Chapter Text
Catelyn Stark was a noble woman, in title and in demeanor. Had it not been for the ruby-encrusted crown fastened to the top of Queen Rhaella Targaryen's head, an onlooker unfamiliar with Westerosi culture may mistake Cat for Royalty, her back stuck up straight, shoulders square, jaw steady and eyes rigid with scrutiny. Yes, Rhaella was the Queen of Westeros, but Cat was ever the plotter to mobilize her own family upward. She pointed her stare at the Princess who sat idly beside her mother, delicate fingers plucking minuscule chunks off a slice of lemon cake and plopping them into her mouth. Ah, the Princess Daenerys was a beauty the likes Westeros had not seen since Rhaella was a teen, but Rhaella's parents were less relaxed in their customs than Rhaella herself and her husband, the King Aerys, were. Rhaella was never subjected to an onslaught of suitors, for she was betrothed by birth to marry Aerys, her much older brother. Sweet Daenerys, though, would soon become a Lord's bride, and that Lord would become Prince.
Should tragedy strike the Crownlands – and of course, Cat would never wish such a thing – and the Princes Rhaegar, Viserys, and even young Aegon should perish, the Lord who marries Daenerys would become King Consort, and his heir would be King thereafter. Those were the best odds that any young Lord has had in a hundred years of becoming King of the Seven Kingdoms, since the ruling Targaryens liked to keep their family line within the family.
“We received invitation to your suitor's ball,” Cat spoke whimsically to Daenerys. “You must be excited to have all of the young Lords in Westeros clambering into King's Landing just to try and claim you as their bride.”
Daenerys smiled softly, holding back the smirk that threatened to form upon her lips. The idea of men from all over the country fighting for her hand was something she'd dreamed of since she was just old enough to take interest in boys. Let the young Lords try to claim her, and please let the fiercest of them succeed. Daenerys shifted in her garden chair as the nerves between her thighs tingled.
“I'm quite excited indeed,” replied Daenerys demurely. From birth her mother had done a wonderful job of teaching Daenerys to be soft in every way. Soft, feminine, and never imposing or especially exuberant. “I've always wanted a husband.”
“You'll meet my eldest son, Robb, at the ball. He's been off on his travels, as young Lords should always be well traveled and well learned, but he wouldn't miss seeing you again for the world,” said Cat. “You remember Robb, don't you? You played together once when you were children.”
After a moment to swallow a bite of cake, Daenerys replied, “I'm not sure. I've seen so many faces throughout my life that it's hard to sift through them all in my head on a whim.”
Cat chuckled, expertly hiding her annoyance. “You speak honesty with kindness, Princess. You'll make a wonderful wife.”
Wife. Daenerys nearly allowed her smile to falter. She rather enjoyed the idea of having a husband – a man to take care of her needs, the needs only a husband can take care of – but she wasn't so sure she wanted to be a wife. The truth was, since even before her first blood, Daenerys longed for someone to share her bed in the same way that her eldest brother Rhaegar and his wife shared their bed. Sometimes, she would prop a feather pillow beside herself in bed. She would drape her arm over it, kiss it even, shut her eyes, inhale, and try to conjure up the scent of one of the many little Lords she'd been made to play with. Maybe she had even used young Robb Stark as inspiration.
As she grew into her womanhood, Daenerys would sometimes shift her pillow downward, draping her leg over it instead and pressing the soft cushion against the heat between her legs. Sometimes, if she did it long enough, and just in the right fashion, her heart would race and beads of sweat would coat her body beneath her night dress. Sometimes, she would grow so feverish from it all that she thought of putting her hand under her shift to discover once and for all what was causing her to act this way almost every night. But she was always too frightful. Whatever was down there was meant for her husband, and only her husband. That was what her mother and father had taught her. “A man always knows when a woman has not saved her treasure for him,” Rhaella would tell Daenerys every so often.
Oh how her treasure longed to be discovered.
Daenerys shifted once more in her seat as she turned her head toward the horizon. It would be a few hours more til sundown, and then she could reunite with her faithful feather pillow and entertain her hungry heat.
“Is he tall?” Daenerys asked Cat.
Not especially. But Cat could tell the girl wanted a boy with height, so she responded carefully, “He's of good height. Sapphire eyes. Auburn hair.”
“Tully features,” Rhaella chirped. A simple statement of fact, as red hair and blue eyes ran strong in the Tully family, Cat's family. But while the Tullys were of high status, they were not quite as revered as the Starks – few houses were as revered as the Starks – so Cat grew inwardly defensive.
“Oh, but he has the strong jaw and strong will of the Starks. He would be a wonderful--”
“I look forward to seeing him again,” Daenerys interrupted, something she was taught never to do, but she was late for a meeting with her tutor. “Tell him that for me, if you will, Lady Stark.”
As the girl bounced off through the garden in the direction of the Keep, Cat struggled to contain her excitement that Daenerys seemed genuinely interested in her boy.
Indeed, Daenerys was interested. She knew of the Starks and their reputation for being stubborn, smart, honorable, and most of all, masculine. Tully features aside, if Robb was a true Stark, he would not be some pretty little pampered thing the way her brother Viserys or her nephew Aegon were, the way so many young Lords were. If Daenerys was to be a wife, she wanted to be the wife of a man, not a boy.
“You say Robb has been traveling?” Rhaella questioned her old friend before a sip of lavender tea. “Who in the family is the painter? Is that's Ned's bastard?”
Cat's cinnamon eyebrows knitted at the mention of her husband's twenty-year-old mistake, a physical remnant of the one moment in time that honorable Ned Stark was not so honorable. It happened just before they'd married. They still hardly knew one another. And yet, the pain Cat felt when her husband brought home that black haired, gray eyed babe swaddled in kitchen rags cut her to her core, and never in twenty years had she fully recovered. Had these questions come from anyone else, Cat may have swatted them in the mouth, but Rhaella was the Queen, and Cat had to respond with honesty and respect.
“Jon,” she replied with a tight jaw.
“I hear he's quite talented.”
“You hear?”
“Yes. Well, I've been asking around,” said Rhaella. “Aerys wants a portrait done of Daenerys for the ball. Being King causes him to sometimes lack practicality, and he does not realize that having a portrait done in such little time is not an easy feat. I heard that one of the Stark boys had done a beautiful portrait of the little Lady Karstark not long ago.”
“Jon is not a Stark,” Cat seethed, forgetting composure. She apologized to the Queen immediately.
“It still pains you to speak of him,” said Rhaella, not slighted in the least by her friend's temper. “Men are men, Cat. Even Stark men. Aerys has at least a dozen bastards right here in King's Landing. Sometimes I think I can spot them in a crowd.”
“Ned never should have brought that boy to Winterfell. He should have left him where he was. I wish he'd kept his impropriety a secret from me my whole life.”
Rhaella placed a hand upon Cat's. “Send Ned's bastard here. Tell him he will be paid handsomely to paint the Princess's portrait. He may well like it in King's Landing. Maybe he'll stay in the city. Wouldn't that be lovely?”
Cat cracked a smile. Yes, that would be quite lovely. It would also be lovely to return to Winterfell knowing Jon would be headed in the opposite direction.
* * * * *
Dark eyes gazed at the slope of Ros's waist and the curve of her tear drop breast. Fingers stained black dragged a stem of charcoal across a thick parchment, adding shadow to the triangle of space between the brothel girl's waist and the underside of her bosom. Jon kept his lips parted all the while he sketched Ros. Occasionally, the tip of his tongue would dart out to lick the left side of his upper lip. Ros blushed each time, but only because it was the only time a man licked his lips in her brothel from sheer concentration alone. She found the sight comical and endearing all at once, which was why she kept allowing Jon Snow to take up hers and the other girls' time with his “practicing.”
“Are you about finished over there?” she asked him with a smirk. “My arm is beginning to cramp.”
“I'm almost done,” Jon assured her, eyes squinted down at the parchment as he gingerly ran his thumb across the markings of her navel to diffuse the sharp lines. His voice was deep and studious, causing Ros to giggle. Never had another man wanted to spend so much time within the walls of her brothel without ever wanting to sample the merchandise.
“You're cute, Lord Snow,” said Ros.
“I'm not a Lord,” replied Jon.
“Are you sure? Because I only give freebies to Lords.”
Jon looked up just as Ros was lifting a leg up to the table she was posed upon, spreading it apart from the other to give the young man a new perspective of her anatomy. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw hunger flash upon his face. It sent a shiver of excitement down her spine, something she thought was long past possible in her line of business.
“I think that's quite enough drawing for today,” a calm, powerful voice blew through the chamber.
Together, Jon and Ros's heads snapped toward the door they hadn't heard open. In the threshold stood Lord Eddard Stark, broad shouldered and stoic. Behind him, just outside the chamber door, were two of his riders. Jon stood immediately, thrusting his parchment and charcoal into his satchel without regard from their preservation. After all, it was just practice.
Outside the Winter Town brothel, standing in inch deep muck, Jon insisted he wasn't in that chamber to do anything more than add to his collection of sketches.
“It doesn't matter to me why you were here,” replied Ned brusquely. When Jon's eyes flashed with disappointment, Ned clarified, “You're a man now, Jon. You can do as you please. But, I need something from you now.”
“What is it?” Jon asked, trying not to sound too eager to do his Lord father's bidding. He wanted Ned's approval more than anything in the world, but he was too proud to let it show.
“You're to ride to King's Landing. The Crown is commissioning you to paint a portrait of the Princess Daenerys. Cat sent a raven this morning about it. It's time sensitive, as they apparently want the portrait finished in time for the upcoming suitors' ball.”
“King's Landing?” grumbled Jon. Aside from the Red Keep itself, Jon has heard nothing but woe about the city of millions.
“Don't sneer, boy.” Ned clutched his bastard son's shoulders tight. “This is a big opportunity for you to get into the good graces of the Crown. Imagine what could become of you if you do well in this. Everyone from here to Dorne will be wanting you to paint them. You'll be a rich man, able to buy your own Keep someday.”
Jon released a smile to join his father's. Jon knew he would never be rich, but he did rather like the idea of painting royalty. A portrait of the Princess? That would be hung with pride in the brightest hall of a grand castle, and the name scrawled on the bottom would be Jon's own. He could take pride in that. Ned could take pride in that.
“When should I leave?” Jon asked.
“Right away.”
“I have to get my things.”
“I've collected your things.” Ned walked Jon to a steer, already saddled and loaded down with Jon's essentials. “I'm sending one of my riders with you to make sure you get to there safe and on time. No dallying along the King's Road, sketching peasants and tavern wenches. And, Jon. . . while you may not have my name, you still have my blood, and so you will carry yourself as a Stark while you're in Kings Landing.”
Jon gave a short nod, then bid his Lord father farewell. They did not embrace – they hadn't done so since Jon was a boy – but the paw Ned planted on the back of Jon's head radiated a specific sort of love between them. A secret, almost shameful love. A father and his bastard. They parted then, Jon heading South down the King's Road and Ned North to Winterfell, back to his other children, his real children.
* * * * *
In just a week flat, Jon arrived in Kings Landing with haste and was greeted immediately by the stench of excrement, singed steel, and rancid meat. Soon after, he was greeted by a tall man in gold armor and a long cream cape. His face was wrinkled with substantial age. His posture was straight with substantial confidence.
"You're Ser Barristan Selmy," Jon correctly guessed with an awed expression.
"I'm here to escort you to your living quarters, if you'll follow me. Better to dismount your horse and go by foot. The streets are quite crowded in the city."
As they walked, Ser Barristan leading Jon and Jon leading his horse, Jon asked the aged knight, "Are we going to the Red Keep?"
"Aye," answered Ser Barristan through a graveled voice.
'How can you stand it in this heat wearing that chain mail and those iron plates?' Jon wanted to ask of the man, but they did not speak the rest of the way. Jon was not in the North anymore, where everyone knew him as his Lord father's beloved son. Here in King's Landing, he would be nothing more than any other bastard who wouldn't dare speak to a legendary knight such as Ser Barristan without being spoken upon first.
They entered the gates of the Red Keep and Jon's eyes grew big. The Royal palace made Winterfell look like one of the Winter Town brothels. The towers of golden stone stretched higher than Jon could tilt his head, casting all the tradesmen and servants puttering about the courtyards in shadow. Emblems of the Targaryen crest were mounted in red gemstones upon each gate and archway Jon followed Ser Barristan through. A dragon with three heads.
Just as Jon was beginning to wonder what the view would be like from his chamber window (would he be able to see a horizon of blue sea connecting with clear blue sky?), Ser Barristan stopped at a thick wooden slab at the base of the tall tower. The slab was a door, opening with a series of squeaks and rickets. Dust swirled in the air like ripples through water. Humidity and mildew filled Jon's senses.
"Your chamber," spoke Sire Barristan, vacant of any emotion.
Jon entered the damp room with careful steps, as if the stones underfoot may sink into the earth and bury him whole. A dungeon within the superfluousness of the Red Keep that left a worse imprint on Jon's senses than even the dingiest of Northern brothels. He doubted Ros would lie with a man upon the musty hay mattress for a pouch of gold dragons.
"This is where I'll be staying?"
"Not good enough for a Northern bastard?"
'I am the son of Lord Eddard Stark!' Jon wished to spit out at the knight's feet, but when he spun around, he remembered his father's words. He must carry himself as a Stark, and a true Stark would never need to declare himself a Stark in the face of others. A Stark would be strong. A Stark would endure. "It's fine," he soon stated.
"Good. I'll have your things brought it at once," said Ser Barristan.
* * * * *
The banter at supper was lost on Daenerys. She stared at her plate, twirling her fork around the carved meat, watching the crimson juices as they seeped from the cooked flesh. Interrupting her middle sibling boast of his fine hunting skills, Daenerys posed a question to her King father. "If I marry Robb Stark, will I have to be Daenerys Stark?"
Viserys snorted. "Gods help us if the Targaryen line is diluted with Stark blood."
"The Starks are a fine people," Rhaella casually insisted.
"We don't know who you'll be marrying yet," Aerys stated in his rough, commanding, kingly voice from where he sat at the head of the table, being served a refill of Dornish wine by one of the kitchen servants. "Lord Tywin Lannister has intimated quite an interest in marrying his grandson, Joffrey, to you."
"The Lannisters are even richer than the Tyrells," Viserys spoke gleefully, no doubt wondering how having a Lannister for a brother-by-law could benefit himself financially.
"Speaking of the Tyrells, Loras is quite a dashing young man," added Rhaella, keenly unnerved at the thought of Daenerys marrying that vile little Lannister boy, no matter how many gold mines his family owned. Rhaella sent a smile to her daughter, a sign that her heart rested in sending Daenerys to Highgarden.
Aerys grumbled a reluctant approval of his wife's opinion. The Tyrells may not have as much gold as the Lannisters, but their Kingdom possessed the most resources.
Marry Loras Tyrell? Daenerys inwardly balked at the notion. Indeed he was dashing, the prettiest of any Lord Daenerys had ever met, and once upon a time she had quite a crush on his charming face and blonde ringlet curls, but everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew Loras wasn't intimately interested in women. What Daenerys possessed, he surely would not want, and the thought of marrying someone who did not want her was torturous.
"Please don't marry me to Loras Tyrell, father," pleaded Daenerys.
"Why, Dany, I thought you wanted a husband," Aerys said. "I arranged this entire event just for you."
"I do want a husband," she insisted. "Just, not Loras Tyrell."
"You have your heart set on Robb Stark then?" asked Rhaella, not wanting the conversation to veer back to the Lannisters.
Another snort sounded from Viserys as he munched on a hunk of mutton.
Daenerys slumped back in her seat only to have her shoulder swatted by her mother, a signal to straighten up and look like a lady. "I don't know," replied Daenerys. "I don't know if I want to live in the North. I don't know if I want to be a Stark. I wish I could have a husband and still be a Targaryen."
"We could simply marry you to Viserys." From any other Lord father's mouth, the suggestion may have been easily taken for jest, but in the Targaryen family, marriage between siblings was a rather common practice.
"Please no, father," Daenerys pleaded again.
"Viserys is to marry Rhaenys," Rhaella insisted. "It's already been decided." Before Daenerys could release a sigh of relief, her Queen mother said, "She could marry Aegon, though. She could be Queen one day."
"No, please," whined Daenerys, stomach turning at the thought of marrying her arrogant nephew who liked to torment her as a child. "Forget what I said. I don't care where I live or what my name becomes. I just want someone who will want me."
"You're Daenerys Targaryen," Aerys stated. "Every boy and man in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond wants you."
"Not Loras Tyrell," Viserys snickered.
* * * * *
That night, when the moon dominated the sky and Daenerys was tucked safely within her feather bed, she tried to remember Robb Stark, with his blue eyes and auburn hair. The last she saw the boy he had to have been no more than ten. Had she fancied him at that age? Would she fancy him now? Tall, with broad Stark shoulders and subtle Tully wit. Did he like to hunt, as Daenerys's father and brothers do? Would he present her trophies from his trips? Or perhaps he would even take her along, and wrap his cloak about her shoulders when the air chilled. They could set up camp along a river bank, and Daenerys could wait for him in their tent while he went about his manly business, and when Robb was finished, smelling of forest dew and musk, he could crawl beside her in bed, pull her close and discover her womanly delights.
Eyes pressed shut, lips parted, Daenerys rocked her hips against the pillow squeezed tight against the weeping peak between her legs. The image in her head of this faceless man with smooth skin and a hard body absorbed her, sending a blaze of fire circling around her hips and belly, up past her beaded nipples, enveloping her face and seeping past her lips. A whimper escaped her throat just as a wrapping at her chamber door startled her from her erotic reverie. The door creaked open before she could swipe the perspiration from her brow.
“Daenerys,” spoke her mother's soft voice as an ivory silhouette came closer. Rhaella perched herself upon her daughter's bed and outstretched her hand. “You don't look well, Dany. Are you alright?”
The back of Rhaella's hand touched Daenerys's forehead, no doubt feeling the heat and the sweat that Daenerys's overactive mind inflicted upon her.
Daenerys's voice cracked. “I'm alright.”
Rhaella released a sigh, moving her hands to her lap. “You're nervous about the ball.”
“No. Well, yes.”
“There's no need to be. We're going to find you a good match. You may not love him at first, maybe not until after you've married, maybe not ever. But I would never marry you off to someone undeserving of you, someone who will be unkind to you.”
Kindness. . . Daenerys felt guilt bubble in her gut. That was what she should be fretting over: whether or not her husband would be kind, decent, and treat her with respect. The rest was not so important, was it? Whether or not he would touch her just right and finally relieve her of this pressure that consumed her so.
Again, Rhaella reached her fingers out, this time to smooth her daughter's silver hair from her flushed cheek. “You're a woman now, and it's time soon for you to leave me, but you'll always be my little girl, for as long as I live. I'll always protect you. I won't ever let anyone hurt you.” Rhaella stretched down to press a chaste kiss to Daenerys's forehead, something she hadn't done since Daenerys was a child. “I forgot to tell you earlier,” she said. “Tomorrow after tea, you have an appointment in the East Tower study.”
“An appointment?”
“Your father and I want your portrait done before the ball. If you do end up in the North, we'll need something to remind us of your face each day, and how beautiful it is.”
Rhaella left her daughter after another kiss. A frown spread across Daenerys's pouted lips. She curled away from her pillow, hugging her knees to her chest. What if her husband wasn't kind? What if he was cruel? What if he touched her only with possession? What if he whispered only words of malice into her ear at night? What if he used his hard body to smother her rather than make love to her? All the heat had left Daenerys's body, skin cold but no less damp. She pulled a pelt of fur over her linen blanket and held the thick material tight to her chest, burying her nose in the fur.
* * * * *
“You will treat the Princess with the same respect you would treat the King himself,” warned Ser Barristan as he led the Northern bastard through the long halls and winding stairwells of the East Tower. “In fact, you would do best to speak to her as little as possible. And under no circumstances--” Ser Barristan halted, spinning around to glare down at the young man, a hand on the golden pummel of his sword, “--are you to touch her.”
Jon swallowed the lump in his throat. The old knight did not turn back around until Jon nodded. They resumed walking.
“There will be a canvas set up for you in the study. We have supplies if you need them,” said Ser Barristan, tone back to it's normal vacancy.
“I've brought my own materials,” replied Jon, hiking his bag further up his shoulder.
The next time Ser Barristan halted was before the door to the study, high in the East Tower. Jon's thighs ached from the trip, but the old man seemed no worse for wear. He turned to address Jon once more. “Tomorrow, you may consider dressing more appropriately.”
Jon looked down at his tunic and trousers, only slightly stained from the ride down the Kings Road. Before he could snap a response, Ser Barristan stepped aside, allowing Jon into the study.
The room was large and lavish with gold trimming around the high ceiling and ivy wrapped around ivory columns. Yellow midday sun streamed in through the arched windows, the shutters propped open and the silk drapes blowing gently in the Summer breeze. But Jon did not notice any of this. Not at first. As soon as he stepped into the study, Jon's eyes went straight to the young woman sat so elegantly upon a sofa lined with red velvet.
His chest tightened at the sight. Never before had he seen someone so breathtakingly unusual, so oddly magnificent. “Hello,” he spoke, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “You must be the Princess.”
Long eyelashes fluttered, blinking amethyst eyes, a small polite smile forming upon plump, rosy lips. She stood, stepping toward him and extending a delicate hand. “Daenerys,” she said, her voice smooth and sweet, like honey and milk.
Without thinking, Jon took her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the knuckle. Ser Barristan's sword could capture him right then; Jon did not care. He could die happy having laid his lips upon a real Princess.
Her smooth skin slid from his palm, retracting quickly. Daenerys turned immediately back to the sofa and retook her position, smoothing her hands across her ivory gown. She hadn't expected someone like this young man who just wandered into her study. He couldn't have been much older than herself, but still there was something so manly about him that made her feel vulnerable under his stare. He didn't appear pampered, nor did he seem wholly common either. He was neither clean nor filthy. And the look in his eye. . . dark and soft, neither holy nor haunting.
Daenerys looked away, down to her knees where a fresh smudge of black stained the silk. Her brow furrowed. “There's a mark on my gown,” she exclaimed, standing again.
Turning his palms up, Jon looked at the charcoal smearing his fingers. He cursed under his breath and turned to see a menacing grumble on Ser Barristan's face. “I apologize Princess,” Jon said, bringing Daenerys's exasperated expression to him. “I was sketching with charcoal this morning, by the docks.”
“I have to change now,” insisted Daenerys, hiking up her skirt and marching in silver slippers across the stone floor, past Ser Barristan, and out the chamber door.
Thrusting an finger in Jon's direction, Ser Barristan demanded Jon remain in the study “or I'll have your head on a pike, bastard.” The knight turned and with a flourish of his cape, strode to follow the Princess.
A heavy exhale left Jon's lungs. He suddenly felt lightheaded. Thirty seconds into meeting the Princess and he already offended her, made a fool of himself, and disobeyed the command of one of Westeros's most legendary knights.
Alone in the study, Jon was finally able to take in the scenery. A tall canvas stood against an iron isle opposite the velvet sofa, and before the canvas was an oak stool and table. Jon sat upon the stool and gazed at the clean canvas, larger than any other he had worked with. It may take him two weeks to finish a portrait this size. He dropped his bag and fished out his supplies, setting his paints and brushes upon the table to his right, and when he was settled, he simply sat and waited for the Princess and her escort to return.
When Daenerys did return, she was draped in steely blue, a pendant of a three-headed dragon pinned a silver curtain of fabric to her shoulder. It fluttered behind her as she walked back to the sofa. A new lump formed in Jon's throat that he struggled to swallow down. She was beyond beautiful, and for the next two weeks, he would be paid in gold dragons to stare upon her beauty, to recreate it in oil paints upon a massive canvas, to take Daenerys Targaryen in through the eyes and breathe her new life through his fingertips.
“Shall we get started then?” asked Jon with a little smile at her.
But the damage was done already, and the Princess would not look him in the eye. If Jon was going to paint her, he would need to see into her eyes.
“Look at me,” he said, a soft command, but he should have known better.
A clearing of Ser Barristan's throat drew Jon's attention to the older man. He was sat upon his own stool, arms folded across his chest, helmet sat on the floor by his boot.
Jon softened his tone. “I need you to look this way, Princess. Unless you want me to paint you with a sour face and eyes trained at the wall.”
Another clearing of Ser Barristan's throat had Jon inwardly chuckling. “He thinks I should speak to you like you're a child, but you're not a child, are you? I don't think it's polite to treat women like their children.”
Finally, Daenerys snapped her gaze to Jon, glaring into him, lilac daggers. “Who are you?” she asked, as if her not knowing his name was an insult in and of itself.
“Jon Snow,” he replied, adjusting his stool and canvas so that he could see both it and Daenerys without straining his head.
“A bastard,” she grumbled. “A Northern bastard.”
“Have you ever been to the North, Princess?”
Ser Barristan answered for her. “The Princess's agenda is none of your business.”
“Apologies,” spoke Jon to Daenerys. “And I'm sorry about your dress. I was just trying to be cordial, completely forgetting about the charcoal on my fingers. I've never met a princess until now. I suppose I was a little at a loss of thought. I mean, I am nothing but a lowly bastard from the North after all. How I've gotten by in this life all these years with my head still on my shoulders is a true mystery.”
The faintest of smiles appeared upon Daenerys's face, the sort of smile that only registers in the eyes.
“There,” said Jon. “Stay like that.”
Confusion eclipsed her expression, much to Jon's immediate dismay.
“No, no,” he said. “You have to relax your face, soften your mouth, but put a smile in your eyes. Then, stay like that.”
The shifts in Daenerys's countenance told Jon she did not quite know how to comply.
“It's alright,” said Jon. “We can worry about that later. Just, get into the position you want me to paint you in, and hold steady.”
Daenerys scooted forward so her feet could rest flat on the floor. She pressed her knees together, rested her hands in her lap, straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and paralleled her jawline to the floor.
“That's the position you want?” Jon asked with a raised eyebrow and comical expression.
“What's the matter with it?” asked Daenerys, taking offense.
“Nothing, it's just very. . .”
“This is how my father, the King, wants me to pose.”
Jon nodded slowly. “I just don't think it's going to be very comfortable for you.”
“I'll be fine. Just paint the portrait already.”
Jon nearly laughed. She had no idea how long this was going to take. “Suit yourself. Just, keep your eyes on me.”
Daenerys did so, despite her trepidation. This whole thing did not sit well with her, sitting under this strange young man's gaze. She watched his dark eyes as they washed over her, taking in her every detail. Even with Ser Barristan there, she felt so vulnerable to this bastard from the North. No one had ever looked at her in such a way, like they wanted to know her every curve and edge, every angle and blemish. So studious. So vacant of judgment. It was neither cold nor warm. What was he thinking? Does he like what he sees?
Yet another grumble of Ser Barristan's throat broke Jon of his concentration of her. “Quit staring at her like that,” he demanded, ever protective over the Princess since she was an infant.
“I'm not--” Jon flushed as he addressed the man. “I'm not staring at her. I'm memorizing her.”
“You don't need to memorize her when she's sitting right in front of you.”
Daenerys swallowed, squeezing her legs a bit tighter together. She rather liked the idea of being memorized.
“There's a process, alright?” Jon insisted, a bit defensive. “I can't just start painting. I have to figure out her proportions in my head and translate them onto the canvas. If I don't get the proportions right, she's not going to look right in the portrait. I don't know how big her head is or how wide her shoulders are, but if I look at her long enough, I can memorize how large her head is in relation to how wide her shoulders are, and then I can paint them on the canvas without her looking like a lopsided pinhead.”
“I'd rather not look like a lopsided pinhead,” Daenerys said to Ser Barristan, giving her approval of Jon's methods.
Through a stony glare, Ser Barristan told Jon to “Memorize quickly.”
Just for that, Jon made sure to take his time. It was nearly an hour before he ever picked up a brush, too busy taking in every little crease in Daenerys's lips, every dark eyelash that framed her eyes, every silver hair that hung down past her shoulders, every small shadow the sunlight cast on the flesh of her neck and chest. He watched the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell beneath blue silk with her every breath, the curve of her small waist where the silk was cinched tight, the silver ring around her pale finger, and how those fingers toyed restlessly with one another in her lap. Jon studied her until he could shut his eyes and still see her as perfectly as if she lived behind his eyelids, until he could swipe a paintbrush across the canvas and be able to feel his fingers on her skin, until he was able to capture a little piece of her and feel it under his own skin, in his soul, until he loved every piece of her the way he loved the sun in the sky, the water in the sea, and the blades of grass that covered the Northern foothills.
But this was never part of his process. Jon had never had to love someone to paint them. Jon had never painted someone he loved before.
No, not love, Jon decided. Lust. His eyes moved from the lines upon the canvas to Daenerys's throat, watching it tense with a swallow. Did she want him too?
Evening came too quickly. Jon cursed the sun for not staying put. Daenerys left for supper, and Jon packed up his things as Ser Barristan judged his progress.
“Doesn't look like much,” the old man stated.
“Like I said, it's a process,” replied Jon shortly before departing, hurrying back to his chamber to deal with the pressure cresting in his chest and trousers.
Alone in his dank room, he lit a bundle of candle sticks, drew the curtains, kicked off his boots, and rested back on his bed. He shut his eyes and saw her sitting there on that velvet sofa. He unlaced his trousers and dug his hand beneath the fabric, gripping his swelling cock. He tried to imagine all the details of Daenerys's body that her silk dress disguised from him. Jon allowed his imagination to run free, and in the minutes it took to finish himself off, it was almost as if Daenerys Targaryen was his.