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“How did you guys meet?”
The question caught Jon off-guard. He blinked, opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, and then turned to the woman seated next to him for help. Before he had a chance to process an answer, she wrapped her hands around his arm and chirped:
“Oh, we’ve been together for seven years!”
- and as Jon looked into her shimmering violet eyes, nothing about her face offering familiarity, he thought: More like seven fucking seconds.
As a single man at a wedding, Jon had been seated in the back of the marquee together with the other undesirables:
- The alcoholic, Tyrion Lannister, a supposed “friend of the bride” but seemingly better friend of the free bar. Jon watched him down three vodka shots before the ceremony. Now, he was sipping whiskey through a straw, apparently unbothered by the bartenders’ snarky remarks.
- The gossiper, Olenna Tyrell, friend of the groom - and of everyone willing to offer her dirt on others. When they were introduced, she was quick to map every connection they had in common and even quicker to ask Jon to add her to LinkedIn. “You never know when you might need a friend,” she said. He was sure she meant well. It still sounded like a threat.
- The self-proclaimed wedding singer, Daario Naharis, who seemed unable to speak of anything other than his one-man band, Daario and the Naharis. So far, Jon had only heard him play ‘The way you look tonight’ as Missandei and Grey walked the aisle. Since then, he’d been nursing a glass of organic wine and flirted with every bridesmaid.
- and then there was her.
Jon glanced from her violet eyes to the place card on her plate. Daenerys Targaryen. She was a small, pale thing in a black dress, her lips immaculately painted red, her eyes brimming with self-confidence. Perhaps it was her assertive aura which silenced Jon, perhaps the cheeky way in which her fingers squeezed his arm ever so gently as she continued her tale:
“Well we - I mean, Jon and I,” she started, and Jon noted her eyes slipped to his place card as she reminded herself of his name, “we met during sixth form. Jon was such a bad boy back then. All leather jackets and motorbikes and cigarettes. He’s sure tidied up, hasn’t he?”
Jon, knowing very well he spent his sixth form years riding a bicycle, nodded and said: “I sure have.” But in his mind, he was thinking, What the fuck is going on.
Olenna, who’d posed the question, smiled deeply. She rested her hands onto the table as she leaned closer to them. “It is such a shame to see a lovely young couple stuck here in the back with the rest of us oldies.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tyrion grimaced. He shook his bottle of whiskey, causing the straw to dance around in the neck. “I am perfectly capable of keeping up with the younger crowd.”
“I for one like it back here,” Daario interjected, “I tire of the limelight.”
“One-hit wonder,” Tyrion snapped, but Daario just sent him a brilliant smile as he spoke:
“Yes, thank you! My band was on the Official UK Top 40 for three weeks. Three weeks!”
“By your band, you just mean you, yeah?” Jon clarified. He fiddled with the tablecloth just to keep himself busy, but his attention was very much drawn to the warm feeling of Daenerys on his arm. She’d moved closer, seemingly not in a hurry to let go. He could smell her perfume. Blue winter roses, he thought, recognising the scent.
Daario nodded. “Of course, I wouldn’t have made it without my fans,” he said and winked at Daenerys. She returned his gesture with a perplexed look.
“So what made you change your attitude?” Olenna asked Jon, glancing into his eyes.
Jon felt hot under his collar. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet beneath the table, kicking at the cheap flooring that was coming apart at the seams. When he looked down, he could see patches of grass peeking up. “Well,” he said, knowing he had to continue the lie, but finding his imagination blank. “Well…”
“Well, Jon, don’t get embarrassed now,” Daenerys swooped in, “you can tell the truth - after you went off to the army-” (I was in the army too? Jon mused) “-I wrote you letters every day, and one day you wrote me back. Just a simple, sweet message. What was it again?” She glanced into his eyes, and Jon licked his lips.
“I wrote-” and he swiftly browsed every romantic movie he’d ever seen, trying to come up with a fitting message but, finding nothing, simply said: “It said, It was meant to be.” He shrugged at his own words, finding them simple, but Olenna sighed deeply.
“Young love,” she hummed, “young love.”
Jon glanced at Daenerys’ smirking face and thought, And young lies.
As the plates were cleared off the tables and dessert was being prepared, Daario sneaked outside for a smoke, Tyrion headed for the bar, and Olenna trudged toward the main table to check on her granddaughter, leaving just Jon and Daenerys.
Daenerys leaned back in her seat, the plastic chair groaning as she forced it to balance on just two legs, and she sent Jon an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Jon,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind. I was getting so bored.”
Jon blinked at her. “Not at all,” he said, “I’m just not very good with thinking on my feet.”
“I could tell. You get the chance to write a letter to your sweetheart after months of boot camp and all you say is ‘It was meant to be’?” She smirked, making Jon’s cheeks redden.
“Olenna seemed to appreciate the story,” Jon huffed and corrected his tie.
Daenerys shrugged. “I suppose that’s true.” She bit off a rough edge of her nail, eyeing Jon all the while. The polish was red and shiny.
Just like her lips, Jon thought.
“So, which one are you?” she asked after a pause.
“What do you mean, which one am I?”
“You’re stuck in the back. Guess you’re someone unsuitable for the front tables,” Daenerys said and glanced over her shoulder. Between them and the main table were at least fifty guests, all of them couples. “Some sort of token coworker? A known wedding crasher?”
“Just single,” Jon said, feeling dull the moment the words left his lips, but luckily Daenerys nodded readily.
“Same, just single,” she spoke and emptied her glass of champagne.
“Friend of the groom,” Jon said, feeling like he should add something else. He nodded at the groom; Grey was looking ecstatic next to his new wife, his eyes never leaving her face. “Best friend.”
“What’s a best friend doing in the shadows?” Daenerys asked. Truly, the marquee was mostly lit with fairy lights, but they were mainly centred around the main poles. Here, at the edges, there was little illumination other than the candles on the tables.
Jon watched their shadows dance across the fabric as he replied: “Honestly, I kind of asked for it.”
“Really?” Daenerys waved her empty glass as a waiter passed them by. He returned quickly to fill it with champagne, and Daenerys gestured to Jon’s glass as if to say ‘top that one up too’.
With a fresh serving of bubbly, Jon licked his lips and nodded: “Yeah, really.” He sipped it and sighed. “I’m sure if I’d asked, I could’ve gotten a seat up there,” he waved in the general direction of the main table, “amongst the couples. But what a pity-party that would’ve been!”
“Yeah, I’m Missandei’s friend,” Daenerys explained, “and I didn’t want my whole evening to be dating suggestions.”
“People feel so entitled to your happiness. The amount of times I’ve been told to go on Tinder. No one even asks me if I like being single - they immediately assume I’m looking.”
“Try being a woman. I’m often told time is running out.”
“Out for what?”
Daenerys looked down at her stomach, and Jon wrinkled his nose.
“Oh,” he said, and she smiled at him with a shrug. For a moment, they both sipped their champagne in silence, then Daenerys perked up:
“Jon, how many people do you know at this wedding?”
Jon glanced around, although he already knew the answer - about none. When he first arrived, he’d waited outside the venue and just watched people as they walked inside. A few faces seemed familiar, like Grey’s coworkers whom he could’ve sworn were at his bachelor party (but of course, the booze had erased most of his memories from that night, so he couldn’t be certain). Everyone else drew a blank.
Jon chose his words with care not to sound antisocial and settled on: “Not a lot.”
Daenerys was more bold: “I know no one.” She sounded strangely excited as she said it, and Jon looked into her eyes with his brows raised.
“Are you suggesting something?” he asked.
A cheer was heard in the same. Jon turned in his seat and caught the sight of two waiters walking in, wheeling a five-tiered cake between them. The thing was as if taken out of a ‘how to be boho-chic’ magazine - naked sponge, thick butter cream, plenty of fresh berries rolling down the sides. People started gathering immediately, and though he was ready to pass, he felt Daenerys’ hand close around his.
“Use your imagination,” she urged as she pulled him up, “or follow my lead.”
Jon paused but, seeing the excitement in her eyes, decided to follow, a slight tickling feeling starting to spread in his stomach.
At first, Jon’s stories sucked.
Daenerys was a professional. As they gathered in the crowd to watch the cake-cutting, their fingers intertwined, a young woman chirped:
“Oh gods, you make such a cute couple!” Jon recognised her from Olenna’s phone - it was the girl whose face stretched across her screensaver, Margaery Tyrell.
“Thank you!” Daenerys said, the smile on her lips perfect. “He’s truly my better half.”
“Or you his!” she replied cheekily, causing Jon to blush. “You’re Daenerys, aren’t you? I’ve heard Missandei mention you. Didn’t know you were seeing someone!”
“Oh, we keep it on the down-low,” Daenerys said, the lie slipping easily from her lips, “see, Jon here is running for mayor, and you know how politics can interfere with a relationship. We’re trying to just keep things separate.”
“Is that so?” Margaery said, looking Jon up and down. For a moment, the glimpse in her eyes was so inquisitive that Jon was certain she was going to call them out on the lie. But instead, she smiled: “I did think I recognised you from somewhere. Have you been on a talkshow?”
Daenerys didn’t speak immediately, just elbowed Jon, and he stuttered: “Yes. Sure.”
“Which one?” Margaery continued innocently.
Jon tucked at his tie. “A few of them?” he replied, his voice as uncertain as the look on his face. He sent Daenerys a panicked grimace, and she rolled her eyes as she swooped in once more:
“Late Night,” she said, “in America. He’s so popular in the states! The British media still need to catch on - you know how it is!”
Margaery, looking dumbfounded, just nodded and said: “Sure, Late Night, that must be it.” She still seemed to be on the verge of asking another question, so Jon quickly called:
“Oh, they’re cutting the cake now!” as he tip-toed to see Missandei lift the knife. His outburst quieted those around them, and they all politely smiled and watched as the tiers were sliced.
With time, Jon’s lies got better.
As they stood waiting for drinks at the bar, the bartender looked them up and down as he asked: “Are you two really an item?” The question sounded more like an insult than a statement, and Jon leaned in to read the nametag the guy was wearing - Bronn.
“Sure are,” Daenerys said, as chipper as ever. She leaned onto the counter as she watched her G&T being fixed.
“Don’t know whereabouts you’re from, but there are better lads out there - just saying,” Bronn informed Daenerys with a wink.
Jon straightened up a little at his words. “Well Bronn, I hope you find one then,” he replied.
Bronn looked at him with slight impress. “Cocky, aren’t you?”
“I fought for this girl,” Jon informed him before he could stop himself.
Now he really had Bronn’s attention. The guy slipped the drink to Daenerys blindly, his gaze focused on Jon as he leaned onto the counter himself. “Sounds like quite the story.”
It does, doesn’t it? Jon thought, wrecking his brain. But before Daenerys could swoop in once more, he spoke: “It is. Drunk lads in London got me cornered. Thought I was trying to steal their girl, and they were right - I was.” Jon slipped his arm around Daenerys’ waist and pulled her close. She blinked at him in surprise, but kept silent as he carried on. “Fought off a guy with a knife.”
“That’s bull,” Bronn said, followed by: “Go on.”
“Got proof.” At this, Jon popped open the first few buttons of his shirt as he revealed his scarred chest to the bartender. Bronn leaned in for a better look - and so did Daenerys, her eyes large and round as she took it all in.
“Well, mate, this one’s on me,” Bronn said, handing Jon his vodka and coke.
Jon did up the buttons and grabbed the drink. “It’s actually on Grey - the bar is free,” he reminded him before trudging off with Daenerys, an air of self-importance about him.
As they were far enough away not to risk Bronn hearing them, Daenerys whispered hotly to his ear: “What the fuck was that?”
“A good story,” Jon shrugged and sipped his drink.
“At first, I thought your story was moronic. Nice touch with the scars.” As they stopped by a spare table, she let her fingertips slip down across his chest, feeling the bumps of mended skin beneath his thin shirt. “How’d you get them?”
“Fought off a guy with a knife,” Jon repeated.
She rolled her eyes. “I mean, how did you really get them?”
“That’s it,” Jon said, smiling a little as she blinked in perplexion. “I wasn’t defending anyone, though, just trying to survive myself. A night out gone wrong. Some guys can get really heated.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, stunned.
Jon nodded and sipped his drink. “Sure is.”
Daenerys watched the slices of cucumber float around her drink. Then, she placed it aside on the table as she said: “Know what I think?”
“What?” Jon asked.
“I think it looks like you’re a police officer who got in trouble with a robber in my house.”
Jon smirked: “Oh yeah? How about a secret spy?”
“Uh, or a detective!”
“What was I investigating?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Daenerys said, grabbing his hand as she urged him on. “Come on, let’s find someone else to fool.”
Jon didn’t even hesitate - he happily followed Daenerys, thinking, This wedding is way more fun than I expected it would be.
To Jorah the official, they were newlyweds themselves, married in secrecy due to jealous exes. To Melisandre the wedding planner, they were fucking coworkers, looking for a place to get down and dirty (And she had a few too many suggestions, Jon noted with discomfort). To Gendry the venue owner, they were looking to plan their own wedding, but constantly in disagreement about the theme, Daenerys wanting Halloween-decor and Jon insisting on a Harry Potter spin-off.
Every person got a different story to the point where Jon had to watch his tongue when he ran into someone for a second time, his memory clouded with so many tales that he could hardly remember which one he last told. But whilst the lies came easy, he started to wonder, Who is this Daenerys?
It wasn’t until hours later, as the lights were dimmed and the couples took over the dancefloor, their bodies slowly swaying, that Jon and Daenerys found themselves seated once more, the seats around them empty.
“I think we’ve met every person at this wedding,” Daenerys said, her voice sounding sorry.
“I think you’re right,” Jon said, glancing around. He reached for the bottle of water and poured himself a generous drink, his mouth dry after all the chatting. As he downed the water, he watched Daenerys as she picked at the hemline of her dress. “You know,” he said, putting the glass back on the table, “there is still someone else.”
Daenerys perked up and glanced about excitedly. “Who?”
“You.”
“Me?”
He smiled at her surprise. “And me,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve really gotten to know each other.”
“Oh, I disagree,” Daenerys said with a laugh, “I know many Jons by now!”
“How about the real one?” he asked, and she nodded a little.
“True,” she said, running her fingers through her hair as she looked into his eyes. “That’s one I don’t know.”
Daario’s voice broke through on the microphone: “Ladies and gentlemen. As suggested by many - and I mean many - of you, I’ll now sing my best known single. It was in the UK Top 40 for three weeks two years ago, so I’m sure you’ll all know the lyrics. Feel free to sing along - I’m Daario and the Naharis, and this is Give me your smile.” He settled on a barstool, the guitar resting in his lap, and he started playing, his eyes seeking the women on the dancefloor.
Jon glanced from Daario to Daenerys, and he stood up, offering her his hand. “This is my favourite song,” he joked.
She laughed and grabbed his hand as she allowed him to lead her to the floor. “Is that so? No more lies?”
“No more lies,” Jon said, “from now on.” His arms slipped around her waist, and her hands sought the small hairs on his nape as she embraced his neck, and together they danced, their voices quiet as they shared the real story of each other.