dressed with the efficiency of repetition. White blouse first, buttoned to the collar. The fabric pulled across her chest where it always pulled, the placket gapping between the third and fourth buttons no matter what size she ordered, a tiny diamond of skin visible if she moved wrong. She tugged it straight, knowing it wouldn't hold. Pencil skirt next, navy, the zipper snug at her hip. The waistband sat at the narrowest point of her waist and the fabric followed the flare of her hips down to her knees, tight enough that her stride shortened by a half step. She'd requested a size up twice. Twice the uniform department had sent back the same cut with a note about brand standards.

She slipped on the low heels, clipped the neck scarf into place, and checked the mirror one final time. The uniform did what it always did. It fit like it had been designed by someone who wanted passengers to stare and then feel guilty about it.

"Right."

Ghost was waiting by the door with his leash in his mouth. She clipped it on and rode the elevator down to the lobby. The guard at the front desk, a stocky man named Pyp who always smelled of coffee and hand sanitizer, was already reaching for the treat jar behind the counter.

"Morning, Miss Targaryen. Morning, Ghost."

"Good morning, Pyp. He's eaten, he's been out. He'll need a walk around two if that's all right."

"Always is. Come here, big man." Pyp leaned over the desk. Ghost accepted one scratch behind the ear with the tolerance of royalty granting an audience.

Dany kissed the top of Ghost's head, handed the leash over, and pushed through the front doors into the morning air. Her Uber was already at the curb, a dark sedan with the window cracked. She slid into the back seat, gave the driver a nod, and settled in as the car pulled into traffic toward Westeros International.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it. Then it buzzed again, and again, a chain of notifications from the news app she kept meaning to mute. She glanced down.

The headline filled the screen.

WESTEROS FINANCIAL TIMES

BREAKING: Frost Tech Unveils World's First Fully Integrated Bionic Heart

By Samwell Tarly, Technology Correspondent

Jon Stark's Frost Tech announced early this morning the successful development and first human trial of a fully bionic heart, a breakthrough that analysts say could redefine cardiac medicine and position the Northern-based startup as a leader in global biotech. Frost Tech's valuation has surged past the $4 billion mark in pre-market trading, with Stark's personal holdings now estimated at over $800 million.

"This was never about the money," Stark said in a brief statement. "It's about the veteran who lost function and the kid who was born without it. That's who this is for."

Full story continues below...

Dany stared at the photo beneath the headline. Jon at a press table, dark henley, no suit, stubble heavier than she remembered. He looked tired and certain, the way he always looked when he'd been up all night on something that mattered. His grey eyes aimed at whatever reporter had asked the question, giving them his full attention.

She scrolled down without meaning to.

The comments section loaded beneath the article, and she should have stopped there. She knew she should have stopped there.

User: NorthernGirl_89 | 12 min ago | 👍 47

oh my GOD he's so hot??? a billionaire who actually does good things and looks like THAT?? im free on thursday sir 😭🥵

User: TechBroKiller | 10 min ago | 👍 23

Forget the heart, I need him to fix MY cardiac problems because that jawline is giving me palpitations lmaooo

User: Winterfell_Stan | 8 min ago | 👍 31

the henley. THE HENLEY. no suit no tie just "here's a bionic heart i made" like he's dropping off groceries. i am unwell.

User: ValyrianSteel99 | 6 min ago | 👍 15

Can he bionic MY heart bc its beating out of my chest rn 👀👀 also those hands?? sir please

User: DragonQueenFan | 4 min ago | 👍 8

Respectfully (and by respectfully I mean disrespectfully) I would climb that man like a tree

Dany locked her phone. Set it face-down on her thigh. Looked out the window at the passing traffic.

"Good for him," she said to the window, quiet enough that the driver didn't hear. The words came out clipped and precise and she meant them. She did.

She picked her phone back up. Scrolled past another dozen comments in the same register, each one worse than the last. A woman had posted a slow-motion gif of Jon pushing his hair back during the press conference, captioned with three fire emojis and the words daddy if you're reading this no you're not.

Dany's jaw tightened. She locked the phone again, harder this time, as if the screen had personally offended her.

The car turned onto the airport approach road. She straightened her scarf, checked her reflection in the dark window, and tucked a strand of silver-blonde hair behind her ear that had already worked itself loose from the braid.

"Good for him," she said again, and this time she didn't sound like she meant it at all.

The crew lounge smelled of burnt coffee and carpet cleaner. Missandei was already at their usual table by the window, two cups in front of her and a third held out like a peace offering.

"You're four minutes late."

"Traffic on the M2." Dany took the cup and sat. "Thank you. You're a saint."

"I know." Missandei sipped her own coffee, watching Dany over the rim. "You saw the news."

"Which part? Rhaegar's marriage falling apart on camera, or Viserys getting kneed in the groin by Ashara Dayne?"

"I meant Jon Stark's bionic heart, but now I need to hear about the Ashara Dayne thing."

"Later." Dany drank. The coffee was bitter and too hot and exactly what she needed. "Where's Ros?"

"Here, here, I'm here." Ros dropped into the third chair with the graceless energy of someone who'd been running. Her red hair was pinned up in the regulation twist, but loosely, and her cheeks were flushed. She grabbed the last coffee and drank half of it in one go. "Sorry. The Tube was a nightmare. Some bloke fainted at King's Cross and they held us for ten minutes."

"You could leave earlier," Missandei said.

"And you could stop being perfect, but we don't always get what we want." Ros set the cup down and looked at Dany. "So. Jon Stark."

"What about him?"

"Bionic heart. Billionaire. The henley." Ros leaned back and crossed her arms. "The internet's lost its mind. Have you seen the comments?"

"I don't read comments."

"Liar." Ros grinned. "Missandei, she's lying."

"She's lying," Missandei confirmed.

"I glanced. Briefly." Dany straightened her scarf. "It's impressive work. The cardiac application alone could change transplant waitlists. I'm happy for him."

Ros and Missandei exchanged a look. The kind of look that carried an entire conversation in half a second.

"What."

"Nothing," Ros said. "You just sounded like you were reading from a press release."

"I'm being supportive."

"You're being weird."

"I'm not being weird."

"You're being a little weird," Missandei said gently.

Dany opened her mouth to argue, and her phone buzzed. Then Ros's phone buzzed. Then both phones buzzed again, a sharp double-pulse that meant a crew alert.

Ros pulled hers out first. "Oh. 'Check crew messages immediately, scheduling update, report to gate T-7 for reassignment.' That's not our gate."

Dany was already opening hers. She tapped into the crew portal and the screen loaded.

Her assignment had changed. The neat blue text filled the screen.

CREW SCHEDULING UPDATE

FLIGHT: FI-001 (PRIVATE CHARTER)

OPERATOR: Frost Industries

ROUTE: Westeros International (WES) → Yi Ti International (YTI)

DURATION: Approx. 1 day

AIRCRAFT: Frost Industries Custom 787 "Winter"

CREW ASSIGNED: D. Targaryen (Senior), R. Cassel (Attendant)

PASSENGER MANIFEST: 1

PASSENGER: Jon Stark, CEO, Frost Industries

NOTES: VIP charter. Full security clearance required. Aircraft is owner-operated, custom interior. Private quarters, shower facilities, and full sleeping berths provided for crew. Report to Private Terminal 7 immediately for briefing. Security escort will meet you at gate.

Dany stared at the screen. The words sat there, clear and simple, refusing to rearrange themselves into something less impossible.

"Ros."

"I see it."

"One passenger."

"I see it."

"Jon Stark."

"Dany, I can read."

Missandei leaned across the table and looked at Ros's screen. Her eyebrows climbed. She looked at Dany. Dany's face had gone very still, the composed mask settling into place like a visor dropping.

"Right." Dany locked her phone and set it on the table. "Right. Fine."

"Fine?" Ros stared at her. "You just went pale. Are you fine?"

"Perfectly."

"You knew him. Before."

"A long time ago."

"How long ago?"

"Ros."

"Okay, okay." Ros held up her hands. "But just so I'm clear, we're being put on a private jet, a Frost Industries private jet, to fly one man to Yi Ti. One very fit, very rich man who you apparently have history with."

"We should go." Dany stood. Her chair scraped the floor. "T-7 is on the other side of the terminal and they said immediately."

Missandei caught her wrist. "Dany."

"I'm fine."

"You said that. Twice." Missandei squeezed once and let go. "Call me when you land."

Dany nodded. She picked up her coffee, realized her hand was gripping the cup too tightly, and set it down again.

Ros was already on her feet, bag over her shoulder. "Apparently the plane has beds. And a shower. And it's armed?"

"What?"

"Pyp at the front desk, his mate works private terminal security. He told me last month that the Frost jet has actual defensive countermeasures. Military-grade. The thing's built like a flying fortress."

"Wonderful." Dany started walking. Her heels clicked sharp and fast on the terminal floor, her stride eating up the distance. Ros fell in beside her, half-jogging to keep pace.

"Are you speed-walking?"

"I'm walking."

"You're practically running."

"I don't run, Ros. Not in these shoes."

They cleared the main terminal and turned down the corridor toward the private gates. The hallway narrowed, the carpet went from industrial grey to a deep charcoal, and the noise of the public terminal fell away behind them. A security officer in a dark suit stood at the entrance to T-7 with a tablet and an earpiece.

"Targaryen and Cassel?"

"Yes."

"Follow me, please."

He led them through the glass doors and out onto the tarmac, and then Dany stopped.

The aircraft sat alone on the apron, gleaming in the morning light. It was enormous. Slate grey, the Frost Industries direwolf logo on the tail in white, clean lines that looked more military than civilian. The fuselage was reinforced, the windows smaller and thicker than standard, and beneath the wings she could see the subtle bulges of housing that shouldn't have been there on a commercial frame. Armed. Ros hadn't been exaggerating.

"Bloody hell," Ros breathed. "That's a plane?"

Dany straightened her shoulders. Smoothed her skirt. Checked the pin in her hair.

"Let's go."

The security officer handed them off to a ground crew chief at the foot of the airstairs, a compact woman with close-cropped hair and a clipboard who introduced herself as Holly.

"Welcome aboard Winter. Let me walk you through."

The cabin air hit Dany the moment she stepped inside. Cool, clean, faintly cedar-scented, nothing like the recycled staleness of a commercial tube. Ros climbed in behind her and went quiet for a full two seconds, which was a record.

The forward cabin was a lounge. Cream leather seats, wide enough to curl up in, arranged around a low table of dark brushed steel. The carpet was thick charcoal wool that gave under her heels. Recessed lighting, warm but not yellow, picked out the grain of the walnut paneling along the bulkhead. A wet bar sat against the port side, stocked with cut crystal and bottles she recognized from the kind of catalogue that didn't print prices.

"Main lounge and working area," Holly said, moving aft. "Conference table seats six, full AV suite, sat-linked screens. Galley's through here."

The galley was bigger than her apartment kitchen. Stainless steel, restaurant-grade, stocked and prepped. Fresh flowers in a low vase bolted to the counter. Dany opened a refrigerator drawer and found hand-labeled containers of mise en place, a cheese selection she could smell through the wrapping, and a bottle of Arbor Gold that cost more than her monthly rent.

"Bloody hell," Ros murmured behind her, running a finger along the granite countertop. "I can smell the money. The leather, the wood, the...is that fresh lavender?"

"Herb garden." Holly pointed to a small hydroponic tray mounted near the window. "Mr. Stark requested it. Basil, rosemary, lavender."

"Of course he did," Dany said.

Holly led them aft. A private bedroom suite with a queen bed, real linens, a reading light. An ensuite bathroom with a full-size shower, heated floors, and towels thick enough to sleep on. Crew quarters across the corridor with two berths, smaller but still nicer than any hotel Dany had slept in on a layover.

"Crew has full access to the shower facilities and galley when not attending. Mr. Stark's instructions." Holly checked her clipboard. "He'll be here in five. I'd suggest stations."

She nodded to them both and disappeared down the airstairs.

Ros turned to Dany. "I want to live here. I want to divorce my life and marry this plane."

"Stations, Ros."

"Right, right." Ros smoothed her skirt and watched Dany reach up to check her bun, pressing each pin with her fingertips, then tugging her blouse flat and adjusting the scarf at her collar. The placket between the third and fourth buttons pulled open for a moment and snapped shut as she straightened.

Ros tilted her head. "You know what you should do."

"No."

"Undo the top button. Just one. Give your nephew a proper welcome."

"He is not my….. ok he is my nephew. But we're practically the same age, and if you call him that again I'll write you up."

"You won't."

"I won't, but I'll want to." Dany smoothed her skirt one final time and caught her own reflection in the dark glass of the galley partition. Composed. Professional. Violet eyes sharp. "Besides, if I wanted to give Jon Stark a show, Ros, I wouldn't need to unbutton anything."

Ros grinned. "There she is."

"And if you keep talking, I'll tell him you give the best rimjobs at altitude. Thirty thousand feet, no turbulence required."

Ros didn't flinch. "I mean, I would. Have you seen the photos? If that man asked me to eat his arse over the Pacific, I'd ask for a napkin and a runway heading."

"You're disgusting."

"I'm honest. There's a difference."

A low rumble of tires on tarmac reached them through the hull. Dany's hands stilled at her sides. She turned toward the forward cabin, shoulders back, chin level, and the mask settled into place.

"He's here."

The black SUV rolled to a stop at the foot of the airstairs. Tinted windows, no markings, the kind of vehicle that announced its importance by refusing to announce anything at all. Dany clasped her hands at her waist, feet together, spine straight. The service posture. She'd done this a thousand times. She could do it in her sleep.

The rear door opened and Jon Stark stepped out into the morning light.

He looked like the photos. Worse. Better. The dark henley stretched across his shoulders, jeans, work boots, a watch on his left wrist that caught the sun. His hair was pushed back and already falling forward, thick and dark with that half-wave he'd never learned to manage. Stubble heavier than the press conference footage, two days at least. He moved the way she remembered, unhurried, weight settled, like the ground owed him nothing and he owed it the same.

A security officer flanked him on each side. Jon carried a leather messenger bag over one shoulder and nothing else. He looked up at the plane, then at the airstairs, then at her.

His face was serious. Focused. The grey eyes scanning the doorway the way they scanned everything, taking stock before he committed. Then they found hers.

She watched it happen. The recognition hit him mid-stride. His step caught, just barely, a hitch in the rhythm that anyone else would have missed. The serious expression cracked open and something warm flooded in underneath, quick and unguarded in a way that Jon Stark almost never was in public.

"Dany?"

He took the stairs two at a time. She opened her mouth to deliver the welcome, the script she'd said ten thousand times, welcome aboard, sir, may I take your bag, and he pulled her into a hug before she got a word out.

He smelled like cedar and clean cotton and something faintly metallic underneath, machine oil or solder, ground into the skin where soap couldn't reach. His arms went around her and she felt the solid width of him, the warmth through the henley, his chin brushing the top of her head. Her hands came up against his chest and she let them stay there for a beat too long.

"Gods." He pulled back but kept his hands on her shoulders, looking at her face like he was checking it against a memory. "How long has it been?"

"Six years. Almost seven."

"Too long." He said it plain and flat, no decoration, and meant it completely. His eyes creased at the corners and the whole shape of his face changed, the brooding seriousness giving way to something open and real. "Far too long. Look at you."

"Look at you. Bionic hearts. Billionaire. The internet's quite taken with your henley."

"Aye, my publicist mentioned. I don't read comments."

"Liar."

He grinned. Actually grinned, teeth and all, and Dany felt something shift in her chest that she chose not to examine.

Ros was standing three feet behind them with her hands clasped and her eyes wide and her professional composure hanging by a thread. Jon noticed her and straightened, the grin settling into something warmer and more reserved.

"Jon, this is Ros. She's a friend, and she'll be attending with me on the flight."

"Ros." Jon extended his hand. "Good to meet you."

"Pleasure's mine, Mr. Stark." Ros shook his hand and Dany caught the slight flex of her fingers testing his grip. "Welcome aboard Winter."

"Jon. Just Jon." He turned back to Dany, and his eyes dropped to the uniform, the blazer, the scarf, the whole careful assembly of it. "What are you doing in that?"

"Working."

His brow furrowed. "Working."

"I'm cabin crew, Jon. Senior crew, in fact. I've been flying for four years."

He stared at her. She watched him process it, the gears turning behind the grey, and waited for the reaction she'd fielded from every person who'd ever learned her surname and her job title in the same conversation.

"Good," he said.

She blinked. "Good?"

"Aye. Good for you." He shifted the bag on his shoulder. "Grandmother rhaella still trying to drag you into the galas and the foundation circuit?"

"Rhaella sends a new invitation every month. Hand-addressed. Wax seal."

"And you're here instead."

"I'm here instead."

Something passed across his face. Quiet approval, recognition, the look of someone who understood exactly what it cost to walk away from a name that opened every door. He nodded once.

"Good," he said again, softer.

He ducked through the cabin door and moved forward into the lounge. Dany reached for the heavy aircraft door, pulled it shut, and secured the latch. The pressurized seal engaged with a low, satisfying thunk.

She turned to find Ros already at her elbow, close enough that her whisper landed warm on Dany's ear.

"Dany. Please. I am begging you. Let me fuck him on this trip."

"Ros."

"Did you see his hands? The scars on his knuckles? I'm going to die at thirty thousand feet."

Dany smoothed the front of her blouse, checked the pin in her hair, and let a slow smile pull at the corner of her mouth. "I might introduce you to his bedroom suite. Once I've had a chance to welcome him properly."

Ros's jaw dropped. The shock lasted half a second before her eyes narrowed. "Wait. He's your nephew."

"Technically."

"Dany. Incest."

"We're practically the same age and we share about as much blood as you and the postman. Are you in or not?"

Ros's scandalized expression collapsed into a grin so wide it threatened her regulation lipstick. She grabbed Dany's wrist.

"I'm in. But you'd better record it."

"Stations, Ros."

"Record. It."

Dany straightened her scarf and walked toward the forward cabin.

The engines settled into a low, steady hum as Winter leveled off at cruising altitude. Dany checked the cockpit one last time, confirmed headings and service timing with the pilots, and pulled the partition closed behind her.

She found Ros in the crew quarters, already changed into the softer flats they wore on long stretches. Dany set her heels aside, opened her bag, and pulled out her lipstick. She leaned into the mirror bolted to the bulkhead and traced her lips with a careful hand. Not the nude she'd worn to the terminal. The red. Deep, matte, the kind that stained a coffee cup and a man's collar with equal permanence.

She capped the tube. Set it down. Then her fingers went to the scarf at her throat. She unclipped it, folded it once, and tucked it into her bag. Unbuttoned the blazer. Shrugged it off and draped it over the berth. The white blouse underneath clung to her, the cotton warm from her body.

She undid the collar button. Then the second. Then, after a breath, the third.

The placket fell open to the top of her sternum. The lace edge of her bra, pale cream against pale skin, showed at the base of the gap when she moved. Her tits pressed the fabric outward and the blouse shifted with her breathing, the fourth button pulling, the cotton taut across the fullest part of her. One more button and she'd be indecent. She left it.

She turned to Ros.

"How do I look?"

Ros was sitting on the opposite berth with her phone in her hand. She looked up, scanned Dany from hair to hem, and let out a slow whistle.

"Like you want Jon Stark to put a baby in you somewhere over the Pacific."

"Perfect."

"Seriously, Dany, your tits look like they're trying to escape. That button's doing more structural work than the landing gear."

"That's the point." Dany smoothed the blouse across her stomach and checked herself from the side. The fabric moved when she breathed. Good.

"Oh, before you go out there and destroy that man's ability to form sentences." Ros held up her phone, screen first. "This plane has internet. Satellite-linked, full speed. Must cost a fortune to run. Like, a proper fortune. Not your family's kind of fortune, the other kind. The kind where the bill is a rounding error."

"Jon's never cared about money."

"Jon's jet has a herb garden, Dany. He cares a little." Ros swiped her screen and turned it around again. "But that's not the thing. The thing is this."

A photo filled the screen. Dany leaned in. It was sharp, taken from the tarmac at distance with a long lens. Jon at the top of the airstairs, arms around her, her hands flat against his chest, her face tipped up toward his. The morning light caught her silver-blonde hair and his dark henley and the whole image looked composed, intentional, like someone had posed them for a magazine cover.

"Someone on the ground crew, or a pap with clearance to the private apron," Ros said. "It's everywhere. The comments are... well."

She scrolled.

User: DorneGirlSummer | 2 min ago | 👍 89

Who is this BIMBO hanging off Jon Stark at 7am?? Get your claws off him bestie some of us have been WAITING 😤😤

User: StormEndsSara | 1 min ago | 👍 54

literally who is this whore lmaooo he deserves SO much better. giving desperate, giving pick-me, giving airport tramp 💀

User: BigRobBarath | 1 min ago | 👍 112

ngl i completely understand my man. you see the ASS in that skirt?? that pencil skirt is doing the lord's work boys

User: WinterfellBro_99 | just now | 👍 76

forget the bionic heart look at the tits on her my boy jon eating GOOD today 🙏🙏🙏

"Charming," Dany said.

"Oh, it gets better. The real outlets picked it up."

Ros scrolled further. A news banner appeared, crisp and professional.

WESTEROS TODAY — BREAKING

Targaryen Heiress Spotted in Intimate Embrace with Jon Stark at Private Terminal

Daenerys Targaryen, 26, youngest daughter of the Targaryen dynasty, was photographed this morning boarding Jon Stark's private aircraft in what sources describe as a "clearly personal" embrace. Speculation is mounting over the nature of their relationship, with royal commentators noting that the Starks and Targaryens have historical ties dating back decades.

Of particular interest is the timing: Jon Stark's name has been linked in recent weeks to Arianne Martell, eldest daughter of Doran Martell, in what multiple sources describe as a marriage arrangement brokered by Stark's father, Rhaegar Targaryen, as part of a broader business alliance between the two families.

"The question is whether this is a personal reunion or something more deliberate," said royal correspondent Varys Spider. "The Targaryens have a long tradition of keeping bloodlines close. One wonders if Daenerys is being positioned as an official companion, in keeping with the family's... unique marital customs."

Dany straightened. Her jaw tightened, the muscles working once beneath the skin.

"An official companion. They make me sound like a pedigree dog."

"They're calling it Targaryen purity. You know how they get."

"I know exactly how they get. I've lived with it." She took Ros's phone, scrolled back up, read the Arianne Martell paragraph again. Her expression didn't change but her thumb pressed harder against the screen. "Arianne Martell."

"You didn't know?"

"No."

"Rhaegar brokered it, apparently. Your brother arranged his sons marriage to a Dornish princess and nobody thought to mention it to you."

"Rhaegar doesn't mention things to me. Rhaegar doesn't mention things to his own wife. Or jons mother ever since they divorced. That's rather the theme of his life." Dany handed the phone back. "It doesn't matter. Jon and I haven't spoken in seven years. Who he marries is his business."

"Mhm." Ros tucked the phone away. "And you unbuttoned your blouse to your navel because of the cabin temperature."

"The cabin temperature is warm."

"Dany. You're about to walk out there with your tits on display and your fuck-me lipstick on. If Arianne Martell doesn't matter, your pupils are liars."

Dany smoothed the blouse one more time. The red of her lips caught in the mirror, vivid against her pale skin. "I have better things to do than worry about Rhaegar's schemes."

"Better things. Like Jon Stark."

"Like my job, Ros."

"Sure. With your tits out."

Dany turned from the mirror with a look that could have frozen the cabin air. Ros held up both hands.

"All I'm saying is, if you two make a baby on this plane, it's technically an incest baby. You know that, right? Nephew, aunt, the whole thing. Very Targaryen of you."

"Ros."

"Though, to be fair, every Targaryen incest baby I've ever seen has come out looking like either a supermodel or a pop diva. Your family has insane genetics. The inbreeding coefficient should be producing crossed eyes and extra fingers by now, but instead it's producing..." She gestured at Dany's entire body. "Whatever this is."

"Are you finished?"

"Violet eyes, cheekbones that could cut glass, silver hair. Your family's been shagging each other for centuries and the result is you. It's honestly unfair. The rest of us mix our bloodlines responsibly and we get, what? Overbites and bad skin."

"Ros. I love you. Shut up."

"I'm just saying, if there is a baby, it'll probably be the most gorgeous child ever born and I want to be the godmother."

"There will be no baby."

"The lipstick says otherwise."

Dany picked up her blazer, considered putting it back on, and hung it over the berth instead. The blouse and the open collar and the red mouth would do. She checked herself one final time. Professional. Provocative. The line between the two so thin you'd need a microscope to find it.

"Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck," Ros called after her. "You need a condom, but you don't need luck."

Jon was in the forward lounge, settled into one of the cream leather seats with his legs stretched out and a glass of red wine turning slow between his fingers. The overhead light caught the dark surface of it, the color of old garnets. He looked up when she came through the partition, and his eyes moved over her once, quick and thorough, before he smiled and patted the seat beside him.

"Sit."

Dany smoothed the back of her skirt and lowered herself into the leather. It was warm where the heating element ran through it, soft enough that she sank an inch. She crossed her legs and felt the pencil skirt ride against her thigh.

"You've seen the photos."

Jon sipped his wine. "Which ones?"

"The tarmac. You and me. They're everywhere already."

"Aye, I saw."

"And the comments?"

He set the glass down on the brushed steel table between them, turning it by the stem. The corners of his mouth pulled up. "I've had beautiful women throw themselves at me online before. And in person, for that matter. It's nothing new."

The way he said it. Flat, plain, without a scrap of preening. A statement of fact, like confirming the weather. Dany felt her eyebrow climb.

"Nothing new."

"No." He leaned back. The leather creaked under his shoulders. "The comments are always the same. Someone wants to climb me like a tree, someone else thinks I'm the devil, and a bloke in the middle wants to know where I got my watch. It's been that way since the Forbes piece."

"And the ones calling me a whore? Those new for you?"

Something cooled in his expression. The smile stayed but the warmth behind it shifted, went still. "I saw those. They're wrong, and they're nobody. Don't give them the space."

"I'm not giving them anything. I'm asking if you saw." She held his gaze. "And while we're on the subject of things I've seen today. Arianne Martell."

Jon's jaw moved. A small thing, the muscle bunching once below his ear. He picked up the wine again.

"You know about that."

"I know what Westeros Today knows, which means I know what everyone knows, which means I know more than you apparently thought I needed to."

"It wasn't my idea."

"I didn't think it was."

"My mum brought it up last week." He drank. Set the glass down. "She rang and said Rhaegar had gone to Doran Martell with some proposal. A merger dressed up as a marriage, the usual. Mum told him not to be silly. Said it was the most ridiculous thing she'd heard since he tried to name me Aemon."

"And?"

"And he did it anyway. Because he's Rhaegar." Jon's voice stayed level, but the flatness in it carried weight. "So now there's a formal understanding between him and Doran that I never agreed to and don't intend to honor. Arianne's a lovely woman. She deserves a man who chose her, not one who was assigned."

Dany uncrossed and recrossed her legs. The skirt whispered against itself. "So Rhaegar wants you with Arianne. And Lyanna?"

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. His fingers dragged through the short hair there and he looked, for the first time since she'd boarded, faintly uncomfortable. "Mum wants me with Sansa."

Dany's lips parted. "Sansa."

"Aye."

"Your... Sansa Stark. Your cousin Sansa."

"She's been at Sunday dinners at Winterfell every week for two years. Mum's not subtle about the seating arrangement." He paused. "Sansa's... she's been through a lot. After Joffrey, she needed people around her who'd be gentle. I tried to be that. Mum read into it."

Dany leaned back against the headrest and let a slow smirk build. "I remember the Joffrey scandal."

"Everyone remembers the Joffrey scandal."

"He slapped her. At the Lannister charity gala, in front of two hundred people. And you nearly beat him to death in the parking garage."

Jon's expression didn't flicker. "He hit her. I hit him. That's the whole story."

"That is not the whole story, Jon." The smirk widened. "Because the whole story, the part that made the rounds for months, is that after you put Joffrey Baratheon in the hospital, you went home with his mother."

Color crept up Jon's neck. Actual color, a flush that started above the henley collar and climbed toward his jaw. He picked up his wine and drank instead of answering.

"Jon."

"It was a complicated night."

"You fucked Cersei Lannister."

The flush deepened. He stared at a point somewhere past the cabin window. "Aye."

Dany's composure broke. A laugh punched out of her, bright and genuine, loud enough that she covered her mouth with her fingers and then dropped her hand because she didn't care. "You beat her son half to death and then you fucked her. Cersei Lannister. The most photographed woman in Westeros. Diamond campaign Cersei. Vogue cover Cersei."

"She was very convincing." Jon's voice had gone low and quiet and his ears were red. "And it felt good to rub it in his face. She rang me. I didn't go looking for it."

"She rang you."

"That same night. Half eleven. Said she wanted to apologize for her son's behavior." He took a long pull of wine. "That's not what she wanted."

Dany stared at him. The image assembled itself in her mind with a vividness that caught her off guard. Jon, knuckles still raw and bloody from Joffrey's teeth, standing in the doorway of Cersei Lannister's penthouse. Cersei in whatever silk thing she slept in, all golden hair and green eyes and the body that sold ten million magazines. The thought of Jon's big scarred hands on those hips, that mouth, the long tanned legs that the tabloids loved. The thought of him bending her over whatever obscene furniture filled that penthouse, fucking Westeros's top model and diamond queen with her son's blood still drying on his knuckles.

Her pussy clenched. A sharp, involuntary squeeze that she felt all the way up through her stomach. The cream leather was warm beneath her thighs and she pressed them together under the skirt.

I'm next.

The thought arrived fully formed, clear as a headline, and she didn't argue with it.

Jon was watching her with those grey eyes, still flushed, reading whatever her face was giving away. "You're enjoying this."

"I'm appalled."

"You're smiling."

"I'm smiling because it's absurd, Jon. You beat a man unconscious and his own mother rewarded you with sex. That's not a Tuesday night. That's a Greek myth."

The flush had started to fade. The corner of his mouth twitched. "It was a Wednesday, actually."

"Oh, well. That changes everything."

He laughed. Low, quiet, the sound vibrating through the leather seat between them. "I haven't told anyone that. The full version."

"I won't tell a soul."

"Aye, I know you won't." He looked at her, and the laughter settled into something else, something steady and warm that sat in his gaze like heat behind glass. "That's why I told you."

The silence between them stretched, warm and close in the cabin air. Jon turned the wine glass once more, then set it down with a quiet click.

"I want to apologise. For the years."

Dany tilted her head.

"Seven years, Dany. I walked away from the family and I didn't... I should have kept you separate from all that. The mess with Rhaegar, the name, my mum. None of it was about you, and I let you get caught in the blast radius. That was my fault."

She watched his hands. The scarred knuckles, the way his thumb traced the edge of the table. He wasn't performing guilt. He was stating it the way he stated everything, plain and quiet, and waiting for the weight of it to land.

"It hurt, Jon."

"I know."

"No, you don't." She kept her voice even, the stewardess calm she'd built like armor over the years. "You changed your number. You moved. I heard about your company on the news like everyone else. I had to pretend I didn't care at Sunday dinners while Rhaella asked after your mother and nobody had a bloody answer."

He absorbed it. Didn't flinch, didn't deflect. Just sat with it, the way he sat with everything heavy, until he'd felt the full shape of it.

"You're right. I don't know. But I'd like to make it up to you. If you'll let me."

She said nothing. Waited.

"Tell me what you want. Anything. I mean that." He straightened, and a flicker of something lighter crossed his face. "A holiday. Somewhere warm, somewhere you've never flown into. I know a place in the Summer Isles, private, no press. Or, I don't know, a flat. Something that's yours, not the family's, not the airline's. Name it."

"Jon."

"Or if it's smaller than that, fine. A car. A watch. I saw you looking at mine." The ghost of a grin. "I'll get you the women's version. Or the men's, I don't judge."

"Jon."

"Books. Art. I remember you liked those Essosi watercolors, the ones your grandmother kept in the east drawing room. There's a dealer in Braavos who..."

"Jon. Stop."

He stopped.

Dany uncrossed her legs. The skirt shifted against her thighs, a soft rasp in the quiet cabin. She leaned forward, and the blouse fell open at the collar, the gap widening, the pale lace of her bra catching the warm overhead light. She watched his eyes drop. Watched them come back up. Watched them drop again.

"You can fuck me."

Jon blinked.

"That's what I want. That's how you make it up to me."

He stared at her. His mouth opened, then closed. Opened again. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Dany, I..." He swallowed. His Adam's apple moved against the collar of his henley. "I thought you were going to say dinner."

"I don't want dinner, Jon."

"Right." He ran a hand through his hair. The dark wave fell across his forehead and he pushed it back. "Right. You're... that's..."

"You promised."

The word landed between them and he went still.

"Before you left. That last summer, after university. You sat on the bench in your mother's garden and you told me that after finals, after everything settled, you'd fuck me properly. Do you remember that?"

His throat moved again. "I remember."

"Good. Because I've been waiting seven years for you to keep that promise."

"Dany, this is... it's highly inappropriate. You're working. I'm your passenger. We're at thirty-five thousand feet."

She let the smirk build, slow and deliberate, a curve of red lipstick that she knew he was tracking. "You want to talk about inappropriate?"

"I think one of us should."

"Fine. Let's talk about what was inappropriate." She leaned closer. The blouse shifted and the fourth button strained, the cotton pulling tight across her tits, the lace edge of her bra fully visible now in the widening gap. "What was inappropriate was you eating my pussy so hard I squirted all over your face, and then zipping up your jeans and going home like you'd done me a favor."

The flush hit him like a slap. Red from the collar up, spreading across his jaw, climbing to his ears. His fingers tightened on the armrest.

"Three times, Jon. Three times you went down on me that summer. And every single time I tried to touch your cock you stopped me. You held my wrists and told me next time and then next time never came because you left."

"I was trying to..." His voice had roughened, the low register dropping lower. "I didn't want to rush it."

"You didn't rush it. You abandoned it." She held his gaze and let every year of it show. "And do you want to know the worst part?"

He didn't answer. His chest rose and fell under the henley, faster than before.

"Nobody after you ate my pussy that good. Not one. I've had men try, Jon. Attentive men, patient men, men who thought they knew what they were doing." She shook her head slowly. "Not one of them could make me cum the way you did with just your mouth. And none of them fucked me well enough to make me forget that you never did."

Her voice had dropped to something low and raw, stripped of the service polish, stripped of the composure.

"I only wanted you. All this time. Just you."

She stood. The motion was slow, deliberate, her thighs brushing the edge of the seat as she rose. Jon's eyes followed her upward, grey and dark and locked on, and she watched his hands flex once on the armrests before he forced them still.

She stepped between his knees. The pencil skirt pulled tight across her thighs and she didn't care. She turned, lowered herself into his lap, and settled her weight against him. His thighs were solid underneath her, the denim warm, and she felt him tense, every muscle in his body going rigid at once.

"Dany..."

"Shh."

Her fingers found the fourth button. The one doing all the work. She slipped it free and the cotton sprang apart, the two halves of the blouse falling open to the waistband of her skirt. Her bra was cream lace, sheer enough that the dark pink of her nipples showed through, the cups straining where her tits pressed heavy and full against the delicate fabric. She unhooked the next button. The last one. The blouse hung open, framing her like a curtain pulled back.

She reached behind her. One hand. The clasp gave with a soft click and the bra loosened. She pulled the straps down her arms, one and then the other, and let it fall into her lap. Her tits spilled free, full and round, the nipples already tight in the cool cabin air.

Jon's breathing changed. She felt it against her shoulder blade, the rhythm going ragged, his chest pressing against her back in short, uneven pushes.

She leaned back into him. Turned her head so her lips brushed his ear. The red lipstick left a faint smear on his earlobe.

"I used to lie in bed after you left and think about what it would feel like." Her voice was barely a whisper, warm against his skin. "Your cock inside me. Filling me up. Cumming so deep I could feel it for days."

His hands were on the armrests. She could feel the leather creaking under his grip.

"I wanted to be yours, Jon. I wanted it so badly I couldn't breathe. And instead I had to watch you walk away and pretend that lesser men could give me what you owed me."

A rough exhale against her neck. His hips shifted underneath her and she felt it, the thick hard ridge of his cock pressing up against her ass through his jeans.

"I want you to fuck me. Right here. I want you to breed me like you should have done seven years ago."

"Dany, we can't just..."

She turned in his lap and kissed him.

His protest died against her mouth. She tasted the wine on his lips, dark and warm, and she pressed deeper, her tongue sliding against his, her fingers gripping the back of his neck where the short hair met skin. For one second he was still.

Then he kissed her back.

His hands came off the armrests and found her waist. Big hands, rough-palmed, the scarred knuckles she'd been staring at all morning. He pulled her flush against him and his mouth opened under hers and he kissed her like he'd been starving for it, fierce and deep and greedy, his teeth catching her lower lip, the careful reserve burning away to nothing.

She broke the kiss with a gasp. "Touch me."

His eyes dropped to her tits. Bare, heavy, rising and falling with her breathing. He cupped one in his hand and it overflowed his palm, the warm weight of it spilling between his fingers. His thumb dragged across her nipple and she bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark in the red.

"Jon. Please."

He leaned forward and took her nipple into his mouth.

Wet heat. The flat of his tongue pressed wide against the stiff peak, then his lips closed and he sucked, slow and firm, the kind of pull she felt all the way down to her cunt. She gasped, loud and sharp in the quiet cabin, and her hands flew to the back of his head. Her fingers knotted in his dark hair and she pulled him closer, arching into his mouth, pressing her tit against his face.

"God. God, yes. Don't stop."

He didn't stop. His mouth worked her nipple with a patience that made her thighs shake, sucking and licking and then scraping his teeth across the swollen tip until she whimpered. His other hand found her second tit, kneading it, his thumb circling the neglected nipple in slow firm strokes that matched the rhythm of his mouth.

She cradled his head against her chest. His dark hair spilled through her fingers, thick and soft, and his stubble scraped the tender skin of her breast with every pull of his lips. The sensation was rough and sweet at once, the rasp and the wet heat, and her hips rolled against his lap without her permission, grinding down onto the hard length trapped in his jeans.

"Seven years," she breathed. "I waited seven years for this, Jon Stark, and you are going to give me everything you owe me."

His mouth came off her nipple with a wet sound. He looked up at her, grey eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

"Not here." His voice came out scraped raw. "Come with me."

He lifted her off his lap like she weighed nothing, one arm around her waist, and walked her aft through the cabin. His free hand found the door to the sleeping suite and pushed it open. The queen bed filled the space, real linens pulled tight, the reading light casting a warm amber glow across the pillows.

Dany stepped past him into the room and turned. The blouse hung open, framing her bare tits, and her hair had started to come loose from its pins, silver-blonde strands falling against her flushed neck.

"Sit down."

Jon sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress gave under his weight.

"Watch me."

She peeled the blouse off her shoulders and let it drop. Then her hands went to the side zipper of the pencil skirt. She worked it down slow, holding his gaze, and let the navy fabric slide over her hips and pool at her feet. Underneath she wore cream lace knickers that matched the discarded bra, sheer enough to show the shadow of her pussy through the fabric.

She turned. Gave him her back.

Her ass was full and round and the lace cut across the thickest part of it, the fabric disappearing into the crease where her cheeks met her thighs. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and dragged the knickers down, bending at the waist, slow, letting him see every inch as she bared herself.

She straightened and looked over her shoulder. Brought one hand back and slapped her own ass, hard enough that the flesh rippled and the crack of her palm rang in the small cabin.

"See what you missed?" She smacked it again, the other cheek, watching his face. "Seven years, Jon. I was a girl when you left. Look at me now."

Jon's jaw was tight. His hands gripped his own thighs and the tendons stood out across the backs of them.

"Get over here."

"Not yet. Your turn." She crossed the space between them and pulled the henley up his torso. He raised his arms and she stripped it off him. Broad chest, the dark hair across his pectorals, the scar on his forearm from the soldering accident. She ran her nails down his stomach and felt the muscles jump under her fingers.

She knelt. Unbuckled his belt. Pulled the jeans down his thighs with his help, and then she was staring at his boxer-briefs and the obscene shape straining against the dark cotton. A wet spot had soaked through the fabric at the tip, a dark spreading patch, and the outline was thick and long and curved upward against his hip.

"Jon."

"Aye."

She pulled the waistband down and his cock sprang free, slapping heavy against his stomach. Thick, flushed dark, the fat head slick with precum that had already glazed the shaft. A bead of it welled at the slit and rolled slow down the underside.

"You absolute bastard." Her voice came out strangled. "You kept this from me? All summer you held my wrists and said next time and you had this in your jeans the whole time?"

"Dany..."

"That's not fair." She wrapped her hand around the base and her fingers didn't close. The heat of it pulsed against her palm. "That's not fair, Jon."

Her red lips parted. She leaned forward and took the head into her mouth, her tongue pressing flat against the leaking slit, tasting salt and musk and the clean warmth of his skin. She sealed her lips around the crown and sucked, hard, hollowing her cheeks, and Jon's hand flew to the back of her head.

"Fuck." A single word, exhaled, barely voiced. His fingers tangled in her loosening braid. "Fuck, Dany."

She sank lower, her lips stretching wide around his shaft, the thick length sliding across her tongue inch by inch until her nose pressed against the coarse dark hair at his base. She held there, throat working, eyes watering, and pulled back with a slow drag that left a perfect ring of red lipstick halfway down his cock.

"How," Jon managed. His fingers tightened in her hair. "How are you..."

She pulled off with a wet pop and grinned up at him, lips swollen and shining. "I own four dildos, Jon. Good ones. Expensive ones." She licked a slow stripe up the underside, tongue tracing the fat vein. "I've been practicing on the biggest one for two years. Thinking about you every time."

"Christ."

"Mhm." She swallowed him again, all the way down, her throat clenching around the head as it pushed past the back of her mouth. Her lipstick smeared a red trail down the shaft, branding him, marking the path her mouth had taken. She pulled back and dove again, faster now, bobbing with a rhythm that was wet and loud and shameless. Spit ran down his cock and dripped from her chin onto his thigh. She didn't wipe it. She sucked harder, her cheeks hollowing deep, the suction pulling a groan out of him that vibrated through the mattress.

"Dany...that's...fuck, your mouth."

"You like that?" She pulled off just long enough to speak, her hand working the slick shaft in tight strokes, the red lipstick smeared into a mess of color and spit along the full length of him. "You like watching me take your cock like a good girl?"

His hips jerked. She laughed, low and breathless, and dropped lower. Her tongue found his balls, heavy and drawn tight, and she licked across the warm skin with a flat, slow pass that made his thigh muscles lock. She took one into her mouth, gentle, rolling it against her tongue, sucking with a care that contradicted the filthy wet sounds filling the cabin.

The weight of it. The fullness on her tongue, swollen and hot, packed with everything he'd kept from her for seven years. She moaned around him, a vibration that made Jon's hand fist in her hair, and released him with a kiss.

"I can feel it." She nuzzled against his balls, her breath warm and damp. "All that cum. Right here." She sucked the other one into her mouth, slower this time, savoring, and his cock twitched against her forehead and left a streak of precum in her silver hair. She let him slip free and looked up.

"You want to drown me in it, don't you?" Her violet eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, mascara just starting to smudge at the corners. "All that jizz you've been saving up. I can feel how heavy they are, Jon. How full."

"Dany." His voice had gone to gravel.

"Tell me." She kissed the base of his cock, right where the shaft met his balls, and the red lipstick left another perfect stamp on his skin. "Tell me you want to cover me in it."

His hand cupped her jaw. His thumb dragged across her swollen lower lip, smearing the red. "I want to ruin you."

"Then ruin me." She opened her mouth wide, tongue out, and took him back to the root.

His hands moved fast. One moment she was on her knees with his cock against her tongue, the next the cabin tilted and her back hit the mattress, the linens cool against her flushed skin. Jon's palms slid under her thighs and pushed them apart and his mouth was on her before she could draw breath.

"Oh fuck."

His tongue dragged flat and slow through her slit, base to clit, tasting her with the same unhurried patience he'd shown seven years ago on his mother's garden bench. She was soaked. She could hear it, the wet sound of his mouth working her open, his lips pressing against her pussy in a kiss so thorough it pulled a noise out of her that wasn't a word.

"Ngghhh...Jon...Jon, right there, don't...don't move, stay right there."

He stayed. His tongue circled her clit in tight, deliberate strokes, the flat of it pressing firm and then easing, pressing and easing, building a rhythm that matched the pulse hammering between her legs. His stubble scraped the tender skin of her inner thighs and the rough drag lit up every nerve from her hips to her toes.

"You taste the same." Low, murmured against her, the words vibrating through her cunt. "Exactly the same."

"Fuck you for remembering." Her hand found his hair and pulled. "Fuck you for being so...ahh...so goddamn good at this."

He answered by pushing his tongue inside her, thick and curling, licking into her with a focus that made her spine arch off the bed. His nose pressed against her clit and she ground up into his face, shameless, chasing it. Her thighs clamped around his head and she felt his groan against her, the vibration sinking deep.

"You don't get to leave this time." She was babbling, her voice ragged, the composed cadence gone to pieces. "You hear me? You don't get to make me cum and walk away, not again, not...oh God...not again, Jon, I swear to..."

He sucked her clit into his mouth.

Hard. His lips sealed around the swollen bud and he sucked with a pressure that tore a scream from her chest.

"FUCK...I'm...Jon, I'm...oh God oh God oh God..."

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking. Her whole body locked, spine curved, heels digging into the mattress, fingers white-knuckled in his hair. She felt the release build and crest and then she was cumming, squirting hard against his mouth, her pussy clenching around nothing as the wetness pulsed out of her in hot, shuddering gushes that soaked his chin and jaw and the linens beneath her.

"Ahhhh...fuck.....FUCK....."

Her hips jerked in aftershocks, thighs trembling, stomach clenching. Jon didn't pull away. He licked her through it, gentle now, his tongue tracing slow circles through the mess she'd made of his face.

She lay there panting, staring at the ceiling of the cabin, her fingers loosening in his hair. Her pulse throbbed between her legs and in her throat and behind her eyes.

"Jon."

He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. Looked up. His face was glazed, chin dripping, grey eyes dark and steady.

"I swear to God." She was breathless, the words coming between gulps of air. "You were blessed with a silver tongue made for cunt. That's...that's the only explanation. Some witch cursed you or blessed you or something, because no man should be able to do that with just his mouth."

The corner of his lips turned up. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

"Could be worse."

"Could be...Jon, I just squirted on your face."

"Aye. I noticed."

He rose over her, one knee on the mattress, and she felt the blunt head of his cock press against her entrance. Hot and thick and slick with her spit and his precum. He held there. Waiting. His grey eyes found hers and stayed.

"Look at me."

She looked.

He pushed in.

"Oh fuck...fuck, Jon...you're so...you're..."

Slow. Agonizingly, deliberately slow. The fat head stretched her open and the pressure bloomed outward through her hips, her stomach, the backs of her thighs. Her mouth fell open and her hands flew to his forearms, nails digging into the scarred skin, feeling the tendons shift as he braced above her.

"That's it." Low, rough, spoken on an exhale against her jaw. "There you are."

"It's...you're so thick, I can't...I can't..."

Another inch. The stretch deepened, her cunt gripping him so tight she could feel every ridge, every vein, the slight upward curve pressing against a spot inside her that made her vision blur. Her head dropped back into the pillow and a sound came out of her that she didn't recognize, high and broken and raw.

"Jon.....please.....slow.....I need..."

"I've got you." His forehead pressed against hers, damp with sweat. His hips fed forward in a measured roll and another thick inch sank into her, parting her, filling her so deep she felt it behind her navel. "Breathe, Dany."

"I am breathing, you absolute...ahh...oh God, there's more?"

"Almost."

"How is there more?"

He pushed the last two inches in with a single firm thrust and his hips met hers, his balls pressing heavy and warm against her ass. Full. Stuffed. Every inch of him buried so deep she swore she could feel him in her throat. Her cunt clenched around him in a wet, involuntary pulse and they both groaned, the sounds tangling in the narrow air between their mouths.

"Fuck." Jon's arms trembled. A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple and dripped onto her collarbone. "You're so tight. How are you this tight?"

"Seven years of waiting for your cock, Jon. That's how." She rolled her hips and the friction dragged a whimper out of her own chest. "Now fuck me."

He pulled back to the crown and slammed home.

"YES."

The sound of it filled the cabin. Skin meeting skin, wet and sharp, the creak of the bed frame, her voice cracking open on a scream she couldn't swallow. He drove into her again, harder, his hips snapping forward with the kind of force that shoved her up the mattress and made the headboard knock the bulkhead.

"Louder." Flat and quiet and certain, the way he said everything that mattered.

"Fuck...FUCK, Jon, right there, don't stop, don't you dare stop..."

He didn't stop. He fucked her with a rhythm that was brutal and steady, each stroke bottoming out so deep the head of his cock kissed her cervix and she saw white. Her tits bounced with every thrust, heavy and bare, and his eyes dropped to watch them, the grey going black.

"Seven years." His voice had roughened into something she barely recognized. "Seven years I thought about this. About being inside you."

"You could have had it." Her nails raked down his back and she felt the skin split under her fingers. "You could have had me any time you wanted, all you had to do was..."

He angled his hips and the next stroke hit something so deep her words died. A sound came out of her that was barely human, a long wrecked moan that broke in the middle and climbed into a scream.

"There." He did it again. And again. Driving into that spot with a precision that was almost cruel, the blunt head of his cock battering against her womb with every thrust. "Right there, Dany."

"I can't...I can't take it...it's too much, you're too deep, I..."

He kissed her. Swallowed the next scream right out of her mouth, his lips crushing hers, tongue pushing past her teeth, possessive and thorough and tasting of her own cunt. She moaned into him and he drank that too, his mouth sealing over hers as his hips pistoned forward in sharp, punishing strokes that shook the entire bed.

Her legs wrapped around his waist and locked. Her heels dug into the small of his back and she pulled him deeper, as deep as he could go, the wet sounds of his cock plunging into her soaked pussy obscene in the small cabin. She could feel his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust, heavy and full, and the thought of what was in them, what he was going to pump into her, pushed her toward the edge so fast she couldn't breathe.

He broke the kiss. His forehead pressed against hers, breath ragged, grey eyes boring into violet.

"Cum for me."

"Jon...I'm...oh God.....oh God oh God oh GOD..."

He fucked her through it. Her cunt clamped down on his cock so hard he grunted, and then she was cumming, squirting around his shaft in hot gushing pulses that soaked his cock, his balls, the sheets beneath them. Her whole body seized. Her back arched off the mattress and a scream tore out of her that the soundproofing couldn't contain, raw and shattered, his name breaking apart on her tongue.

"JON.....FUCK.....I'm cumming, I'm cumming, don't stop, please please please..."

He didn't stop.

His arms hooked under her thighs and he lifted her off the mattress like she weighed nothing. The shift in angle was immediate, devastating. Her legs locked around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back, and his hands gripped her ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise.

He thrust up into her.

"AHHH...fuck...oh fuck, Jon!"

The first stroke drove so deep her vision whited out at the edges. Gravity worked against her, pulling her weight down onto his cock with every upward snap of his hips, and the fullness was unbearable, the thick head punching into the deepest part of her with a force that rattled her teeth.

"No one else." She grabbed his face with both hands, fingers digging into his jaw, forcing those dark grey eyes to stay on hers. "You hear me? No one. Not Arianne Martell, not Sansa, not Cersei fucking Lannister, nobody."

He thrust again. Harder. Her tits bounced against his chest and she gasped, her grip on his jaw slipping.

"This cock is mine, Jon Stark." Her voice cracked on his name, the composure in ruins, the stewardess mask a memory. "You don't get to stuff me this full and then give it to someone else. I won't allow it. I refuse."

"Dany..."

"Seven years I waited. Seven years of second-rate men with their second-rate dicks who couldn't hit the spot you're hitting right now if I drew them a map." She clenched around him, a deliberate squeeze that pulled a groan from his chest. "This is mine. Say it."

His hips slammed upward and she screamed.

"Say it!"

"Yours." Low, rough, ground out between his teeth. His fingers dug deeper into her ass, spreading her cheeks apart, using the grip to bounce her on his cock. "It's yours, Dany."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

She kissed him, messy and desperate, tasting wine and herself on his tongue. His cock drove up into her in a rhythm that was merciless now, each stroke lifting her an inch off him and dropping her back down with a wet slap of skin on skin. The sound filled the cabin, vulgar and relentless, joined by the slick noise of her soaked cunt sucking at his shaft every time he pulled back.

"No one fucks like you." She was babbling between thrusts, her voice pitched high and breathless. "No one feels like you. I've tried, Jon, I've tried to replace you and I can't, because your cock was made for my pussy and I will not..."

He shifted his grip. One arm banded across her lower back, locking her against him, and the other hand came up to cup the back of her head. He pulled her down and buried his face between her tits.

His mouth found her nipple.

"Oh that's...that's not fair." Her head fell back and a mewl spilled out of her, thin and helpless. He sucked hard, his tongue lashing the stiff peak, and the sensation shot straight down to where his cock split her open. Her cunt squeezed him so tight he grunted against her breast.

"You can't do that and fuck me at the same time, it's not...it's too much, you're...ngghhh...Jon, that's cheating."

He switched to the other nipple. Drew it into his mouth with a slow, firm pull that hollowed his cheeks, his stubble scraping the tender underside of her tit. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders and her hips ground down, desperate, chasing the friction.

"Unfair." She was whimpering now, the word dissolving into a sound that had no consonants. "You're so unfair, you know that? Unfair cock, unfair mouth, unfair everything. How am I supposed to...ahh...how am I supposed to let anyone else touch me after this?"

His teeth grazed her nipple and she yelped.

"Don't have to." He spoke against her skin, lips dragging wet across the curve of her breast. "No one else touches you either."

"Deal. Done. Sold." She cupped the back of his head and pressed his face deeper into her chest. "Now harder."

He planted his feet on the mattress. Adjusted his grip on her hips. And drove upward with everything he had.

The first stroke knocked a scream out of her that bounced off the ceiling. The second drove the air from her lungs. By the third she was gone, mouth open, eyes shut, a continuous broken wail pouring out of her as his cock hammered up into her cervix with a precision that felt intentional, targeted, designed to take her apart from the inside out.

"Right THERE.....Jon.....right there right there right there..."

The head of his cock pressed against her cervix and held.

"AHHHHH!"

The scream tore through the cabin, raw and animal, loud enough to rattle the reading lamp on the nightstand. Her back arched so hard her shoulder blades nearly touched, her tits thrust forward into the amber light, and every muscle in her body went rigid. His cock ground against the deepest wall of her, thick and blunt and relentless, and the pressure was a white-hot point of sensation that radiated outward through her pelvis and up her spine.

"Cum." Quiet. Certain. His mouth against her throat, his breath scalding. "Cum on my cock, Dany."

Her body obeyed him before her mind could form the word.

The orgasm ripped through her like a live wire. Her cunt clamped down on his cock in rapid, vicious pulses, her whole body locking around him, legs trembling, fingers leaving half-moon welts in his shoulders. She squirted around his shaft, the hot gush soaking his lap, dripping down his balls, pooling on the sheets. Her mouth opened on a silent scream and then the sound came, delayed, wrecked, a ragged howl that shook apart into his name.

"JON.....Jon.....oh fuck.....oh fuck I can't stop.....I can't..."

Her hips jerked in helpless spasms, each one grinding her clit against his pelvis and sending another aftershock ripping through her. She collapsed forward against his chest, forehead pressed to his collarbone, panting in short broken gasps that fogged the sweat on his skin.

Jon held still inside her. His cock throbbed, buried to the root, and she felt every pulse of it like a second heartbeat deep in her belly. His hand came up and cradled the back of her skull, fingers tangling in the ruined braid, and he let her shake against him until the tremors slowed.

"There she is." Low. Almost gentle. His thumb traced a circle at her nape.

She made a noise against his chest that wasn't language.

"That's three."

Her head lifted. Mascara smudged beneath her lashes, red lipstick a ruin, violet eyes glazed and unfocused. "What?"

"Three times you've cum. I'm counting." The corner of his mouth pulled up. "Still owe you four more years."

"You...you're counting?"

"Aye." He brushed a damp strand of silver hair off her cheek, tucked it behind her ear. "I'm thorough."

"I hate you." She kissed his jaw. "I hate you so much."

"Noted." His hands slid down her waist, over the swell of her hips, and gripped. "Turn around."

He lifted her off his cock and the sudden emptiness punched a whimper out of her. She felt his cum-slick shaft drag against her inner thigh as he repositioned her, guiding her forward with those big hands until her palms hit the mattress and her knees sank into the damp sheets.

Hands and knees. Her back arched, her tits swaying heavy beneath her, her ass raised and bare and on full display. Cool cabin air kissed the wet mess between her thighs.

Jon knelt behind her. She felt the mattress dip, felt the heat of him close, and then his palm cracked across her left ass cheek.

Slap.

The flesh rippled. A wave rolled outward from the impact, her ass bouncing and jiggling for a full two seconds before it settled. The sting bloomed warm and sharp and she gasped, fingers clawing the linen.

"Oh God."

He hit her again. Harder. The other cheek. The crack rang through the cabin and her ass shook, both cheeks bouncing against each other, the soft heavy flesh quivering with a momentum that took its time dying.

"Look at that." His voice was low and thick, almost reverent. His palm rubbed a slow circle over the stinging skin, feeling the heat rise. "You know what I'm going to do?"

"Tell me."

Another slap, right across the fullest part of her left cheek. The jiggle traveled up through her hips and she moaned into the pillow.

"I'm going to get my name tattooed right here." His thumb traced a line across the stinging skin, pressing into the handprint already blooming pink. "Jon Stark. Right on your left cheek where I can read it every time I bend you over."

"Jon..."

"And here." His hand slid to her right cheek, squeezed it hard enough that the flesh bulged between his fingers, and released. The bounce was obscene. "A tramp stamp. Right across the top. So when you walk out of a pool in some little bikini and the water's running down your back, every man on that deck sees whose you are."

Her cunt clenched around nothing. She could feel herself dripping, a thin thread of wetness connecting her pussy to the soaked sheet below.

"And when I'm fucking you. Just like this." He gripped both cheeks and spread them, cool air hitting her slick cunt, and she whimpered. "I want to watch both of them. My name bouncing while I take what's mine."

"Please."

He lined up and drove in.

One stroke. Root deep. His hips slammed against her ass and the impact sent both cheeks rippling, the heavy flesh clapping against his pelvis with a sound so loud and wet it barely sounded real. Her scream hit the bulkhead and came back.

"FUCK! Jon...oh fuck, you're so deep..."

He pulled back and hammered home again. And again. Each thrust split her open around the thickest part of his cock, her walls stretching and gripping and failing to hold him as he powered through, the swollen head battering against her cervix with a force that jolted her whole body forward on the mattress.

"I can feel you." She was sobbing the words into the linen, fists twisted in the sheets, back arched so deep her stomach nearly touched the bed. "Every time...every stroke...you're pushing me apart, Jon, I can feel every inch..."

His pace was punishing. The wet slap of his hips against her ass filled the cabin in a relentless rhythm, each impact sending her cheeks bouncing, the flesh rippling outward and settling just in time for the next stroke to send it shaking again.

"Louder, Dany."

"I CAN'T...I can't get louder, you're...ahhh...you're breaking me..."

He gripped her hips and yanked her back onto his cock, meeting his next thrust halfway, and the depth of it punched something out of her that wasn't a scream or a word but a raw, guttural sound that came from somewhere below language.

Then he pulled out. Fell back against the headboard. His cock stood slick and dark against his stomach, glazed with her, throbbing visibly.

"Ride me."

She climbed onto him. Shaking thighs, trembling hands braced on his chest, and she sank down. Took every inch in one slow, devastating drop that left her mouth hanging open and her eyes rolling shut.

She rode him.

Her hips rolled forward and back, grinding his cock deep, finding the angle that made her gasp. Then she lifted, knees pressing into the mattress, and dropped. The impact was heavy and wet, her ass slapping against his thighs with a clap that echoed off the cabin walls. She did it again. Faster. Her ass cheeks bounced against his lap with every landing, the flesh meeting his upward thrusts in a collision of skin and muscle that shook the bed frame.

Jon planted his feet and drove up.

His cock punched into her from below just as her weight came down and the combined force buried him so deep she screamed, her fingers scrabbling at his chest, nails tearing red lines across his pectorals.

"That's it." His hands locked on her hips, guiding her rhythm, pulling her down to meet every upward snap. "Take it."

"I'm taking it...I'm taking it, oh God, Jon, your cock is..."

The clap of her ass against his thighs grew louder, faster, a percussive beat that matched the obscene wet sounds of her soaked pussy swallowing him over and over. Her tits bounced wild, heavy arcs that she couldn't control, nipples flushed dark and swollen.

His rhythm stuttered. His grip on her hips tightened, fingers bruising, and his jaw clenched. She felt it, the thick throb of his cock swelling inside her, the pulse that meant he was close.

"Dany." Rough. Strained. His abs locked under her palms. "I'm going to cum."

"Inside me." She ground down, clenching around him, every muscle in her cunt squeezing him tight. "Cum inside me, Jon. Fill me up."

"Dany..."

"Knock me up." The words fell out of her flushed and raw and certain. "I mean it. I want it. I want your baby, Jon, I want you to breed me so deep I feel it for weeks. Give it to me. All of it."

His hips surged upward one final time and held.

"FUCK...Dany..."

She felt it.

The first rope of cum hit her so deep it splashed against her womb, thick and searingly hot. She gasped, her whole body locking, her cunt clenching in reflexive spasms around his pulsing shaft. The second spurt was just as heavy, flooding her, the warmth spreading outward through her pelvis like something molten poured into the center of her.

He kept cumming. Thick, deep spurts that she felt one by one, each pulse painting her insides, filling her so full that the excess squeezed out around his shaft and dripped down his balls. The warmth pooled low in her belly, heavy and alive, and she pressed down with her full weight, grinding him as deep as he could go, keeping every drop.

"Oh God." A whisper. Her forehead dropped against his. "I can feel it. Jon. I can feel all of it."

His arms wrapped around her. Pulled her flush against his chest. His cock twitched inside her, the last weak pulse of cum spilling into the mess he'd already made, and his breath shuddered out against her throat.

Neither of them moved.

Two hours later the cabin had gone quiet. The engines hummed their low steady note. The reading lamp threw amber light across the wreckage of the bed, the sheets twisted and soaked through, a damp dark patch spreading from the center where they'd ruined them together.

Jon slept on his back, one arm thrown above his head, his chest rising and falling slow. He'd worked through something in those two hours, years of it, and now he was emptied out into the kind of sleep that didn't surface for anything.

Dany was not asleep. Dany was between his thighs with her cheek resting against the heat of him, his cock half-hard even now in her mouth, her swollen lips wrapped around the tip and sucking with a slow, devoted patience. Her bun had given up entirely. Silver hair spilled loose around her face, strands of it stuck to her cheek with cum, more of it streaked across her tits where he'd painted her between rounds. It had dried tacky on her collarbone. A thick thread still clung to her lashes and she couldn't be bothered to wipe it. She looked debauched and she'd never felt more like herself.

She pulled off with a wet sound and pressed a kiss to the underside of his shaft.

"You don't even know I'm doing this," she murmured against his skin. "Look at you. Out cold. And I'm still down here begging."

His cock twitched against her lips. She smiled.

Below her, between her own thighs, his cum overflowed thick and slow, leaking out of her swollen pussy and pooling on the sheet. She could feel the heavy fullness of it sitting low in her belly, the warmth she'd demanded and gotten and meant to keep. She clenched around the emptiness and felt more of it spill.

Jon grunted in his sleep. A low sound, a shift of his hips, his brow creasing.

"There you are." She sealed her lips around the fat head and sucked, hard, her hand sliding down to cradle his balls. Heavy still, even now, even after everything. She rolled them in her palm, massaging, coaxing, her tongue working the slit. "Come on. One more. I know you've got one more, give it to me, give me the last of it."

His breathing roughened. His abs tensed under her forearm. His hand came down in his sleep and found her hair, fingers tangling loose in the silver mess, not waking, just holding.

"That's it." She doubled her efforts, cheeks hollowing, her tongue flat against the underside as she sucked the head with a focus that bordered on prayer. His balls drew tight in her hand. "Give me everything, Jon Stark. Empty yourself out. There's nothing left for anyone else."

He came with a long shuddering exhale, still half-asleep.

The load was thinner than the others, whiter, the last dregs of a man who'd been wrung dry, and she took it greedily anyway, holding it on her tongue, swallowing it down. She kept sucking until he softened, until there was genuinely nothing left, and then she gave the tip one slow deep pull and a kiss, lips lingering against the slit like a seal on a letter.

"Empty," she whispered, satisfied. "Finally. Properly empty."

She licked him clean. Every trace, every last smear, until he lay slick only with her spit and the cabin air. Then she sat back on her heels and surveyed the ruin of herself in the dark window's reflection.

Her face was a mess. Cum dried on her cheek, in her hair, streaked across her tits, more of it leaking out of her cunt and down her inner thigh. Her lipstick was gone, kissed and sucked away hours ago, her mouth swollen and pink and raw. She looked like exactly what she'd wanted to be. His.

An idea formed, slow and pleased.

She could take her leave at Yi Ti. Tell scheduling she was claiming the layover, then the days after. Stay close. Jon would arrange something, she knew him, he was already arranging it in his sleep probably, his mind never stopped working a problem. But she could help. She could be there when he came back from whatever meeting drained him dry, on her knees in whatever hotel or apartment or jet, keeping him sated, keeping these heavy balls empty so there was never anything left over for Arianne Martell or Sansa Stark or anyone else who thought they had a claim.

The thought made her clench again. More warmth spilled out of her.

She slid off the bed, unsteady on legs that didn't fully work, and braced a hand against the bulkhead. Found Jon's phone on the nightstand, then her own. She turned, angled the camera, and stood in the amber light.

The photo caught all of it. The cum streaked across her face and tits, the loose silver hair, the swollen mouth, the thick mess sliding down her thighs, the wrecked satisfaction in her violet eyes. She didn't pose. She didn't need to. She tapped to send it to Jon's number and watched his phone light up on the nightstand, the screen glowing, the image of her ruined and his sitting there waiting for him to wake and find it.

She set both phones down. Climbed back onto the bed, not bothering to clean a single thing, and fitted herself against his side. His arm came around her in his sleep, pulled her in, his chin settling against the top of her head the way it had at the top of the airstairs.

She rested her cheek on his chest and listened to his heart. Slow. Steady. A real one, for all the marvels he built for other men.

One hand drifted down to her own belly. She pressed her palm flat against it, over the warmth still sitting low and full inside her, and held it there.

"Grandmother Rhaella's going to be insufferable," she murmured into his skin. A laugh, quiet and worn out, shook through her. Her grandmother, who'd spent six years sending wax-sealed invitations and dropping Jon's name at every dinner with a careful, hopeful lightness she thought no one noticed. Rhaella would weep. Rhaella would have the announcement engraved. Her daughter and her grandson, the old blood close again, the way the family had always kept it.

"She'll love it," Dany whispered, smiling against his chest. "She'll absolutely love it."

Jon's arm tightened around her without waking. She closed her eyes.

She slept, sated and filthy and full, her hand over her womb and her body wrapped around his, and for the first time in seven years there was nothing left to wait for.