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Part 22
The sound of waves crashing against the rocks of Dragonstone couldn’t drown out the tense silence hanging between them. Bruce stood with his lips pressed together, looking down at Jon Snow—even though physically, he was now shorter. His gaze was cold, almost piercing, as if he were trying to read straight through this Northerner. In the wind, the folds of his dark dress flapped like the wings of a predator ready to strike, and his intricately braided hair glinted silver in the morning light.
He couldn’t forget how, so long ago, just after finding himself in this body, he was ready to tear apart anyone who dared suggest he play pretend in front of this brooding pretty boy and live “according to the script” for Daenerys. And now here he was. In Daenerys’s body. Center stage. Wearing the costume and that damn dragon brooch on his chest that seemed determined to remind him with every step who he was now. Or rather, who they were forcing him to be. Though even he wasn’t sure anymore, after walking this long road through her life, who he really was. It had been a colossal experience.
Jon stood before him, reserved, calm, and that icy gaze of his seemed to cut through armor. He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t falter. Not even when Bruce—fully aware that this Jon was supposed to be Daenerys’s lover in the future—first met this “King in the North” and did everything in his newly acquired sense of etiquette to humiliate this upstart. But Jon had seemed to take it as a compliment instead. There was something defiant in that—and Bruce felt it in his skin. As if Jon embodied the very masculinity Bruce once dreamed of having, back in that old world, now so distant. The silence dragged on until Jon finally spoke first.
– I didn’t come to bend the knee, – Jon said firmly at last. – I came for help. For something that could save all of us.
Bruce smirked. He took a step forward, leaning on the railing, the wind whipping at his hair, and again he felt it brushing his neck—this new discomfort, the irritating rustle of hair that never seemed to go away. His breasts were pressing under the dress, and every movement reminded him of the weakness of this body, which he had endured and truly experienced during his time as Daenerys. But it had taught him to feel a different kind of strength—inner strength and, most importantly, vengeance. Vengeance against this world, for everything he had lived through here.
– You didn’t even call me queen, – Bruce drawled, looking at Jon with that half-smile that could fool anyone—but not this stubborn Northerner. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried more than just offense—it held a burning, slow-building rage, the stitched-together wrath of someone who had been through too much to suffer any more.
Jon, standing across from him, didn’t look away. He stood as still as the rock behind him, the sea raging at his back, but in his eyes—only patience and stubbornness.
– Because I don’t kneel to those I don’t know, – he replied calmly. – And not to those who greet me with contempt.
Bruce felt the irritation flare up again inside him. He wanted to turn and walk away, but he didn’t. He had come too far, through fire, humiliation, screams, and chains, to just back down before this bearded snow idol. He stared into Jon like into a mirror—only a distorted one. There was no fear in him. No urge to please, no weakness. He was whole.
– And how else am I supposed to treat such a sweet little pretty face? – he snapped, stepping closer, and despite the height difference, he looked at him as if from above. – I went through hell to stand here. I command an army. I survived the Dothraki, dragons, slavers, and a bunch of those fucking nerds whose bodies now hang from poles for daring to cross me. I endured, even when my sun and stars...
Bruce grimaced, stopping abruptly after his last words, memories rushing in—everything he’d gone through with the Khal, from that very first night to the failed pregnancy. It all felt like it hadn’t happened to him, and yet, like it had. But one thing was certain—the feelings were still too vivid, even if he refused to admit it, saying it was all just a damn script. But the desire, the rage, the thirst for revenge—they had all started back then.
Jon’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t respond. The wind picked up, whipping Bruce’s hair into his face. Irritated, Bruce yanked a strand aside, again feeling the shiver on the skin of his neck at the touch. ‘Fucking body. Fucking wind. Fucking Jon Snow and this whole damn world.’
The silence between them thickened, almost becoming tangible. Bruce felt the tension squeezing his breasts—not metaphorically, but literally. The dress chafed with every movement, his tits suddenly felt more pronounced again, as if he hadn’t lived in this body for so long. Now they seemed out of place, especially here, standing in front of that fucking Jon Snow, who clearly had no intention of yielding, bending, or playing by anyone’s rules. That’s exactly what pissed him off.
– I’m not here for power, – Jon said at last, his voice even, though it carried a weariness. – I don’t want the throne. I don’t want your lands. Just help. The Night King is coming. And if we don’t unite, everything will die. You, me, the whole world.
– Oh, screw all these goddamn speeches! – Bruce snapped at last, and that female tone in Daenerys’s voice, standing before him like some arrogant queen, made Jon flinch and widen his eyes in shock—especially when she placed a hand on his shoulder like an old war vet who’d survived Robert’s Rebellion, and added, – So listen up, Snowflake. Here's how it's gonna go.
Jon swallowed. Words caught somewhere in his dry throat as he tried to respond. Too much wasn’t adding up in his mind: her face, her voice, the lips with a faint gloss, the long lashes. And all of it wearing that expression and with that tone that felt like it wasn’t Daenerys anymore.
– I know who you are in the canon. The great hero, the chosen one, Targaryen blood and all that crap. But listen closely—I don’t give a fuck about the canon. I’ve burned the canon alive. You want me to help you? – He jabbed a finger into Jon’s chest. – And why the hell should I? Because you’re moody, good-looking, and talk slow like some pompous fucking prince?
He tilted his head slightly, eyeing Jon with clear disdain.
– And what the hell did Daenerys even see in such a sugary boy after everything she went through? Maybe just a toy like the rest of my lovers, – Bruce said with a bitter smirk, remembering the way he messed around with Daario later, whose body was basically just a tool, not a lover, and how pathetically naïve Jorah looked, burning with feelings that were never going to be returned. It was all still humiliating for Bruce, but that was the reality. And it was pointless to deny the pleasure he got from those encounters, starting with Drogo. Yeah… Khal… was just the first link in this chain of “great love” that led first to humiliation, then to pain and loss. ‘Lovely little list. All the same: they see you as a sex object. And the second you start commanding—they either turn into scared little servants or enemies,’ Bruce pressed his lips together.
He looked at Jon again, no longer as a hero, but as just another player who hadn’t yet realized the chessboard had long been flipped.
– But you... you’re different, huh? Not like the others? – Bruce leaned in closer, looking him dead in the eyes. – Then listen up. I don’t give a fuck what you think. I’ve lived through this whole damn script, and if you want me in—first you prove you’re a real man. Either you kneel, or you show me you’ve got balls.
Jon stayed silent. His face remained calm, but inside, a storm raged—he hadn’t expected this. Not this kind of meeting, not this kind of challenge. And definitely not this kind of Daenerys. Or… whoever the hell was standing in front of him.