Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One - Jon I

As the only true port of the north, White Harbor was a steady stream of activity, now hampered by daily snowfalls and increasingly cold winds. The King in the North arrived on an auspicious day. The heavy clouds parted in a dance of sunlight and shadows, playing across the ship sails as they whipped and rippled, boats bobbing like apples in the rough surf.

He hated few things as much as he hated sailing - nothing feels right on a ship. The constant unease of being off balance at the mercy of the winds and waves. The intense smells and the deep darkness of the water. Hells, even eating and sleeping felt unnatural. Jon knew the winter seas would be rougher since his last outing, he was not looking forward to this trip. How could anyone think he’s going to Dragonstone by choice?

His ship, the ship that carried him to Hardhome and back, was waiting for him, one of many that crowded the busy harbor. Davos sent word ahead to prepare her for the journey south to Dragonstone, about 5 days travel if the winds were kind. My lucky ship, he mused. She’s not failed me yet. Maybe he should accept the good omens as they come.

No one was more shocked to see Wyman Manderly sit a horse as Jon was as he rode through the gates of White Harbor. After the initial courtesies, the host began to amble toward the docks as Manderly reined up alongside him. Jon was eager to speak to him about his preparations for the coming threat. Instead, he got an earful from the Lord who was freshly returned from Winterfell himself.

The King was a fool to answer the Dragon Queen’s “demand for allegiance” as he put it.

“Remember your Father and your Grandfather before him, Your Grace,” Manderly snorted as they rode their way through the busy, snow-crusted streets. “The South is no place for a Stark.”

Jon reluctantly listened out of respect for the Lord but had already made up his mind the moment Sam’s letter arrived from the Citadel. Dragonstone had dragonglass, a mountain of it. It also had a possible ally that could turn the tides of war in their favor, Queen Daenerys and her 3 dragons.

”This is life or death for all of us. There is no choice!” Jon stormed at Sansa and Davos before leaving Winterfell, frustrated at their barrage of pleads for him to reconsider the trip.

There were plenty of reasons to stay - Preparing Winterfell for the coming threat. Continuing to train his people to fight. But there was only one reason to go to Dragonstone, the choice was laid bare before him: Life or Death. What they didn’t understand was something he lived with every day since Hardhome; There is no winning this war, only trying to survive it. The Night King possessed power and magic like nothing anyone has ever seen. He was coming for all of them and death was on his side.

The Northern lords’ suspicion of his choice to meet with the Dragon Queen had weighed heavy on Sansa. “We need the King in the North in the North!” Lady Mormont had defiantly proclaimed as the men stomped and pounded their mugs on the heavy oak tables in agreement. A child of 10 years, the men called her Kingmaker, a worthy moniker for Lady Lyanna. Surely, if we could capture her spirit in a bottle, we would win this war hands down.

All of them - Manderly, Sansa, Ser Davos - wore his patience thin. He was tired of defending his decision, of the infighting. The growing encampment of bannermen at Winterfell had created a perfect storm of hearsay and chatter. As the gathered lords strategized to shore up defenses for the coming storm, they also conferred and whispered of secrets and alliances. Jon despised the politics of it all. He’ll let Sansa deal with the gaggle of gossiping geese.

All the truth he could fathom at the moment was the soreness from the long, hard ride to White Harbor and the task set before him. The quicker he got to Dragonstone, the faster he could return home.

Jon’s thoughts returned to the conversation at hand. “We need alliances in this war and I refuse to play games with the lives of our people.” Jon interrupted harshly, meeting Manderly’s gaze with authority. “I'm not a Stark,” he straightened, “I will be fine.” With that, he effectively ended the discussion.

The harbor was a bluster of covered carts and dock workers. Fishermen were stocking salted fish and crabs in barrels as wagons of wood freshly chopped from the surrounding hills ambled along the slippery roads. The North Prepares, Jon surveyed thoughtfully. Although his people haven’t seen the enemy, they understood one truth all Northerners know: Winter is here and preparation means survival.

That’s all the truth they need to know right now.

“We have responded to Lady Sansa’s request for grain, Your Grace,” Manderly quipped between his loud breaths as they rode.

As one of the richest families in the North, their trading galleys and port were the life’s blood of the North - supplying grain and livestock from The Reach, fruits and wines from Dorne, and textiles from the Free Cities. Nowadays, it was food that mattered most. At Winterfell’s request, Manderly began importing grain and foodstuff from across the Narrow Sea. The wars had already cost them dearly in men and resources, and with the War of the Queens afoot, The Reach and all its abundance have become the spoils of their war.

Although he hoped to leave soon after arriving at White Harbor, the strong surf and gusting winds had increased two-fold, leaving the captain to greet them on the docks with no choice but to delay departure until first light tomorrow. Jon exchanged a disappointed sigh with Davos, relented his good omens, and followed Manderly up the hill to New Castle.

It was customary to dine with his host but Jon excused himself and Davos under the guise of fatigue, a truth, although Jon really just needed some time alone. They will break their fast with Manderly in the morning before they set sail, Jon informed the lord.

A slight twinge of insult swept Manderly’s face before it was replaced with understanding and loyal courtesy. He ordered baths and food sent to their rooms. A warning for their guests “not to be disturbed” was pronounced. Manderly bowed curtly with a tight smile and left, leaving Jon alone for the first time since Winterfell. A welcome relief, he exhaled, closing the door and relishing the quiet for a moment.

His only wish: Ghost was with him.

The bath was hot, steaming salt water, and his sore, bruised body thanked him for the prolonged soak. He rested his arms on the side of the narrow tub, hand holding his face. The warm drips of water and soap fell from his hair. He ran his hand down his face, exhaling deeply. The hearth was bold, he relished the excessive warmth of his chamber after the cold ride south. As his bath water cooled, he sat staring into the hearth flames, wondering if he would ever be granted a vision of why he was brought back to life.

Some questions never get answers, he knew all too well. Promises. Promises that died with his Father. A mother he’ll never know, not even her name.

And here he was, going off to convince a Targaryen to fight for the North. A foreign invader, his bannermen warned. He closed his eyes and chided himself about the inconceivable notion that this plan of his could work. He never wanted to rule, let alone with an iron fist. He encouraged his closest advisors to speak their minds and concerns freely. And so they did, loudly and often, until the moment he left Winterfell.

Yes, they followed him, but is it to their end? He knew what they all faced. The day he stood in the Great Hall of Winterfell and was declared King, he scanned the faces of his people - his loyal North men, the surviving Freefolk, and those who suffered under Ramsey’s short but painful wrath. He wanted to save them all. To truly defeat the Night King and give them the assurances they wanted from him. But all he could wonder was how many of these faces would live to see Spring. His despair grew at the thought

This was no ordinary winter. This was the Long Night come again, the living nightmare straight from Old Nan’s stories. No one knows how or why this threat had come to pass, but it is beyond anything anyone could imagine. A hundred thousand dead men, giants, mammoths, and gods know what else were marching on the Wall. They don’t sleep, eat, or even breathe. A single army meant to kill everything in its path.

And we cant even get supply wagons through the heavy snows, he reluctantly admitted to himself. There is no way we can win this war. Do we stock Bear Island with supplies if we are forced to flee? Do we stay put at Winterfell, knowing there is no easy retreat when the Night King arrives? Is this all for nothing?

So many questions and, truth be told, there were no real solutions.

Dragonglass was the best answer he had. Dragons are a better answer but that would require plenty of convincing and diplomacy, as Ser Davos put it. The Dragon Queen was at war with Cersei at the moment, his pleas for help might fall on deaf ears.

Unbelieving ears, he thought. I sound like a madman talking about walking dead men.

Frustration and doubt crept back up, disrupting the calm of his bath. He never stopped thinking, never stopped figuring out how to survive this threat. His fists began to clench, the tightness returned to his jaw. The bathwater suddenly cooled, no longer the inviting respite from the world it was a minute ago. Jon sighed loudly.

I can’t even enjoy simple pleasures anymore.

He finished his bath, dressing in a pair of cotton trousers but remained shirtless, soaking up as much warmth in the room as he could. When supper arrived shortly afterward, he picked from a hardy plate of roasted chicken, carrots and potatoes with a heel of buttered bread. A flagon of tart red wine helped wash the food down and the worry away. His brow unfurled as he drank deep from his cup, the wine beginning to work its favor.

Finishing his meal, Jon yawned, squinting toward the candles at his bedside and dining table, the weight of the day catching up with him. Licking his thumb, he stood and walked around the room, extinguishing the flames, leaving only the hearth lit. He flopped down onto the furs of the oversized featherbed and exhaled. Lying on his back, Jon watched the fire shadows dance on the ceiling, enjoying the warmth and glow of the room.

No more worries for today, he thought. Steadying his breath, he closed his eyes and let the exhaustion and wine take over, musing about the journey ahead. To meet the last Targaryen, said to be as fierce as she was beautiful with 3 dragons. Sansa’s warning came to mind, She is a conqueror, Jon. Never forget that no matter how fair and beautiful she appears.

Don’t fall for her, he reminded himself.

He shifted and slowly fell to sleep, dreaming of circling dragons in silver clouds.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two - Daenerys I

Tyrion had received a raven from The King in the North, a response to her invitation to come to Dragonstone.

He’s on his way, Daenerys contemplated.

An unrequited anticipation clung deep inside her, waking her early with the hope of a ship on dawn’s horizon. Nothing yet. The castle stones cold under her bare feet, she wrapped the lion skin of the Hrakkar tightly around her shoulders.

A remnant from a former life, she reflected sadly.

Sleep did not come easily since her arrival and only proved more restless with word of Jon Snow’s timely visit.

Although she already received guests at Dragonstone, this one, well, this one was no ally or priestess. He commanded the North and the Vale, his kingdom the largest in Westeros.

He was formidable, respected by many.

Even Tyrion liked and trusted him, a rare enough assessment from the most skeptical man she knew. Dany tried to imagine this man in the flesh, her mind wandering into that welcomed distraction while the incessant talk of war occupied her waking life.

The moment she dreamed of since she was a child, the return to her ancestral stronghold, felt like an empty victory. Dragonstone was in a sordid disarray and in desperate need of repairs. Parts of the castle had returned to the elements; from a wall collapse on the west battlements to a large rat infestation in the kitchens, the castle felt hollow and she quietly longed for the comforts of the Great Pyramid.

Her Dothraki blood riders scoured the island on the first day and discovered that, save 2 old castellans and their daughter, the entirety of Dragonstone was deserted. The small villages below Dragonmont were abandoned for some time. Varys concluded that when Stannis Baratheon was killed on his northern expedition, the inhabitants of Dragonstone fled in fear of Queen Cersei’s wrath. She set the builders and masons to rebuild the villages and docks. Restoring a sense of normalcy was paramount to her on Dragonstone - She meant to give her people a true home and keep her promise of a better life for them all.

Now, the highlands and cliff mesas were filled with animal skin tents as far as the eye could see, campfires dotting the landscape day and night. The island may be volcanic, but the grassy plateaus and rich soil fed the horses and people alike. It may not be much, but it was enough to keep the people of the Great Grass Sea sated for now. They were even getting good at fishing, paddling out to the shallow waters with nets, catching enough fish and crab to fed everyone.

They’ve lost their fear of the sea, she smiled. The Dothraki will make excellent Westerosi after all.

Good Omens, Dany thought. And the King in the North is on his way to bend the knee.

She pulled the white lion skin closer, shivering with cold or excitement, she couldn’t tell. The cool air whipped around her, tossing her loose hair into a blinding cloud of silver strands. She fought her way out of it, smoothing the strays away from her face. Every morning she came out here, her small stone balcony set high in the tower wall. It was her hideaway, a respite from the world. She kept company with the intricately carved stone dragons that surrounded her, built before the Doom of Valyria.

Those eyes were watching her, she knew. Let them watch. I am the Last Targaryen. My ancestors should be proud that I have survived long enough to return Dragonstone to the Dragons.

With a large gust of bitingly, cold wind, Dany scanned the horizon one last time before heading back into her chambers, closing the heavy wood doors behind her. Admittedly, she did not feel at home in this strange, damp castle.

Missandei sensed her queen’s discomfort and took it upon herself to re-dress the queen’s chambers with as many comforts as they could gather; ornate candle holders, soft, warm rugs and blankets, chairs with pillows, and a fire that burned in the hearth day and night. Dany was so touched, that she reciprocated the gesture for Missandei’s chamber. Small pleasures made the dreariness of the island bearable. This strange, unwelcoming land was her home, her birthplace. She will make amends and learn to love Dragonstone or die trying.

Her octagonal-shaped chamber atop the highest tower at Dragonstone had impossibly large panes of colored glass, a giant hearth, and vaulted ceilings so high, that the crackle of the fire echoed like soft music.

Kings and queens slept here, lived here. Her family, descendants of old. Aegon the Conqueror and the Princes of Dragonstone. She will make this work.

A familiar rhythmic knock came at her door, Missandei, she knew.

“Enter!” She called, padding swiftly around the chamber, her loose hair flowing with each step. She was in a good mood today.

Every day was an endless stream of council meetings and troop movement updates. But today, she was able to take time for herself. Just one day. Dany wanted to visit the villages and docks, to walk with her people and their children. Maybe explore the castle’s hidden passages, trying to find the treasures of the Targaryen past, if anything had survived. She was definitely taking Drogon for an afternoon ride.

It will be a good day indeed.

They had scarcely landed and settled in when her allies arrived on Dragonstone to plan the attack on Cersei. The Council met and a strategic attack plan was outlined. With orders given, the Greyjoys and Ellaria Sand departed for Dorne shortly after the meeting.

Lady Olenna was the last to depart, leaving yesterday on the evening tide. Dany could recognize the sorrow and fury the Queen of Thorns wore heavy in her heart. The woman had survived her entire family. “A fate worse than death,” Lady Olenna confessed to Dany while walking the castle grounds on her last day on Dragonstone. After a rocky beginning, Dany had come to respect and even admire Olenna. Although there was a distant coolness to how The Queen of Thorns addressed her, days of harsh attitude gave way to an almost maternal protectiveness - sharing her wisdom and lessons learned from the games the high lords play.

By the end of her visit, Dany was sad to see her go. She will visit her when this is all over, Dany promised, gently squeezing Olenna’s frail hands as they said farewell on the dock. Olenna held her hands tightly and imparted one final piece of advice, “Remember, you are a dragon, my dear, and dragons bow to no one.”

With the Unsullied departing for Casterly Rock in 2 days’ time, Missandei spent more time with Grey Worm under the guise of “keeping her Grace abreast of progress”. Dany was happy they had found each other; their friendship and love had grown despite the sexual tension that continued to build between them. They read to each other, took walks on the beach at dusk and stargazed in the only garden on Dragonstone.

A once rough and rotted stone patch overlooking the sea, the Dothraki women ripped the dead plants from the flowerbeds their first week on the island, planting new bulbs and seeds from the grasslands of Essos. Soon, the garden would smell like the great plains - alive with the scent of wildflowers, night lilies, and lemongrass. She hoped to see them bloom at least once before winter truly sets in.

Missandei entered and closed the door swiftly behind her. “Lord Tyrion is waiting in the solar, Your Grace.”

“Please with the formalities, we are alone here," Dany responded, grasping her arm, giving her a smile and quick squeeze before letting go.

She swayed over to the clothes she laid out for the day. Removing her night shift over her head, she adjusted her small clothes underneath. Dany moved quickly to pull on her grey leather breaches, soft and supple, well worn and form-fitting so she could get a good grip on Drogon’s back. She couldn’t imagine a saddle for a dragon even if her ancestors had supposedly used them. Nothing compared to the thrill of riding Drogon bareback, although she might have to reconsider some sort of harness as he continues to grow.

Next, Dany donned a long sleeve, cotton boys tunic, perfect enough to fit under her favorite dark gray overcoat - fur lined and made of heavy brocade fabric, dripping with intricate shoulder beading and hand-dyed red silk thread. It was in the Westerosi fashion with just a touch of the East, Just like me.

Dany sat at her dressing table and closed her eyes, her mind wandering to the weeks’ ahead while Missandei worked deftly to brush and braid her hair. So close to reclaiming my family’s throne, my birthright. She allowed herself to linger in the moment, even as the doubt rose in her throat, she pushed it down.

Remember who you are, Daenerys. The voice from the stars had called to her all those nights ago as she wandered the Dothraki sea, lost and starving. The dragons know, do you?

You’re in the great game now. And the great game is terrifying. Tyrion’s words rang true each day. He likened war to a game of Cyvasse; one must study the whole board before making the next move. With her Hand’s sound counsel, she was playing the game better than Cersei at the moment.

The next move was to secure The King in the North as an ally. An honest, fair man. she was told.

And young, like me.

She thought she was the only person in the world with a bonded connection to extraordinary, mythical creatures until she heard of Jon Snow and his giant white direwolf.

He’s not like anyone else in the world, he’s more like me.

The anticipation in her grew with a shiver, impatient and warm in her chest. Her interest was beyond peaked.

“I hope this Jon Snow brings his direwolf.” She unexpectedly spoke her thoughts aloud, breaking the silence and Missandei’s concentration.

“I hope so as well,” Missandei responded, pausing a moment before returning to the braid. “The world is filled with beautiful and dangerous creatures. Direwolves are considered one of the rarest of animals, only found beyond the Wall of Westeros.”

“A stark white wolf with red eyes from what I hear.” Dany said with wonder, “Even rarer so.”

“Jon Snow sounds like quite a man”, Missandei playfully repeated the Queen’s own words back to her.

Dany glanced over her shoulder at her and smirked. Word has it that the King in the North was also a handsome, brooding man of few words, with dark hair and eyes to match. Melisandre, the Red Priestess, had provided few details of Jon Snow sufficed to say he was a brave, honest king who risked his life for his people. She hinted at the deep strength and power he possessed, a part to play in this fabled Long Night to come, she foretold.

Religious nonsense, Dany dismissed. The Red Priests of R'hllor helped to quell the unrest in Meereen while she was away, and she was eternally grateful for the help. Their prophecies foretold of her birth and the birth of dragons. Dany was fascinated but also wary, so she kept all religion at a skeptical distance. Faith in herself was the only faith she needed.

Missandei finished the last braid, rubbed her hands in scented lavender oil and ran them through Dany’s waves that flowed down her back. Dany stood, straightened her overcoat and silver dragon sash, donned her riding boots and headed for the door. Two Dothraki blood riders stood guard in the hallway, nodding to their queen as she passed them, she entered the solar where Tyrion sat waiting.

“Good morning, Your Grace…” he quipped, unable to get to his feet fast enough as Dany strode through the room with purpose, out the next door, and down the tower stairs. Two more guards, Unsullied, waited in the stairwell, following just behind a hurried Tyrion and Missandei. She was eager to start the day, to get on Drogon’s back and ride out along the coast to check on “progress” herself.

“We are hoping to have the Guest Tower ready for the King and his Hand by day’s end. They will be here by tomorrow if the winds are fair.” Tyrion began, trying to keep pace with the Queen as she bounded down the steps.

She was headed straight for the council chamber, eager to hear any word from her allies or decisions that required her attention before setting off on the day’s adventures.

Any new word from the King in the North?

She arrived at the council chamber, Varys and Grey Worm were already waiting. They bowed as she walked past, making her way to the head of the Painted Table. She peered out the columned window, scanning the horizon once again, her dragons in the distance, swooping over the sunlit sea. She relented, turned, and sat, everyone followed suit.

She surveyed her advisors, each with their own perspective and field of knowledge. There was so much to discuss.

Looking from Tyrion to Varys and back again, she cleared her throat and said, “Tell me everything you know about Jon Snow.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three - Jon II

“I am asking if there’s something I can do to help you,” Tyrion genuinely offered.

Jon shifted in frustration. He had come all this way to meet the Dragon Queen only to have their first meeting end in a stalemate with the threat of being taken her prisoner. “Not what I would call a good start,” Davos sarcastically noted afterwards while walking from the throne room to their guest quarters. Jon felt the hope for his people’s survival slipping away. He needing something, anything to go in his favor right now or he was truly a Northern fool.

He turned to face Tyrion, appreciating his attempt to mend the divide between him and the Queen. Diplomacy was a dance Jon was learning, and even still, it was as awkward to him as a drunken waltz. Seeing the genuine concern in Tyrion’s eyes, he relaxed his stance and replied with the truest statement he could muster, “Well, I’m starving.” Jon shrugged, his face lifted and smirked, “Can we talk about how you can help over ale and a rasher of bacon?”

“I prefer wine, in large amounts.” Tyrion grinned back at Jon, the tension between them finally broken. Jon smiled as Tyrion gestured to the openness of the landscape behind them, “Now let’s go back inside before I get blown off this cliff.” It was the first real laugh Jon had in a long while. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed Lord Tyrion’s company; the weeks on the Kingsroad to the Wall were made bearable by the discussions they shared. He was an honest man, nothing like his family, Jon mused as they headed back to the castle.

“So, where didya’ get that scar? ” Jon asked, his hand gesturing across his own face in demonstration. Tyrion’s raised his hand to his cheek, feeling the ridge of scar tissue.

“At the Battle of the Blackwater. Here I was, worried about Baratheon soldiers killing me on the battlefield when all the while it was my sister who came the closest to doing the honor.” Tyrion stated in his usual witty drawl. “And you, I see you have a similar scar, were you shaving or was it a jealous wildling girl?”

“Hah, neither. Eagle talons from a warg I killed,” Jon responded, pausing a moment, “or maybe from the battle for the Wall. I’ve been fighting ever since I left Winterfell, it’s all a blur as time goes on” Jon squinted a bit, feeling the tightness of the scar beneath his left eye. So many scars, he inhaled deeply, feeling the shallowness on his chest. Although the wounds remained angry and puckered, they were slowly healing.

“Warg?” Tyrion questioned eagerly. “As in skin-changing? Seeing through the eyes of an animal? I've read stories and histories of their existence among the Children of the Forest and the First Men. But they exist, truly?" Jon nodded in affirmation. "Hah! the wonders beyond the Wall, a sight to behold if it weren’t so cold.” Jon enjoyed Tyrion’s enthusiasm, he felt very much the same when he found out about wargs. It was magical, something you dream of as a child, being able to run in a wolf pack or soar through the air like a falcon.

Are you able to see through your wolf’s eyes?” Tyrion asked. Jon almost felt like saying Yes. Maybe getting Lord Tyrion to believe in magical powers and wargs will also help him to believe in the Army of the Dead.

“No,” Jon lamented, “I have no power like that. Ghost and I have a connection, to be sure. He knows when I’m angry or hurt when I’m in danger. I imagine the Queen’s dragons are much the same with her.”

“Ahh, The Queen’s dragons,” Tyrion responded, “Eerily intelligent, problem-solving animals that make me feel like dinner every time I’m in their presence. The queen needs barely whisper a word and they obey without hesitation. She has the ability to charm even the most dangerous creatures to do her bidding,” Tyrion smiled at his own words. “Daenerys has the love and dedication of all her subjects.”

“So it seems.” Jon quipped back, a knowing tone to his voice. The Queen’s beauty was undeniable. As she stepped closer to him in the throne room yesterday, he could see the brightness of her eyes, her impossibly silver hair glowing in the sunlight. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away, thinking she would stop her advance at a safe distance. But she didn’t. She moved forward, step by step, forcing him to meet her gaze with every reveal she uttered. He swallowed hard, his body tensed in anticipation as she stopped a few feet from him. She was fierce, formidable, this petite woman with her huge Dothraki bloodriders keeping a close watch.

She was close, so close. She smelled of flowers and fresh air. Gods, she’s gorgeous, he couldn't help but admit, taking in the sight of her beauty even as she threatened his freedom. But he held his composure throughout, meeting her arrogance with respectful defiance, he would not give her the satisfaction of having the upper hand. She was used to getting her way, but not with him she won’t. He was a King, her equal. Sansa would be pleased I took her advice. Well, mostly anyway.

As they approached the castle, Tyrion suggested they head for the Guest Tower, as food and drink were surely waiting for them in Jon’s solar at this hour. And he was right. The smell of cooked meat permeated through the stairwell as they approached Jon’s guest chambers. They entered to find a small feast overflowing on the dining table, a plethora of meats, bread, and fruits, enough to feed 10 men. So much food, Jon thought, scanning the table - a platter of blood sausages and honeyed ham slices. Fresh bread still hot from the oven with fruit jams, butter, and various cheeses. Large, ripe figs and fire plums. A half dozen hard-boiled chicken eggs and a rasher blackened bacon alongside a flagon of freshly squeezed juice from an eastern fruit Jon had never heard of. A plate of steamed fish stuffed with crabmeat and cooked in butter and eastern spices that made his mouth water in anticipation. Flagons of ale and wine aplenty.

“The Queen’s apology for yesterday, I’m sure.” Tyrion gestured to the table as he began piling meat and bread on his plate, taking a seat at one end of the table. “As a wise man once said, The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Jon removed his cloak and gloves and strode over to the table, eager to pour himself a mug of ale to steady his never-ending worry. This was his chance to convince the Queen’s Hand to help in the fight against the dead. On the cliff, Tyrion conceded that he believed the White Walker threat was real. A fleeting win, Jon felt, but knowing and helping were two separate things. Right now, he had to choose the right words and allow no small talk or distractions. This was his last chance.

He poured the dark ale in his mug and drank half its contents in 3 gulps before filling up again. There was an intensity to his hunger this morning, grabbing a plate, he served himself a bit of everything the feast had to offer. He set the plate down on the table across from Tyrion. Sitting, he leaned back in the chair, mug of cold ale in hand. Jon assessed a rare quiet moment from Tyrion, his mouth was full with sausage and bread as he poured himself a full cup of wine.

“Dragonglass.” Jon stated matter of factly, breaking the silence of the meal. Tyrion looked up from his plate, his eyes quizzical under a curtain of dark blonde hair, asking for more detail than just the one word.

Jon took a bite of bacon and one more gulp of ale before delving into the story of life since their fateful last meeting atop the Wall. The Wildling Exodus and The King Beyond the Wall. Of Sam’s discovery of the Dragonglass at The Fist of the First Men and the return later to find his Night’s Watch brothers killed by the Army of the Dead. The remains of their horses laid out in a sacrificial pattern, half buried in ice. He recanted Sam’s encounter with a White Walker and how it shattered like glass when stabbed with an Obsidian dagger. And finally, Hardhome.

Hardhome. He couldn’t even think of it without a flood of pain and regret, failure coursing through him with each memory. He paused and drank deeply again, finishing his ale. He had not forgiven himself for Hardhome, he never will. It was a massacre. The extinction of the entire Freefolk population save the 5,000 he was able to ferry to safety. More than 100,000 lives lost in the blink of an eye. The life sucked from their bodies as an ominous cloud of snow and magic descended from the surrounding cliffs, engulfing the encampment - every man, woman, child and beast - consumed by the storm. The howl of wind and screams filled the air, suffocating all life in its path until only silence remained. Within minutes, the freefolk emerged as a horde of undead, blue-eyed wights, tearing down the fortress gate and massacring everything in sight. They had barely escaped and as his boat drifted from shore, Jon saw the living nightmare before him, a hellscape of death beyond imagining. The shock of it could never be properly conveyed to anyone and he couldn’t escape it, it lived within him, deeper than wounds.

“…he raised his hands and they all stood up at once…”

Countless nights since Hardhome, Jon dreamed of the Night King; those blue eyes burning his soul, reaching to him from the dock. He was pulling the life from his body and Jon helpless to stop him. I felt death, it was real. His chest shivered hard at the memory.

Jon finished and stood abruptly, walking to the flagon of ale and poured another full mug. Frustrated at the need to have another drink this early, he set the mug down hard on the table, bracing his arms, his gaze scanning the feast before them. A feast before the famine, he angrily disheartened. How many of my people would this feed in the dead of winter? Gods, I can’t even enjoy simple pleasures anymore.

Jon audibly sighed, letting his head hang for a moment before looking up to meet Tyrion’s disbelieving gaze, “It will be the death of us all.” Jon softened, steadying his voice. “Help us, my lord. We need Dragonglass if we stand any chance of survival. And somewhere on this island, there is a mountain of it.”

For what seemed like an eternity, Tyrion stared up at Jon, soaking in all that just transpired. Tyrion reached for his cup and emptied its contents in one long gulp. Wiping his mouth and beard, he pushed himself back from the table and stood. Silently, he strode toward the chamber door. He stopped and turned, meeting Jon’s patient yet anxious stare.

“Seems diplomacy is in order. I will make the case for you, Jon Snow, and there’s no time like the present.” Tyrion’s stern face broke into a small smile as Jon exhaled in relief. Tyrion outstretched his hand and Jon closed the distance and reciprocated, shaking in mutual respect. For the first time, he felt hopeful since arriving on Dragonstone.

“Besides, no more wine for me. One slur and the queen dismisses the rest of my words as drunken dwarf nonsense.” Tyrion quipped, straightening his coat. He looked at Jon, “I'll do my best, Your Grace, to convince Her Grace, to grant you this modest request.” Jon saw the twinkle of jest in his eyes, he couldn’t help but smile.

It all sounded so foolish, Your Grace. He meant it when he said that they were all children playing at a game. The generation that took part in the Grand Tourney at Harrenhall, that fought in Robert’s Rebellion were mostly gone - killed in the War of the 5 Kings. It was their children that remained to pick up the pieces and fix the broken kingdoms their fathers had destroyed.

As Tyrion turned and left the chamber, he called over his shoulder, “To be continued, Jon Snow. We have many more stories to share and lots more wine to drink.”Jon chuckled, closing the door and returning to the table for some more ale. He believed Tyrion. Well, I want to believe him.

His thoughts shifted to Daenerys. He’ll go out and walk the castle grounds this evening, in hopes of catching the queen alone. Jon wanted to know more about her, to see what she was like without guards and formalities. They were of an age together, orphans in this wide world, trying to rule their people justly and fairly. They had much in common if she only knew. Her presence may have unnerved him, but he looked forward to seeing her again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shriek of dragons overhead. Moving to the window, he looked up and saw all three of them circling above the castle, a tiny, silver-haired figure perched on the back of the largest dragon.The anticipation returned, a growing heat slowly enveloped his core as he watched this beautiful, mythical scene unfold before him, dragons swooping and dancing in the air. She was mythical, powerful. Alone in his chambers, Jon allows his thoughts to wander; the sensation of pulling her close, to bury his face in her hair, inhaling the wildflowers, tasting the soft skin of her throat. Don’t fall for her, if only his body listened...

For now, he tried to push those thoughts aside, needed to focus on forging this alliance. Today will decide the fate of the North, and if else fails, Davos will smuggle them out of Dragonstone in the dead of night tonight.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four - Daenerys II

It had been over a week since they met on the path at sunset.

Now, she stood on that exact spot, looking out over the rough tidal pools, waters churning, crashing on the rocks below. The hazy sun sat deep in thin gray clouds, darker ones snaking fast across on the horizon. A storm’s coming, she knew. The castle had been eerily quiet today, everyone waiting for word of the Unsullied attack on Casterly Rock. Their faces heavy with hope and worry, Missandei’s most of all.

She wanted nothing more than to fly to the Red Keep and end this game, but the whole of her counselors implored her to stay on Dragonstone and let everything unfold as planned. She couldn’t stand the wait, so she spent her days on Drogon’s back, circling the island and surrounding sea, away from the criticisms and supposed sound advice. It was easier than dealing with the world right now.

Losing two allies was an unplanned catastrophe, no one knew of Euron’s Iron Fleet, or The Red Eyed fleet, as it was now called due to the crimson eyed kraken sails he flew. After their defeat, it was said that the Greyjoy uncle was hunting the seas for more of her troops to slaughter, all while Grey Worm and the Unsullied sailed those same waters, heading for battle at Casterly Rock. If she was allowed to fly free, she would incinerate The Red Eyed Fleet with the firepower of all three dragons, satisfied to watch Euron Greyjoy burn all the way to ash. But every time she spoke of this, Tyrion would frown and panic and begin the never-ending speech of not burning the Seven Kingdoms to the ground.

Sure it wasn’t ideal, but wasn’t Yara Greyjoy’s council, to hit King’s Landing fast and hard, better advice than this horrific outcome? And now, Lady Greyjoy is captured or dead. Theon, Ellaria, and all the rest, their fates unknown. Thank the Gods Olenna took a merchant ship home in disguise, hopefully, she was safe and sound in Highgarden. Dany had failed to protect her allies, a monumental shortsighted failure, and now they’re all but gone.

And with this Greyjoy/Dorne disaster fresh in her mind, recent history was set to repeat itself. By not assisting the Unsullied at Casterly Rock, she was putting the lives of her men in danger, knowing she that could protect them and end the battle even before it begins. How could she reason with sitting here and doing nothing? I can’t, she knew. The worry crept up in her throat, fear that failure at the Rock would cost the life of Grey Worm, of all her Unsullied who’ve been with her almost since the beginning. Dany closed her eyes and exhaled, sending whispered prayers of good fortune on the wind. Her thoughts returned to the moment at hand, taking in a deep breathe of sea air, Dany sought out happier musings: Jon Snow.

He had come to her on the path that evening. She heard the footsteps approaching, Missandei she figured, only to be caught off guard by the sound of Jon’s voice. Dany had known why he sought her out, Tyrion had spoken to her earlier that day of Dragonglass and White Walkers. Nonsense, It has to be! She decided she was going to make him ask for her help; to say the words to her. She held steady and turned to face him. He was alone, a warrior rebel king in the North, she thought. His dark gaze, already weary and defensive, met hers. He wore a thick wolf pelt around his shoulders over a long, heavy winter cloak; it felt like armor between them.

He stepped closer to her, and closer still until he was within her reach. He smelled of soap and fur, his hair pulled back from his furrowed brow, still wet from a bath. His northern accent was a thick growl on his tongue. His voice low and measured, lulling her deeper with each word spoken. Dany stole glances at this proud, brooding, exceedingly handsome man next to her. He had refused to give in again, defiantly holding her gaze, testing her, daring her to look away with the pull of his dark, unflinching stare. She felt the heat rise from her chest, threatening to flush her cheeks in admission. This insolent, stubborn gorgeous man, my gods! She was the first to look away, gaining her composure, her heart beating loudly in her ears. She exhaled in frustration, trying to make sense of this man who defied her at every word and opportunity.

Tyrion had called him a true Northman; hard-headed, loyal, and proud. He had warned her that there was a chance that Jon Snow would not bend the knee, but Dany brushed off that nonsense. He had no choice, she arrogantly insisted. Tyrion smirked at her response; now she knows what that smile meant. He knew this defiance would happen. Damn that man…

And in that moment, she finally understood what Tyrion meant, understood who Jon Snow really is; A chosen king, unwaveringly strong, sworn to protect and ensure the survival of his people. He needed to be this person, this hard man standing impassively before her. Hadn’t she been a ferocious Khalessi once at the gates of Qarth, threatening dragonfire to keep her people alive? As much as she wanted to be angry, to admonish his insolence in the throne room, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Give him something.” Tyrion had advised her. Dany wouldn’t punish his strength or honor, instead, she will show him hers; She gave up her high horse, for now, and granted him permission to find and mine the Dragonglass.

Dany had caught Jon off guard, his eyes sought hers out in an open admission of shock and admiration. His voice immediately softened, the persistent furrow was gone from his brow. For a moment, he almost looked like a young man of his age, before the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders. Dany was taken aback, happy to see that face; honest, endearing, beautiful, truth be told. She turned from him, seeking out the lull of the rushing tide to steady herself again.

Dany felt his gaze back on her, his question of her belief in his cause lingered heavy in the air between them. She was unsure of what she believed but certain that this man was no liar. Weren’t my dragons proof enough that magic and myth were real in the world again? She desperately wanted to take that leap of faith and believe him, but it all sounded so outlandish, she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. No matter how much I wanted him…to respect me, she resolved.

“You better get to work, Jon Snow” was all she could say, dismissing him before she could give any more away. He paused a moment longer before turning and heading up the steps. Dany thought of that exchange often, trying to pick apart all that was unsaid between them.

Dany had not spoken to or seen Jon since. With her approval, he dove head first into finding the Dragonglass cache and had not come up for air. She heard he spent his days hunting the island caves, moving rocks and sand to get deeper access to the caverns for exploration. Dany had given him enough men and resources for the task, but with so many caves on this volcanic island, it was a slow, hard work. They had found patches of Dragonglass but not the mountain he was searching for. He’d return to the castle each evening, disheartened and filthy. Dany had her household prepare hot saltwater baths for him with food and drink at the ready for him and all the men. It was her only way of saying hello and good night to him each day; he had declined her invitations to share a meal, citing exhaustion or work as the excuse. It was believable, understandable, she knew. He worked from sunrise until he gave up in frustration and exhaustion, usually long after the sunset. She felt avoided, and so she avoided him, refusing to be a melodramatic girl about it.

She was shocked to hear Jon ask for permission to visit the Dothraki village by himself. She sent cautious approval, her curiosity peaked at the boldness of his request. With Missandei as translator, emissary and watchful spy, Jon Snow met with the Dothraki elders and spoke to them of the White Walkers from the Land of Always Winter. To Dany’s surprise, Missandei relayed that the elders conferred, even validated, Jon Snow’s story - their own oral histories of similar events in Essos went back thousand of years. They spoke of encroaching Ghost grass and the historic Blood Betrayal of Yi Ti that began their Long Night, forcing their ancestors to flee west of the Bone Mountains to the land now known as the Dothraki Sea. He had asked questions of the elders and answered theirs in turn. They met and departed in mutual admiration and, the next day, her Khalasar gave willingly of their time and resources to help Jon Snow in the hunt. On her daily ride around the island, she watched as her people worked with the King in the North to search the cave systems for this mythical treasure trove of Obsidian. His dedication was alluring. He fascinated her to no end.

Then the hearsay that Jon Snow was a legendary warrior of the North - a commander of armies and giants - reached the ears of her bloodriders. Yesterday afternoon, word came that one of her closest and most skilled bloodriders, Qhono, had vied with other warriors and won the right to challenge Jon to a Dothraki style sparring match. As she was about to send word that such a request was not acceptable to make of their Northern guest, Dany was stunned to hear that Jon had already accepted the challenge with fervor. Her initial response was to forbid this, but Missandei advised against it - live sparring was a sign of respect among Dothraki warriors, it was not her place to interfere with a custom that is meant to honor a skilled swordsman.

Sparring with edged weapons was unheard of in Westeros unless you were fully armored and on a battlefield. Among the Dothraki, this level of aggressive, bare skin sparring was reserved for only the most skilled and talented of warriors. The rules were simple - If a blow lands on an opponent, the steel is only meant to graze and indent the skin, drawing no blood in the attack. A testament to a warriors’ skill and control over his weapon, the first to draw his opponents’ blood loses the match. There were fewer things more respected than a warrior who could win this way. It was the closest thing to actual single combat fighting she’d allowed and it always drew a crowd whenever sparring matches took place.

“Let them fight, Your Grace. Jon Snow can hold his own,” Tyrion waived it off, throwing his two dragons into the conversation. Thwarted again, “Fine!”, she exasperated with a promise not to interfere. Just one more way The King in the North was skirting her authority, by earning the admiration of those around him, even my bloodriders. She growled discontentedly at the thought.

Her Dothraki had playful given him the name Kahl Naqis Shoris, the little steel king. Dany couldn’t help but grin every time she heard it. From the myth of Jon Snow, she had expected him to be 7 feet tall- all Northern brawn and bluster - a giant grizzly bear of a man wielding an axe or a club, viscous direwolf at his side. Instead, she received this handsomely brooding dark-haired warrior, his reputation larger than life, deep, brown eyes flecked with gold, heavy in pride and defiance. He was magnetic and distant all at once, his walls built tight around him. After a week as her guest, he was still an enigma to her, giving nothing away, leaving her confused and slightly hurt. She wasn’t sure of where she stood with him, maybe not even with herself right now, her failures wore her down.

Most evenings, Missandei reported back to Dany with a plethora of tales about how well Jon Snow was received by her people. How he took to light sparring with her men during breaks, learning Dothraki technique and showing them defensive moves against longswords. He ate and laughed with those same men in the evening after their long day in the caverns, the dining room in the Guest Tower was filled with ale and laughter almost every night. The king would always stay a short while before excusing himself, heading off alone to his chambers. And of course, Missandei wouldn’t fail to mention how many times the women of the Khalasar smiled and tried to lure Jon along the way. He always just shrugged off the attention, almost shyly so.

“I wonder if he’s ever been with a woman.” Missandei had blunted stated earlier, as they prepared to meet the King this evening. Daenerys looked back at her in the mirror, wide-eyed, “You think not? No…of course he has, a man that young and handsome? He’s had a dozen girls at least.” Dany felt a twinge of jealousy, a not so fleeting thought of Jon entertaining a Dothraki lover during his stay stirred some deep emotion within her. He wouldn’t insult her like that, she knew. I wouldn’t know, that was the point. She didn’t think him underhanded or disrespectful, she pushed the thought from her mind, although how ridiculous would it be to decree that no one fucks Jon Snow but the Queen? A loud guffaw escaped her throat, Missandei caught her gaze in the mirror, eyes smiling, questioning the queen’s giddy demeanor with a sarcastic, slightly irritated smirk. Dany bit back her chuckle and sat still, letting her finish the intricate braiding she had wanted to be done for today.

“Queens don’t giggle,” Dany replied flatly in response to her knowing look. She straightened herself, putting on an air of faux royalty, angling her chin toward her reflection while setting a stray curl of hair back into place, her eyes rimmed with mischievous jest all the while. Their shared laughter finally broke the silence, the hardships of war forgotten for just a moment. She was just a girl, a woman! Not a queen or a conqueror, Just Dany. It was nice to feel normal again, to laugh with Missandei, gods know they needed some happiness right now, she mused as they settled back down, continuing their braiding routine. Missandei finished with a rub of lavender oil through her loose strands of hair. It was her favorite scent, a memorable one.

It had been over a week since they met on the path at sunset.

And now here she was again, anxious to see Jon Snow after an agonizing wait filled with “Snow sightings”, gossip, and note exchanges. She straightened her shoulder cape - the winter gray color of House Stark, I hope he notices. Dany didn’t expect to feel this longing sensation, but when he sent word for her to join him on the beach this evening, her chest tightened in excitement. They had found the heart of the Dragonglass vein and he was eager to show her the fruits of their labor, Thanks to Your Grace, he wrote formally in his note.

Looking out over the evening tide, she heard Missandei’s footsteps approach her. She turned with the grace of a dancer, smiling widely at her closest friend. This is it! it conveyed, unable to hide her anticipation any longer. With that, Dany jokingly composed herself back to Queen Daenerys, all formality and properness resumed. Smoothing down her hair and skirt, they headed down to the beach, to Jon Snow, Qhono and her bloodriders following suit.

Her legs shook with each step to the shore, a deep shiver held in her chest - she slowed her pace to catch up with her pounding heartbeat. Remember who you are. She breathed deep, inhaling the lavender scent, trying to calm her excitement. She returned to talk of Grey Worm with Missandei when all of a sudden, a “Your Grace” called to her from below.

And there he was, in his usual uniform of boiled leather and steel, staring up at her with those eyes she thought of all too often this past week. His stance was open, inviting, no longer the impassive wall she had seen last. She bit her lower lip in anticipation, dismissing her men in hopes of a moment alone with Jon Snow.

And with regal composure and trembling steps, she followed The King in The North into the Dragonglass cave.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five - Jon III 

The grotto was almost pitch-dark, The only light was a faint glow of the passage back up to the larger cavern. He could barely make out the hazy shapes around him, but none of it mattered. Jon's eyes were shut tight against the wave of excruciating pleasure like nothing he’d ever felt. The cool cave stones pressed hard against his flushed bare skin, tempering the heat radiating from his body. He was lost in her, all the way inside her. The warmth of her weight straddling him, strong legs holding him in place. He gripped them, holding her down, pushing himself up as deep as he could, feeling her stretch around him, tight and warm, soft like velvet. Why did the gods make it feel so good? The world fell away, only the heat of her existed.

He looked up at her as her head fell back with a moan, her hips circling, slowing rocking on him. He could see the exposed throat he’d longed to bite, to rub his beard against until it was rosy red and bruised from his kisses. Her loose hair tumbling down her back, grazing his thighs, sending shivers everywhere. He tensed hard, pulling her down to him, burying his face in her neck, her hair, inhaling deep, the sweet smells that made him harder - of campfire and wildflowers - savoring every inch and detail. He’d stay like this forever, never letting her go. Deeper, deeper. She squeezed and willed him to the point of breaking, and he was almost there…

Jon woke from sleep with a gasp, panting hard, flushed with heat. The bed sheets soaked with sweat. Opening his eyes, still heavy with sleep, he scanned the shadowed room, forgetting for a moment where he was, the new morning light peeking through the nearby window. Not home, he lamented. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, trying to steady his pounding heart coupled with an intense throbbing between his legs. It all felt so real. back in the cave - her scent, the way she rolled her hips back and forth…oh, gods...

The tension was more than he could bear, his hardness pulled tight on his pants, begging for attention. Jon inhaled deep, sliding his hand down his body and underneath his small clothes. He reached in, taking hold of himself, closing his eyes …the feel of her surrounding him, pulling him as deep as he could go, squeezing and tensing, wet and delicious, she was breathless…

And with that, Jon released the built-up tension, thick waves of pleasure and relief settled over him, bringing him back down. For a long moment, he relished the quiet calm of the morning, the beating of his heart slowing as he steadied his breath and exhaled in admonishment. He found himself shaking his head to no one, his thoughts were so erratic, still swimming from too much wine last night, again. Drinking had become his crutch of late. As he found himself more unbalanced, wine became the only way to stop thinking so hard about everything all at once. Soon I’ll be having full conversations out loud to myself. If he was indeed was going mad, I might as well be a little drunk while it happens.

But nothing took away the doubt more than looking up to the sky and catching an unexpected glimpse of Daenerys flying with her dragons. He would feel his chest expand, admiration filling him, wanting to be a part of this, of her, in some way. He admits it: I want her, all of her. Thoughts of her consumed him, he would find himself walking the cliffs, needing to feel the awe that magic was real in the world again.

His thoughts wandered back to that day on the path. Daenerys was bathed in the sunset, the smell of her so inviting, he moved as close as he dared. She was warm and cold, open yet rigid, and just when it seemed they were at an another impasse, she had yielded the high ground and gave him permission to mine the dragonglass. He was taken aback, not knowing how to respond; “Thank you” seemed best. Tyrion had worked his magic. Relief had rushed through him. Jon faced her, wanting to talk more about the army of the dead, but the queen turned away in disinterest. He looked at her still, imploring her to respond, but again, she dismissed him. She needn't do it a third time, he bristled. Their alliance already stood on shaky ground, he wouldn’t push his luck. With a last questionable look, Jon walked away from her, determined to find Sam’s fabled mountain of dragonglass and heed Sansa’s sound advice.

Jon threw himself into the search, pushing everything else away. It was the only way he was going to get through this, No small talk, no distractions. No Daenerys. He spoke with the Dothraki and enlisted their help. As they found patches of dragonglass around the island, interests began to peak. It was a strange new material to everyone; the glass held its edge remarkably well and was as strong as stone. As the work became laborious and hopes of pinpointing the heart of the dragonglass vein grew, the excitement of discovery became a shared experience among all involved. The men would drink together around the evening table in the guest dining hall, excited to discuss where to dig next and ideas for new weapons; the Dothraki dream of an obsidian arakh almost within reach. Jon found comfort on those nights, the camaraderie of fellow warriors turned explorers eased his worries some. He let himself drink more without guilt, enough to lull him into a deep sleep of vivid dreams only to repeat the routine the next day.

And then one morning, an accidental tumble of rocks while digging on the beach exposed a dark, tall cavern, a dim shimmer reflecting in the torchlight. They cleared the debris and realized what they had found. He looked at Davos with amazement, smile wide and unbelieving, they found the heart, it really existed. The men cheered and clapped each other on the back, drinking from their skins in celebration. He sent word to the queen, asking her to join him at the cave; he wanted to show her himself. Later that evening, they will celebrate at the Guest Tower and Jon would not be leaving early. He would even invite Queen Daenerys to join them.

And there she was, at the top of the steps to the beach that evening, more beautiful than ever. The sight of her reignited that warm tightness inside him, it was getting harder to push those thoughts from his mind. He imagined that no man could resist her and she knew it. Daenerys dismissed her guards and walk down towards him. She was immaculate, every inch a queen and conqueror, Jon diverted his eyes the closer she got, eventually turning and leading them toward the dragonglass cave.

Davos was waiting for them at the mouth of the cave. Jon took his torch and led them deeper into the darkness, following a windy narrow passage until it opened up wide into a massive cathedral of layered rock and dragonglass, stretching upwards as far as the eye could see. Millions of facets glimmering in the firelight, the cavern glowing in a dim purple orange hue.

As he turned, he had caught sight of the queen’s reaction; staring up and around her, eyes wide in childlike curiosity, her lips parted in awe, breathless and beautiful. His body immediately reacted, gone was the dragon queen he’d come to expect, this was what he was waiting to see - Daenerys, Dany, whichever she preferred. The shadows of firelight danced across her face, and he couldn't wait another minute longer to be alone with her again. He wanted to take her deeper into the cave and show her the real treasure they’d found. She nodded to Missandei to stay and wait. Jon’s eyes shifted to Davos who already had met his gaze with a raised eyebrow and a look of “good luck.”

She stepped toward him and he handed her the torch, showing her down another deep narrow passage. He let her lead the way as he followed, enjoying the closeness of her. And when they stepped into the next cavern, her breath caught in disbelief; hundreds of symbols carved into the cave wall, surrounded them like stars in the night sky, flickering in the torchlight. It truly was an amazing thing to see; messages written in time long ago meant to convey the magic of this place for all eternity.

“The children of the forest made these,” he told her. They moved along the cave wall, reading the story laid out before them, carved into the rock face. And in that conversation, she seemed to understand the magnitude of the discovery and its implications- this wasn’t some fairy tale. The queen didn’t have to believe him, the truth of it was staring at her, speaking to her, from history’s own mouth.

And when she questioned it all again, bringing war and politics into ancient matters of life and death, Jon’s frustration had resurfaced, it's not about that. His eyes swept over her, imploring her to see the writing on the wall, Jon needed to make her understand.

And before he knew it, he reached out, his hand encircled her small wrist, tugging her closer to him, to where he wanted her to go. Her eyes widened from the forward gesture, but she went with him willingly, brushing against him as she passed in the confines of the walkway. Her scent engulfed him, the wildflowers of his dreams, his body tensed at the movement. Jon was already on edge around her, so tempted to just pull her closer to him. Reluctantly, he let go of her wrist as the queen walked the torchlight further into the cavern and closer to the truth: the blue eyes of the white walkers staring down at them from the Long Night millennia ago.

“Because the enemy is real. It’s always been real.”

They stood there, arms’ length apart for what felt like an eternity. And right in front of him, he watched Daenerys’ wall of disbelief break down, shifting to hold his gaze for the longest moment he’d ever felt in his life. Jon had dreamed of being alone with her and here she was, opening up to the truth they needed to face together. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, to kiss and hold her against the cave wall, his face buried in her neck. Jon had felt his heart beat faster, the warmth returning, spreading through him. He couldn't hide his longing anymore; longing for her to believe in him, to help him save his people from certain death. Jon was tired of being defensive, he just wanted to be open and honest with the integrity father had instilled in him. But mostly, with her so close, he wanted her, just her, more than anything. She was breaking him down, he could feel it.

Alone in the firelight, surrounded by the darkness of the cavern, Daenerys closed the distance between them. Jon shifted in anticipation and want, the wildflowers desperately calling to him. He wouldn’t step back or look away. Keeping his distance all these weeks hadn’t been easy nor what he ever wanted. The last shred of Sansa’s advice was holding on by a thread.

Again, she demanded his fealty, but his allegiance belonged only to the North.

He remembered how he felt in that moment, the slow rise of hope within him dashed because her need to play these political games again. Why couldn’t she understand? He needed to stay King in the North so when the time comes to fight for their lives, he could command the whole of his people at will for their shared survival. Without a king, the great houses would fall back to their castles, abandon the common folk, and slowly one by one, they would all succumb to the White Walker army. It was a condemnation of death if there wasn’t a King in the North to lead them through to the Long Night. He would not let his people die because of her need for fealty.

And suddenly, the queen stepped impossibly close and spoke the words he once told Mance Rayder, echoing to him from a past life, his own sound logic for The King beyond the Wall to put aside his pride to save his people. He had remembered, he saw with his own eyes the consequences of Mance’s decision. Defying fealty to Stannis Baratheon, Mance had sacrificed his own life, abandoning the now leaderless Freefolk who turned tail and headed for their last stronghold to wait out the winter, Hardhome. It was too much for him to bear, those memories flooding back. His thoughts flashed forward to his own future of consequences - he saw Winterfell in ruins, all those who followed him dead, only to be reborn as undead soldiers. Terror gripped him tight, he was at a loss, her words unnerved him into silence.

“I can’t. I won’t,” was all he could say in response.

Her beautiful eyes squinted in knowing resentment, her anger rising again at his insistent defiance. The understanding between them was dying, her wall quickly rebuilding itself before his eyes. He had gotten a glimpse of the Daenerys he was dreaming of, he would not let her retreat into her queenly arrogance a second time.

“I would like to accept your invitation for dinner, late as it may be…if Your Grace’s offer is still open. Tonight, perhaps?” he asked with a small smile of forgiveness. He decided to be forward, to hells with it. Maybe she’d see that he was trying to make this alliance work, even if it wasn’t on her terms. He’ll feast with his men another night. He had hoped for approval but braced for rejection.

“Yes, let’s continue this discussion this evening,” meeting his smile with her own as they turned and headed back out of the cave. Daenerys was formal yet more relaxed, he couldn’t help but grin. There was more there than just her curiosity and respect for him and he knew it now. She'd gone deeper into the cave with him alone, held his longing gazes, and dared to step closer to him than propriety allowed. Jon had seen the change in her, gone was the stoic queen. Daenerys was open and responsive. He knew the wildflowers weren’t an accident anymore.

Little did they know what fresh hells awaited outside as they were greeted by Tyrion and Lord Varys; Word of the Unsullied trapped at Casterly Rock, the fall of Highgarden, and the death of Lady Olenna.

She went from amenable Daenerys to ferocious Dragon Queen in a blink of an eye. All fire and rage, she had threatened to melt the Red Keep. She stormed at Lord Tyrion, questioning his loyalty, distrust was written all over her face. The queen sought Jon out in that moment, walking closer to him, her eyebrows knitted in worry, eyes wide with panic. Her voice wavering as she shockingly asked his advice. Her vulnerability was apparent, lost in confused anger, trying to make sense of what had happened, not knowing who to trust. He wanted to tell her it was okay to be upset, that she was still the strongest woman in the world, that she didn’t have to be alone with her frustration. The best he could do was give her the most honest advice he could.

Jon repeated to Daenerys what he had told himself every day, in the face of hopelessness, overwhelming obstacles, and the need to be strong for those around him: He would fight until his end for his people but he will never knowingly put them in harm’s way while he did it. The queen was the protector of the 7 kingdoms, she must act as such.

He hoped he had said the right thing, to keep her from burning King’s Landing to the ground. He could see the struggle within her, wanting to take his advice while exacting well deserved justice for the death of Lady Olenna, a bitter vengeance for a pyrrhic victory. Maybe she thought he would be on her side, to roast Cersei alive, but he couldn't agree with her. He held her gaze, hoping she’d understand. But in the face of failure and the lost of Olenna and the Reach, she didn't want to see logic as an option. Daenerys composed herself, and with a distant look of confusion hinted with hurt and betrayal, she excused herself from the group and walked back to the castle alone. That was the last time he saw her.

No celebration dinners were held that evening. No more laughter in the dining hall nor sparring matches to practice for. Within days, the queen had dispatched her Dothraki to the mainland with Tyrion and her closest bloodriders in charge of battle plans. With the heavy weight of war at Dragonstone’s doorstep, talk of White Walkers and dragonglass fell to the wayside. From what Davos heard, it took the whole of her counselors to get her to not to go into battle with her dragons. She had reluctantly agreed.

It was all for nothing, Jon had brimmed with bitter disappointment. Every day since he threw himself into mining enough dragonglass so he could leave this place as soon as possible. Every night, he drank himself to sleep.

There was a loud knock on the door, stirring him from his thoughts. It must be Davos, to be sure. Straightening himself as he got up, Jon walked over and opened the door to find his Hand anxiously waiting for him.

“Sorry to wake ya, Yer Grace, but I thought you’d want to know right away,” Davos said, Jon giving him a wide-eyed, questioning look.

“While the castle slept, Queen Daenerys flew off to battle alone.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six - Daenerys III

Daenerys woke to an ominous dawn. Her chambers bathed in muted grey, purple tones, cold and damp in the uncomfortable silence. Deep crimson light from stained glass panes cast dark shadows on everything. The hearth fire was a smoldering pile of ash, fingers of smoke reaching upward, dancing slowly in the faint breeze of the draft. It feels like a tomb in here, Dany’s chest shivering in response. She climbed out of bed, grabbing her lion skin from a nearby chair, swiftly wrapped it around her, and made her way to the balcony. With a heavy tug, she pulled the doors wide open and stood there for a long moment in wonder.

Her morning refuge disappeared into thin air, enveloped in a cloud of dense fog; scary and beautiful all at once. She stepped through, into thin air, disappearing into the sky. It was like a living dream, the stone dragons peeking through the thick mist as it rolled through the morning, she had never seen it so heavy and unruly before. Daenerys made her way to the railing, peering out over clouded emptiness, the world covered in hazy shadows, the mulled sound of the crashing waves on the surf. Dany couldn’t see the horizon anymore.

Every victory of late had led to an equally difficult set of consequences. Dany hated the uncertainty of it all. In what is now being called the Second Field of Fire, she was able to take out most of the Lannister forces only to have lost most of the grain and foodstuff from the Reach to dragon fire. Drogon was injured, a large wound left by the removal of the spiked steel spear. A vicious piece of weaponry, Dany fumed as she pulled it from Drogon’s shoulder who screamed in pain.

She had avenged Olenna’s death, burning her traitorous Tarly bannermen alive. Dany smiled inwardly as they turned to ash in front of her eyes, wishing that Olenna could see her being the dragon she had willed her to be. She knew that going off to battle alone was going to lead to more of those unnecessary admonishments from her council, but she didn’t care. She did it because she had to; for her fallen allies she had failed, for Olenna. But as Dany flew back to Dragonstone, she saw her Dothraki making their way back to the coast with their spoils; An underwhelming amount of food wagons that remained from the attack that would barely feed her men for a month. A bitter victory indeed.

Flying over the Blackwater Bay, Dany had wondered how much longer Jon Snow was going to let her keep him on Dragonstone. They already mined so much dragonglass and with her pledge of support, she would send continuous shipments of obsidian to White Harbor and to the North beyond. He will ask to leave soon, she thought, and how would you feel about that? She couldn’t answer, I guess that was answer enough.

On her approach to Dragonstone, Dany saw a small dark figure standing on the cliffs in front of her. Slowly, the figure had begun to take shape; long, dark cloak, and dark hair. Jon Snow. Was he waiting? Dany had felt her chest tightened, she gripped Drogon harder and he responded, letting out a roar of greeting as they flew toward him. As if her dragon could read her mind, he circled above Jon, landed near him, and approached.

And then it happened, something so unexpected that Dany was still uncertain how she felt about it. Drogon, although friendly enough and usually not interested in other people, leaned forward, Frills shaking in curiosity, intently sniffing Jon Snow who stood his ground; fear and awe equally playing across his face. As Drogon had gotten closer, Jon removed one of his gloves and reached out, letting the dragon sniff him. And then… and then… She heard it. Such shock that Dany gasped out loud. The faint cooing whistle of her dragon, a sound usually only reserved for her, a sound of familiarity and trust. As Jon touched him, pet his snout, Drogon responded willingly, relaxed, accepting. Her dragons only one thing: friend or foe. But in his own way, Drogon had spoken something she’d known for some time: Jon Snow is a friend and he can be trusted. Her dragon had known. She had felt her body grow warm, a new feeling of admiration and desire for this man swept over her. Maybe she should trust again. Maybe I should allow myself love again.

As they made their way back to the castle, they had talked of strength in ruling, and she felt him silently questioning her choices. Another judgment, from someone who was supposed to understand difficult decisions. Sometimes strength is terrible, she had told him, remembering back in the throne room, of that something terrible Ser Davos had said. Dany had reached out for Jon in that moment, her hand on his arm, halting their walk so she could ask him directly about Ser Davos’ “knife in the heart” statement that haunted her days ever since.

“Ser Davos gets carried away” He had said it with a sly, off-putting smirk, pushing away the statement as she knew he would. But as she implored Jon again, his face changed, the furrowed brow returned, and he looked conflicted. Why would he be?

The moment was lost when Jorah had appeared to her on the cliff. My Bear, my oldest friend, she thought, all bright-eyed and strong, she wanted to run and hug him as he kneeled before her. It felt like a lifetime ago since Dany had given him leave to find a cure, and so he did. She was beyond elated, her most loyal and trusted friend, back at her side. She could barely contain her happiness when, without so much as a by your leave, Jon Snow excused himself in favor of returning to the mines to check on progress, leaving Dany with Jorah to catch up on life.

As soon as a shred happiness came into Dany's life, it was yanked away with just as much fervor. The following day, a raven from Winterfell had arrived with good news of Jon’s family reunited coupled with the horrific report that the Army of the Dead were marching on Eastwatch. Jon had stood at the other end of the Painted Table, imploring Dany to help the North, and she wanted to, truly. She promised Jon and she had meant it, but how was she to stop Cersei from taking back all they just gained? Her Dothraki were stationed on the Blackwater Rush, just northwest of Kings' Landing, while Grey Worm and the Unsullied marched across the Westerlands to join with them. Her army was ready to blockade King’s Landing, the Iron Throne was finally within reach. The threat in the North felt as far away as Qarth. But as she looked at Jon’s face, she knew she was wrong. Her war was for her birthright, his was for life and death; it wasn’t even close.

Talk of a truce with Cersei began to build among the council, figuring out ways to convince the Mad Queen to stand down while they faced an enemy tantamount to a children’s fairy tale in her mind. Even Dany, with her new found faith in Jon Snow and the oncoming threat, was still skeptical, but she took a leap of faith, for him. But she knew there was no choice; someone was going to have to go convince the queen for a truce. Someone was going to have to hunt for a White Walker soldier beyond the Wall.

But those feelings of doubt intensified as Jorah volunteered to go on this death mission north of the Wall. NO! She had just gotten him back, there was no way she could allow this! And just when she was about to protest…

“The Freefolk will help us,” was uttered across the Painted Table. Jon Snow met her worried gaze, No! This was not happening, Dany couldn’t hide it any longer. Her face had projected her worry and fear of losing him for the entire council to see, she didn’t care. She had held his gaze, begging him not to do this, and he had stared back with the same intensity, telling Dany he had no choice. She pulled her queenly prerogative on him, telling him that he didn’t have permission to leave, but he called her bluff. This dance between them wasn’t new anymore, and in many ways, she learned more about who the King in the North really is because of it, and none of this surprised her. He would do what is right, regardless of her wants. Gods, I might love him for that.

Those next three days flew by in a blink of an eye; preparations being made for the Wall, Tyrion’s dangerous trip to King’s Landing to broker a meeting with the Mad Queen. Dany had spent her time on Drogon, flying around Dragonstone, many times with tears in her eyes as she passed over Jon’s ship being stocked for its departure. Once again, he had declined her dinner invitation with work as an excuse. It had hurt more than she would ever admit, even to Missandei, who could see her anxiety building over this perilous expedition north. She hadn’t felt this level of uncertainty and fear a long while, maybe since the Dothraki sea after being captured by Khal Moro. She hated the weakness, wanted to go along with them but didn’t dare bother to say so, she already knew what everyone’s response would be.

With Tyrion’s safe return came the inevitable departure of Jon and Jorah for Eastwatch. While on her way down to say farewell, she had passed that place on the path, their place, and couldn't hold in the emotions. Her mind raced with fear; Something’s wrong, this isn’t going to go well, I can’t get over this dread. She had reached for the railing, looking out over the tidal pools that once brought her calm to steady herself. She had bit back the tears as they welled up, taking deep quiet breaths, pushing past the feelings that stuck in her throat. It took a long moment to regain herself, and once she did, she put Queen Daenerys back on track, wiped her face, and headed to the beach.

Jon was so formal, she'd thought they had gotten passed this dance, but here he was, cool and distant as the day they first met. Even his self-deprecating comment about not dealing with him anymore - something was amiss, this wasn’t the Jon Snow from the cave, or even from the council meeting he attended. His wall was up when all she wanted was to reach out and grab his hands, pull him closer, and hold him until he promised to give up this suicide mission. But instead, he nodded to her politely and left her standing there, wishing for more, praying for his safe return and Jorah’s as well.

…And then they were gone.

Dany had spent her days on the path, watching the horizon. She would whispers prayers through her tears as she rode Drogon around the island, praying for a sighting of a sail or raven from the north. She should have told him she didn’t want him to go. To be honest with him about what she was feeling, even if she didn’t quite know herself. They had said so much to each other without saying anything at all. He might not admit it in all his formality that day on the beach as he departed, but she knew. The cave had shown her the real Jon Snow. I should have stopped him, but she knew better. Jon, please be safe.

Dornish red was at her side every night since. Tyrion relished his new drinking companion as they refilled and philosophized in her council chambers at the foot of the giant hearth. It would take weeks for any word from them, Tyrion had told her. But she had insisted on sending a raven to Eastwatch to confirm their safe arrival. A week later, Dany had gotten word back that they did and had already departed beyond the Wall. Almost a week had passed and no word since.

Dany’s dreams were filled with haunting nightmares and this morning had proved no different...

She was alone in the castle being chased by an unknown demon. In her thin linen nightshift, she frantically ran barefoot as the castle stones grew colder with each step. She hid behind doorways, only to hear the rustle and movement from an invisible threat. Dany felt the cold as deep as fear run through her as she desperately sought a place to hide from this shadow that was trying to kill her. Up and down the castle steps, across the battlements and into the throne room, and through the cavernous tunnel underneath. Icy laughter echoed from behind her, mockingly taunting her, knowingly stalking her every step. There was no place to hide. She felt death upon her and it was numbingly cold.

And then she woke.

She shook the nightmare from her mind as she heard her chamber door open abruptly inside her room, Missandei. Dany turned to face her balcony doors when Missandei’s silhouette appeared through the hazy fog. As she approached her, Dany saw the deep worry on her face, her eyes wide with fear. Dany’s heart dropped, her lion skin fell to the ground. Oh Gods, No No No…

“A raven just arrived from Eastwatch…”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven - Jon IV

It was cold, beyond cold. An endless sea of brilliant blue eyes stared back at Jon from the dim twilight of the long night. Scanning his companions, Jon could see the same look he once wore at Hardhome; a bitter duality of disbelief and truth. This was his waking nightmare, the Night King’s sorcery keeping them all in a clouded, deep chill that wouldn’t subside as he sat on his high horse watching them from a cliff. They were gratefully stranded for the moment, their refuge was a rocky outcropping in the middle of a once frozen lake, now a broken and cracked moat keeping the undead at bay. Soon the lake will freeze over… He looked at his men again, knowing that he had doomed their fates over this mission, again. I am no leader if I keep putting the people who trust me in harm’s way. Jon painfully sighed in defeat.

Every strained breath was capped with the knifing side pain of bruised, maybe cracked ribs. The wight polar bear’s heavy swipe sent Jon soaring through mid-air, landing hard enough to almost knock him unconscious. He felt the pain in his chest immediately, but there was no time for that. After Jorah’s dragonglass dagger took the beast down, they mourned the loss of 3 men with Thoros being badly injured. As the bear died its final death, the swirl of snow and ice around them had begun to die down as well, submitting in languished defeat. Just like Hardhome, the magic within the storm, Jon thought as they had tended to Thoros’ wounds and set fire to their fallen companions. They set off in the path of the bear, closer to death and the white walkers he had feared to see again.

No one could have anticipated that the Army of the Dead were within a day’s journey from the Wall. Panicked, Jon had sent Gendry running back to warn the Night's Watch with the hope that Daenerys would come to their rescue, a decision he sorely regretted. As much as he wanted this mission to succeed for the survival of the North, he couldn't fathom putting Daenerys in harm’s way, no matter how much of a fierce conqueror she is. Deep down, Jon knew that she was their last hope for survival. So damn conflicted at every turn. Without her, we die and the North falls. With her, she might die trying to save us and the mission fails. Jon angrily shook his head to himself, this constant confusion tainting his sense of reason, nothing felt safe anymore - decisions, feelings, or otherwise. I guess it's best to embrace the chaos of it all as if his current vantage point of the world didn’t show Jon the exacting face of chaos and death itself. Despite their current predicament, while standing here on this frozen rock, Jon had plenty of time to assess the threat in ways he never before considered.

Jon knew their strengths; It had to be magic or maybe was it the power of the old gods? If Old Nan was to be believed, it has been 8000 years since the Long Night, a time when the First Men were still carving runes on stones. How can anyone know the truth of it? If anyone could find out, it would be Sam. He had access to the biggest library in the world at the Citadel, knowledge as far back as recorded history itself. Let’s hope he’s reading night and day, Jon prayed. He wasn’t sure how his ancestors had won the War for the Dawn against such overwhelming odds. Maybe they didn’t win, he feared, the cold air punctuating his wounds with each shaky breath. Jon knew there was much more to these vicious, ice beings than meets the eye.

Intelligent, vicious beings, truth be told. Despite the chaos, the army of the dead controlled by the Night King, weren’t mindless creatures. They tactically surrounded the lake immediately after Jon and his crew reached the island rock, keeping watch ever since. He remembered Hardhome, the cloud of magic and ice that suffocated the encampment, leaving those behind the fortress wall untouched, why? Why didn’t the Night King use that same magic again on them now, kill them and end this waiting game? Waiting…maybe they’re waiting for something. Jon shivered fiercely, fear and uncertainty gripping him tightly. These beings were calculating, knowledgeable, and strategic. They weren’t the mindless killing machines he initially thought they were, there was a purpose behind their actions. That’s the truth we need to find out, Jon surmised.

Jon had found his own truth here at the end of the world while freezing to death, the hope of survival dwindling with each passing hour. The mission beyond the Wall always had a low chance of success, the odd were staggeringly against them. No doubt Daenerys' counselors would have insisted not to attempt a rescue, and he hoped she’d listen for once. It was too dangerous, even for his brave companions, some of the hardest, finest warriors in Westeros.

As Jon looked out on the endless twilight of circumstance, his thoughts wore heavy with regret. He knew now that Daenerys was as close to happiness as he would ever get in this life. His jealous stupidity and short-sightedness blinded him to that truth while on Dragonstone and now he will never get to remedy it. A chance to have someone he desired and respected, on his own terms, not coerced or willed out of fear, and he let it slip through his fingers. It will haunt him for the rest of his days, most likely the end of this one, he considered.

Ygritte was his first love, and will always be. He had gone to her willingly almost every night, proving himself loyal, but that didn’t soothe the inner conflict that tore at him. Heavy with guilt, Jon knew that he would eventually betray her for his Brothers and the Night’s Watch. And of course, he was right. In the end, his betrayal had lead to her death, right in his arms. Oh Ygritte, if we only stayed in that cave, life would have been so different.

And here Jon was again - a free man, a king of his people - and he still couldn’t shake the guilt of wanting something of his own, as if somehow he was meant to be punished for all his mistakes until the end of his days, never to be happy or love another. All he could think of was wanting to be back on that cliff, the anticipation of seeing Daenerys flying on her dragons had been his joy away from war and death. Jon should have reached out and taken what he wanted, to make Daenerys his, but something within him had prevented it. Every time they’d have a moment alone, something would disrupt them. There was no denying their attraction, but he wanted more. Jon caught those glimpses of her, the woman he wanted to escape into. Maybe he should have taken her right there in the cave, kissed her until she begged him for more. Maybe he needed her to believe in him. Maybe I was just being stupid. And now it's too late; no more wildflowers, or cliffs to walk, or longing stares that burned deep in his soul. He truly was a Northern fool.

Jon would often visit that spot in the cavern while mining, looking up at the White Walkers of history’s past, remembering the moment that changed the way he felt about Daenerys. He had sworn to the old gods that he would do all he could to defeat the enemy and even give his life in service of his people. For Daenerys to stay safe and be kept from harm while he was gone. Maybe prayers could be answered in such a sacred place, he had hoped so.

Jon’s last few nights on Dragonstone were restless. On the evening before his departure, he had an impromptu conversation with Tyrion in the castle kitchens, both of them seeking out a late night second supper well past midnight. Although Jon was glad enough to see him, Tyrion was a master of reading people, and with Jon feeling a bit sore from recent events, there was little he could do to deflect Lord Tyrion’s knowing assessments.

His childish jealousy had prevented Jon from enjoying his last few days on the island. The queen had spent her time with Ser Jorah, sharing evening meals with him in the main dining hall with her council and closest bloodriders. Jorah had given him a dubious look or two since his arrival, he didn’t need to have dinner to be subjected to them again. The knight’s overt familiarity and obvious love for the queen were undeniable. Jon was sure Daenerys had a never-ending array of men promising her the world over, but there was something different about Ser Jorah. The queen held him in very close regard, too close, and he had concluded their connection ran deep. Davos told him that Jorah had been with the queen since the day she was married off to the Dothraki horselord; her loyal counselor, protector, and closest friend, through feast and famine, for much of her time in Essos. And who was he to interfere? Jon had declined those supper invitations, reluctantly pushed the memories of the cave aside, and spent the rest of his time crating obsidian for shipments to the North.

“I'd wondered where you’ve been hiding, your Grace. Deep in dragonglass to be sure,” Tyrion had said as he strode into the dimly lit kitchens. Jon was standing over a long, wooden butcher’s table eating from an assorted plate of food from the larder: cold roasted pig, the last loaf of evening’s bread with freshly churned butter, and some cuts of delicious cheese that Jon had grown to love while on Dragonstone. Tart lemon water infused with mint was his drink of choice tonight.

“No wine,” he had told Tyrion. Jon had trouble sleeping without the wine he had given up in favor of clarity for this dangerous mission. “An equally wise and poor decision,” Tyrion had surmised as he made a plate of food for himself. He moved to the other side of the table, across from Jon, and leaned against a stone pillar behind him, a mug of wine in hand. “A glass takes more work to refill,” Tyrion had pointed out when Jon gave the full wine mug a knowing smirk.

“I thought seeing my brother for the first time since killing my father was going to be frightening, but somehow the capture a living dead man terrorizes me even more. I must admit, Jon Snow, your concerns about convincing the unbelieving of this fairy tale nightmare have been quelled, wouldn’t you say? You have the queen’s full support now, you’ve come a long way since our conversation on the cliff.” Tyrion began with his soft western droll.

“Yes, well, let’s hope we can capture one or this is all for nothing.” Jon had answered matter of factly between bites. “I pray we make it out alive, the odds are against us.”

“The queen is most anxious about the mission as well. Seems that she has taken a liking to the King in the North,” Tyrion raised his chin and eyebrow to meet Jon’s gaze. “She wouldn’t say it out loud but she missed your presence at supper tonight, maybe you should call on her after you finish your meal and offer your apology,” Tyrion’s eyes glimmered with mischief. And there it was, Jon thought. Tyrion’s hint punched him in the gut, Jon gave him a sideways squint as he drank deep from his mug.

“It's too late to call on the queen,” Jon retorted with a gulp, lowering his mug to the table, his gaze following. He hoped Tyrion would drop the subject.

“It's never too late, Jon Snow,” Tyrion responded just as quickly, moving to the table to take a bite of pork. “There may be too many cocks in the hen house right now, but trust me when I say, you are the red rooster of them all.”

Jon’s eyes widened as laughter rolled through him, Tyrion grinned and followed suit, the sounds echoing through the empty kitchens. Jon braced his hands on the table as the tension poured out of him. Again, Tyrion had come to his brooding rescue, no wonder the queen chose him for her Hand, he could charm a snake into wearing pants.

But of course, Jon had never gotten up the nerve to tempt the fate Tyrion had placed in front of him. He barely slept that night and found himself walking the path to the beach before dawn. Jon had stood at the spot, their spot, remembering all that transpired between them, reconciling his feelings for Daenerys, knowing that he felt more than just respect and desire for her. As the warm sun rose over the windy cliffs, still clinging to the evening chill, Jon silently prayed that Daenerys would suddenly appear at the top of the steps, alone. He wanted to bring her into his embrace, to say things that he would never think to say before. Her scent wrapped around them like his fur cloak, protecting them from the cold of the morning, her warmth was the only solace he wanted.

The intermitted screech of their captured wight broke Jon’s thoughts. He looked to his left, and there was Ser Jorah keeping watch as well. The knight had proven himself to be every bit his father’s son and Jon felt ridiculous for even thinking anything less of him. He was a true northerner, proud and honorable, and Jon felt an instant kinship with him while on their journey, especially after offering him Long Claw.

Long Claw was as much a part of Jon as Ghost was, it had saved him from certain death beyond counting. But the sword truly belonged to the Mormont family, it wasn’t right for him to keep it. Jorah had honorably refused him, Jon prepared for one of those dubious looks he had come to expect, but Jorah’s face softened immediately, and he held Jon’s gaze, “May it serve you well…and your children after you.” And with a long, knowing look, Jorah walked away, leaving Jon to ponder his future.

Children. Something Jon had never even considered. A family of his own. He could have one now, should have one, to carry on the family…

…Not a Stark, he immediately remembered, somehow forgetting that fact since becoming king. He was treated like a Stark now, for the first time in his life, but it still stung that it wasn’t the truth. Being King Snow sounded like a jester’s song, although being a king gave him the moral obligation to have children.

His thoughts flew back to Daenerys, wishing he would have kissed her flush lips the moment they stepped into the cavern of glyphs; burying himself in her, making her his. He should have been with her on Dragonstone at this very moment, feverishly working on their first child. Spending endless days wrapped in her body, her scent, throwing all caution to the wind to savor the last hints of her warm autumn before the winter. She will be my biggest regret, the woman I deserved to cherish, the children I will never have…

In that moment of memories and regret, Jon stepped over to where Jorah was standing. The knight turned to meet him, eyes intermittently scanning the undead horizon behind them. “I'm glad to have a Mormont at my back before I die,” Jon quipped sarcastically. Jorah’s eyes smiled back at him, responding “ and I, A Stark, your Grace.”

And before Jon could correct him, Jorah added firmly, “You are a Stark. You are your father’s son. Your name has nothing to do with it. Be proud of who you are.” Jon respectfully sighed in acknowledgment.

"We are both our father's sons," Jon added, giving Jorah a thankful pat on the arm before returning to his station on the rock.

As night fell around them, exhaustion took over the group. Tormund suggested that Jon rest with Thoros as they were both injured earlier in the day. Jon’s protest died with the “you better listen to me, boy” look that Tormund had given him on occasion, a caring gesture of friendship that Jon knew better than to question. He painfully slide down next to Thoros for warmth, settling his weight as to not to put too much pressure on his chest.

Once more, Jon looked out over the frozen, dead landscape before closing his eyes to rest. This might be my final sleep, he thought. His mind sought out his happiness - wildflowers and circling dragons - praying to see the woman he loves one last time.

Was it love?

Aye, it must be.

Chapter Text

Daenerys IV

She never understood what cold really was. Standing on the bow of the ship, the brisk, cold winds bit at her tear stained face, pushing back the overwhelming need to scream into the dark emptiness of the sea. The stars looked down on her through lifting storm clouds, Dany whispered back to them, please save Jon, even though my boy is gone, please don’t take him too. Dany shivered, pulling the blanket tight around her shoulders.

The purple shades of the morning were beginning to lighten the horizon, cresting on their third day at sea. Ser Davos said they’d be sailing by the Grey Cliffs this morning, and as the ship passed within their sights, Dany frowned as memories of this place came back to her; The Grey Cliffs, the last time I ever touched Viserion, had my family all together, was on those cliffs…

When she had flown north to rescue Jon, Dany soared over the vast white emptiness of the North; hugging the coastline most of the way, every mile growing colder with each passing hour. Dany had stopped once to rest, her hands stiffening from the prolonged cold. Her dragons growled and shook as they touched the snowy ground for the first time on the icy cliffs, The Grey Cliffs, overlooking the Shivering Sea. They hated the cold, Dany could tell immediately. The strange, cold and wet sensation had her dragons hopping from one foot to the next, trying to find nonexistent patches of dry land to stand on. It made her laugh to watch these fearsome animals shake snow from their feet like cold chickens. As the ground shook from their bouncing weight, Dany flexed and stretched her hands and legs. She couldn’t believe that she had flown since dawn and now, at midday, she was no closer to the Wall supposedly so big you couldn’t miss it. The North was a boundless frozen desert, how people survived up here was beyond her comprehension. She understood now why Northerners earned a reputation for being undauntedly strong; you have to be to survive this cold.

It couldn’t be much further, she had surmised. She gave Rhaegal and Viserion a hardy rub, kisses on snouts, and was back on Drogon within minutes. It took another hour before she saw the Wall in the distance approaching fast. The raven had said they were not far beyond it, so Dany flew inland and over the top of the Wall, looking down to see small black-clad figures of the Night’s Watch along the top of it, pointing up at her and announcing her arrival with a blow of a horn. She flew right over them, close enough to see their faces, as they cheered and whooped loudly, Bring them home! I will, I promise, she told herself. She flew due north from Eastwatch, hoping to find them soon, praying she wasn’t too late.

Dany scanned the frozen landscape as Drogon sped up, Rhaegal and Viserion followed close behind. Up ahead she saw the darkened sky of a rainstorm; thick, billowy clouds, ominous and fast-moving, unnatural. That’s it, she knew, squeezing Drogon harder, he knew where to go. As they had approached the storm, cresting over a jagged mountaintop, the valley floor below them opened up to reveal the horror Jon could never possibly convey- hundreds of thousands of blue-eyed dead men running toward the center of an icy lake. Dany swooped down and caught a glimpse of her warriors fighting for their lives, they were surrounded and about to be overrun. JON!

She had gripped Drogon tight in fear and determination, and he knew what to do, releasing a maelstrom of fire that melted the icy water in front of Jon, incinerating the corpses with it, her boys followed their brother’s lead. Dany circled, looking down for a spot to land and caught Jon’s gaze looking up at her, Oh Gods, he’s alive. Her heart jumped as she landed and set to clearing the area with dragon fire. Jon had run to her immediately and all she wanted was to pull him up and kiss him until he promised never to leave her side again. But as they reached for each other, Jon saw more danger and ran to defend their escape. He was almost within reach. The horde was advancing across the lake despite the broken ice and firestorms. COME ON!!! We can’t stay here any longer! Jorah screamed for Jon, panic ensued, and then life changed forever.

That moment played over and over in her mind, Dany was unable to think of little else since. Drogon and Rhaegal’s high-pitched screech of unified terror filled the air. Her eyes flew up to the sky as she watched her baby boy’s life fade from his body, falling from the sky to sink beneath the broken ice, never to return. Frozen in shock and disbelief, the world ceased to exist for Dany, only the sound of lapping water marking Viserion’s watery grave. She was powerless, a mother helpless to save her dying child.

As her grief-stricken scream for Jon stuck in her throat, he was screaming back for them to leave without him…Never!!

Out of nowhere, three corpses tackled Jon, pulling him under the cracked ice, sinking out of sight, NO!!! Her eyes widened in panic, she looked up from where Jon fell and saw the Night King aiming a huge ice spear directly at them. GO! GO! GO!, her mind screamed and as if Drogon heard her, he took off as fast as he could in the opposite direction, her companions holding on for dear life. Fear running through her, she clutched Drogon’s horns as they took flight, swooping and swaying out of the path of the oncoming projectile. She had looked back in hope and dread; no sign of Jon or Viserion. Gone, both gone in the blink of an eye, swallowed into icy darkness. My dragon gave his life for him and Jon gave his life for us. She swallowed hard to keep the tears from falling, hugging Drogon tighter and he responded; his high pitched moan of pain tipped her over the edge. The tears fell and froze on her cheeks as they cried together all the way back to Eastwatch.

Dany had insisted they wait until sunset before boarding their ship south. A hopeless gesture, she knew but, “just in case, somehow, maybe they’d make it…” Her words trailed off as she made her plea to Jorah, a frown of understanding and worry shone back at her. He nodded silently and stood vigil with her on top of the Wall. But there was only so much hope Dany had left to give, and as the night sky began to fall, she sighed in despair and prepared to leave her heart in the North…

The horn. “Rider approaching!”

She spun in disbelief and the moment the fur covered lump trotting out of the woods on top a horse, she knew it was him.

Jon!

Dany swung around quickly, passing Jorah with haste, she headed for the ice-covered platform on top of the Wall that once held a massive trebuchet, now broken and half frozen in ice. As she ran to the spot, Drogon flew right overhead and with as much gentleness as possible, gripped one foot onto the top of the wall near the platform to allow Dany to mount him right there. She climbed on without any hesitation of being so dangerously high up, the men behind her gaped and she could hear Jorah yelling something, but it didn’t matter. Before she knew it, she was up on Drogon’s back as he descended within seconds to the ground near Jon. As she dismounted and quickly approached, the men of the Night’s Watch and Ser Davos ran out from the tunnel. They met Jon at the same time, and there he was, coated in a layer of fur and ice so thick that she thought he couldn’t be alive. But he was alive and barely breathing. Dany held his motionless face, calling his name to wake him as they pried his frozen body from the half-starved horse. The men pulled him down onto a wooden sled covered with furs, hot coals underneath, an ingenious Night’s Watch creation meant for this exact purpose; to warm fallen brothers on the verge of death. Drogon took to flight as Dany followed Jon’s sled into the tunnel and onto their waiting ship.

Commander Cotter Pike had insisted that Jon stay at Eastwatch until he regained consciousness; a rocky boat ride through rough winter waters was the last thing the King needed to endure right now. But even as Dany began to protest, it was Ser Davos that brought down the hammer of courtesy and implacability, “The King will board his ship and sail south immediately. The fate of the North, possibly of all of Westeros, is in our hands and we must complete this mission, there is no time to waste.” Ser Davos so eloquently spoke for the both of them. Dany faintly smiled in approval when he looked her way.

With no healer to accompany them on their voyage south, Dany had promised the maester that she’d take care of Jon; give the appropriate amount of medicine and teas when needed, to wrap his chest tightly with linen to help heal his ribs, and for someone, even her, to massage his hands and feet to get the blood moving again. ”It doesn’t matter who does it,” he had gruffly stated at her, “It must be done or risk the possibly losing an extremity.” Dany agreed, looking over at Ser Davos who returned her gaze with a curt nod of acknowledgment.

Gendry, also recovering from the ordeal, pledged to help with Jon’s care and whatever else the King required. His eyes wore heavy with exhaustion and determination, his own healing still in progress. They had stood together in quiet as Jon was brought onboard the ship, the Hound carrying him like a swaddled baby; Jon lay motionless, wrapped tightly in furs and wool. Her heart tightened at this mournful procession; the few men on the ship with them stood on either side, heads bowed in silent prayer. This wouldn’t be his end, she had promised herself. He will return to us. As her face tightened and furrowed in despair, Gendry had cleared his throat in attention. She looked over at him, eyes brimming with unfallen tears, “He’ll live, Your Grace,” he said to her with quiet assurance, “We will take care of him.”

“Yes, we will,” she replied, grasping his arm in a quick squeeze, They followed Sandor to captain’s chamber where Jon was placed in hospice.

The ship felt like a floating, hollow shell. Manned by a skeleton crew of Northmen and passengered by the survivors of the mission - Jorah, Ser Davos, Gendry, Sandor, as she called him, herself, and Jon. Drogon and Rhaegal flew south as soon as she boarded the ship. We all wanted to escape the icy hell that ripped our family apart, my child dead in this frozen wasteland. Dany endured the sullen silence of the boat, occasionally punctuated by the screeching howl of the undead wight crated in the hull of the ship.

She was at Jon's bedside most of the day, massaging the coldness from his hands, bringing them up to her warm cheeks, whispering prayers for him to wake up. She would kiss his palms and fingers when no one was looking, fed him warm honeyed water and keep the coals warm under the bed. After two days, there was little change; Jon’s breath was shallow, his skin still cold even under a mountain of furs and coals warming under his bed. Everyone began taking turns keeping vigil as hope began to fade.

Dany wouldn’t allow her mind to go there, I won’t let him die too, he cannot… She kept her composure as best she could, focusing on giving Jon what he needed to survive, pushing away her own sadness and anxieties. She thought of stripping to her bare skin and climbing into the furs with Jon, holding him close, transferring her warmth and hope to him. Dany wanted to kiss those scars on his chest, to feel his heartbeat on hers, run her warm hands through his hair, cupping his face and kiss him until he woke. She wanted something other than death, to live within Jon’s embrace and never look back. She regretted not reaching for him sooner, and if given a second chance, she will never make that mistake again.

Ser Davos had come into the room earlier while Dany was massaging Jon’s cold, socked feet. He chuckled at the sight, setting down a fresh sack of warm coals, readying for his shift with Jon. “When the king finds out you were rubbing his feet while he slept, he will turn every shade of red imaginable.” Dany smiled at the kindly knight, “Well, I hope you do tell him when he wakes up, I want to see some flush in those cheeks already,” her smile faded as her gaze found Jon again. Hope was hard to come by lately and it was even harder to hide her sadness in front of others.

Davos responded in lighthearted quickness, “Me too, Your Grace. He will wake up soon, I bet my life on it. He’s a hard man to kill.” Before giving her time over to Davos, she absentmindedly reached over and kissed Jon quickly on the forehead before leaving, averting Ser Davos’ raised eyebrows. Dany praying that some of her fire would keep him warm until she returns to him later.

It was early evening when exhaustion and seasickness began to set in. Dany decided to rest her eyes, a quick nap until supper in a few hours. As Dany’s tired body fitfully gave into deep sleep, she found herself inundated with endless surreal memories, dreams…

Dany found herself climbing the sandstone stairwells in the House of the Undying, the screech of her dragons driving her forward. She was dressed as she was when she went beyond the wall, the heat of the fur causing her to sweat in the humid, confined hallway. As she approached a large set of double doors before her, a blast of cold wind blew them open, sending fridged cold air rushing through her, blinding her. Through the swirl of ice and snow, Dany could make out the shape of a Dothraki tent, pitched in the white wilderness before her.

As she stepped beyond the boundary of the Wall, an intense pain punched her in the gut, fire pouring down her legs. Dany doubled over in pain, stumbling in the snowdrifts, she could see blood soaking through her coat, dripping from her breeches underneath. Clutching her belly, she made her way to the tent, falling through the whipping deerskin flap…

She found herself sprawled on a dim stairwell landing, back in the stone castle again, except the stones were dark grey and cold, frost building in the crevices. She looked down at her blood covered white coat, her hands slick with red warmth, the pain had subsided. She stood at the top of windy stones steps, beckoning her to descend into the darkness below, the cries of her children echoing through the eerie quiet.

Every step filled her with fear, knowing she must keep going or lose everything. Her coat smeared the walls with blood as she made her way down the narrow stairs, deeper and colder, opening into a stone passageway, a distant flame calling from the far end of the corridor.

Dany took one step into the vaulted corridor when the cold, brittle stones beneath her feet broke apart like ice. She reached out in desperation as she fell through the floor, and the floor beneath it, and the next one, and so on. Plummeting through the darkness with her dragons screaming, a deep growl rumbled through the dark, Dany could see a flaming pyre coming up fast beneath her. Only death can pay for life, whispered in the howling winds passing her, the flames licking at her feet, the blood on her coat catching fire, it burns! Dany screamed out in fear…

Dany woke abruptly from the nightmare, reaching for her belly, swollen and achy, her woman’s blood was upon her. Perfect, just what I needed right now, Dany sighed, wondering where she was going to find clean linen at this hour without ripping a bed sheet to pieces.

Climbing out of her bed, Dany dressed in a pair of black men’s wool pants, rolled up at the bottom with a large thick grey tunic of wool and cotton; long enough to look like a dress. Her hair hung loosely in a single braid down her back. She donned double wool socks and a heavy wool blanket around her shoulders before headed out of her chambers. The ship was rocking with each swell, causing her to shift her weight with every step down the small hallway to the ships’ main dining hall, an alcove of cramped benches with a heavy, circular table bolted to the deck. At this late hour, Dany found Gendry and Sandor keep each other company there, lost in thought and words, deep in their cups.

No doubt they were drinking from the cask of good red wine offered to them by the Night’s Watch. The Hound had snatched it up immediately and walked off without a word said, leaving Dany to thank Commander Pyke for their hospitality. I guess the man had some drinking to do. Guess they all did. As she approached them, they both looked up at her, wide-eyed, straightening themselves, attempting to stand. Dany waived her hand, shaking away that nonsense, “None of that.” Grabbing an empty mug, she filled it from the wine cask and joined them at the table.

“Your Grace,” Gendry nodded at her with cup in hand. She nodded back, tipping her cup at them and drank in deep, long gulps until the mug was almost empty. Setting it down on the table, she exhaled deeply and saw the Hound staring at her intently.

“Never thought a woman your size could drink that much at once,” he quipped, hair falling in his face, taking another sip from his mug. “Never thought I’d ride a dragon neither, bloody terrifying,” he added after a small burp, resting his mug back on the table.

“It's been a week of many firsts,” Dany said dryly, leaning back against the wall, pulling the blanket tighter around her. She took a smaller sip of wine before asking, “How’s Jon?”

“Davos is with him now,” Gendry offered. “He’s strong, the king, anyone else woulda…” Gendry sighed, not wanting to say those words they all feared. His forearms rested on the table, his mug in hand. The dim light from the hanging candleholder swayed with the ship’s groan, dancing shadows on the walls around them.

“He has nine lives, from what I heard,” the Hound said with a mocking tone. “The Lord of Light’s chosen one, those two.”

Dany’s brow furrowed quizzically at Sandor, meeting his gaze, wanting him to explain further what he meant by that. “I'm not sure what you are saying, Sandor, but…”

“Sandor, sounds so bloody formal, like my mum calling me for supper,” He sputtered drunkenly, giving her an almost embarrassingly shy look, something he did whenever she said his given name. But he successfully deflected her question, as was the custom whenever this topic came up.

“Please, can someone be honest with me?” she turned to look at Gendry, imploring him to say something to her. She kept hearing whispers about “coming back”, a joke directed at Lord Beric Dondarrion as they left Eastwatch about being careful with “his last life.” It was a secret everyone was in on except her.

Gendry met her gaze, then looked over at Sandor who shrugged his shoulders in response, “Doesn’t matter to me, not my damn secret,” drinking deep from his mug again.

Gendry then dove into the story of the Brotherhood without Banners. About the Hound’s trial by combat in the cave against Lord Beric and his flaming sword. How Sandor sliced his opponent down his shoulder, leaving him dead, only to have Thoros the Red Priest of Myr bring him back to life “for a 6^th time.” Dany’s mouth slacked in disbelief, she looked over at Sandor for confirmation, who nodded in reluctant agreement, still sipping from his mug.

“The big, red-bearded wildling, Tormund,” Gendry said as Sandor and Dany affirmed whom he meant, “he told us the red priestess, the one who took me from the Brotherhood, had done the same to his Grace at Castle Black.”

“Wait. Lady Melisandre bought Jon back from death?” Dany flatly questioned, her eyes wide in shock, her chest shivering in disbelief, It can’t be true, but she knew it was. The pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. The scars on his chest when they finally stripped him of his icy shell. Asking Ser Davos about them, “shallow knife slashes from a fight” he responded without hesitation, covering Jon with enough furs to hide the subject from any further discussion. She knew better than to push the issue, saving Jon was all that mattered now.

Knowing he said too much, Gendry looked down into his mostly empty cup, “Best you talk to Ser Davos, Your Grace. It's not my place to say anymore, truly, I’ve said enough already.” He finished his drink in his next gulp.

Meeting his worried gaze with her own, Dany had replied, “No trouble will come from me knowing, I promise you.” Standing, she walked over to the cask for another refill, “I'm taking my sorrows upstairs,” she stated, pulling her blanket around her shoulder tightly while holding her full wine mug, “I wish you both a good evening or is it good morning already?”

“Have a good morning, yer Grace,” the Hound raised his mug to her and drank its contents down. Giving a small smile in return, Dany had turned and headed up to the main deck.

Looking out over the rising dawn from the ship’s railing, Dany emptied the contents of her mug and exhaled deeply, she still couldn’t believe this was all happening. Viserion was gone, killed by a powerful creature formed of ice and magic. The truth of it still a hard, bitter pill to swallow. The whole of Westeros could not survive this threat, she thought. Not even my dragons could survive this. Dany fleetingly wished to gather all her people and head back to Meereen, never to return. But the darkness will fall everywhere, even in the east. The fate of the world was doomed, just like Jon had said. If only I believed him, none of this would have happened.

“Good morning, your Grace,” she heard from behind. She turned to see Ser Davos approaching, his eyes swollen from lack of sleep, adjusting to the rising sunlight of the morning. Greeting him with a faint smile, Dany turned back to face the sunrise as he joined her at the railing, “No changes yet, your Grace,” he said, “I was hoping for some good news….”

“Is it true?” She interrupted, keeping her gaze out on the horizon. She could hear him sigh in defeat next to her, knowing that he couldn’t deflect her pointed question any longer.

“Aye, yer Grace, its true,” Davos conceded. “The king is a complicated, private man of few words. He prefers forgetting it ever happened, I can’t say I blame him.”

“I just wanted to know, Ser Davos, that’s all.” Dany said in a soft, thankful voice, “ I hope Jon will tell me himself when he wakes. Until then, I will never speak of it.”

“I am sure there are very many things his Grace would like to say to you when he wakes,” Davos hinted, always trying to lighten her mood,“…and he will wake, yer Grace, I promise ya that.”

Their conversation was soon interrupted by the pounding of running feet on the deck. Spinning toward the sound, Dany and Ser Davos found an out of breath Gendry behind them, eyes wide with news, “I think Jon’s waking up…”

Chapter Text

Jon V

From the darkness, Jon opened his eyes, a warped wood ceiling covered in layered grey soot loomed above him. The pungent smell of smoldering ash and charred wood hung heavy in the room. He was naked, awake. Sitting up effortlessly, his body felt unnaturally warm and feather light. Strange sensations, undulating pulses of warmth growing from his feet, his hands, through his chest, a fine sheen of sweat beginning to form on his skin. Jon looked around, eyes adjusting to a surreal swirl of light and shadows dancing around him, a sway of flickering candlelight with no candles. Ominously large shadows casting themselves on the walls around him, brighter than the light itself, they drank from its glow, holding the room in an uneasy purgatory of shifting twilight.

Jon heard a soft growl from underneath him, looking over the side of the impossibly tall table he was on, he met Ghost’s intense red gaze. The wolf’s eyes were burning hot coals, a furnace of fiery light reflecting off his brilliant white fur, he looked as though he was on fire. Jon moved to the edge of the table and swung down, the longer than expected fall to the floor was met with a hard thud, sending jolts of pain pulsing up through his legs. Jon doubled over in unexpected anguish but Ghost was there to steady him from the hard fall. Jon managed to stand up straight, noticing that his wolf was much larger than he remembered, the tips of Ghost’s ears reaching to his chin now. He is enormous, strong and muscular. Quiet as a shadow, the wolf padded over to the chamber door, beckoning Jon to open it. Without thought to his current state of undress, Jon followed Ghost, reaching the door, pulling it open…

There he stood, in the doorway to his old chamber looking out over the snow-covered courtyard of Castle Black. Strong winds howling around him, crows chattering in the distance. Scanning the castle, there wasn’t a soul to be had, empty as a graveyard. Jon knew he should be cold but he wasn’t; the heat of his body radiating around him, keeping him gratefully warm. Grabbing the railing, Jon took mindful steps down the icy stairs to the courtyard below. And when he reached the bottom, he looked up, gasping in disbelief. The courtyard of Castle Black had become the training yard at Winterfell. He was safely back home. But in that moment Jon knew, this isn’t real. am I dreaming, am I dead? No, there would be only darkness if I was…

And without warning, his body shifted from pleasantly warm and sweaty to unbearably freezing cold. Looking down, Jon saw he was wearing what he wore beyond the wall on the wight mission, a thick shell of ice crusted on his furs from head to toe. He struggled to pry off the frozen layers as the chill began to take hold in his bones, he was so cold, too cold. He stumbled forward, under the portcullis to the main courtyard until he found himself at the entrance to the crypts, two headless stone wolves standing guard. For the first time in all his dreams of this place, he could feel the heat coming from below instead of the usual dark chill he had always known. I need to get warm, to get these damn furs off me, he knew where he had to go.

Jon hurried passed the wolf sentries and down the narrow steps into the crypts, following the bright warm firelight that beckoned him from below. Hugging the warm stone walls for support, Jon began to melt away; the furs sweating off the icy layers as he descended into warmth, rivulets of water cascading from his shoulders, wetting the dark gray stones of the stairwell around him. His usual fear of the crypts was replaced with eager intention; I need to get rid of this cold inside me, needing to know what called to him from below for all these years. Maybe Winterfell’s people are down here, maybe Father or Arya…

It was a never-ending descent, round and around, the stone stairwell went on for an eternity. Jon finally reached the bottom landing, a broken pathway strewn with tumbled stones and rotten wood beams. The Kings of Winter were down here, part of the ancient neglected crypts that had collapsed over the centuries from being built upon. His beacon of light flickered through the cracks of the crumbled wall, willing him into the hidden passage within. That’s it, he knew. Jon began to break the barrier one heavy stone at a time; the floor beneath him shifted from stone to sand with each rock moved, from the crypts of Winterfell to Dragonstone’s cavern of glyphs and back again. The oppressive weight of the wet furs slowed his pace, time shifted in the shadows, he wasn’t sure where he truly was anymore, but he kept digging deeper. There were no stone guards telling him he didn’t belong, no one around to stop him from unveiling whatever truth he was meant to find.

Jon carved out a section big enough to fit through, climbing over the rest of the stone pile, he entered the vaulted tombs for the first time since he dreamt of this place as a child. The oddly shaped stones were older than any he’d ever seen in the castle, the stench of fresh decay pungent in the still, humid air. It was as if the world below ground had suddenly woken up, slowly warming from millennia of chilled slumber. It smelled of ancient oaks and ironwoods of the godswood, the walls covered in lichen and thick, hanging moss. Jon’s defrosting furs watered the floor beneath him, leaving puddles as he passed empty stone tombs, overgrown with muted greenery and humus. He made his way deeper, warmer, towards the only lit vault far to the back of the darkened corridor.

Jon’s doubts began to build, Was he still an intruder in this place?

As he approached the glowing entrance, a low growl stroked the silent air around him. Jon could feel the deep rumble vibrate through his body, sending warm chills everywhere. Ghost, it must be, but in that thought Jon turned to see his wolf standing right behind him, appearing from nowhere, watching Jon in his usual silence. Ghost’s eyes still a pair of glowing embers, his fur reflecting the firelight into the darkness around him. A flaming wolf.

The growl called to Jon again, fear creeping up in deep shivers, what was this place? He thought he knew what was happening, but he wasn’t so sure now. With each tentative step forward, Ghost made no movement to come to Jon’s side to protect him, it must be safe.

As he made his way to the tomb entrance and peered in, Jon could feel the warmth inside take hold, like standing too close to foundry furnace; his body felt alive, awake like never before. In the darkness of the deep vault, two huge eyes stared back at him, fire dancing within them. Impossibly large eyelids squinting with each deep breath of swirling smoke. Jon gasped in shock, staring in disbelief.

A dragon, here in the crypts of Winterfell. Eyes full of intention, just like Drogon that day on the cliff. He took a tentative step forward in curiosity, as the dragon huffed through the smoky darkness of the surrounding crypt. Jon looked from Ghost to the dragon and back again, and without warning, the dragon’s mouth opened wide, taking in a deep inhale as a deafening roar filled the air, releasing a torrent of scalding flames in Jon’s direction.

Jon’s breath caught in his throat, the world around him was set on fire. The furs singed until they fell to ash at his feet, the walls melted away, the flames sung on his flesh but did not burn. Gone was all the pain he’d ever felt, doubts burnt away into fading memories. The flaming column of light enveloped Jon, his body being pushed upward through the air, closing his eyes, letting his weightlessness take over. Onward and upward, he could feel the fire become wind, rushing past him in a warm burn. Jon opened his eyes and looked down; the whole of Winterfell was beneath him, the heart tree in the Godswood looming larger than life, bigger than Winterfell’s main keep. Its pale branches deep with crimson leaves stretching wide, hugging the walled fortress in protection. The chatter of a thousand crows muffled within its embrace.

Looking up, Jon saw the sun was hiding behind a pale silver moon, the brilliant corona of sunlight burning the night sky. The stars of the Ice Dragon pulsed brighter in unison with Jon’s heart. A red comet streamed across the darkness, chased between silver clouds by three shadowed dragons, swooping and dancing high above. His heart soared, she was here, waiting for me. Jon willed himself forward, flying higher, shutting his eyes from the rushing cold wind that burned his skin, relishing the new sensations. Jon felt different, alive, with no fear. He inhaled deeply, soaring higher in the bright night of his dreams, closer to his happiness…

Jon felt the warmth of sunlight through his closed eyes, the ship’s sway rocking him gently awake. Slowly fluttering open, he squinted at the brightness of the room around him. Where am I? He was half-clothed under these furs, his skin rippling with warmth from some heat source underneath him. His exhausted gaze shifted and caught a glimpse of a glowing silver silhouette next to him, am I dead?

His eyes opened wide to see Daenerys sitting quietly at his bedside. His heart lifted, she was here, looking back at him in all her beautiful, fierce splendor. The woman of his dreams, my white knight, my goddess…

His immediate happiness dimmed as Jon recognized the sadness she wore heavy on her brow, mouth parted in speechless words as her tears threatened to spill from her eyes; Her Dragon, Viserion, was dead because of me.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Dany shook her head, holding back as she averted Jon’s gaze, looking down almost shamefully in her show of emotion. Refusing to let her retreat into grief alone, Jon reached for her, pulling her hand into his, feeling her warmth as he begged for her forgiveness. He wished he had the strength to pull her closer and comfort her in some way to ease the pain of her loss, but Jon barely had the strength to hold her hand, let alone sit up or move around just yet.

But as she sat there, full of shock and sadness, the truth from beyond the Wall had become a hard reality. She pledged herself to destroy the Night King and his army. We will do it together. Jon finally understood her truth: Dany had found trust and faith in him, so much so that she had put her own life and the lives of her children in danger to save the mission and the North; to save me. She sacrificed her most precious treasure and Jon truly felt the weight of her loss; now the world was less one beautiful, mythical dragon because of him.

Jon never wanted her to doubt him again. On that barren rock surround by death, Jon promised himself that if given a second chance, he swore he would never take her for granted. She had changed him, made him feel whole, full of wants and desires that Jon never allowed himself to dream of. Jon didn’t care about propriety or her not so subtle hints that she couldn't have children, none of it mattered to him anymore. Life was too short to waste on supposed circumstance and regrets. He wanted to cherish her, love her from head to toe, for saving him, for believing in him.

And I believe in her, in Dany.

And when Jon called her Dany, she laughed, her silver hair shining in the sunlight, smile beautiful and wide, catching him off guard. She reminisced about her brother, not exactly a fond memory for her, he didn’t want that…

“Alright, not Dany. How ‘bout my Queen?”

And with those words of allegiance, her face shifted in disbelief. Daenerys met his gaze, holding his unwavering stare, questioning his logic behind the sudden change but there was no changing his mind. Strong and willful, determined and fierce, she is my queen for always, no one deserved it more than her.

Jon watched her face as she let go of all of their disagreements and tensions, the awkward dance of diplomacy that kept them at separate ends of Dragonstone and the world for far too long. She knew what this meant, what he was giving up for her, but to him, it didn’t matter. Despite barely surviving the mission, Jon knew the odds where still against them in the near future. Pledging loyalty wasn’t going to fill the granaries at Winterfell or magically build a castle made of dragonglass. She was all he could ever want in this short life they might have left to live together. Dany deserved to be the queen and conqueror she was born to be for the survival of the Seven Kingdoms. She was his savior and together they will try to save their people or die trying.

And then she reached for him, slowly slipping her hand into his, fitting naturally within his grasp. She was warm and soft, brushing her thumb along his knuckles, warming his skin in an absentmindedly familiar gesture that made Jon’s heart race with anticipation. There was nothing left to hide, as they held each other’s gaze, neither wanting the moment to end. Daenerys was first to pull away but he held her tight, letting her know that he wasn’t done with her yet, willing her to stay longer with him. This was the closest he’d ever been to her and didn’t want the moment to end just yet. Dany’s gaze slowly raised to meet his own and he refused to look away. He wanted her, all of her, and he wanted her to know.

Daenerys flustered for a moment and with slow reluctance broke their embrace, not knowing how to react to his forward gesture. Her eyes shifting to look anywhere else but at him, wringing her hands in indecision. As she implored him to rest some more, Jon held her gaze a moment longer before closing his eyes, exhaling deeply. He could hear the shortness of her confused breath and she stood and left the room. He watched her go, looking up at the ceiling before letting out a sigh of frustration. He could still feel the warmth of her hand in his, the faint smell of her lingering in the room.

As he was about to close his eyes, a quick knock came at the door, opening ajar without notice. Davos peered his head into the room, a wide grin on his face. Jon looked over at him, smiling faintly back at him.

“You don’t disappoint, yer Grace,” He jested, stepping in quickly and shutting the door quietly behind him. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you opened your eyes again. I think my faith is keeping ya alive.”

Jon smiled at the remark, “Aye, might be. I thought I’d was dead the moment I hit the lake, it was so cold, colder than that day at Castle Black…” Jon trailed off, knowing that Davos would understand what he meant.

“Well, I won't bother ya any further, let you get yer rest. We have another week on this boat if the winds are fair, you need more sleep for now and a few big meals.” Nodding at Jon, Davos reached for the door to leave when it opened all on its own.

Davos took a quick step back as Gendry and the Hound poked around the door, looking in and smiling at Jon. With a playful shove, Davos pushed them back out of the doorway, “Let the man rest, will ya? He’ll be up’n about soon enough.” He turned to Jon, “…and Tormund, Ser Jorah, and Lord Beric are all fine as well. I knew you'd want to know. Rest well, yer Grace, I'll be back soon with supper.”

Jon felt an instant flush of happiness and relief take over him. They had mostly survived for now but not without great loss. Viserion, Benjen, Thoros…there will be more to mourn before this all ends, he knew all too well.

But right now, as he looked over at that impossible trio of people leaving his room, all his companions on the mission, even Daenerys herself, they were all here at the end of the world fighting to save it from certain destruction. They really were the Last Heroes of the second Long Night; living myths and legends, a dragon rider alongside resurrected warriors. And if the histories never remember their names, if their deeds fall from the memory of those who’d sworn to sing their songs in remembrance, Jon would never forget them.

He settled back into the warm feather bed, hoping to return to soft, lucid dreams of wildflowers and dragons, wishing Dany was here with him now, holding her body close, to be naked under the furs, intertwined in each other, sinking deeper into sleep. He was a changed man and he knew it was because of her. I’m sorry, Sansa, he mused, but I fell in love with a beautiful, fierce dragon.

Jon had known too many regrets in his past lives, and when it came to carving out a piece of happiness with Daenerys before the world ends, he’d promised himself he would never know regret ever again.

_______

Chapter Text

Dany V

A heavy thud abruptly woke Dany from her sound sleep. The ship’s slow rocking on the calm seas was a gentle lullaby, she had only meant to rest a short while but found herself waking up hours later in the dead of night. Opening her eyes, she quickly scanned the room around her, wondering what time it was, after midnight, maybe later, she guessed. Her modestly appointed chamber was bathed in the bright light of the full moon, the unusually warm night coupled with calm winds almost made her forget that it was indeed winter. It was hard to imagine that not that long ago she was in a hopelessly frozen desert at the end of the world. 

One half of the mission had been completed but not without immense grief and loss on her part. It was easier to cope with the loss of Viserion by thinking he was just off on a long hunting trek, thinking he’ll be back soon. The false sense of hope gave Dany a semblance of strength when she could find none within herself; a story good enough to keep her chin up in trying times when she felt alone in the world. 

And Dany did remember the loneliness she felt as a child, living in constant fear as an exile on the run from Robert’s assassins. She would build her fantasy world of hope wherever she laid her head at night; be it a lush featherbed in a Braavosi Lord’s palace or smuggled in the back of a wheat wagon on its way to Pentos. She’d pretend to be a princess of Old Valyria, the last remaining of the world’s dragonkin with castles, dragons, loyal subjects, and all the things princesses were promised. And while her brother earned the moniker “the beggar king”, conspiring to sell her to the highest bidder as they traveled the Free Cities, Dany would dream and hope of a different future. And now look, it all came true, even her impossible dragons. 

An odd mix of elation and exhaustion had been the mood of late among the ship’s passengers and Dany wasn’t immune to it. Since waking yesterday, Jon was healing nicely, eating more and sleeping less each day. Last night, the men gathered in his chambers in an informal gesture of well-wishing for Jon’s recovery and remembrance for those that were lost. Ser Davos had asked her to attend but she declined, Jon needed the camaraderie of his fellow warriors around him to get him back on his feet again. She really did occupy most of his time while he was asleep, it was now their time to spend with him as they set off on the next leg of their journey.

As the gentle swells began to lull Dany back to sleep, another loud thud shook the wall behind her. Jon, she knew. Dany had taken the room right next to his, meant for the captain’s steward, wanting to be close to him while he was unconscious. She sprung to her feet, headed for the door and opened it. The hallway was dark, only a dim light from the dining room down the hall was visible. She approached Jon’s door with trepidation, pulling her long braided hair over her right shoulder, making sure that her sleep tunic wasn’t bunched up or too wrinkled. She knocked softly on the door but didn’t announce herself as she slowly pushed Jon’s door open into the chamber.

“Jon?” she quietly called, peeking her head further in, Dany’s eyes swept around the dark room, looking over at the rumpled empty bed covered in moonlight.

“I’m here,” Jon replied, Dany’s eyes shifted and found him braced against a long table near the window, arms holding himself up while unsteady legs threatened to tumble him to the floor. His hair loose, long curls obscuring his face from her. He looked up from underneath them, out of breath and pained.

Dany swiftly entered and was at his side in the next moment, grabbing his hand and arm without a second thought to help steady him. She looked up at him, eyes full of worry, “Why are you out of bed at this hour?”

“Why are you so warm?” Jon replied, eyes smiling in obvious jest, gripping her hand tighter.  Dany was caught off guard by his momentary playfulness, she couldn't help but smile, not knowing how to respond. She flushed at the remark, pretty sure that was what Jon had intended.

Dany responded with an equally dismissive yet playful attitude, “Targaryen blood runs hot. Blood of the Dragon and what not.”  

Jon’s gaze caught hers as they both stood for a long moment smiling at each other, not knowing what to say next but somehow enjoying this new found familiarity together. Dany immediately felt herself tighten as she held his arm, feeling his own muscles tense under her hands, he was strong despite all he’s gone through. Their fingers intertwined, warmth spreading between them. Jon barely let her hold any of his weight as they walked toward the small dining table in the middle of the room. He grabbed the sides of the closest chair and gingerly lowered himself down. 

Dany lit the single candleholder on the heavy wooden table, bathing Jon is a soft glow of light that made Dany’s heart quicken in response. They wore almost the exact sleeping clothes, black linen pants with a plain ivory cotton tunic, although Jon’s shirt was open down to his chest, giving Dany a full view of his bruised muscles and deep, puckered scars. I will not bring it up unless he does, she had promised herself and Ser Davos. Pulling her chair closer to the side of the table, she sat down, watching Jon shift his weight until he was finally comfortable.

“Apologies, your Grace, for waking ya. I hoped to make it up to the deck but the table’s as far as I got,” Jon said between steadying breaths. His legs languidly stretched out before him as he sat in the heavy oak chair across from her. He gave her a quick grin, “I think I might have drunk a little too much last night.”

“It was well-deserved drinking, to be sure,” Dany smiled in return, “Although wasn’t Gendry supposed to be with you this evening?” Even though Jon was awake, Ser Davos and Gendry had still decided to take turns sleeping on the oversized tufted bench in his room, just in case he needed anything during the night.

“I sent him away, I don’t need a babysitter. Besides, I’m doing much better.” Dany could see his frustration at having to take it easy during his recovery. He was anxious to get back to planning every step of this journey as he had been before he left Dragonstone. He was obviously not used to being rendered incapacitated. 

“Almost falling twice while getting out of bed means you aren’t well enough to walk around alone just yet, Jon.” Dany replied, eyebrows lifting, daring him to respond back. 

“Jon,” he repeated back to her, grinning from underneath his curtain of long hair, “I like hearing you say my name.”

“Well, considering all that we’ve been though in such a short time, I couldn’t imagine calling you anything else.” Dany said, surprised at her own forwardness, wringing her hands in the folds of her tunic. 

“Aye, Daenerys,” Jon replied, quickening Dany’s heartbeat, I guess I like hearing my name too. The usual thick growl of his northern accent was soft and inviting tonight, “Davos told me that you stayed with me, took care of me while I slept, is that true?”

Dany began to flush, averting her gaze to look down at her lap. Jon was being very direct and even though she welcomed it, it still took a bit of getting used to. It was the middle of the night and she was alone with him, something she had wanted for so long. There was nowhere to hide now, no more throne rooms of intimidation or dragonglass caves to dig through. Hadn’t I wished for this moment? To be alone with Jon? Why then am I so nervous?

Firmly avoiding his insinuation, “I promised the maester at Eastwatch that I would take care of you,” Dany responded, “Besides, it wasn’t just me, Ser Davos and Gendry also helped. We were all concerned for your well being.” 

“Well, I feel much better, thank you. You’re a great maester.” He leaned back in the chair a bit, resettling himself. Looking this beautiful man sitting across from her, Dany couldn’t help but feel flushed at every word he said, her chest shook with anticipation. Unconsciously, her gaze scanned his relaxed, strong posture soo dangerously close to her, dressed in thin linen fabric that barely hid the muscled outline of his body underneath, every curve of him accented under his clothes…gods! He was gorgeous, from the moment she saw him in the throne room, she knew…

Dany’s eyes rose to meet Jon’s watchful gaze, not being able to hide her obvious desire to undressed him a moment ago, Dany anxiously stood, straightening her tunic and pants in the process. Jon sat up quickly in response, wincing in pain with concern in his eyes, worried that he’s said something wrong. 

Their dance was a long time coming, but somehow she couldn’t quantify her fears about him. Still feeling skittish despite knowing that Jon Snow was one of the most honorable, decent men she’d ever met. Don’t be afraid to love again, she had told herself over and over, knowing what she had to do, but not knowing how to do it. Dany had to open up, let go of her fears, and just try to be with someone deserving of her affection and loyalty, Jon Snow had certainly earned both.

“Are you hungry?” Dany asked, changing the subject, “I didn’t get a chance to eat last night.”

“I drank my dinner last night,” Jon laughed softly, “Every time my cup was close to empty, the Hound would fill it to the brim again.” Dany grinned, knowing exactly what he meant. She had watched Sandor go through more than his share of ale and wine during their time on the ship. 

“Well, Jon Snow, with your full recovery at stake, your queen insists that you accept her long-standing dinner invitation immediately.” Dany stated with the faux regalness she’d loved to joke with. 

“How can I refuse my Queen’s command?” Jon answered, his hand running through his curly hair, a wide flirtatious smile lingering on his face. 

“Give me a moment, I’ll be back,” Dany could barely contain her excitement, feeling like a young girl as she practically skipped out of Jon’s room. She heading down the corridor to the dining room and larder to see if there was anything she could muster up that would constitute supper. Entering the dining area, she saw Gendry sitting at the table with a piece of parchment and writing lead in hand, illustrating a new a warhammer he wanted to forge out of dragonglass and steel.

Gendry’s eyes rose at the sound of her approach, he stood quickly as she entered, “Your grace…” 

“It’s fine, Gendry,” Dany said as she passed the table, heading toward the pantry. “Jon’s awake and hungry. I thought to get us something since we missed supper.”

“Let me get it for ya, your Grace,” he said as he made his way from behind the table and entered the pantry with her. “His Grace kicked me out of his room earlier before I got a chance to bring his supper. I kept it warm in case he woke. I’ll bring enough for both of ya.”

As Dany began to help prepare the tray, Gendry had insisted on taking over the duty, so she let him. Thanking him profusely, she returned to Jon’s cabin and with a soft knock, she entered and shut the door behind her. 

Jon was right where she’d left him, the light from the single candle in the room diffusing a warm, glowing aura around him. His eyes watched her cross the room and sit back down in front of him, never moving a muscle.

Dany sat down, hands folded in her lap, “Gendry offered to bring us a tray of food. The boy is very fond of you, but then again, all your men are.”

“Aye, I guess. I just met him before we left Dragonstone. He’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard son.” Dany’s eyes widened as Jon continued almost apologetically, “He’s a young lad, good to the bone, didn’t know his father. He traveled with my younger sister Arya while on her way to Winterfell with the Night’s Watch, but they got separated along the way.”

“Everyone knows everyone,” Dany said with a curious smile, “Everyone is where they are for a reason. It feels like fate sometimes…”

She was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Gendry appeared with a small tray filled with two hot bowls of bone broth with mushrooms and onions, half dozen hard biscuits and a large tankard of the good red wine from Eastwatch. Dany got up as he entered, taking the tray from him to set it down on the table near Jon. She thanked Gendry again as he and Jon exchanged quick, knowing glances, closing the door behind him after he left. 

“See, good lad, no usurper there,” Jon quipped as he took one of the bowls and set it in front of Daenerys’ seat, taking the other for himself. Dany smiled at the remark and returned to the table. Sitting down, she took a warm biscuit and dipped it into the steaming hot soup that smelled so delicious. For a long while they sat in silence, drinking the hearty broth down, waiting for the other to say something. 

Dany raised her eyes from her bowl to look across the table at Jon, only to find that he was already looking at her. She smiled and lowered her gaze again, focusing on finishing the last of her soup.

“I never pegged you as shy, your Grace,” Jon said, forcing her to look up from her bowl again. He was sitting back, shirt opened, hair tousled and falling over one side of his face. She began to flush at the sight of his undressed state but then remedied the situation by asking Jon pointed question of her own…

Sitting up from her bowl, Dany straighten, wiped her mouth on her napkin and met his gaze, “Are you being forward with your Queen?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s hard to tell if your Grace is interested in what I might have to offer her,” Jon said with such assertion that he reminded her of Daario for a moment; beautiful and strong, all swaggering cock and bluster with the confidence to match. Except her former lover was untrustworthy and vain, things Jon could never be.

Dany let her gaze linger on Jon for a long moment before methodically pouring each of them a cup of wine. She reached out to give him a cup, holding his longing stare with her own, “The queen wants the king to get well and strong again. We have much to accomplish together and I want you at your best.”

“My best is all you’ll ever have, my queen,” Jon took the cup from her hand, letting his fingers graze hers in the exchange. Raising his cup to her as she reciprocated, they drank long and deep together. Jon raised a single eyebrow over his goblet, “So am I still a king? My sister Sansa would be happy to know that I didn’t give up everything just to have your support.”

Dany sipped her wine, placing the cup down on the table. She understood what Jon was trying to ask. Yes, she had wanted his fealty when they first met, but now, Dany was unsure what she wanted. She didn’t want this larger than life warrior king to bend the knee to anybody, not even to her. He had proven himself truthful and honest with flawless integrity during their short time together. She couldn’t bear to take that away from him knowing that his people might not accept her as queen or even dare to question his unwavering commitment to the North.

“Let's get past this next obstacle with the Mad Queen before we begin parsing up the seven kingdoms, shall we?”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Jon responded in a knowing tone. 

“Its the closest answer I have to give right now, Jon” 

“That’s fair,” Jon said, not pushing any further, taking another long sip of wine before returning the cup to the table. He rested his hand on the silver goblet, fingers absentmindedly circling the rim in distraction. He raised his gaze to meet hers, the playful jest gone from his eyes. 

Dany noticed his change, she sitting up straight, “What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing his furrowed brow growing as he thought through the next thing he was going to say to her.

“We’ve lost so much already, both of us. I fear losing more before this war comes to an end. You’ve seen what we’re facing. I just…” Jon hesitated, his eyes looking down at the table, trying to find the right words. Dany saw the disquiet rising in him, so she reached out across the table, wanting Jon to know that she understood his fears now all too well. Jon looked up, his worried face almost surprised at her outstretched hand

“We will do this together, Jon. You are not alone in this fight, I’m with you,” Dany said, willing him to return the gesture.

Jon looked down and slowly reached out for her, taking her hand in his as they did a day ago on his sickbed. He looked up as they met each other’s gaze, locking eyes for what felt like forever. There was soo much she wanted to say, but this right here, holding his hand in the middle of the night far away from the rest of the world, was all she could ever want.

Jon swiftly moved forward in his seat, taking her by surprise. He took both his hands and enclosed hers into his, their arms resting on the table between them. He gently rolled his fingers through hers, watching their hands playfully hold and caress each other. The small yet intimate gesture made her cheeks flush, her breath unsteady as her building desire for him began taking over her senses. He kept his gaze on their hands, squeezing gently, the candlelight flickering between them.

 “I don’t want to lose you, Daenerys,” Jon confessed, his eyes avoiding hers as she inhaled deeply to steady herself. Her head spinning, a flood of raw emotion coursing through her. She never thought he would ever be so direct with her, considering the rocky start they had. But despite the defiance and disagreements, the tension and attraction between them was a simmering volcano. She watched Jon’s face change with indecision and concern, words sticking in his throat.

“I’m not sure what that means right now. There’s so much happening, so much that’s already happened. I worry about what’s ahead for all of us. But when I see you there's only one truth I know; I don’t want you hurt or lost, I want you safe, always. So, as your King, sworn to obey your every command, I ask of you just one request: Please, never put yourself in harm’s way ever again, not for me, not for anybody. Promise me.”

His heartfelt plea took Dany aback, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes as he looked up from the table to meet her gaze. His heart was laid bare before her, as she looked into his deep brown eyes, she knew that she would do anything for this man, as he would do anything for her. She trusted him, felt his loyalty and affection deep within her as an unwavering truth she could hold onto until the end of her days. She didn’t know how to respond for a moment, trying to push back the small swell of tears that began to build.

“I wasn’t going to let you die, Jon. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to save you,” Dany said, her voice wavering with emotion. “I may have lost my dragon, but I didn’t lose you. You came back, alive, like a… I saw you go through the ice, I thought you were gone…”

Dany couldn’t hold it in any longer, she felt her throat tightened as the emotions gripped her hard, the flood of memories from that hellish nightmare came rushing back to her. She averted her gaze, trying to pull out of their embrace, but Jon held it firmly. He stood in one fluid motion, pulling Dany’s hand up with him and before she knew it, he was standing impossibly close to her, the smell of him everywhere, pulling her into a gentle, protective embrace. Dany melted into his arms, her head resting on his chest, tears began to fall, wetting his linen shirt. He said nothing as he held her close, hands warm on her back, tracing small circles as her quiet sobs shook her petite frame. 

As Dany’s tears subsided, she slowly wrapped her arms around Jon, returning his embrace, feeling his body tighten in response. There was little clothing between them and Dany could feel the warmth of his skin, strong muscles pulling her close. Jon couldn’t hide his arousal, hard and wanting between them. Dany’s body instantly responded, her face grew flush as she ran her hands down Jon’s back, feeling his body tense underneath. She pulled him little tighter, causing Jon to inhale slightly at the added closeness. Suddenly, she remembered his bruised ribs…

She quickly broke their embrace and Jon reluctantly let her go, his arms sliding down until he was holding both her hands in his own, not letting her stray too far from him. She looked up at Jon, worry spread across her face in remorse, “I’m sorry, your ribs, I was holding you too tight…”

“I’ll never complain about that,” Jon smirked down at her, gripping her hands tighter in acknowledgment. She looked up at him and smiled, eyes slightly puffy from tears and now the lack of sleep. He understood what she was going through, they had both suffered loss beyond the wall. Dany had nothing to hide from him, she knew that he would always be honest and true. His eyes held hers for a long moment, Dany wanted nothing more than to pull his face closer to hers and kiss his full lips. She could see that was what Jon wanted as well. 

Instead, he slowly pulled both her hands up to his lips. Holding her gaze, he placed small, lingering kisses along her knuckles, her fingers, his beard gently caressing her fingertips. It was one of the most intimate gestures Dany had ever been a part of, watching him watching her, the desire between them strong enough to live a thousand lifetimes. 

“I think it’s best if we both get some rest,” Jon said quietly between kisses on her tender skin, his beard warm on her hands, the sensation spreading deep, she could feel her wetness slowly slipping down her inner thigh in anticipation. Breathless, she watched him adore her, Dany had no words left to say.

With one last caress, Jon dropped their hands back down between them. Smiling between sighs, “It’s late, your Grace, let me walk you back to your room,” Jon said, taking her hand in his as they walked toward his chamber door. 

“You will not be walking me anywhere,” Dany quietly retorted, her body still heightened from their intimate embrace. As Dany reached out for the door pull, she turned to look at Jon. Still holding his other hand, Dany gripped it tight, “Promise me that you will take care of yourself, no more foolish endeavors or dangerous missions, so I will not have to put myself at risk.” 

Jon bit his lower lip, holding her gaze with a devilish grin, “Promise me and I’ll promise you.” But as much as Dany wanted to punch and kiss him in that moment, she wanted his promise more.

“I promise you, Jon,” Dany said, reaching for his other hand as they stood in the open doorway. Jon raised both her hands to his lips again, squeezing his eyes shut, he kissed her firmly with such admiration and love that Dany almost began to cry again. 

“And I promise you, Daenerys,” Jon replied, his voice low and breathless against her hands, “Now, go. Get some rest, I’ll see you in the morning.”

_______

Chapter Text

Jon VI

The shadowed fog and mist of the morning had relented into an unusually warm and humid afternoon on Dragonstone. The castle hummed with activity in preparation for tonight’s farewell festivities and without so much as a single notice, Jon slipped quietly out the servants’ entrance of the guest tower, armed with high spirits and a full skin of good red wine. With twilight fast approaching, Jon trekked the overgrown, broken path that ran adjacent to the southern battlements towards the setting sun, determined to carve out a rare moment of solitude and enjoy the fading remnants of summer on this, his last night on the island before sailing home.

Home, Jon sighed, scarcely believing that he was three months gone from Winterfell. Much to his surprise, Dragonstone had become a welcomed respite and distraction away from the outside world and inevitable grasp of Winter. It was good to be back here, an oddly, satisfying feeling, all things considered. A thousand leagues between here and Winter, Jon mused, enumerating all the pleasurable possibilities Dragonstone had to offer in lieu of the harsh reality waiting for him in the North. One last moment of peace, away from everyone and everything, and by gods, I mean to have it.

Recent events had Jon feeling equally in control and without, the path set forth before him becoming more uncertain with each passing day. Anxious and unnerved but yet somehow filled with anticipation and excitement, the combination left him feeling moody, uncertain as to how things would unfold with so much at stake. Even with Cersei’s shaky truce and a promise to send troops North, he couldn’t find peace in any of it. No, there is no peace, only staying one step ahead of her. Jon was hardened, gaining a healthy dose of skepticism and political education along the way, guarding against such blind trust that had been the downfall of his family. Like it or not, the game is being played with or without my consent, take part in it or die as Father did.

But Jon knew his battle wasn’t for power, lands, or revenge but for all life itself. He thought back to the heroic tales of old; of Bran the Builder, Aegon the Conqueror, Hells, even the legend of Mance Rayder, as it were: Strength in conviction with a single, unifying purpose. But were these pillars of men also fraught with much loss and despair as he was now, precariously teetering on the verge of failure, even extinction? Did they pace through the sleepless nights and not move their bowels for days on end? He laughed softly at the thought, knowing all to well the answer he sought; If he had learned nothing else, he knew for certain that the hard changes of war were always paid with blood and sacrifice. Unfortunately, his journey had been no different.

The hard truth hung wordlessly among those who had seen the Army of the Dead with their own eyes; that unless some divine intervention occurred, the chances of winning this War for the Dawn were near impossible. The expedition beyond the Wall had shown that both Northerners and Wildlings alike could barely stand the frigid cold the White Walkers brought with them. How would the Unsullied and Dothraki fare in such extreme conditions? They couldn’t, Jon knew. The North was still reeling from recent wars and the bloody rule of the Boltons, there were too few warriors and too many old men. Even the dragons weren’t immune to the threat. Watching Viserion sink beneath the ice to his death, remembering the hell of Hardhome and the raising of 100,000 wights, Jon shivered at the idea of an undead dragon. Let the dragon be too big, the lake too deep, for Daenerys’ sake, please.

On all fronts, they were sorely unprepared and outmatched for the challenges they were facing. But such a truth had to be buried deep, never a flicker of it to cross Jon’s face or surface to crack in his voice. He needed to be their strength and leader now above all else. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, Tyrion had once said. Jon would do all he could to save his people, even if there was only so much that truly could be done.

With so much grief on this journey, it was easy to lose sight of what had been gained, especially between himself and Daenerys; not only mutual trust and loyalty but shared admiration and affection as well. She had risked herself to save him and the expedition, sacrificing her dragon in the process. A moment later, Jon sacrificed himself, protecting her departure and the mission from the oncoming hoard of undead. And it was so, with no words said between them, that Jon had known that his love for her wasn’t unrequited.

And Uncle BenJen, shame tightening his throat. To have found his uncle and lost him all in the blink of an eye, Jon’s guilt wore heavy ever since, happiness felt like a betrayal.

…But if we die, we’ll die. But first we’ll live, Jon reminded himself for the thousandth time, pushing past the incessant grief and worry, badly needing to give himself this moment’s happiness. He slowed his pace, relishing the quiet stillness of the western cliffs and the warm sea breeze, far from everyone and everything. Squinting into the setting sun, Jon closed his eyes and sighed in relief, breathing in the humid warmth of the late afternoon, thankful that he'd listened to Davos’ sound advice before leaving Winterfell.

“I know it seems at odds to pack summer clothing, yer Grace, with snow right outside yer window,” Davis had calmly reiterated at Jon’s protest of absurdity, “The occasional bout of warm weather in the South can feel just as hot as Summer itself.”

Thankfully heeding Davos’ advice, Jon was able to shed his winter skins today in favor of a loose cotton tunic, his favorite black riding leathers, and vest. The humidity of the day hung from his brow, sweat springing up from his collarbone and temples. Shaking his clinging shirt to cool down, Jon swiftly made his way up the path that wrapped around the castle, a sloping trail of lush green grass strewn with loose, black stones.

In the calm, Jon’s mind wandered into more pleasant thoughts; memories of that night his chamber sailing home from Eastwatch. Daenerys sitting across from him dressed in boy’s clothes, beautiful as ever, relishing her discarded formalities. Her eyes heavy with sleep, deceptively invulnerable, her honesty and stubbornness were irresistible, testing what little strength Jon had left. Damn my ribs! He would have immersed himself in all the pain and pleasures of the moment, never to come back up for air.

Seeing his desire reciprocated in her eyes, Jon had pulled Dany close, feeling her warm, strong body through the thin fabric layers between them. His body had strummed with unabashed desire, letting her feel how much he wanted her, that if he had his way, she wouldn’t have left the cabin until he had every inch of her committed to memory. But even so, he knew that wanting to take her, have her, was all in vain. She was his Queen now and I, her loyal subject. He wouldn’t, Hells, couldn’t have her unless she wanted him to.

“I never told ya how much I hate boats,” Jon had confessed to Dany while standing on the ship’s bow approaching Dragonstone on the return home from Eastwatch. Standing impossibly close, her silver hair whipped in the wind, as they watched the skiff being prepared to take them ashore. Dany turned towards him, eyes smiling with a touch of sadness and doubt, feelings Jon understood all too well at that moment; knowing their time together in relative quiet courtship was coming to an end.

“Despite all that’s happened and ever will, I’ll remember this boat, this time, with you.” Jon’s eyes scanned the immediate area for onlookers and seized upon their brief moment alone. Reaching for her hand that had been inching closer to his on the railing, he lifted it, brushing his lips on her tender skin, his beard’s caress leaving a trail of memories from their night alone together in his cabin, “Until we sail together again, your Grace.”

Dany’s eyes widened as her fingers curled around his in response, biting her lower lip in such a way that invaded Jon’s dreams every night since. He could feel the flush of her skin on his, the slight tremble in her hands that matched his own. She met and held his gaze and breathlessly replied, “Until we sail again, your Grace.”

Cresting the final hill, Jon caught sight of a low, stone wall in the distance, broken with age and glowing in the sunset. It was bookend by two archways of melted black stone, Dragonstone, he knew. In the weeks he’d spent exploring on the island, this was the first time he’s ever seen this garden, its location well hid among the twists and turns of the castle walls and the surrounding hills. Jon had committed the directions to memory before leaving his chambers earlier, taking no chances on being late or getting lost.

But this was it, Jon knew, as he continued through an archway, pausing to take in the all that was before him. The garden sat on the precipice of the western cliffs, the steady crash of waves from below lulled the spot into a lush slumber of beauty and wildness the likes Jon had never seen. Black stone framed the new growth of the garden beds, familiar Westerosi plants coupled with exotic flower buds stirring in the warm breeze. Dragonflies hovered and darted above the bushes, sunlight bouncing off hundreds of humming, translucent wings. Growing bushels of fragrant lemongrass and fledging fruit saplings brushed his calves as he made his way to the central clearing, rows of new lavender and mint nested around its borders.

It was magical place indeed, Jon mused, making his way towards the middle, crouching to sit down on the warm stone cobbles. The very edge of the cliff was a safe distance in front of him, a daring venture to the precipice this hidden Eden. The wind swelled and whipped as Jon inhaled the swirling scent of wildflowers around him, and he knew why she had chosen this place. Closing his eyes, Jon laid back onto the warm stones, legs crossed at the ankles, arms resting behind his head, punctuating his comfortable anticipation with a deep sigh of satisfaction…and now he waited.

Soon after, a long shadow passed over Jon’s closed eyes, blocking out the sun for a long moment before Jon heard the heavy flap of wings. He smiled and slowly opened his eyes, not needing to scan the sky for long before seeing Drogon high above him, Dany’s silver hair glinting in the sunlight. The anticipation began to swell within him, shivers running through his chest. He laid as still as possible, eyes following them, wanting to commit this vision to memory. She’s here, finally.

The circling dragons of his dreams, Jon recalled, watching Drogon swoop down towards the high plateau next to the garden, flora and fauna rustling in the beating wind of his wings as he gently landed on the other side of the low wall. Jon dusted off his pants as he stood, watching his Queen dismount from the dragon with ease. Drogon cooed at her disembark and with a heavy pat on the snout, he lumbered to the edge of the cliff and dove off, catching the wind beneath his wings and joining his brother Rhaegal out to sea.

His heart pounded wildly in his ears as Dany approached the garden. Donned in Dothraki leathers, her hair was braided with curls cascading down her back, blowing softly in the breeze around her. Daenerys had magically transformed from Queen to Khalessi with such beautiful ease that Jon knew this woman could rule the world if she so desired. He never regretted bending the knee to her. She was his warrior queen and conqueror, a goddess among mortal men, striding towards him with a beautiful smirk on her face. Her eyes watched him as she made her way into the garden, His body already responding to her presence, neither of them saying a word as the sound of dragonflies began to hum and buzz once more.

“It worked.” She smiled, eyes wide with playful cheer. His heart tightened to see her happy once more, knowing now that their little escape plan from the castle was a desired distraction for both of them.Like the cat that got the cream, Jon smirked, watching her weave her way through the garden beds to reach the clearing.

“Does that please you, your Grace?” Jon quipped sardonically, knowing that she was the one to orchestrate this quiet sunset meeting alone. Dany moved slowly , watching his gaze as she continued her approach. Jon knew their dance well, she enjoyed unnerving him with her closeness, the quickened flicker of a pulse on his neck betrayed him as the gentle breeze pulled her scent around him. Jon straightened against his bodily instincts, shoulders back, looking down as Dany approached and stopped within arm’s reach.

Daenerys was well aware of what she was doing to him and Jon knew it, watching her smile shift from pleasant to mischievous. 3 days of intricate planning - of passing notes and discreet messengers - all for this moment alone together. Jon would be flattered by all the fuss if he wasn’t so fully aware of his desirous thoughts of having her all to himself, kissing the soft hollow of her neck, her breasts, moving lower to see if she was truly silver all over…

“You’re the one who looks pleased with himself,” she noted, eyebrows raised toward his own sly grin, “care to share?”

“Its nothing, your Grace, just intrigued by your invitation to meet here alone, a rather complicated deception, but one I am grateful for,” Jon replied, reaching out a hand to take hers within his own. Dany responded gracefully, fingers lifting and trembling under her firm grip. He bent forward, lips pressing against her knuckles, letting his tongue flicker lightly between them before standing to meet her gaze again.

Still holding her hand, Jon lead them to the center of the clearing, a few feet from the edge of the cliff. The sun was low in the sky, purple, orange clouds chasing into the west. “Come, let’s sit for a while, the stones are warm.” The measured lullaby of waves crashing on the rocks below them as her dragons flew in the distance, Jon was reminded that there was no one else around but them.

They crouched and sat together facing the open expanse of the cliff’s edge, Jon propped his arms behind him, legs stretched out in front while Daenerys sat crosslegged beside him. Pulling out his full wineskin, Jon uncorked it and offered it to Dany. She smiled and accepted gladly, taking it from his outstretched hand to drink long and deep. Jon quietly watched, her head tilted back to reveal her long, pale neck, silver hair resting on the stones behind her. The fading glow sunset bathing her in such beautiful light that his breathe caught for a moment. She was a heady assault on his senses and resolve.

“When we arrived, I rode Drogon around the castle looking at battlements in need of repair and I came upon this place,” Dany said after lowering the skin from her lips, eyes fixed on setting sun before them. “From above, it looked like remnants of a fire, crumbled and forgotten. But when I got closer, I saw the strangled bushes and wilted flower beds, a forgotten garden of herbs. The women of the khalasaar made swift work of it, planted everything you see here. A little bit of Essos in Westeros, you think?” she smiled, looking over at him.

“If this is what Essos feels like, I’d sooner not return home and stay here forever,” Jon replied, reaching over to take the wineskin from her, his hand caressing hers in the exchange. He lifted it to his lips and drank fully.

“I wanted to show you, to see it before we left, just once more…,” her words began to trail off, Jon knew exactly where her thoughts went.

“Until you return, Daenerys. And you will.” Jon quickly inserted, not letting her go into that dark place he dwelt in most days. He rested the wineskin on the stones between them, he sat up and outstretched his hands toward hers. She gave it eagerly and Jon saw the flicker of reassurance rest in her eyes, wanting her to always feel safe with him.

Dany responded quietly, a distant quiver in her voice, doubt etched deep in her face. Eyes that were focused on the interplay of their hands looked up, searching holding his gaze. “It’s impossible not to think of anything else, I wish I could stop thinking so much…”

His impulses took over, Jon let go of her hand and reached out, his hand trembled as he reached forward to touch her cheek, unsure how she would respond. But she leaned into him, resting her face in the cradle of his hand, sighing deeply and closing her eyes. Jon’s body warmed in response, feeling her soft skin on his, so painfully close that he could scarcely breathe. He wanted her closer, to hold her again as he did that day on the ship. It had been too long.

Jon gently caressed her cheek, moving his hand down the side of her neck, feeling her quickened pulse, fingers trailing a path down her arm. His eyes followed his lingering hand, watching the gooseflesh spring up underneath his touch. Jon felt her shiver and stole a glance in her direction. Dany was looking at him, her breath short and uneven, lips parted in a breathless whisper.

“Jon..” She barely uttered and in that moment, Jon knew that was enough for him. In one swift motion, Jon’s arm reached around her and pulled her into his embrace, turning her to sit promptly on his lap, her back resting against his chest. He felt her tighten in the surprise of the moment but then settled herself comfortably in his lap.

“So forward, Jon Snow. I’m outraged.” Dany playfully chided, not making any attempts to move away from him, only shifting herself further between his thighs. There was no hiding his desire for her, obviously pressed into the small of her back. Instead, Dany seemed to enjoy “settling herself” against him all too well, maybe even as much as he did.

His boldness even shocked him sometimes, Jon was never a man to take what he wanted and to Hells with the consequences. As much time as he spent with the Freefolk, the notion of taking hold of what one desires was still foreign. Even as King, Jon felt tied by rules and boundaries of acceptability. But no more. He had made promises to himself; to live each day fully, never question his gut reactions or fret over inconsequential matters, to cherish fleeting moments of joy. If life was to be short-lived and the Long Night consumes the world in darkness, he will die knowing what it truly means to love a woman with every inch of his soul.

“I couldn’t have my Queen sitting on hard stones for too long, could I?” Jon replied, feigning innocence, “Thought I’d be a more suitable royal cushion for you.” He rocked her in his lap as she playfully elbowed his rib.

“Oooo, careful now. My ribs are still sore. Cant have ya bruising them again.”

“Ohhh, Did I hurt you?” Dany replied softly, her head turned upwards to look at him. She reached under his vest to rub where she'd hit him, intently massaging the spot. Jon shifted at her touch, his pants growing tighter as she moved against him. Gods, give me strength, he sighed, knowing that Dany could feel his heart beating faster, knowing what she was doing to him.

“There, there,” she patted slyly, “Is that any better?”

“Yer killin’ me, woman,” Jon joked between labored breaths, his resolve hanging on by a thread. Every moment left him wanting her more than before. Daenerys stirred feelings in him that he thought he put away a lifetime ago. There was something more now with Dany, feelings that he never knew he could feel with a woman.There was no guilt or shame, no feelings of regret or questioning of his motives or hers. It was pure desire he felt for her, to have her want him in return, to cherish and possess her body and soul, to make her his and only his.

Time was flying faster than a ravens’ wings, clouds lifting as faded starlight began to shine brighter with each passing moment. Jon turned his head upward and smiled knowingly. The open cliffs gave an unobstructed view of the sky, still layered in yellow-orange sunset underneath the deep purple blues of the falling night.

Without a word, Jon lifted them both up, shifting their position around slightly so they were facing North. Dany let out a small, startled noise and tried to shift out of his embrace, but Jon pulled her gently back against him, lowering his head to whisper in her ear.

“Stay,” He gently commanded, his lips resting on the lobe of her ear, inhaling the scent of her as his beard rasped against on the soft skin of her neck, long, silver hair brushing against his face. Jon could feel the shiver run through her, but she remained in his lap, settling back against him with a deep sigh. Jon lifted his head, letting his chin rest on the top of her silky smooth hair. Dany was tucked perfectly inside his embrace, warm and soft, he could stay here forever.

“The Ice Dragon,” Jon said, lifting his hand to point high among the growing stars, the northernmost Ice Dragon brightest of them all. “Do you know of it?”

“Yes and no.”

“The northern beacon, it’s called. There’s a sayin’ among the Freefolk when you need to find your way North, “Look for the Ice Dragon, and chase the blue star in the rider’s eye.” Jon could feel Dany smile as her hand found his, pulling it into her lap, intertwining their fingers lazily. He squeezed hers gently in response.

“Whether standing watch on the Wall or deep in the Frostfangs with the Freefolk or even as a lad at Winterfell feeling lost or alone, I’d look to my old friend there, always bigger and brighter than anything else in the night sky ‘cept the Moon. I never felt afraid whilst he looked down at me, no matter where I was, he kept an eye out.”

“You Northerners are a superstitious bunch, aren’t you?” Dany jested, gently shifting in his lap, “Here I thought ice dragons roamed the Shivering Sea, larger than those of old Valyria, made of living ice with eyes of pale blue crystal, huge translucent wings, and breath cold enough to freeze a man solid.”

Jon hugged her closer, nuzzling his way through her hair towards her ear and whispered, “After a fortnight in the deep, cold North, my dear, I will be calling you an Ice Dragon…” He brought his lips gently around the lobe of her ear, holding her right where he wanted. He sighed against her skin, sending shivers down her arms. Dany pressed against him, her back arching as Jon’s body responded. Her free hand grabbed his right thigh, nails digging into his leather pants. Jon pulled her even closer, his desire growing fast and hard, needing to feel her tight against him.

She’s mine, he knew, feeling the flush of Daenerys’ skin through his clothing, her quiet moan of pleasure willing him to kiss her even more. “I want you,” Jon growled against her ear, nibbling gently along the strained tendon of her neck as she writhed against him. “All of you…”

The heavy sound of tumbling rocks woke them both from their passionate oblivion. Jon’s mind flew into the present as Dany responded to the noise as well, attempting to unlock themselves from their intimate embrace as new voices began to carry across the garden expanse. No sooner Jon lifted her off of his lap did he catch sight of the visitors behind them; Missandei and Grey Worm, walking arm and arm, laughing with each other, blissfully unaware of the breathless King and Queen just a few yards from them.

Dany looked over her shoulder at Jon, Sorry, clearly etched into her face. Jon gave her a look of understanding in return and stood up quickly, cleared his throat in attention, attempting to smooth down his shirt in front of him. He reached down to help Dany to her feet as Missandei called out to them.

“Your Grace!” Missandei smiled pleasantly at them, Grey Worm added his own as well. “I didn’t know you were here, I thought you were out riding Drogon.”

“Well, I was,” Dany responded, “But I wanted to show Jon our small thriving garden from Essos…”

“…But she hurt her ankle on the turn of a stone, very unfortunate,” Jon said hastily, reaching out and quickly scooping up Dany into his arms. She gazed at him with utter shock and surprise but then Jon gave her that look, the one they’ve shared with each other since the day they first met. Trust me, it said without saying anything, so Dany relaxed and played along. He pulled her closer in acknowledgment.

“I just need to take off my boots and wrap it in linen, that’s all, nothing to worry about.” She nonchalantly added as Missandei and Grey Worm looked at each other then at her, eyes wide in response. Jon had to admit, It had become harder each day to hide their obvious affection for each other and he wasn’t fool enough to believe that others didn’t see it as well.

“I'm sure her Grace will be fine,” Jon added. Not leaving a single moment to question, he began striding toward the closest archway and out of the garden, “I’ll bring her to her chambers immediately, Missandei. Someone will tend to her there,” Jon called from over his shoulder as he and Dany made their escape.

“It’s almost time to get ready for tonight’s feast. See you both there,” Dany loudly added as they made their way toward the back door of the western tower nearby.

When they were out of earshot, Dany loosened her grip from around Jon’s neck and looked up at him “ Ahem?” she emphasized in jest and curiosity, “hurt my ankle on the turn of a stone, did I?”

Strolling through the tall grass towards the castle door with Dany still his arms, Jon smiled down at her, feeling very much like the cat that got the cream this time around...

“Well your Grace, it was either this or present myself to your loyal counselors with the hardest cockstand they’ve likely ever seen.”

Dany threw her head back in uproarious laughter as Jon joined in response, watching her shake and kick in ridiculous bliss, etching this moment into memory. Jon grinned down at the diminutive, vicious conqueror he held safe in his arms, jostling her to elicit a startled chirp from her beautiful, upturned face. Dany looked up at him, eyes wide with affection, and he knew he would do anything to keep her just like this forever; the simple pleasure of making the woman he loves laugh was worth a thousand unresolved cockstands.

Yes, Jon knew, I could very much get used to this.

_______

Chapter Text

Daenerys VI

I’m ready.

As evening settled into night, Dany’s flagship north had come to life along the still waters of the Narrow Sea. Copious amounts of food, wine and conversation had flowed around the large dining table this evening, an indulgent continuation of last night’s festivities on Dragonstone. 

Good omens, she thought, praying for more of them as she willingly returned to the frozen tundra of her nightmares, this time better prepared for the journey. The ship had been stocked with a plethora of amenities fit for both King and Queen and their closest advisors; cured and fresh meats, cheeses, ales and wines, flatbreads, combs of honey, and the last of the fruit including a modest crate of lemons for Jon’s sister. There were also plenty of heavy furs and wools, medicines, and as many candles and flints as could be gathered. Freshly forged dragonglass weapons took up much of the hull space. If this was going to be a long trip through unpredictable weather under dangerous circumstances, Dany wanted their short respite at sea to at least be a pleasurable one.

Devising this trip to White Harbor and onto Winterfell had proved more difficult than expected. Both Jorah and Tyrion strongly objected to her going over land and sea citing safety concerns, but Dany had remained unwilling to budge on the matter, a continued sore point at every discussion. But there was something else that threw her off guard, ever since returning from King’s Landing; Tyrion’s growing displeasure over her budding relationship with Jon. Ha! How dare he? After all of his incessant ribbing about her stolen glances and Jon’s longing stares, practically throwing them together through well-placed words in conversations? She didn’t even want to think of Jorah and his own manner of intrusion; sound advice masquerading as interference. With the exception of Missandei and Grey Worm, she was on a ship with well-meaning, trusted advisors all hell-bent on thwarting her hard-fought, long overdue happiness. Dany had conceded to them at every turn before but no more, she intended to have her way.

After settling in, the small cadre of passengers had shared a lavish dinner of juicy roasted pork in red wine sauce, buttered mushrooms and caramelized sweet onions, fresh bread stuffed with warm cheese and date spread, ripe fireplums and apricots soaked in honey wine and mint. Bottomless flagons of sour Dornish red and bitter dark ale. A wondrous display of overt extravagance, Dany had known, just one more night of distraction, we all needed it, although none could escape the inevitability that awaited them in the North.

And inevitability was very much on her mind tonight. Although Dany played gracious Queen for her table of companions, she had found her mind wandering, unable to concentrate much on the meal at hand, trying hard not to be painfully aware of Jon sitting directly opposite her. The heated memory of yesterday in the stone garden was still fresh in her thoughts, as one glance across the table reminded her. Whenever she had looked up during the evening, Jon was there, the desire in his eyes undeniable as he rested casually against his chair back. His blatant disregard for keeping up appearances at dinner had unnerved her, but she inwardly admired his boldness and honesty. He wanted her, he didn't care who knew it. 

Dany had pleaded fatigue soon after all lemon cakes were eaten. She rose from the table to take her leave, watching Jon watch her go, a smirk creeping up his handsome face, leaning back on the carved chair with ease, an eyebrow curled with a hint of arrogance. Dany felt her stomach flutter as she returned his mischievous smile with her own, leaving the men to their continued talk of politics and strategy. Late was the hour when voices had finally quieted and tired bodies returned to their respective cabins, bellies full of wine and good spirits. Soon, the groan of the ship was the only sound heard as Dany relished the quiet of night once again.

Calm winds rocked the boat in a gentle lullaby, the midnight waves bathed in bright moonlight as Dany prepared for bed. The sour Dornish red sung through her veins, spreading warmth throughout as she stretched her limbs, feeling sated and relaxed for once. Exhaling deeply, threw herself into the nearest chair to remove her boots, wanting badly to undress and curl her toes in the plush Qohorik rug that adorned the floor in her chamber. So warm and soft, a special treat for this cold trip. The wood panels of her cabin glowed in the dim candlelight, still warm and cozy enough even as the cold of winter grew stronger with each mile North. But the hour was late, probably best to go to sleep…

An unexpected knock. Dany was glad she hadn’t undressed just yet. Missandei just checking in, she knew. Reaching the door and pulling hard on the thick iron brace, it swung open widely as Dany was taken aback by her late night visitor.

Jon, he’s here.

Their eyes held each other for what felt like an eternity, neither saying a word in the doorway. Dany’s heart hammered in her ears, not knowing what to say, only knowing that she wanted him more than anything. He was beautiful, honorable, standing there waiting for her to respond. The pit of her stomach churned, passion flaring in response, and all she could think of was wanting to adore every inch of this man before her. With her hand still on the door, she pushed it open wider still, a silent invitation that was quickly accepted. In three strides Jon was beside her, swiftly closed the door behind them, the bolt firmly put in place. 

Her body was poised in anticipation, her senses consumed by him as Jon steadily closed the short distance between them. She inhaled the familiar scent of leather and sandalwood soap that clung to him, filling everything around her. His eyes were dark, an intensity of desire and fierceness that she hadn’t seen in him before. Closer and closer, wordlessly, she found herself backed against the heavy oak door with nowhere to go.

He reached for her, one arm circling her waist, the other braced against the door, pulling her hard and close until his mouth hovered just above hers. Dany braced her arms against his as Jon lifted her up onto her tippy toes, holding her fast against him, looming large and gorgeous mere inches from her, meeting his wanting gaze with her own.  Jon finally spoke, breathless words wrapped in his deep Northern growl, 

“Will you have me, love?” 

“Yes…”

And before she could say another word, Jon’s lips met hers hard and fierce as Dany eagerly replied, throwing her arms around his neck, pulling him tightly against her, matching her pent-up desire with his own. For so long she had wanting to feel each touch, for those stolen moments to last a moment longer. Her desire pulsed throughout her body, swelling every inch of her to his touch as he pulled her closer. He was everything she wanted; passionate, loyal, fierce, and handsome. Dany scorned the world and every distraction that kept them apart for so long, he was here now, she’ll never let him go again. 

Jon’s mouth drifted across her jawbone, trailing kisses downward, his lips brushing back and forth against the soft hollow of her throat as her head rested back against the door. His whispered words drowned by her breathless sighs, closing her eyes against the waves of heat rising within her. For a moment, Jon lifted his face from her only to have Dany twine her hands behind his head, pulling him back down to her, the need to kiss him thoroughly after all these months not yet fully satisfied. She heard him groan softly against her mouth as Jon tugged gently on her hair, forcing her face upwards even more as his mouth forced her lips apart, tongue devoured hers, kissing her deeply as Dany responded, biting his lower lip, moaning softly as she melted into him.  

Jon lifted her effortlessly, holding her fully against his body and undeniable arousal, his mouth never leaving hers as he walked them closer to her oversized bed. As he lowered back down to the floor at the foot of her bed, Dany felt the thick Qohorik rug tickle her toes, warm and soft beneath her. 

Flushed and breathless, Dany leaned back from their heated embrace, her hands curling around the leather collar of his vest, pulling his face to hers, insistent, their eyes meeting once more.

“I want you, all of you,” Dany quietly demanded, his words from yesterday echoing through her right now. Jon stood in heightened awareness as she began undressing him, watching his Queen have her way under a satisfying grin that Dany had grown to love. Jon’s heavy gambeson was quickly unbuckled at the shoulders, its heavy weight sinking to his feet. He kicked it to one side then took to heeling off his boots one after the other with deft agility.

“Hmmmm,” Jon murmured, smiling as they both looked down, bare feet sinking into the plushness of the rug beneath them.

“You like it?” Dany asked, wiggling her toes while still undoing the laces of his leather vest. 

“Aye, very much,” he growled, reaching out to grab the front of her coat, pulling her close once more, feverishly kissing her again while her hands pushed the vest down over his shoulders, making quick work of his trouser ties as they joined the rest of his clothing on the floor. Jon brushed her hands aside, reaching to unbutton her wool coat as Dany stepped out of her long, thick skirts, tossing her discarded clothing on the empty chair nearby. 

Their linen undershirts were the last remnant of modesty between them, cool air exposing the thinness of the fabric, leaving little to the imagination. Their frantic pace to devour each other slowed to a momentary pause, leaving them both short of breath. Jon stood back for a moment, taking in the sight of her as Dany met his gaze. He was truly gorgeous, she mused. His muscled legs strong under his shirt which was pleasantly tented, barely shielding his arousal. Dany took a small step forward then another, she slowly reached out and grabbed the bottom of his shirt, her fingers grazing his hardness, Jon’s breath came short, inhaling deeply at her touch. She grabbed a handful of linen and tugged him hard toward her, he gave minimal resistance, eyes never leaving hers, that beautiful smirk gracing his darkly handsome face.

Dany turned and pushed him to sit at the edge the bed, Jon grabbing her hand, pulling her between his spread legs. Dany cupped his face and kissed him gently at first, then harder and more demanding, her tongue tasting his as he responded, his lips hard against hers. His hands savored every area of her body, caressing her, awakening her body with every strained breath she took leaving nothing untouched. She pulled him closer but it wasn’t enough, his arms held her hips tightly. Flushed and panting, Dany swiftly removed her linen shirt in one motion, and Jon’s eyes widened a bit, her nakedness just inches from his face. Her hands reached out to hold his face, eyes meeting hers, she leaned in to kiss him with purpose, letting him know exactly what she wanted. 

“Take me now,” Dany breathed between kisses.

“No.”

“No?”

“You heard me,” Jon said defiantly, leaning back from her kiss, slowly reaching up and behind his neck to pull his linen shirt over his head, tossing it to the side. He reached to bring her close again but was met with resistance, her body rigid with audacity, how dare he say no!  

Looking down at him, Her eyes flared with mischief and need, “Well, in that case…” Dany responded, moving to straddle him, her desire not wanting to wait a moment longer.

In the same moment, Jon reacted, pulling her tight against him and bringing his mouth to her breast. Jon rasped his beard lightly against her flush, tight skin as her body betrayed her, moaning softly, her hands twined behind his head. Feeling her insistence, his lips closed gently over one nipple, his tongue licking, sliding over her and around her, his attention more demanding than the previous, tugging and sucking hard on her stiff peaks until she could barely stand. 

His breath was warm on her skin as he suckled her, bending her to suit his will, his mouth, his tongue, setting her skin on fire. The pulsing urgency was rising, Dany felt like a goddess being worshipped in his arms. Gods, how much longer could she stand this? Jon’s grip was firm but gentle, her skin tingling with each savoring kiss and brush of his beard. There was nothing else in the world, only the two of them mattered. 

Dany felt a warm trickle of wetness slipping down her lips, settling on her inner thigh. She pressed her legs together, keeping it from going any further, but the pulsing sensation of the pressure drummed through her, awakening her body even more. The pleasure was overwhelming, it had been so long, it had never felt so good.

Jon’s hand trailed down her leg and slowly pushing them apart and Dany obliged willingly, wanting his touch everywhere, yearning to feel him deep inside her. His mouth continued its assault of her; licking and nibbling each rosy peak, his beard caressing her into madness. His warm hand found the evidence of her desire, running his fingers along the trail of wetness on her thigh on their ascent to her pouty, damp center.

Resting his chin between her breasts and looking very much like an innocent, Jon gazed up at her as she tried to keep steady, eyes teasing her, a crooked grin on his face. 

“Hmmmm, silver everywhere,” Jon murmured softly against her skin, kissing each nipple lightly. 

He was toying with me, she shivered, but then his hand reached its destination, fingers running through her fine, curly hair, brushing gently against her small nub of intense pleasure. Not being able to hold back anymore, Dany moaned loudly, shivering in pleasure, gripping Jon to hold steady as his fingers penetrated and withdrew, sliding effortlessly into her wetness as the world fell away. 

“What am I going to do with you,” he snickered gently, his warm breath on her skin, “standing here, dripping like that. I can’t let that sweetness go to waste.” 

He drew his fingers back for her to see, dripping with her desire. Jon’s eyes locked on her, deep pools of desire, playful and serious, wanting her to watching him as he sucked them clean. 

“You are delicious…”

That’s it.

Dany’s resolve broke. Enough of the games. Grabbing Jon behind his neck, Dany brought one knee up on to his seated tight, attempting to climb and straddle him to end this suffering that he was subjecting her to. He was hard against her belly as she positioned herself right over him, slowly lowering down, rubbing the head of his cock against her pulsing, wet opening. But in one fuild motion, Jon lifted her up and away, letting himself fall back onto the bed with her on top of him. 

Dany, seizing the moment, reaching up and pulled his face to hers, kissing him fully and thoroughly as she moved her way up his body, her hands roaming and touching every inch of him. Jon was lithe and strong under her as he bit and teased and Dany couldn’t get enough, holding him tighter, her body flushed and aching under his touch.

She broke their embrace, breathlessly wanting to end this exquisite torture that throbbed through her body, needing him hard and deep inside her at this very moment, “Look..” she began to say, but in the next moment, Jon swiftly rolled over, pulling Dany underneath him, nudging her legs open with his, fitting himself perfectly within her embrace. 

“Yeah…” he responded as if answering her need for fulfillment. Jon bent to kiss her waiting mouth, her lips parted in breathless pleasure as he slowly moved upwards, his hardness teasing, stretching her wide to accommodate him, her wetness gliding over him, sliding down her thighs. Dany thrust her hips, attempting to hungrily pull him deeper, feeling her muscles tensing around him as he inched his way further in.

Jon sighed, pulling his face away from hers, breathless with desire. his eyes searching hers as if she held an answer he was desperately seeking. Dany saw a shift, from want to need, the lines on his face softened as his hand came up caress her cheek. It was so gentle and loving compared to the frenzy that got them here and she knew, Love, she saw, as much as I love him. Her own eyes responded, wanting him to know she felt it too; that he was her match, unexpected and perfect in every way. Love.

Unable to stand the slow torture any further, Jon obliged her in one quick motion, driving himself into her with a fierce thrust that left them both gasping, his mouth coming down hard on hers. A deep moan escaped her throat as she pulled her knees up, legs circling his hips, thrusting in synchronicity, wanting all of him, deeper, harder. His lips where everywhere, her body was on fire, feeling as though she were going to die from the pleasure. 

“My love,” Jon whispered between kisses, thrusting deeper, meeting her impatience with his own. 

Dany could feel Jon swelling inside her, thrusting deep against her womb, as the familiar shivers of desire began to take hold. She pulled her legs tighter around his waist, keeping him close and deep, grinding her hips against his in a circular motion, his hardness massaging every inch, filling her soft wetness. The intensity of her movement pushed Jon over the edge, waves of pleasure washing over him as Dany clung to him, willing him faster, harder. She was almost there and so was he, She wanted to feel every inch of him, to love him fiercely like this for the rest of her days.

“Jon…Jon…”, she heard herself moan, holding him tight as he drove into her again and again until Dany crested over the edge with him. Jon feverishly held her in place under him, pressing into her as far as he could go, his face buried in her hair as they moaned and shivered, climaxing in unison. Dany convulsed, a deep, prolonged shudder shook them both, wave upon wave, and when it was over, Jon collapsed with a deep, satisfying sigh of relief and pleasure. Dany welcoming the full weight of him on top of her. He is mine, her small smile grew as he looked down, meeting her gaze, still laying deep inside her, the throbbing pleasure pulsing with their heartbeats, sated and content. 

“The first of many tonight, my Queen,” Jon growled gently into her ear, showing her what he meant by thrusting the point home once more. Her body instinctively moaned at the pressure, squeezing him gently inside her, she reached up and kissed him. 

“But it’s morning,” she correctly playfully as Jon lowered his face to bite the softness of her neck making Dany yelp involuntarily. His body fits perfectly in hers as her hands roamed his back, enjoying to feel of him, languidly replete in exquisite satisfaction from their lovemaking, knowing that whatever else happened, they’d have this moment of happiness together.

“Well then, I guess I should be going…” Jon jested in a sigh of playful resignation, rolling away from her. Dany, still pleasantly flushed and warm from his embrace, protesting his withdrawal, the immediate loss of him was palpable, cold and unwanted.

She reached over, tugging at his hand as he moved to get up, “Don’t leave.”

Jon smirked at her, letting Dany pull him back down to the bed. He gathering her up in his embrace, planting small kisses on her face until he captured her lips with his own, parting them to taste her once more. As her hands came up to caress the scruff of his beard, soft and wiry, Dany eyes met Jon’s gaze.

“Never.”

_______