There is little to do during a long journey by land: hours of riding with nothing much around you but the road. One tree is much like another, and no party is strong enough to clash with a whole army moving down the road, so no party tries. He had spent the ride, the weeks of it, trying not to think of her; he had thought of little else. He had dreamed of her at night, dreams that he had cursed himself for at dawn.

He has missed every inch of her, every breath. He has wanted nothing more than to hold her and be held by her. None of it is anything he can have. And what sort of man wants to be comforted when he learns that he is higher born than anyone could imagine? What sort of man goes to the woman whose hopes have been dashed by it, whether or not she is his blood?

What sort of man is he?

The hunger in her kiss is met with his own, and he pulls her into his lap. A few moons ago, this would have ended with him in her, her riding him sweetly, her hands in his hair and her tongue in his mouth. He had thought that, if they survived, that was something they could have -- each other. Children, gods willing.

Had he been a fool? Had he? He feels more himself than he has the whole way down from Winterfell. This should not feel right. It is not right. It cannot be. And beyond that, there is his fear of her and his fear for her. But this all feels the same as it had when he was another man, a happier man. Jon Snow could love Daenerys Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen should not, but he does. He cannot do anything else.

He doesn't wrench away from her as he had the last time they kissed, but when the kiss breaks, he lowers his forehead to her shoulder.

"Dany." He turns his face into her neck and holds her. This might be the last time: it can be just a little longer. "I don't know rest."