7 A Dothraki Wedding

A Dothraki wedding was certainly a sight to behold. While Jon had figured that the parties and feasts thrown in the great hall of Winterfell were rowdy, ale and meat passed around as dozens of boisterous northerners celebrated, they were downright meek compared to the kind of celebration thrown by the plains horde. Whole animals were roasted on spits, warriors mounted women in the plain view of everyone else, and dozens of fights broke out. He - and his father both - were disgusted as one rider disemboweled another at the foot of the Khal's platform over a female dancer decked out in garish blue paint. Overhearing Illyrio, apparently a Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths was a tame affair.

Glancing up at the dais, Jon felt his heart clench for the woman he loved. Standing next to the Khal was Daenerys, apprehension and misery written all over her face. He wanted to go to her. Wanted to grab her and stow her away on the ship to White Harbor - but one look at his father and reality proved to Jon that this was impossible.

Jon was surprised to see a Westerosi face next approach Dany. His father leaned forward, eyes boring deeply on the man in a determined stare. "Your Grace," he bowed. "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island." The northerner's eyes widened. "Histories of Westeros, your Grace, a humble offering."

"Your offering is much appreciated, Ser Jorah," Dany responded, smiling kindly on the weathered knight.

"Father, this is the man you condemned to death," Jon hissed, only to be silenced with a hard look. He knew that look, his father had planned something.

Jorah bowed deeper, bending the knee. "Your grace, as someone that has knowledge of the Dothraki and their ways, I humbly pledge my services to you in any capacity that you see fit." He rose and walked to the side, taking a seat near the edge of the main party - sharing a quick look with Ned, who nodded.

Lord Stark soon rose, approaching the newly married couple to offer his congratulations and a small gift. As protocol dictated, the bastard son of the lord was relegated to after the Lord himself - had this been at Winterfell, Jon knew that even four year old Rickon would outrank him in matters such as these. Sharing a glance with Ned, who sent him a calming nod and smile, Jon held his gift horizontally upon outstretched arms. He caught the inquisitive look from the rather intimidating Khal Drogo. Out of the corner of his eye, Viserys scoffed at his presence.

"Presenting, Jon Snow, the bastard son of Lord Ned Stark," Illyrio announced, adding the phrase in Dothraki for the other guests.

Locking eyes with Dany, Jon could see the slight hitch of her breath and flush on her cheeks. Most would likely think it was the sun. Jon smirked. He knew better.

The two lovers moved in tandem, one meeting the thrusts of the other. Tongues danced, hands roamed, and skin pressed against skin as neither even dared to allow any form of separation. Their mouths had joined at the beginning and never once broke. Only for a quick gulp of needed air would they part, lips crashing back into nirvana right after. They needed this. Needed it more than to quench their thirst or abate their hunger. Needed the closeness.

"Oh, Jon," Dany moaned into her lover's mouth as he shifted angle, hitting into a spot that made her see dragonfire. In the last few days since they abandoned modesty and lost themselves in each other, her wolf had grown from a cautious virgin into quite the skilled man. "Ah! Please." She bit his lower lip, not complaining.

Grunting, the northerner's hair spilled over his eyes as he continued to thrust inside his dragon. "So tight, Dany." Her walls tightened around him like a vice, sucking him deeper. It felt angelic, the greatest pleasure of his life. "Fuck yes, so amazing."

"Yes. Fuck me hard, Jon!" Detaching her kiss swollen lips from his, Daenery surged forward and latched onto his neck, sucking hard. "Remember this, Jon Snow," she hissed. "Remember our love. Remember me." She would remember him - till her dying day Daenerys Targaryen would remember her wolf.

Jon kissed her. "I will. Always, my love," he groaned as both of them tumbled into bliss...

Dany closed her eyes, core heating at the sensuous memory. 'Was it only early this morning?' Noticing he was getting close, she wished she could take him now - that he was her groom instead. But that wasn't going to happen, the look in his eyes told her he knew as well. His face morphing into an impassive one of respect, he bent the knee. "My lady, I present to you a humble gift to honor your marriage."

A biting laugh rang out. "What could a bastard offer a Princess," mocked Viserys. Dany glanced at him apologetically, while Jon ignored the insult. His attention was focused on the silver-haired goddess, wishing that it was he marrying her than the stony-faced Khal.

Drogo grumbled something in the guttural Dothraki language. "He says for you to present the present, for you are taking too much time." The main guests all found humor in that, Jon noticing his father's distinctive chuckle. Even Dany smiled at it.

He accepted it with a sheepish smile. "My apologies, honored Khal, Khaleesi." The way he said it made Dany shudder internally, knowing it was his bedroom voice. Without delay, the small cloth covering the gift was removed and she let out a gasp at the gleaming metal.

"A sword?" Viserys scoffed, as if both amused and insulted. Dany stared in wonder. Holding it, Jon sliced it slowly and fluidly through the air, showing off its capabilities. The steel was smooth, pressed thin and flat in a gleaming curve just under one arm length long. The curve was shallow, unlike the Dornish scimitar or Dothraki sickle, connected to a simple cylindrical hilt of fine sharkskin.

Jon presented it to her, kneeling once again. "It is a katana, Khaleesi, favored by the peoples beyond the Red Waste." He reached out, guiding Dany's hand along the smooth blade - sparks shot out from where they touched, Jon noticing her struggling to remain composed. Their eyes locked, love relayed through to the other. "Valyrian steel, imported to the Eastlands from Old Valyria itself." The merchant that he purchased it from had no idea, only knowing it had come from the east by way of Qarth - the only city that had trade ties with the Eastlands.

Fluid, easy for her to handle, Daenerys was on the verge of tears. Her wolf knew how much their sessions meant to her, and purchased a weapon he personally selected that was perfect for her to handle. She wanted to kiss those wonderful lips of his, Jon staring at her in a similar manner. The sexual tension between them could have been cut with a knife.

Luckily, a humorous bark from her husband saved them both. All around the Dothraki howled in laughter, pumping their weapons in the air. At a questioning look from Viserys, Illyrio translated, laughing himself. "The Khal has stated that such a weak sword is perfect for the weak female touch." Jon pursed his lips - Dany was far from week, joining Arya and Lady Stark as some of the strongest women he'd ever known. No part of him sought conflict with Drogo, however, so he merely bowed and headed back to his seat next to Ned.

Both he and Daenerys missed how proximate they had been to each other.

"And now for the final gift," said Illyrio with a sweeping gesture. Two burly servants ambled forward. In their hands was carried a large chest, which let out a resounding clunk upon being set on the dusty ground. "For the bride, blood of the dragon, I have found the perfect token of my well wishes and honor."

Straining to see what it was, Jon saw Dany's eyes widen after Illyrio swung the chest open. "Gods," his father whispered next to him, slight shock written on his face.

"Father?"

"I thought there were none left," came the cryptic reply. What Illyrio said next would shed light for Jon, but it seemed as if Eddard Stark wasn't telling all he knew.

"Dragon eggs, Khaleesi. From the mountains beyond Assai. Though the centuries have ossified them into stone, their beauty shines to anyone that beholds them." He watched with a grin as Dany stood, running her hands over the scales. "Keep this as a reminder of your heritage, as a daughter of Old Valyria."

Tips of the scales pricking at her fingers, Dany's eyes glazed over. She sensed a… heat coming from the eggs. Faint, but there. Thanking Illyrio for the gift, her gaze shifted to Jon. No words had to be said.

I love you.

I love you too.

Our hearts will always be connected.

One day, I hope we can be together.

I will pray for that, my love.

"That's it Joffrey, swing left," came the guttural growl of King Robert of House Baratheon. His meaty paws clutched a chicken drumstick, enjoying his considerable lunch outside on the sunny Riverlands day. "Catch him off balance!"

The golden-haired prince slashed with the wooden trainer, chafing at his mother's insistence on the generally harmless weapon over his brand-new sword gifted to him by his uncle Renly on his last name day. His personal guard and instructor, Ser Sandor "The Hound" Clegane, was skilled enough to dumb down his swordsmanship for the boy - but there was no getting past Queen Cersei and her overprotective devotion. It drove King Robert to distraction, and irritated Joffrey in this instance.

"Careful!" the aforementioned queen, locks as golden as her beloved son, shouted as the Hound skillfully parried the sloppy blow his ward sent at him. "Careful with my sweetling."

A belch resounded from the King's stomach. "Seven Hells, woman. The boy needs to man up! Do as you were taught, lad. I'll make a Baratheon out of you yet." His house was populated with powerful warriors, both him and his two brothers some of the most skilled in the Seven Kingdoms. "Slice his arm off! Defend your house and your honor!"

After yet another parry was dispatched, Joffrey snarled and charged at the Hound. Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, the burn-scarred knight sidestepped his Prince, watching him trip over his feet and stumble to the ground. Elbow outstretched, it slammed against a stone resting in the grass.

Pain shot through Joffrey's arm, a sharp stab that had him curled into a ball and clutching the wounded arm. "Ahhhh!" Heads turned across the entire encampment, their Prince's cries not an uncommon sound for them.

Cersei was out of her seat almost immediately, skirts fluttering as she rushed toward her fallen boy. "Joffrey! My sweetling." Kneeling, she cared not that the dirt soiled the expensive silk. "Call a maester! The Prince is injured!"

Belly jostling, the King lurched from his bench and made his way to the two of them. "Let me 'ave a looks see." Once trim and powerful, the man that defeated the great Rhaegar Targaryen with his mighty warhammer, the now King waddled across the ground with the grace of a southern penguin - or rather the lack of it. It was a sorry sight. Roughly yanking his son and heir off the ground, blue eyes narrowed as they inspected Joffrey's injury. "Gods! What in the name of the Warrior is this?" Robert's mouth contorted in disgust and embarrassment. "You call this an injury?"

Smacking the affected elbow, Joffrey cried in pain from the sting. His father wasn't known for his consideration or empathy. "Father, please. It hurts!"

"'Father, please. It hurts,'" the King mocked in a falsetto. "Stop whining like a woman. Get back to your tent, compose yourself like a man, and get back here and do it again! No food until you do!" Shaking his head in annoyance, his glare rested on his Queen and wife - though the last time they shared a bed escaped his memory. "And don't even think about disobeying my command, lionspawn. That boy takes too much after you for his own good!" Grumbling, he plopped down and resumed his lunch, too apathetic to notice the death glare Cersei sent his way.

Expensive crocodile skin boots squelching through the mud, Joffrey fought back tears as he hurried to his tent. The Hound followed right behind, ever the loyal guard. "Your grace, I didn't intend to let you…"

"Stuff it, Hound, if you know what's good for you!" snarled the Prince, flinging the curtains back to the yellow-black tent. Rolling his eyes once more, Sandor muttered exactly what he thought of his ward before heading to grab some stew.

Breathing hard, Joffrey stared at what possessions he had. The sharp blade rested on the table, hilt encrusted with gold and steel polished enough to gleam. "Fucking Northerners! Fucking Hound!" Unsheathing the sword in a blind rage, Joffrey swung it down at the table, slicing it in two. "Fucking father!" Angered screams echoed through the tent, the blonde-haired boy venting his frustration out on the furniture.

"I'll show them!" A mirror found itself shattering, Joffrey disgusted with the weak boy staring back at him. "I will be the strongest, most powerful King in history!" His enemies would rot, his father choking on his words. "He will see! They will all see!"

A gentle wind wafted across Dany's face, blowing her hair behind her in a lustrous sheen. It was said that such coloring made Targaryen women the most beautiful in all the world. Jon certainly thought so, given how he looked at her - those grey eyes near black with desire. A contented smile passed over her face for but a moment, thinking of the handsome face of her wolf.

The heavy breathing behind her dispelled those thoughts to the back of her mind. Khal Drogo - her husband - on the other hand was an enigma. In matters of battle and strength his opinions were worn on his muscular sleeve, chuckling and rolling his eyes at the various antics of his blood riders. Silently cheering on the fight that saw one of them die. In matters of love, of affection, his brown eyes gave away nothing. His lips remained flat in an expressionless scowl. Daenerys knew not how he felt for her. Whether her beauty bewitched or even excited him, or whether he would rather avail himself to the swarthy Dothraki women that likely warmed his bed before. She gulped, choosing not to think about it.

Gazing at the rocky shore, Dany found no others but herself and Drogo. A good distance away rested both their horses, her husband's powerful Volantian stallion's brown coat contrasting with the snow white of her Dornish mare. Ser Jorah's words came to mind: "The Dothraki believe everything of importance must be done under the open sky." And her she was. A married woman ready to consummate her marriage outside.

A rough hand brushed against her shoulder, toying with the strap of her gown. Unlike Jon's touch, she had to force herself not to shudder. Unlike with her brother's, Dany succeeded. "Do you know the common tongue?" she asked, hoping for an affirmative. Her Dothraki was very limited.

"No," came the grunted reply.

'A dragon does not cry.' "Is no the only word that you know?"

Drogo untied a bow holding the back of her dress together, moving to two gold bangles in the front. "No."

Eyes drifting to the vast expanse of ocean, Dany gazed intently for the speck of wood and sail - the speck that her love was on. 'Jon.' She missed him, missed his touch and his voice. 'My wolf, my love.'

But he was gone. Likely she would never see him again.

'A dragon does not cry.' Yet tears trickled down her cheeks all the same.

With a flick of his meaty hand, Drogo let the wedding gown slide down her body. Self-conscious - wishing only Jon could have the privilege of seeing her breasts, of lavishing them with the attention that made her melt from pleasure - Dany nevertheless didn't cover up. She let her new husband cup one of the mounds roughly. It was her duty now, and by the gods she was not going to let herself be hurt.

Sensing Drogo kneel behind her, Dany turned around roughly. "No." A flash of anger crossed his eyes before she rested a soothing palm on his chest. "Please. I would like to look upon you as we make love." Dothraki halting and heavily accented, Daenerys saw that he understood her all the same. For the longest time, she waited in silence as Drogo pondered her request. Every second that passed she waited for him to shove her onto her hands and knees and fuck her brutally - nowhere near the hard yet loving passion Jon used.

Doreah's words proved true, however. Nodding almost imperceptibly, Drogo acceded to his bride, likely the first time he had ever let a girl take the lead. 'Men want what they never had.' Mounting him, giving the Khal her best look of lust and passion, as she lowered herself onto him Dany nevertheless only thought of Jon.

"Jon." The young man glanced back at his father, who viewed him with kind eyes. "Are you coming below? It will be a long voyage, and you'll need your rest for the ride back to Winterfell."

Smiling wanly at his father, Jon shook his head. "I'll be there in a moment, father. Allow me a little more time in the fresh air." The cooling mist took that time to hit his skin, banishing the heat that clung to him thanks to the scorching equatorial sun.

Ned nodded, turning to head down the stairs of the sternpalace. A sense of foreboding, of destiny coursed through him, body shuddering slightly. 'He pines for her. Misses her. Loves her.' Nothing of this magnitude escaped him. It felt as if the last seventeen years of his life had led to this moment, put into place as part one of a song that was yet to be completed.

"Lyanna," he whispered to the sparkling ocean, to the orange-pink skies above. "I pray that I have done right by you today." For his role, at least for the portion left behind, was complete. It was up to the gods now.

Staring at the shrinking landmass to his south, the red-orange orb of the sun setting on the right, Jon thought of his beloved. The woman he loved with all his heart. Alone, fulfilling a destiny that did not include him. Never to see him again, or he her. It took all his strength, all the honor of a Wolf of Winterfell, to not break down and allow the pain to fully crush his heart.

"Daenerys… Dany…" Closing his eyes, a single tear fell into the waves below.