THE DRAGON QUEEN [ Jon Snow ]

XII.

When he did, and finally looked upon her in the bright torchlight of his chambers rather than the dark hallway, his brows knitted together in concern. He saw the dried tear tracks and the red rims around her eyes and took her face into his hands. "Something has happened."

"No," she denied, shaking her head, "nothing."

"You may lie to me if you wish, My Queen," he replied, caressing her cheek with his thumb, "but know that I see through it."

"I did not come here to talk, Oberyn." Her voice was stern, teetering on the line bordering cold.

"I will not take advantage of you in your time of distress."

Sweet, lovely Oberyn. "It is I who intend to take advantage of you," she told him, "if you'll allow me." When he did not respond, she added, "I only wish to forget, for a while. Grant me that."

Finally, "I will," he said, "but if you wish to stop at any moment, you have only to say the word."

He really is very handsome, she thought, and kissed him.

IT DID NOT FILL THE VOID. But for a short while, she forgot. Forgot Jon and the ache inside of her and how unbearably empty she felt. But after, once it was done and they had both had their pleasure, once his hands leave her body and his body leaves the bed, it returned. The dull ache in the emptiness.

Oberyn fetches her a cup of wine, and as he stood there, body free of any clothing, she watched him, and considered that perhaps this was all there was. A handsome, kind man to care for her and fill the emptiness for a few short moments. Perhaps this was all she was allowed to have. Perhaps there was no true happiness for a queen.

It was always foolish of her to secretly wish for Jon, for a life she would never have. This, Oberyn, was just fine. He could never be her husband, of course, for that was simply not his way. He was ever moving, ever changing, always taking new lovers and going on new adventures. But perhaps her eventual marriage to whatever husband she would be forced to take would not be so awful if she knew she had him.

He was not her Jon, and it was not the life she dreamed of, but it was enough, if her happiness, her life, was to be bound to the void in her chest forever.

Oberyn handed her a cup of wine full nearly to the brim, and slipped back into bed with his own cup of wine. He looked even more beautiful now, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, if such a thing was possible for a man so often the epitome of perfection and grace as he. "Are you going to tell me what happened now, or are we going to sit here and drink and act as if nothing happened?" He asked.

"The latter is tempting," she admitted, "though I know I owe you an explanation." She took a long sip of her wine before telling him, "Jon, my Jon, is. . . dead."

His eyes widened in sudden understanding. "How do you know? Was there a raven?"

"No." But how to begin to explain something like this? How does one explain such a deep, strange connection? "I felt it. I felt him die, felt him take his last breath. I do not know how, but it was agony. Like dying myself, but worse, because I am still here, burdened with the knowledge that he is not and there is this gaping hole inside of me and I do not know how to fill it."

At some point during her rambling, she began to cry. Oberyn swiftly reached up with his thumb to wipe her tears away, his eyes soft. "You will not fill it with me, My Queen. Though this was lovely, it cannot be used as a replacement for love."

"Then what can?"

"Nothing, I am afraid." He brushed her hair behind her ear and rested his palm on her cheek. "I am deeply sorry for this loss, My Queen."

She turned her head to press a kiss to his palm, then to the heel of his hand. "Thank you, Oberyn. You have been of more help than you can ever know."

"It is my pleasure and my honour." He meant it, she knew, and he was so lovely for it. Spending so much of his time with her, trying to put together her broken pieces, and in all of it, feeling honoured to do it.

He removed his hand from her cheek and used it to take hers, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "My Queen."

"Seven hells," she muttered, breathily, "after all this, surely you can just call me Visenya."

A flash of a smile, and he kissed her knuckles again. "Visenya." Another peck, and another, and then one sweet, lingering kiss for her lips. "I hope that your heart mends in time, Visenya," he murmured, his breath mingling with hers, "one so lovely as you does not deserve to remain heartbroken forever."

"If only hope was enough," she replied, and pulled back. "I should go. The sun will soon rise, and there is work to be done."

"Indeed." He watched as she climbed out of the bed and searched for where her nightgown had been thrown. She found it on the floor next to the bed and still, even when she had slipped it on and was straightening her hair, his eyes followed her.

She made for the door and that was when he followed, not bothering to dress, entirely shameless. Not that she would ever protest. He met her there at the door and pressed her against it for one last, final kiss. This time, as with the first, she shut her eyes and imagined it was Jon.

If he noticed the disappointment in her eyes when they opened and looked upon him again, he mentioned nothing of it. Instead he wore his usual smile, the one always bordering on a smirk, and inclined his head to her. "Goodnight, Visenya."

"Goodnight, Oberyn," she replied, and slipped through the door.