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2018-05-25
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Winter Proposals

,

Summary:

Commission work. My most sincerest thanks and appreciation to InkFire_Scribe for working with me on this work.

Chapter 1: Revelation

Chapter Text

Snow is not silent. As it falls, it whispers and hisses secrets that very few care to listen to. Even fewer can understand them. Ice sparkled in the sunset, winter's glaze giving the sheen of diamond to dark grey stone. Though it seemed like lifetimes had passed since last he'd stood in this courtyard, looking up at these windows, nothing had changed. When he sighed, his breath clouded the air like the fire of a dragon, ruffling the fur around his throat and chin. It had been a long time, and he was the one that had changed. But inward change didn't alter the world around him. Pulling his cloak a little tighter about his shoulders, Jon Snow stepped across the shoveled, packed snow toward the tall double doors that stood open for him. He had wanted to enter alone for many reasons, not the least of which was 'time to think.'

"My Lord," murmured the servant at the door, bowing deeply to him as he crossed the threshold into the warmth of the entry hall. The obeisance still made him uncomfortable, but he said nothing of it. Shrugging out of his cloak, he passed the heavy outer garment to the servant, taking note that the man had the thin, sallow look of one who has suffered illness recently. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that life had not been kind to any in Westeros since even before his own birth. But then, what would the birth of a bastard change, save for the honor of his mother? The doors swung shut with a soft, muffled boom and Jon watched the servant shuffle to one side to hang his cloak reverently.

"Jon." The sound of his name startled him from his contemplation of the fortunes of Winterfell, and he turned. At first, he didn't recognize the strange, pale boy. He was clad in furs, his face deeply bruised on one side. But features leapt out at him as he looked. The shape of his cheekbones. The color of his eyes. The length of his neck. The way his hands folded in his lap.

"Bran?" He was much changed from the curious, cheerful boy he'd once known, and Jon wondered if he weren't fated to lose everyone he'd ever cared about, through death, curse, or simply the changes wrought by many years' parting - who did he have left from his old life? And even if he could go back, would he? Gods, but his thoughts were morbid these days.

"There are things you should know before you join the rest of your party." Bran's voice was curiously flat, his eyes were bright with the sort of eagerness that came of knowing something that would surprise everyone. "You should know before they learn it, and they'll know it soon enough."

"What should I know?" The man wanted, more than anything, for things to be done. The Night King was gone, his army scattered and destroyed, Cersei in hiding. He should have had time to rest, to enjoy and explore the new possibilities with Dany. She was an intriguing woman, and whether or not she took her place on the Iron Throne, he thought she was a woman worth following.

"You're destined for the Iron Throne, Jon." Bran's voice was both soft and even, and Jon felt himself go still. There was ice in his veins at the thought. Setting himself up as a rival to Daenerys had never been his plan, and now it seemed like he would be forced into yet another war. Forced by who? And for what reason? Fate had warped and stunted his life until he had no control over it, and this final revelation lit a fire in his belly. Fury welled up in him and the man turned to face his brother. Had Bran stood on his own two feet and carried a sword, Jon felt in that moment that he might have drawn on him.

"No. The Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen, and Queen Daenerys is the last of that line. I've pledged myself to her and I'll not be made a traitor. I won't do it. Not for you, not for fate, not for me." The idea of starting another civil war sickened him. A spasm of pain lanced through his right hand, and he realized he was gripping his sword hilt so hard the muscles in his palm were cramping. Slowly, he forced himself to release the weapon, flexing his fingers. "I can't do it, Bran. And I don't want to."

"Not the last." Bran hadn't reacted, either to Jon's anger or to the imminent threat of the sword at his hip. He gazed calmly up into his brother's face. Some of Jon's confusion must have shown in his expression, for the boy smiled faintly. "She's not the last Targaryen."

Silence fell, filling the space between them like snow, soft and cold. A shiver ran through Jon's body in spite of the warmth of the room, and he glanced swiftly about. They were alone. No one would hear him.

"What do you mean?" His voice was a whisper. The presentiment of looming change robbed his words of strength.

"Your mother, Lyanna Stark, gave you as a baby to my father. She made him swear to keep you safe." Bran paused, and for a moment, his bright eyes flicked away, as though he were having second thoughts about how much to share. The internal debate was a brief one, however, and he continued with only a faint sigh. "She told him your true name before she died, and I heard it." Bran's eyes lifted again, meeting his brother's reluctant gaze. Jon wished violently for Bran to be silent, inexplicably repelled by the iminent revelation of his parentage. Being a bastard had been so much a part of who he was for so long, he didn't know who he would be without it.

"She said 'His name is Aegon Targaryen. If they find out, they'll kill him.' I just thought that was something you should know." The casual tone behind his words belied their weight. Jon took a step back, his mind reeling. This couldn't be true. And if it was... if it was? What then?

At the other end of the hall, a door opened. Light and noise flooded the empty entryway, and Bran turned to look over his shoulder. He spoke to someone, but Jon couldn't hear the words. Everything was drowned out by the pounding rush of blood in his ears.

Aegon Targaryen.

Someone touched his arm, and Jon twitched, coming back to the present with a jolt. Bran was at his side, and there was a smile on his face that brought back memories of the little boy he'd left behind so long ago. The cold emptiness of his expression was softened by that smile, and Jon remembered to breathe.

"It doesn't change anything, Jon. You've made yourself who you are. Just remember that, when the rest of them expect you to change." Then the boy was gone, being pushed away toward the bright doorway and the laughing, chattering clatter of the banquet hall.

Chapter 2: Surprise

Chapter Text

For a long time, Jon Snow stood in the empty entry hall, watching the play of the flickering lanternlight over the glossy wood panels of the inner doors. A sliver of gold light peeped between the wood and the worn stones of the floor, where so many generations of feet had passed, that a slightly off-center depression had been worn between the posts. His mind slowly spun as he tried to come to terms with how everything had changed. Or had it all changed? Bran had said that it didn't change who he was.

The door opened again, and a servant stepped through, wearing a concerned expression as he peered into the relative darkness of the entryway.

"My lord," he said uncertainly, "will you be joining us for the victory feast, sir?"

For a moment, Jon said nothing. He was still wrestling with the concept that learning where he had come from and what legacy he carried with him didn't change who he was. He didn't understand it, but he clung to the idea. He knew this feast was important, and he was probably some sort of guest of honor. King in the North or no, he was not the host for this event, and any peace he might have gleaned from his homecoming had already been lost. With a sigh, he stepped forward.

Jon was ushered into the banquet hall and up to the high table. The whole hall was packed with nobles, officers, fighting men and their women. One of Daenerys' copper-skinned Dothraki bloodriders stood in the space behind the high table, ready to defend his khaleesi should that service be asked of him. Daenerys herself sat in a large, throne-like chair at the center of the high table, with Sansa seated on her right in the position of power, and the seat on her left empty, presumably reserved for himself. As he approached, both women looked up, one glimmering silver-blonde, the other glossy dark red. He set a hand on the back of his own seat and bowed to Daenerys, aware of the weight of many eyes on him.

The fighting men of Winterfell, the lesser nobles, and the women seated at the tables below lifted their mugs and roared his name with one, many-throated voice.

"Jon Snow! The King in the North!"

Daenerys stood quickly and with one pale hand, raised him from his bow. One hand on his chest and the other half extended, as though to gesture, she gave him the faintest of smiles. The folk at the lower tables roared again, a clamor of praise and support. Some shouted "Long live Targaryen!" while others chanted "Dragon Mother!" in increasingly hoarse adulation.

The woman's hands clasped Jon's as she nodded to him. Her expression was cold and aloof in spite of the gentle curve of her lips, but that was nothing new. She was always so, wearing the mask of superior indifference, particularly when many eyes followed her every move.

"Our thanks to you, my lord," she said, only just loud enough to be heard by the high table.

"It was an honor, Your Highness." He should tell her. She deserved to know. "When this is settled, Your Majesty, I would speak with you privately."

Daenerys' violet eyes glinted in the lanternlight. "As would I, Snow."

There was no immediate opportunity for further conversation. They took their seats as the crowd quieted, and the air grew thick with anticipation. The nobles looked toward Sansa Stark, seated under the banner of her house with her glossy hair vibrant in a world of grey and brown and black. When she stood, she looked pale and queenly, even beside the regal and ghostlike Targaryen.

"The Winter has come." Sansa's voice was calm and clear, carrying easily through the hall as the last of the crowd's mutterings subsided. "The Night King and his army have been defeated, destroyed, and scattered." If she meant to say more, it was delayed by the howl of triumph and pounding of fists and knife hilts and mugs on the solid ironwood tables. Sansa lifted a small hand, and quiet fell again.

"We will have peace. We and our children will live in a world where a Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne, dragons are in the sky, and the Wall stands firm to protect us."

More cheering. Servants refilled mugs, took away empty dishes, and supplied full ones. Sansa waited with a faint smile, then turned toward Jon, looking across Daenerys to meet his gaze. It was as though the queen and her retinue didn't exist. Sansa's eyes were piercing, and Jon felt the tense anticipation of the nobles around him as the roaring crowd quieted once more into the soft clatter of mugs and silverware.

Jon could see the tension in Daenerys' expression, and suspected she only held her peace because this was a celebration of victory. As she had said to him once before, the assertion of a King in the North was rebellion against the Iron Throne. He felt a surge of affection and gratitude toward her, knowing she held her tongue for the sake of his people. Then Sansa spoke, and the eyes of the Lady of Winterfell were fixed on him.

"Is it not fitting, then, that we should celebrate this victory and the new peace brought to the North, with the union of two great Houses? I therefore propose a union by marriage between the House Stark and the King in the North, who now claims his birth name - Aegon Targaryen, legitimate son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

There was a moment of utter silence where not even the wind outside dared make a sound. The stunned faces of a hundred fighting men, their officers, their women, and their lords turned toward Jon, all eyes wide, many mouths hanging partially open.

Davos Seaworth was the first to act, standing at the nearest of the lower tables and lifting his mug.

"To the House Targaryen, and to our White Wolf. Long live the King!" The old fellow's rough voice rang strong and loud in the hall. There was no mention of the marriage in his toast, though, and for that, Jon silently blessed him. Davos was a stalwart ally in all circumstances.

"Long live the King!" The voices of the throng shook Winterfell to its foundations. When the warriors and their women sat, one of the nobles remained standing, her dark hair pulled back in a tight braid, and her small, pale face turned toward the center of the table. With eyes locked on Daenerys, the Lady of Bear Island spoke in her high, clear voice.

"The Iron Throne is weakened by weak monarchs. This alliance of the North and the southron kingdoms will make the Seven Kingdoms whole again. We need to be whole, if we are to survive this winter." Lyanna Mormont turned her dark, serious eyes on Jon, and he thought she might just be able to see right through him to the shock and betrayal he felt. Sansa had no right to announce what he himself hadn't yet absorbed.

"I followed a bastard Snow because he earned my trust and my allegiance. Now I'll follow a Targaryen, because he is my king - Bear Island is with Jon Snow, no matter who his parents are." With a slight nod to him, she sat. The girl was stern and serious, and the gnarled pink scar across her left cheek, earned fighting in the Battle of the Frozen Plains, marked her as a warrior in her own right, regardless of her age.

The other nobles murmured their agreement, and many were nodding to one another. Below, the fighting men pounded their tables in agreement. In the ruckus, Jon dared to glance at Daenerys, hyper-aware of the space between them. A paltry few inches, and it may as well have been the Narrow Sea. Hiding behind the icy stoicism in her violet eyes, he could see anger, which probably hid something deeper he couldn't guess at. But it was certain he wasn't in her favor. Not right now.

"Stark and Targaryen - for the Seven Kingdoms!" Lord Glover's thick velvet cloak rippled like black water as he lifted his mug, looking at Sansa approvingly before quaffing his wine in one, long draught. The agreement was loud and overwhelming as every man and woman at the lower tables took up the toast.

Sansa turned to look again at Jon, a smile curling around her lips like a cat in a warm windowsill. She looked like a woman whose troops had just routed the enemy and not lost a single man.

"What say you, King in the North?"

There was no way he could get out of answering, not with her looking at him expectantly and the nobles waiting for his acceptance. Only Daenerys wasn't looking at him, and there were several reasons he could think of to explain that. Slowly, he stood, looking over the queen's white-blonde head to meet his sister's gaze.

His sister, whom he's protected since she was a little girl, and who had survived so much. He began to think that her marriage to the Baratheon monster and the Bolton murderer had twisted her somehow. The girl he'd known, who dreamed of marrying a prince and living in a fine palace with gardens and flowers and stables of beautiful horses - that girl would never have tried to use political maneuvering to force a man into marrying her. On the other hand, he couldn't quite blame her for preferring his company to that of the men she'd previously been joined to. Perhaps that was his vanity talking, but he did think he was a better quality of man than they.

"I'm honored by the offer, my lady, and I'll take it into consideration. But this is a night for drink and good food - serious decisions will wait until the morning sheds light on it." He made himself smile and inclined his head to her, lifting his glass before he sat and drank. Whether his answer was good enough or not (and he thought it likely his answer definitely was not good enough) it was all he had to say for now, and he wouldn't be pushed to give any sort of official answer until he had a chance to speak with Daenerys. That wasn't how he'd planned to let her know.

After much chatter, too much food, and far too much wine, near the fourth hour of the feast, Daenerys rose and left the table. She hadn't spoken to Jon, or to anyone else, after Sansa's announcement and proposal. Jon waited as long as he could, wanting to seem as though he might possibly be leaving of his own accord, rather than following a woman. But as he stood, so did Sansa, and together, they waved to the others to remain and enjoy the rest of their evening. The men were slobbering drunk, the women seated in various laps and shrieking with laughter at bawdy stories and handsy men. Of the nobles that remained, only Mormont was still sober, and she watched them depart with dark, glittering eyes.

No sooner were they alone in the hallway that lead back to the sleeping quarters than Sansa spoke, her voice tainting the shadows with memories of betrayal. "Jon. Talk to me." Her hand caught his sleeve, pulling him to a stop.

"Talk to you?" Jon felt a swell of anger bubble up in his chest and turned to face her. Jerking his sleeve free, he slammed his forearm across her chest and pushed her hard against the wall, pinning her there. He had never been so furious in his life. Or at least, he couldn't remember being this angry, and there were several places where his memory failed him entirely. "You took and aired my personal business before every noble in the North and many more besides."

Pain flashed across her features, and he immediately withdrew his arm. She was his sister. Nothing would change that. And a man of honor never caused his sister hurt or grief.

"An alliance-" she began, using a persuasive tone he didn't like.

"No, Sansa. You're my sister. I'll protect you as well as I can, and I always have, but I'm no Lannister, to take my sister as a lover." Jon took a step back, shaking his head. A smear of red in the shadows was his sister's loose hair, tumbling about her face and shoulders like a banner. "Learning my name hasn't changed who I am, and who I am is myself - Jon Snow." He might not be the Bastard of Winterfell anymore, but he was still who he'd made himself, as Bran had said. His parents had done nothing to shape him, and they had no claim on him or his name. "Good night, my lady."

He turned and left her, unable to see her expression in the dim corridor. With a slap-squeak of hard soles and cracked leather, he strode away, a man who chose to be as plain and serviceable as the boots he wore.

Chapter 3: Discussions

Chapter Text

Anger still burned in his chest when he reached his chambers. The solid door was heavy ironwood bound with decorative bands of brass. He had chosen the room for himself after the Battle of the Bastards, though he'd had little enough time to spend in it since then. He stepped into the room and felt the heat radiating up through his boots. Not hot, but very warm, and it soothed him to remember that he was home. Winterfell was a place of pain and isolation, but there were good memories here, too. Robb, Arya, Rickon, Bran, and Sansa. They had loved him. Robb especially had never held his parentage against him, though that might have been for selfish reasons.

Slowly, Jon sank onto the bed and sighed, resting his face in his hands. Five years. Almost six. Had it really been so short a time? It felt a decade must have passed, at least. Maybe two.

Without bothering to remove his boots, Jon pivoted on the bed and laid back against the pillows, but sat up again a moment later when the crackle of paper told him there was something more than bedclothes there. Rummaging under the pillow, Jon pulled free a small sheet of paper, pristine on one side, and bearing only two lines on the other. The spiky, slanted script was Dany's, he thought, else it might have been Luwin's. He paused, feeling his gut twist as he remembered the old Maester was dead, replaced with Wolkan.

I would speak with you.
Meet me in the Deepest Chamber.

Jon looked at the sharp runes for a long time, neither believing nor disbelieving the message they contained. She might decide to kill him. He had seen the anger in her eyes. On the other hand, she might simply want to speak, as she said.

At length, he decided it didn't matter. He owed her the truth, and if it cost him his life... at least the long struggle would be at an end. Pushing himself tiredly to his feet, he crumpled the paper and tossed it in the grate to burn. It curled into black ash, then turned white. It was a waste of resources to do so, but there were too many reasons his imagination could provide that advised him against leaving the note where anyone else might read it. Betrayal came in too many forms.

His mind turned to Sansa, but he pushed that train of thought away. In all likelihood, she hadn't intended to betray him - only to secure a position of safety and power for herself. That didn't lessen the disgust he felt at her duplicity, though.

On the way to the lower levels, he passed several servants, but the deeper he went, the fewer people he saw, until he stood on the rough stone floor of the Hot Springs chamber, deep under the castle's cellars. The foundations of Winterfell stretched down from the ceiling, creating columns and walls of smooth stone, stark against the natural roughness of the dark rock around him. The lantern at the base of the stairs was already lit, and another hung on a pillar only fifteen feet from the bottom step, casting dull red-gold light on dark water and dark stone, and a gleam of white between them. Daenerys was seated on the edge of the pool, gazing into the twisting steam that rose from the spring's surface.

"I saw others like this," she commented off-handedly, as though to no one in particular, "in the courtyards above. Just holes in the flagstones where water steams and bubbles."

Jon hesitated, but moved closer at length. The air down here was moist and hot, thickening each breath until it was as though hot soup filled his lungs, rather than air. "The springs run through the floor and walls of the castle. It's said that when Brandon the Builder designed this place, this chamber was full of water so hot it could be used for cooking. After building the castle, this chamber emptied, because the walls and floor of the castle above were enchanted to draw the water up."

Small talk. Why were they making small talk? It had seemed so natural once, but now it struck him as idiocy to be standing in the dim underground chamber discussing architecture.

"My lady, you said you wished to speak with me."

Daenerys lifted her head, tipping it back until she could look at him over her shoulder. The long line of her slender, creamy throat gleamed in the dim light, almost as pale as her hair. "I would. Are you truly Aegon Targaryen, son of my brother?" Her tone had lost its nonchalant lilt and become hard. She wanted answers, and Jon felt she deserved them.

"My brother, the Three Eyed Raven, told me so this evening when I reached Winterfell. He has no reason to lie to me - he refused to take Winterfell as his own, and he has no claim to any other title."

There was a brief silence while Daenerys considered his words, then she lowered her head once more, so all he could see was the soft curve of her shoulders and the straight, proud line of her back. Her legs were folded under her body, but as she thought, she pulled her boots off and slipped her bare feet into the steaming water.

"And you trust your brother?"

Jon folded his hands behind his back, looking away from her. That was a question he didn't feel he was fit to answer, but he would answer anyway. "Yes, Your Grace. I do."

She snorted softly, and in that one sound he heard all the derision she held for the titles and posturing of the Northern court. It was worse in the south, but they had both known that before they had taken oath as allies.

"Do you trust your sister?" There was steel in her words this time, and Daenerys twisted, looking at him with a violet flash of suppressed anger. Her slender arms spread wide to brace her weight, and she looked at him as sharply as though she thought to pierce his heart with her gaze alone. As though she thought to See the truth in him.

Jon held his breath a moment, frozen by her searching gaze, then forced himself to answer again, wondering at the tightness in his chest and loins. This was no time for amors. And yet....

"I trust her to stay true to House Stark and to Winterfell. I trust her to seek her own safety, and ensure it for others as much as she's able. But I'm not... happy with her, at the moment, Your Grace."

Daenerys withdrew her feet from the water, and Jon noted that the delicate skin of her toes wasn't even reddened, though he was sure his own would have been. Standing, she faced him, angling her chin up to look him in the eyes. When they stood on even ground, he was almost a full head taller than she. Now, with the uneven terrain, him in his boots, and she barefoot, the difference was even greater. She was diminutive, slender and delicate in the dim light, but fierce all the same. She radiated power, violet eyes all but glowing in the lanternlight.

"You're considering her offer?" she asked softly, and there was such threat in those four words that Jon Snow felt a chill as he hadn't since meeting the eyes of the Night King at the Battle of the Dead River. The Frozen Plains had been bad enough, but their final clash at the newly-dubbed "River of the Dead" would haunt his nightmares for many years to come.

He thought there was something more in her expression, though. Some… sadness that he didn't understand. It didn't mesh with what he knew of her. Or maybe it did. His heart fluttered with hope as though he were a child with his first love.

"No." He didn't have to think about the answer this time. It came to his lips as naturally as what followed. "You are the only woman I want to marry."

At first, he thought he might have been too bold. Silence settled between them, but the anger and sadness was draining away, and it was only then that Jon realized how much of desperation had been in her. He saw her shoulders relax a little, and felt her warm, slender hand wrap around his. The contact of her skin against his electrifed the space between them in a way Jon hadn't been prepared for.

"Are you sure?" she asked quietly, and a faint smile softened her features as she looked up into his face, her violet eyes filling with the affection that made him feel proud to be the sort of man that could win her. "Even knowing that you are my brother's son?"

Jon had some difficulty finding the words for his answer. He stared at her for such a long moment that she actually turned a little pink. "I can't imagine being more sure." The words came out as a sort of husky murmur, and he cleared his throat, embarrassed by the way this vibrant woman affected him.

"Then kiss me," she ordered. With her free hand she grasped the front of his tunic and pulled him down to her, meeting his lips with the sort of passion he thought probably ought to be illegal, somehow. After that, words escaped him.

Chapter 4: Love

Chapter Text

The warm water enveloped him, and Jon let out a sigh of relief. His core and his loins ached, and some of the exquisite pleasure of their union stayed with him in the caress of the water against his bare skin. Pushing himself away from the edge of the pool and into the blind darkness beyond the lantern's dim circle of light, Jon closed his eyes and listened to the whisper of water against flesh and the soft slap of Daenerys' body joining him in the spring.

"Jon." Her voice was soft, lacking any of its usual steel. He felt her hands brush up along his leg and torso to his shoulders, where she began absently to knead the perpetually knotted muscles there. "Thank you."

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, quiet though it was in the steamy darkness. "I should be thanking you." He righted himself in the water, letting his feet touch the fine gravel of the spring's bottom as she rubbed his shoulders. "You believed in me, and then you accepted me. That's enough for a lifetime of honor debt."

Dany's long, wet hair trailed against his body as she shook her head, and he turned a little to see the faint gleam of her pale skin, her small but perfect body so near and so completely his. Even thinking about it brought a warmth to his belly quite separate from the heat of the spring.

"There's to be no debt between us. Though I suppose I ought to call you Aegon, now. It's your given name."

Now it was Jon's turn to shake his head, though he wasn't sure she could tell in the darkness beyond the lanternlight. "I've been Jon my whole life. I made myself who I am, and my parents had nothing to do with it."

The flash of her teeth reflecting the dim light told him she approved of his choice, and he made a mental note to thank Bran for giving him the words. The boy knew more than was good for him, maybe, but he was trying to do the right thing with it, and that was what mattered.

"That's good to hear." Her small hands pressed down imperiously on his shoulders, and he obediently knelt so the water lapped at his collarbone. It was hot, but not painful, and he felt as though he were being gently scrubbed by the very hands of the spring itself, the first true bath he'd had in long enough. Then he forgot about the water as Daenerys' slender limbs twined around him, pulling herself close to his back and hanging weightlessly there, like a child. She held him, and without any conscious direction, Jon's hands softly caressed her legs under the water. Her pale hair floated around him and her breath brushed his ear in the darkness.

"What has changed you are things that would break another man, Jon." Her arms squeezed his chest lightly, and the tightness somehow remained afterward. The compliment burrowed into his core and settled there like embers on the hearth.

"I... I wish Ned were still here." He wasn't sure why he said it out loud. Surely Dany wasn't in a mood to hear it. But everything that had happened today, Bran's revelation and Sansa's betrayal and Dany's confidence in him, had brought the man more to mind than he had been in months. Today, he hadn't gained a name. He'd lost a father. "He told me once that it didn't matter that I didn't have his name. I had his blood, and that was what mattered. Now I don't even have that. But I want him to be proud of me." The confession came from somewhere in the pit of his stomach, near the settled embers of her praise.

Daenerys turned her head and kissed the side of his neck, tickling the sensitive area under his ear. When she spoke, he could feel her lips moving against his skin. "I can't imagine why he wouldn't be. You united the North and rallied the southron kingdoms to your cause. You defeated the Night King. You conquered the heart of the Dragon, when many said she had none." She shifted a little, and kissed his jaw. "I'm proud of you."

Unbidden, hot tears sprang to his eyes. With gentle hands, he loosed her grip on him and turned in the water so he faced her. Pulling her close, he held her tightly, wishing he had the words to show his gratitude. "Thank you" was entirely inadequate; but she seemed to understand. Running her fingers through his damp hair, she kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I never knew my parents, either," she whispered. "There was never anyone whose pride was worth wanting. But… I wanted someone to be proud of me."

"I am." The words were trapped between them as he traced the lines of her face with his eyes, filling in the details he already knew so well where the darkness obscured them. "More than I know how to say."

"I think that's all that really matters."

For a while longer, they drifted in the spring, letting the darkness hide them from all but one another, hands and lips saying what eyes could not. At length, even the caress of the water lost its appeal. The pair climbed from the spring and sat in contemplative silence, allowing their bodies to dry as well as the moist air would allow before leisurely pulling on discarded clothes.

"Shall we make the announcement first thing tomorrow, or should we punish your sister first?" Her words broke the silence as a jeweler might tap a stone into a setting, a tiny hammer applying precise strokes to address the task at hand.

Jon didn't answer immediately, but slowly worked the buttons of his undershirt through their appropriate holes. At length, he sighed. "She made a stupid mistake, but I don't think it was meant as an attack. My answer will be punishment enough."

Anger flashed in the woman's violet eyes once more, her mercurial mood following an unpredictable path. "She tried to take you from me. I won't stand for it."

The man turned to look at her, dark hair swinging loose and damp about his face. Slowly, a smile curled his lips, showing straight, white teeth. "You're jealous." The words weren't an accusation, and in fact carried an incredulous tone. Almost immediately, he saw the pink return to her cheeks, and she looked away with a scowl. Daenerys Targaryen didn't like being caught in the middle of emotions she couldn't control, and this was no exception. He could understand it, but her reaction was... endearing. Not that he would ever dare say so out loud.

"Perhaps I am," she retorted, lifting both hands to sweep her hair, braids and all, into a loose but effective bun. "I have a reason to be. You are mine, and I won't have another woman scheming to steal you like a neighbor's prize horse."

If he had been speaking with someone else, then perhaps he would have been insulted by the comparison, but having seen the care and affection the Dothraki devoted to their steeds, he knew there was no need.

"I'm not so easily stolen," he told her quietly, though a smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'll see that Sansa understands my answer, and we can arrange an appropriate marriage for her before we leave."

Dany didn't looked satisfied, but she gave him a look that seemed to communicate that she was willing to listen. For now. Jon pulled on his tunic, then reached for her hand. She pulled away, and instead his hand landed on her leg, midway between knee and hip. They both froze, bodies tingling with the memory of their recent intimacy.

"We can talk about it in the morning." The words were easy to say, despite a nagging feeling that putting it off wouldn't improve his chances of making things easier for his sister.

"Will you be staying in your own chambers?" she asked archly, eyebrows raised as though she challenged him to answer.

"I doubt it," he admitted honestly, "but I will if you ask me to."

The superiority of her expression softened again and she shook her head. In a moment, she was on her feet. "I won't."

They didn't bother trying to find their boots. The floors were warm, all the way to her rooms, and neither of them cared who saw two barefoot nobles in the halls that night.

Chapter 5: The morning after

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The windows kept out most of the cold, but every now and then Jon felt the chill fingers of a draft sneaking through the cracks between the shutters. Daenerys probably hadn't noticed, covered as she was by layers of thick, heavy furs and shielded by his own warm body.

When he finally deigned to throw off the smothering veil of sleep, he saw a single violet eye looking at him out of a tangle of silver-blonde hair. With a jolt, he remembered his dream, in which he had watched those eyes turn impossibly blue. Jon sat up, rubbing his scarred chest as he remembered the feeling of her icy blade piercing his heart.

"What is it?" There was nothing of sleepiness in her voice, and when Jon glanced at her, he saw that her expression was alert.

"Just a dream," he told her reassuringly. Standing, he went to the window and opened it to let in the chill, dry dawn air. The breeze was so cold it stung his lips and nose as he sucked it in, filling his lungs with the clean beginning of a new day, banishing the shadows that haunted him. Jon sighed and looked back at the bed again.

Daenerys was huddled in the furs, watching him silently. Her eyes were bright as gems in her pale face, but she didn't speak. Not yet. Remembering his father's comments about how women could never bare the cold, he reached to close the window again, and stopped when he remembered that Ned Stark wasn't his father. His jaw tightened and he grasped the silver catch, pulling the window closed and latching it securely.

Turning to rejoin Dany, he took a seat on the bed, his skin tingling from the freshness of the winter against his naked body. Her hands were small and warm as she rested them against his back, one on his shoulder, the other on the back of his neck. Absently, he wondered if she was always warm, or if there were times when the Mother of Dragons shivered in the cold. The idea struck him as so unnatural that he shook his head and covered one of her hands with his own.

"You're troubled," she observed softly.

"I suppose I am," Jon's voice came more hesitantly than he would have liked, and the man cleared his throat before continuing. "I wish I weren't. What I want is to just... rest. But the dreams still come, and I have my sister to deal with this morning."

Her fingers tightened on his shoulder, and Jon turned his head in time to see her conceal a look of intense dissatisfaction. He couldn't help but smile again, and chuckled a little in spite of himself.

"What?" Dany sounded defensive and embarrassed, and Jon swallowed his desire to laugh again. One does not laugh at dragons; not if one wants to survive long enough to sire children. Distracted by that thought for just a second, his fingers stroked hers before he answered.

"It's flattering, that you claim me - that you defend your claim. I only hope I can earn it."

What of anger had been in her face drained away at his answer, and she blushed. Jon chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like a fool. There was really nothing in the world more flattering that knowing he was able to affect her so - or he thought so, anyway.

Dany didn't say anything about his comment. Instead, she kissed one of his ears and made herself roll out of bed to start dressing. Jon knew there was no point in putting it off, so he followed suit with a sigh. The pair silently washed their faces in the basin near the door and pulled on clean clothes. Someone had brought two of his own outfits to the suite while they slept, and he silently blessed whoever it was that had thought of his convenience at so late (or so early) an hour.

"What's your plan?" she asked at length, wetting and braiding her hair with deft fingers.

"I plan to decline my sister's offer at breakfast, and publicly ask you to marry me once that's done. Together, we can choose one of the Karstark men for her to marry, so House Stark will have an heir."

The silence that greeted his words was so complete that, for a moment, he thought perhaps he'd gone deaf. With a frown, Jon lifted his head and looked about at Daenerys, only to find that she wore an expression of pain such as he'd not seen in her before.

"Heirs... are important." Her agreement was stiff and strained, and it was only then that he remembered that she had once told him that she couldn't have children. Inwardly cursing himself for a fool, he looked away again.

"Yes. Especially to Sansa. She's always talked about it, even when she was small."

Small talk again. Was this to be the way of things? Whenever he was uncomfortable, he spouted inane comments about his family and the weather?

"And what about you? Do you want an heir?"

Perhaps he ought to have known that the question was coming, but it still made him tense. Carefully, he turned to her, yanking his second boot on and straightening so he faced her as a man, not as a cringing boy (which he still felt he was, at times).

"I think you know, my queen, as well as I do. An heir is not in the blood in his veins, but in the learning he holds in his heart. I am the heir of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, though he was never my true father. Whether I father your child or not, we will have an heir."

It was Dany's turn to be touched. She bit her lip and her eyes turned damp under his gaze. Shakily, she gave him a smile. Tying off her last braid and tossing it over her shoulder, she grabbed a towel and scrubbed her face vigorously before standing. "Let's get down to breakfast. You have answers to give, and a question to ask." The smile that came with those words was brighter, and Jon returned it as he stood at her side.

"The day holds many things. This is just the beginning." It seemed fitting, somehow, and with a nod, he held the door open for her and bowed as his queen preceded him into the hall. The woman who had conquered Westeros had conquered him, and that was just one more facet of who he was. Jon smiled, and followed his queen.

Notes:

So here we are at the end of this story. I want to thank everyone(Obviously Jonerys readers) who has read and enjoyed this story. I also want to thank the wonderful InkFire_Scribe for taking the time out of her day to help me create this wonderful story, you have my deepest gratitude.

For those who are were quite angry over the tagging of this story, let this serve as an example of what your rival ship's readers deal with. I can imagine you were expecting this story to be about Jon Snow/Sansa Stark and I'm sure you don't read Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen. Many of us can agree that we just want to read a specific ship and when stories are tagged in a manner that is meant to bait and troll or when stories are inadequately tagged to where many are misled into reading it, it pretty frustrating and annoying just as you were by this story.

What's personally infuriating for me is how Jonsa writers and fans just absolutely love to label readers and writers of another ship as childish or ignorant over requests of correcting the tags or complaints over the tags being entirely misleading and argue that the tags are correct. An clear example of this claim would be "A Stark of Winterfell by Ralph_E_Silvering" where many have requested that the tag be removed and in came a commenter by the name of anarosym who only proves point. Make no mistake, there are dozens like this one example. Ever since this story got posted, I've received a lot of hateful comments, from insulting appearances all the way up to advocating that I kill myself. Isn't it hypocritical of them since according to them, it's childish or ignorant of us(Jonerys readers/writers) to request a tag correction or call out the tags as misleading or debate against this arguments?

jonsa4lyf: Wow. Great troll you stupid cunt go kill yourself

Fuckin Twat: Ugly Fat Fucking Twat

Damn girl: Damn girl your one ugly hoe. Ugly on the inside. Bet you anything your ugly as hell on the outside too it is why you are such loser. Spending too much time on the internet because nobody wants to hang out with your ugly face in real life. What an ugly hoe.

If Jonerys fans were to write similar insults towards Jonsa writers and their stories, you would rise up in arms(Keyboards) and fiercely defend them in the comments. Saying that they can tag the story however they want to. The tags aren't misleading. We have no life, you're just hateful. We're being ignorant.
You should get the point by now. You're a bunch of hypocrites. Instead of rising up to defend, agree that the tags are misleading or agree to a simple friendly request of correcting the tag or post a note of explaining the tags? Quit the nonsense act as if changing the tags are such a chore, when posting this story it only took like 30sec. You would be doing others and more importantly yourself a big favor. Is it too much to ask from you guys that Jon/Sansa stories stay in the Jonsa fandom/area of A03 and Jonerys stories will stay in the Jonerys fandom of A03? Is that really too much to ask from you guys? That way there isn't this issue of being misled? I will be correcting the tags now to where it's appropriately tagged.

P.S. Those who demonize and bash Daenerys over flawed and ridiculous reasons that are easily disproven, you're the saddest bunch of ignorant haters I know.