From Ice to Fire(Daenerys Tg)

Jon was tired, his old wounds preserved in the cold, guilt making an old man of him north of the wall after the long night and the burning of King’s Landing. He had seen horrors, but more than the innocents he couldn’t save, it was the death on his own hands that weighed the heaviest. His penance back atop the wall and resettling the wildlings was supposed to wash away Dany’s blood, but it seemed to have only seeped deeper. Now he was alone once more with his thoughts, not a single day for weeks where the wall had weeped and with the snows piling higher he had taken what few wildlife he and Ghost could sniff out and looked for shelter.

If he had another option, nothing could have compelled him to go back into the caves once he found them, the entrance half clogged with snow but there were no villages, no outposts near enough that he could travel easily to. His horse had been the first casualty of their deep trek to search for more land to settle. Jon had expected to die out on his trek, the thought of which had been oddly comforting, but his destrier was true and loyal and had whisked him across the icy plains far back enough where he could recognize the woods. For a second he stood at the cave’s mouth, wondering if he should try for one of the Magnarr’s villages, but a gust glew from within the cave, filled with warmth and a familiar scent. Sighing he signalled Ghost to hunt on his own as he made his way inside.

The phantoms of his past were waiting, it would be his luck to stumble on the cave Ygritte and the climbing squad had taken him on their way to destroy the night’s watch. But that was a different time, he was a different person. How bizarre to think both his lovers ended in a similar way, though at least with Ygritte there was some comfort in not knowing whose arrow had struck her down. With Daenerys, his betrayal played in his dreams every night, and that darkness in his heart only blossomed in the pitch black of the tunnel, his only guide the heat of a hidden hot spring he had spent a passionate night in with Ygritte. Even now he could remember her stories of how it was meant for lovers, where the ghosts of lovers past could intermingle with the living in the total darkness. He didn’t know if he would ever find his way out again or if he even wanted to, he just dove further in until the ground sloped downwards, his boots splashing against the dark water.

He tore off his ranging uniform, amazed to be sweating in winter and sighing as his naked body fell deeper into the hot water, reminding him of more bittersweet days in Winterfell’s own hot springs, but for once he cleared his mind and let the water lap over him, stinging in his battle scars as he dozed into a restful peace, blind to everything in the dark as his mind wandered. He was almost one with the water and it would be so easy to just fall under the depths and let it take him. He had died once before, what could stop him fro-

“*Do you think I’d forgive you if you killed yourself? Wouldn’t your honor as a Stark demand something more worthy than just your pitiful life?*”
For a few seconds he flailed about, shocked to have heard any voice, yet the tone and cadence were impossible to mistake.
“DANY?! WHERE ARE YOU!” His voice echoed uselessly in the chamber, calming him down some as he berated himself for being such a fool. While some of the wildling stories were true, that one had clearly been the work of one’s mind turning against itself and as long as he didn’t doze off again he’d be fine. That was of course when the voice responded.

“*I asked if you seek redemption Jon Snow. For my murder, for your betrayal.” The voice remained calm as it began to strike at Jon, torturing his mind as he tried to shut out the accusations, moving onto arguing with them, but he was tired and the soothing nature of the hot water leeched at his resistance as his guilt overtook all. He was likely just arguing with himself in a daze, so Jon decided to stop fighting, finally giving in hoping that accepting this breakdown would at least shut the voice up.
“I’ll do anything, anything! I pledged my body and soul to you and broke that vow, I just want to end my broken rrgh~?”

Halfway through his response a chill broke through the chatter, the uncomfortable sensation not unlike that of a warg entering an unwilling creature, but this was more thorough, almost like the cold itself was caressing him, spinning amongst his insides and twisting parts of what made him him. It was also surprisingly tender, leaving Jon moaning as his cock stiffened. This felt like more than just a mental break, something was happening to him.

He wondered if this was what a glove would feel if it had sensation, a hand stuffing itself inside and forcing it to change shape to fit. Nothing was visible in the dark, but his trained ears could pick up a series of unsettling pops and cracks and gods could he feel every shift going on. All the heat of the underground springs couldn’t compete, Jon shivering as he gripped himself, moaning as his hands felt his arms prickle and shrink. The flesh was bumpy and rough at first, each hair a tiny icicle that snapped off, the bones and gristle vibrating under his grip as they became slender, the bumps lowering to a uniform level as soft and smooth as moleskin. Next to go were his fingers, that glove image turning literal as his fingers jerked and popped, his callouses peeling away as his nails noticeably lengthened, digging into the soft, fleshy bits of his arms. His palms were being drawn into themselves, their grip melting away as the unmistakable touch of a woman greeted him from his own body. But it wasn’t just some random woman either, the nails, the smoothness, a cool shiver replacing the abundant heat that had pulsed in her veins when he had stroked her skin. It was-

“Jon…” Dany’s voice whispered, the prickles of cold masking his shifting scalp, the cold leeching the very color from his messy black locks, as if his Stark heritage was being driven out. The hair didn’t just whiten, the core of each strand was glowing, shedding the blackness that hampered its light and starting to pierce the darkness around him. It spread chaotically, his unkempt hair spiraling out into long tresses, order arising from the chaos as locks began to twine, spirals arising from the front as the back was tied in a complex weave of elegance, as tight and refined as any of Sansa’s stitchwork. In the glow he could finally see the changes, his suspicions confirmed as he watched his shoulders shudder and shrink, rounding to graceful dips that forced his collarbone lower. For a brief second he felt fear, resistance to this otherworldly magic, but then the cold stabbed into his mind, freezing away the parts that were trying to fight back leaving a numbing calmness. This was what he wanted wasn’t it? To give in, to atone for his dishonor to the woman he loved? He could feel her spirit growing, pleasure tipping the balance as his face stretched. He could feel her lips slotting into place, giving his own one final ghostly kiss before they swelled his chapped, scrawny ones, turning blue from the cold as a rising purr left his throat, a shock of cold bursting in his balls.

“Nngh yes yes… ohhh Dany please…” He had expected her to be vengeful, but the tenderness of her spirit was irresistible, comforting in the way the cold was as you slipped away into oblivion, almost feeling like the warmest bed as you nestled into it’s dark embrace. His balls were facing that fate, his seed dribbling out lazily in a growing haze of ecstasy, his moans rising as his Adam’s Apple froze before crunching away into an ice flurry, the pit of his stomach throbbing as he felt some foreign space spreading his insides to make room, an aching hollow filled with need. He waded forward until his manhood was fully revealed, the dense crop of pubic hair freezing and shattering like the rest as his smooth crotch shrank, some part of him needing to see its transformation, Dany’s voice echoing in the cave’s sunken walls until it sounded like an army of her were watching, enjoying it with him and basking in the glory of his usherance into womanhood.

“Life can only be paid with life. Are you ready for your seeds to grow into my forest?” Meekly nodding, unable to speak properly under the assault on his cock, cum shot out at his approval, his eyes widening to angled sapphires. The Starks had never been the richest house, and his family jewels were reflecting that, his messy releases running as clear as the waters of Tarth, his scrotum wrinkling and pressing harder into him, both testicles noticeably worming their way against the dense crop of muscle between his legs, his moans escalating to full blown shrieks as they tore their way inside. One hand cupped the bottom of his navel, chilly ecstasy blowing through him like the northerly winds, his hips visibly shifting as they popped outwards. His cock was caught in a pincer, Dany’s spirit filling out his briefly bony bottom, a sultry moan stretching into infinity as fat swelled everywhere, his ass, hips, thighs all expanding in a harmony of perfection, a clear stream of release ushered out of his cock with every wonderful curve that formed.

His bottom demanded more, his waist cracking with a sound like rotten ice, sucking inwards halfway as Dany’s thighs smothered his cock. It was getting harder to tell where he began and she ended in his mind, icy gusts of Daenerys frosting over his thoughts, his memories, some queer mixture of both reigning supreme in their head, Braavos and WInterfell dancing together with Mereen and The Wall. Two sets of memories played out as their arousal brought thoughts of being taken and the one taking at once, their nipples hardened from the cold swelling with enough lust for two in their chilled blue color. Some woman had once told them they had known nothing, or perhaps it was their servants in the khalasar, intimate knowledge of man and woman, fire and ice driving them collectively wild as their hands pressed against their erect nipples, knowing just how to tease them to make their body sing a blissful song of pleasure.

Their shrunken waist finished its release of unneeded weight, like the wall on days when it was weeping, only instead of sloughing off it went up, turning their muscled pecs to a busty bosom, each one begging for contact as Jonerys eagerly complied. The firm fat dimpled wonderfully under their touch, two sets of experience doubling the precision and pleasure of the groping, Daenerys taking this time to invade more of Jon’s brain, the fire of his mind dwindling from a great bellow to a watch fire. One firm pinch sent their body reeling, the last of the clear fluids puffing out as their cock began to freeze. The glow of their hair led them out of the water, the heat only interfering with their final form. Where fire had been their strength in life, the cold was theirs in undeath, the freezing temperatures billowing against their calves and feet, cloaking their toes as the hardened flesh cracked under every step. Their blocky shapes sheared down to rounded backs and tapered bottoms. Calluses crunched like the top layer of fresh snow, crumbling away to reveal shapely soles, each toe popping out, their heels shaved to slender tips that gracefully carried them out naked to the heart of winter.

The cold was their mother, their origin, each blistering gust that blasted against them only strengthening their body, a particularly strong one roaring against their spine, knocking around the gaps as it popped inwards, a queer note ringing as the the gusts played against their newfound hollow. Surprisingly of all changes, this was the only one Jon seemed to protest, his voice ringing out one last time in her mind.

“My height, but I need every inch, you need it to command-”
“Nonsense Jon, command isn’t given just because someone is tall. I’m sure you’ll come to love it as much as I do down below.”
“But I’m… ohhhhh~...”

The cold was shrinking his cock, stuffing it into his body in a shiver of ecstasy and feeze. Jon’s fire sputtered under the cold barrage, shrinking to a mere spark, the awareness of his past still there, but it was Daenerys’s turn to run things now, HER age approaching Westeros once more. Her skin was tinged blue with cold, her flesh the same shade as fresh ice on a clear day, the front of her hair licked by the wind into icy peaks, each one hardening into a permanent crown. It was her coronation day, and what better way to celebrate her return than with one final fucking from the man she once loved.

“Goodbye Jon.” She took two fingers to the frozen rod between her legs, gasping as the base of it rolled against the hollow between her hips, teasing the hungry walls as her tip hardened to a large clitoris, swelling beneath her icy touch as she willed it to push in, to pleasure the queen. Of course like most aspects of ruling, reality didn’t bend to her whims as she wished, her hand having to crack the ice keeping it in place, rubbing up and down fast enough to melt the hardness, his cock slipping further inside, each inch of the shaft melting as it slipped inside only to harden, swelling inside her womb, filling her deeper and deeper. Her ecstatic wails were lost in the shrill keening of the wind, Jon’s cock servicing her well in its final moments, this penetration into her significantly more agreeable as the last warmth she’d feel slipped inside, her fingers bathing in the juices of her release as a short squelch sent her reeling in orgasmic ecstasy, the last time she had felt this alive when she had come out of the flames anew.

The body of the queen was finished, yet she wasn’t yet satisfied, something calling out from her, approaching from a ways off. The juices of her fresh orgasm covered her body, flung by the wind in a predetermined pattern, at first merely hinting at the contours of a flowing dress, her fingers leaving her snatch immaculately clean barring a few circular bands that hardened in the freezing climate. She was waiting, a part of her knowing what was coming, who was coming, and in her new form she could wait for as long as was needed.

Time passed, snow built up around her, connecting to the traces of moisture, condensing, weaving, stained by whatever dark force that had brought her back from death. It was somehow turning to cloth, black silk covering her nakedness slowly, first the left breast leaving her in some horrific cross between Meereenese and Westerosi garb before the rising snow gained enough volume to cover both breasts, straps solidifying its grip as the freshly formed fabric fluttered in the wind, ice shards stabbing into the folds, leaving the fringes chased with silver. The snow drifts themselves were slowly burying her, ice hardening around her feet, her body covered up to the ankles, then her knees, the burial by snow not phasing her in the slightest as she continued to wait. Some of Jon’s knowledge slipped through, of the heights a night of snowfall could reach up in the north, that she would be buried completely in two hours, that without a thaw she might be stuck there for years and never be found. None of it mattered to her, her only action happening as the drifts rose above her knees, her posture slumping into sitting position as snow pooled into her lap, soon rising up and up as her hands clenched at something solid forming below the ice. Eventually even her head was swallowed by the rising flurries, the world turning to a murky, starless night.

There was a large commotion, the wind stirring in the morning dawn, a great leathery tear in the silence repeating periodically, getting closer and closer to where she was buried. The ice around her shook with four successive landings, something massive cracking about the fresh snow, the roar of a great beast shattering the calm of the early morning.
“Dracarys.” Drogon heard her even under the feet of snow, gas leaking out before a spark ignited, the flames licking all around her as her dragon set her free, revealing a queen sitting in absolute comfort on her throne made of ice, a mock up of the actual iron throne.

As she was, she could raise an army of the dead, reclaim her throne in an undying body, embrace the darkness, but that pesky ember of Jon was still there, balancing out the madness that had overtaken her near the end. She would go back to ruling how she wanted to, with no more need to care for what her advisors said, her dragon enough to decide it all without much fuss. That’s right, she had a dragon, and hers was the song of fire, not ice.
“Dracarys.” Her screams were orgasmic as the fire bathed her again, flooding into her frozen veins, her blood flowing again, heart beating, her skin regaining its healthy glow. Her clothes melted away, the frozen remnants of her undeath gushing out down below, steaming against her throne as life once more filled her. The only sign of her previous state was in her eyes, still colored blue as a wight’s, but that mattered little to her. Once she regrouped her split up forces from the surrounding isles and came riding on her dragon, no one would be able to doubt her lineage.

“Drogon… lets begin.”