Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash

--Hozier, Arsonist's Lullaby

The day Daenerys decided to burn, it rained in Hay-on-Wye.

There were starlings in the car park, gathered together in an ever-shifting mass underneath the craggy ash tree that grew up from broken asphalt. Rain came down heavily, saturating everything in its path. Behind the car park lot, behind the ash tree and the rain, was the convent.

Daenerys sat in her Vauxhall Astra in the lot, letting the rain slide down the windshield. It was a recent acquisition, the Astra—a gift from a well meaning nun who, likely pitying her position, had pressed the keys in her hand one day, away from the other sisters.

“So you don’t feel so cooped up, love.” As though she could feel anything but cooped up, even with the freedom the Astra brought. The sister, another red-haired disciple of The Red God, had smiled kindly, vanishing into the convent before someone could see. Likely everyone knew who had gifted the Astra, but it was the principle of the thing. The Sisters loved secrecy.

The engine thrummed happily, unaffected by the weather. Daenerys closed her eyes, soaking in a few more moments of solitude before returning to the convent. Some soft, sweet music played on the radio. Tom Sevenstrings, she thought. The lyrics were bawdy,  but the sweet staccato of the harp was pleasing.

With a sigh, she pulled the keys out of the ignition. The music and the engine ceased, filling the cab with silence. She pushed her door open, pulling the sack of groceries in the passenger seat with her as she climbed out of the car. The red doors to the convent loomed over her as she climbed the steps, bag in hand. Red doors, like the red flames within.

Ever since she could remember, Daenerys had lived at The Garden of the Red God Convent in Hay-on-Wye, Wales. The Sisters liked to tell her of the night she was left on their doorstep, a dark and stormy night, the sea churning down by the coast and the sky black as pitch.

“It was a miracle you were alive,” one of the sisters always said. “Such a small thing as you were, but what a cry you had! It seemed as though you had sucked in all the air in the world into your little lungs, and blew it out with a wail and a shriek.”

That night had earned her the nickname ‘Stormborn’ in the convent, and it was used just as much, if not more, than her birth name.

The sisters had never hidden any part of her past from her. In fact, they adored extolling the virtues of her mysterious existence to her almost daily. She had been left on the doorstep twenty years ago swaddled in ship’s tarpaulin, with a note pinned to her breast and a silver ring clutched in one fist. Daenerys Targaryen, only daughter of Mad King Aerys, a drunk and a direct descendant of the royal family, who’d lived out his final years waging war against empty castles and crumbling battlements. Her mother, Rhaella, his sister, who’d been locked up and abused by the madman. She had been found dead with her brother in Swansea, a news story still whispered about in all of Wales. No one knew for sure who’d left her at the convent, but Daenerys liked to think it had been Rhaella, making one last effort to save herself and her only daughter.

She had two brothers as well, she knew. Rhaegar, a harpist of some acclaim, had died at the hands of a man outraged at his father’s crimes. One of the sisters had managed to find his harp and it sat in Daenerys’ room now, though she privately thought she’d never be as good as the recording of her brother.

Viserys had visited her a few times at the convent. Each time was more disastrous than the last, as he attempted to wring money from her or the sisters. Someone had told Daenerys that he was a drug addict, and it didn’t take much to imagine that as the truth. He would appear in the middle of the night raging and delirious. Some nights he would just sit with her, telling her stories of Rhaegar and their mother. Other nights he was less kind.

Jorah, the old guard and gatekeeper of the convent, had thrown him out the first time he had seen Viserys strike her. It hadn’t been the first time. Viserys never visited again after that, though he would send a letter once in a blue moon, half apology, half vitriol.

Daenerys called out to Jorah now, asking him to open the great doors. They swung open, and she went inside to his little guard post.

“Afternoon, princess.”

Jorah nodded to her, smiling kindly. He always called her princess, a nod to her royal ancestry. It made Daenerys giggle as a girl, but now as a young woman the thought of being related to tyrants and monsters made her weary.

“Afternoon, Jorah.”

She hefted the grocery sack up for him to peruse. “If you want anything from my trip, better take it now before Kinvara has her pick of sweets.”

The Astra had also been a gift of practicality. The Sisters were rarely allowed to leave the convent, as reading the flames was their calling and they took it very seriously. Daenerys had the pleasure of being the one to go on the weekly trip to the shops, buying whatever necessities were needed. And that had recently included buying sweets and cigarettes for Kinvara and Jorah.

Jorah rifled through the contents of the grocery bag a moment before withdrawing his pack of cigarettes and a Mars Bar. He saluted her as she entered the courtyard to the convent, and she cracked a small smile, managing to wave before the heavy doors swung shut again behind her.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him today was the day. She’d had some doubts still, before she went to bed the night before, but when she woke to the sound of the downpour and the starlings gathered in the car park, she’d known.

Today, she was going to burn.

Daenerys distributed groceries in the kitchen, various sisters in their red habits and long robes bustling about. The convent’s main mission was the reading of the flames, of course, but over the centuries they had cultivated a small candle making business on the side to support themselves. Now the convent was well known for their candles which curiously never seemed to burn out.

Today the kitchen was a buzz of activity. In a few days the annual Hay-on-Wye book fair would begin, and tourists from all over would descend upon the small town, devouring the secondhand and rare books from vendors staffed by the aging population. The Sisters always had a booth set up to sell candles, as well as to offer fortune telling to gullible passersby. Daenerys had her doubts about the Red God, R’hllor, but she’d yet to see a tourist who was unimpressed by the theatrics of the flames. Especially when Melisandre was the one doing the flame readings. The woman was the most fanatical of the sisters, and her zeal for the flames was apparent in the way she read fortunes and told prophecies to anyone who would listen.

Even Daenerys had been the subject of her prophecies, more than once.

“You are destined to be the light bringer!” Melisandre has said to her one day. Daenerys had been not yet even twelve when the woman had told her this, her long fingers clutching painfully at her thin shoulders. Daenerys had wriggled away, but the words had stuck with her.

Now Melisandre was in the kitchen, giving orders to new initiates as they made candles for the fair.

“Let the light of R’hllor guide your hands though the wax!” She cheered. “Red wax for R’hllor, white wax for the light he brings!”

Daenerys set the last of the groceries on the long counter, taking care to avoid the tall pots of simmering wax. Melisandre paused in her speech, fixing her with a stare.

Daenerys squirmed under the woman’s gaze. Melisandre had an uncanny ability to know exactly when Daenerys had done something the sisters wouldn’t approve of. She never tattled, but just knowing that she knew was unsettling enough to make Daenerys repent.

“Your heart is heavy, Stormborn.”

Melisandre’s slim white hands grasped Daenerys’ tightly. “Pray to R’hllor, that he might ease your suffering.”

Daenerys smiled weakly. “For the night is dark and full of terrors,” she said, hoping the other woman would let go and leave her be.

Melisandre just looked at her.

“I know you do not follow our ways, but you have never been alone here,” she said softly. “The Red God guided you to us, and we regard you as one of our own.”

Daenerys swallowed hard. How could she tell her? Keeping secrets was a heavy burden in the convent.

She just nodded, hoping nothing in her expression would give her away. Melisandre let her go.

The red woman turned back to the candle making, but spoke to Daenerys quietly.

“This is the path you seek, though it will not be the path you have chosen. To go forward, you must go back. To be reborn, you must burn in the light of R’hllor.”

Daenerys hurried out of the kitchen, doors swinging behind her.

Once safely in her room, she bolted the door. She threw open the closet door, and took out her stash. For weeks, she’d been carefully storing kerosene and tallow from the flame rooms, pouring a little at a time into bottles stashed in her sleeves until she could hide them away in her room. Kindling, pieces of wood cleared from the ash tree and clipping from candle wicks, she kept in a paper bag.

The last piece of her macabre collection was a little match box, no bigger than a deck of cards. She sobbed slightly as she held it, cradling it in her small hands.

She’d never told any of the sisters about Drogo. The first week after her twentieth birthday when she’d been given the Astra, Daenerys had taken to sneaking out and driving inland, to the grassy hills. Anywhere she could go that would take her far from the coast, far from ancient castles and the heavy history of her family. Sometimes, she would spend an afternoon in a bustling city, pretend to be someone else. That’s how she met Drogo.

He’d been the spark to her flame, a wild bad boy embroiled in street gangs and illicit activities. It thrilled her, to experience something so foreign. The son of purebred horse trainers, Drogo had money, and liked to spend it on Daenerys. She’d run out of places to hide the jewelry he’d given her, and wore it like a queen of antiquity when she was out with him. He loved her odd beauty, praised her instead of made fun. He called her the moon of his life, and loved to braid her long white hair with bells and gold cuffs in the style of the show horses he rode.

After a few months, Daenerys finally figured out he saw her as little more than that. A show horse, a prize to show off to his friends and colleagues. They’d argued, and he’d hit her. The shock of it reminded her of Viserys. After, she’d run out into the street crying, screaming. It was midday, the sun hot in the summer sky. She’d always remember the warmth of the sun on her back as she watched the bus hurtle toward her.

In the end, it had been Drogo who paid the price, not her. Three days in a coma. He passed quietly in the night, though his vitals had been normal. Nobody knew how it had happened that his life support became unplugged during the night shift. The attending nurse, Mirri, was fired, despite pleading that she hadn’t touched him. Nobody questioned who his strange girlfriend was, where she was from. Nobody asked. Nobody came.

She’d lost the baby a week later. No bigger than a pearl, tiny. Just a few weeks along. She and Drogo had only been together three months, but they’d never used protection. She’d never even thought of it.

She kept the scrap of cloth stained by her blood. The rest she’d already burned weeks ago, hiding any trace of what had happened to her. It wasn’t a sin to have children in the convent, but it was rare, and children were given up for adoption after.

Daenerys had lingered for weeks over the trauma before deciding she was going to burn. Though her memories were foggy through the tears and the blood, she vaguely knew it was all her fault. She remembered the hospital, and then the blood, and then the flames in her hands as she burned her child, flames so hot she felt them as ice in her palms.

In the present, she gathered up her supplies and headed out to the only truly secluded place in the convent.

The old garden was a decrepit wasteland of a place, hidden way in the back by tall grass and sand bags. Once upon a time there was talk of turning it into a glass house, but now it lay still and dead, a barren plot of land with a shed and a fence.

Daenerys built her pyre there, sheltered by the shade of an ash tree. The ground was hard, despite the rain, and her kindling was plentiful. She built around herself, creating a ring of wick and twig, dousing it in kerosene and tallow.

It was nearly dusk now, and her hands were stuck all over and raw from building the pyre. Daenerys sat back, pushing her long hair out of her eyes.

The match lit on the first try, and Daenerys was almost afraid. Fire cannot burn a dragon, her brother had always said to her, but here she was, trying to burn. Would it hurt? She wondered, but chastised herself for asking such a silly question. Of course it would.

The flames grew steadily, drowning the air around her.

What would Jorah think?

The kindling made a hissing sound, a soft fricative that sent shivers down Daenerys’ spine.

Would the sisters mourn her?

A loud snap made Daenerys jump, and she closed her eyes against the brightness of the fire.

Strange, that she’d expected it to be hotter.

Daenerys breathed in through her nose, regretting it instantly as smoke and kerosene filled her senses. The gases started to make her feel sleepy.

This is almost pleasant, she thought mildly. Who knew dying could be so peaceful…

Fire is cleansing, she thought to herself as she drifted off. I shall be the cleanest person in the world after all this is over…

Around her the flames lept and danced and licked at her body. Smoke flew up over the rooftop of the convent. Beyond the garden walls, sirens wailed.

________________________________________________________________________________

Vaguely, Jon supposed he knew they’d be going on a road trip. He’d not, however, been prepared for exactly what that meant.

When Sam had mentioned the book fair in Hay-on-Wye, Jon had agreed to go conditionally. He wanted a few weeks away from work, from family, from being cooped up in the station or in his attic room in Winter Town. Unfortunately for him, Jon had a younger sister who would be more aptly described as a ninja in terms of stealth and parrot in terms of keeping secrets. Within a day, the whole family knew about his planned trip and was packing the station wagon to come along.

It wasn’t all bad. Eleven hours on the road meant plenty of time to plan for the coming months at the Night’s Watch. Being the only fire department north of Thurso meant a lot of work for Jon and the rest of the station, and they more often than not had less than nothing to work with. So he was used to being thrifty, negotiating with local politicians for more resources where needed.

Jon shared his car with Sam and Arya, with his malamute Ghost taking up more than half of the backseat. His white fur nearly engulfed his tiny sister, but the giant dog seemed to not even notice as she continuously pushed him over to have more space.

The part Jon was dreading was having to share his precious time off with his step-mother present. After his father’s death a year prior, her behavior towards him had veered sharply bitchward. He wasn’t proud of being pushed around by a middle aged woman at twenty-three years of age, but Catelyn was fierce. The last year had seen her relegating Jon and his belongings to an attic room away from his siblings, “forgetting” to set a place for him at mealtimes, and even locking him out of doors when he went out.

He didn’t mind too much. Arya and Bran still treated him as their brother, and though Robb was off and married, he called weekly. Only Sansa was wary of him, still clinging to her mother’s skirts at times despite being a young lady of sixteen.

“You alright, Jon?”

Sam had been fiddling with the radio for the past few minutes, switching from local station to local station as they passed through counties. Currently he was playing some maudlin harp music, a man’s voice crooning soulfully over the airwaves.

Jon focused on the road ahead, hands gripping the wheel.

“Fine, Sam. Don’t worry about me.” He offered a crooked grin to his friend, who seemed only slightly mollified.

Behind them, Arya piped up. “I swear I didn’t know Catelyn would want to come with you. Apparently there’s some candle place she wants to check out.”

Jon shrugged with one shoulder, eyes still on the road. Ahead, he could finally see the exit sign for Hay-on-Wye.

“I told you it’s fine, Arya. And mind you don’t call her that to her face or you’ll catch hell.”

Arya was newly fourteen and rebellious as could be. She’d taken strongly to Jon as a child, but even more so as a teen, much to her mother’s chagrin. Now she was calling her Catelyn behind her back, something that caused much strife between herself and Sansa.

As they pulled into the town, Jon saw smoke rising from over top of some trees. Dark black smoke, billowing up. He sped up instinctually, fireman training taking over. Sam put a hand on his arm, and he jerked, slowing down.

“Sorry,” he muttered, but kept his eyes trained on the smoke. “That’s a big fire.”

“I’m sure they have a fire department in Hay-on-Wye, Jon,” Arya said from the backseat. Her gameboy beeped cheerfully. Ghost whined.

Behind them, Catelyn’s station wagon honked impatiently. Jon drove to the bed and breakfast they’d reserved. It sat on the outskirts of the town, closer to the neighboring coastal county. Even that far out, the black smoke was clearly visible against the sunset. The brilliant oranges and reds blended with the smoke until it seemed as harmless as a painting.

The group stumbled tiredly into the inn, Ghost in tow. Catelyn had already begun delegating, planning every moment of their trip. She was to share a room with Sansa and Arya, and Jon would room with Sam. Ghost, they were told was too big to stay in the guest rooms.

At that, Catelyn gave Jon a triumphant smirk, as though to say “I told you so.” However, the innkeeper, Missandei, graciously showed Jon out to a well kept kennel in the garden.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. The woman shook her head, curls bouncing.

“This one has always loved dogs,” she said. Her voice was accented, lovely. “My husband will bring him water and dog food.”

Jon smiled, then frowned. “Do you know where that smoke is coming from?”

Missandei nodded slowly, eyes looking over Jon’s shoulder at the plume of smoke still in the sky.

“It comes from the Garden of R’hllor. A bad omen.”

Jon frowned. “There’s a convent of the Red God, here?”

He’d had some run ins with the sisters of the Red God before, and none of them had been pleasant. They had a penchant for starting home fires by accident. One of the local politicians, Stannis Baratheon, had even been caught having an affair with one of the red women, a zealous follower of R’hllor who’d set a house fire by accident and killed his young daughter. Nobody had been able to press charges, as it had only been prayer candles she’d lit, but the whole town was perturbed by the woman’s overly calm reaction to the tragic death of the girl.

After that, he’d never seen her nor Stannis again.

Missandei nodded again, but she seemed a little nervous. “This one has a friend who lives there. I should call and check on her.”

She hurried back into the inn. Jon stood in the garden with Ghost for another long moment, taking in the tall plume of smoke. It seemed endless. Every fibre of his being told him to run to it, put out the fire. Something told him whatever caused the fire had to be serious.

Standing at the garden gate Jon could hear sirens wailing in the distance. The red steeple of the convent glowed in the dying rays of sunlight, a deep burnt orange that reminded him of fire.

Suppressing a shiver, Jon went inside.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

“I’ve got you princess. Daenerys, please open your eyes, please.”

Something was burning. She could smell it, the powdery scent of ash clinging to her nostrils. Her mouth was dry. Something was poking her painfully. She tried to shift away from it, but found she couldn’t move. Something was pinning her down. Panicking, she struggled against it, tried to scream. She felt the sound bubbling up in her throat, but it emerged as a whimper.

She heard voices around her, muffled and distant. Someone was weeping.

Slowly, Daenerys opened her eyes. At first, all she saw was smoke. So much smoke, and ash falling like snow. She whimpered again, trying to find the words she needed.

“Princess?”

There was Jorah, hovering above her. His lined face was tight with concern, and there were tears in his eyes. Daenerys had never seen her old bear cry before. She tried to reach for him, but was bound again, motionless. She looked down at herself. Someone had wrapped her in a fire retardant blanket, heavy and abrasive against her bare skin. Why was she naked?

Jorah had her in his arms. Vision clearing, Daenerys could see the red sisters around them, huddled in a scarlet mass. Kinvara was there, her face drawn tight and eyes red. Beside her stood Melisandre, but she wore a different expression. She looked almost proud, as though some miracle had been performed.

“Why did you do this, Daenerys?”

Jorah’s voice was choked up as he lifted her from the ground.

“You almost died, you could have burned the convent down, you could’ve burned, you were burning—“

He stopped abruptly, taking in a hard breath. Daenerys just watched him, feeling as though she were watching him from a further place.

There were firemen then, taking her from Jorah, asking questions, taking samples. Someone came by and swabbed her skin, clipped some of her hair, felt her forehead. Daenerys was taken to an ambulance where a kind lady examined her. She was given fluids through an IV, poked and prodded by the befuddled paramedics. All the while, the same words repeated: why didn't she burn?

After, she was taken back to the convent, and there were more questions. Why did she do it? What had driven her to self immolation? Kinvara dismissed all of the initiates. Daenerys was taken again, walked to a private chamber. They bathed her, combed her hair, miraculously untouched by the flames.

After, at her insistence, they left her alone. Daenerys knew they were watching through the flames, knew she wasn’t truly alone. But it would do.

She stood before a mirror, looked at herself. Her skin was unmarred, clean and white as ever. There was the scar from falling out of a lemon tree when she was six, and another from Drogo. Her hair fell in damp silver tendrils around her face, and when she looked, violet eyes peered out from behind white lashes.

Nothing had changed. And yet, Daenerys felt a strange wakening in her heart. Something heavy had been lifted from her shoulders, replaced by some greater purpose.

The next day, she went back to the garden.

Most of the debris had been cleared away by the firemen, but there remained a black circle where the pyre had been. The grass was charred clean away, some terrible cleansing of earth.

Daenerys knelt by the remains of her pyre. How strange to think that only yesterday she’d been willing to lose everything to forget.

Something moving caught her eye. In the center of the charred circle was a nest. Some bird must’ve knocked it from the ash tree. Daenerys picked it up and cradled it in her hands. In the nest were three eggs, all a pale blue-green, speckled with black and brown. She picked one up and held it to her ear as though it were a nautilus, and she could hear the ocean through it.

It trembled in her hands. In seconds, the egg burst, and out emerged a trembling black fledgling. It cried out, and as though in answer, the other two eggs burst too, each producing a perfect baby bird. Daenerys held each in her own hands, and wept as they cheeped and cried to her.

In the days that followed, she had not a moment to herself. Everywhere she went, the red sisters watched her. The older sisters watched her with wary eyes, or sad and pitying stares. The younger acolytes followed her, plaguing her with questions. Everyone wanted to know how she survived the fire. Some even regarded her with envy, whispers of “R’hllor’s favorite” echoing in the convent halls.

Jorah was another nuisance. He’d appointed himself her unofficial bodyguard and keeper, checking in at all hours of the day. What used to be a pleasant father-daughter dynamic between them soured quickly. It suffocated her. Finally, she decided she’d had enough.

Daenerys passed as much time as possible away from the convent trying to find a place to stay. Three days after the fire, she’d called Missandei, begging her to let her stay in the bed and breakfast. Missandei had gently let her down, as they were booked solid with a family of five for two weeks.

However, her best friend had put in a good word for her with a couple landlords in the town, and on the fourth day, Daenerys stood in front of the door of her first apartment, keys in hand.

Her crows cawed softly in their cage. They’d grown swiftly, flight feathers grown in in less than a week. As they grew, she was able to tell them apart by the strange colors they reflected. All were black as night, but in the sun they were dazzling. Drogon’s feathers shone deep red in the sun, and his beak was blood red. Viserion was a blue-green hue, his beak lined with a creamy white. Rhaegal shone emerald green, his beak a ruddy brown. At first she’d been afraid they’d fly away as soon as they were able, but they took to her, settling on her shoulders and never straying far.

They seemed to always know where she was, and they relied on her for food and shelter. Daenerys had taken to calling them her children.

The apartment was bare, just clean white walls and wood floors. It had a tiled bathroom and a working shower, and it had blessedly come with a fridge and a stove.

She had already said her goodbyes to the red sisters and Jorah earlier that morning. Jorah, of course, had taken it hard. He’d tried to ask her where she would be staying, but she’d staunchly refused to tell him where her new home was. The town was small enough as it was. Kinvara had been understanding, but she had a few conditions.

“We still need your help with the book fair,” the woman had said, and Daenerys had promised she’d be there. Anything to have her freedom.

Surveying the apartment, she sighed.

“Well, this is it boys.”

The crows cawed, ruffling their feathers. Daenerys let them out of the cage to explore, and they took off. Drogon, ever the reckless one, immediately flew out the open window. Viserion perched on her shoulder and Rhaegal hopped on the ground as Daenerys unpacked the rest of her meager belongings.

Dinner that night was solitary, but rewarding. Grey had dropped off some food from Missandei in the afternoon. They’d invited her to eat with them, but Daenerys didn’t want to disturb the guests.

She ate on the floor, tossing scraps of meat to her birds, who swallowed them whole with jerky, clipped movements.

Stretching out on the hard floor, Daenerys smiled. Drogon nuzzled her hair with his beak, and she reached up to lightly stroke his head.

“It feels evil to say,” she whispered to him. “But I feel so free. For the first time in my life, I feel like my own person. Not Stormborn, not a princess. Daenerys. Me.”

She sat up. “Something happened in that fire. I lost Rhaego, but now I have you.” She sighed. “I feel destined for something greater than this. Something more than this town.”

Drogon pecked at her dinner, and she laughed. “I sound mad. But I’m not.” She straightened, fixing the bird with a hard stare. “If I look back, I’m lost.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first four days in Hay-on-Wye admittedly were boring as hell. Jon had exhausted the number of different routes he could take to walk Ghost every day, and had already managed to piss off his stepmother.

It wasn’t even his fault, that Ghost had slobbered all over her prim dress, leaving a huge trail of spittle down her leg. She’d shrieked and struck Ghost. Jon hadn’t even had to do anything, Missandei’s husband, Grey, moving to stand between the irate woman and his dog. It happened so fast even Catelyn had no words. Grey had stared her down, face carefully blank, until she’d mumbled an apology and retreated. But she’d not spared Jon her ire.

He was not to cross paths with her for the rest of the trip, something Jon was all too ready to agree to.

He and Sam had agreed to meet up at the book fair. Today was the first official day of the fair, and Sam was determined to be there every day it was open.

It was warm for May, and Jon, being unused to warm weather, had been forced to tie his jumper around his waist in a very unfashionable manner in order to keep cool. Ghost was feeling it too, his tongue lolling out of his wide mouth. Jon pitied him.

“Come on boy, let’s find a booth with some water.”

He walked up and down the length of the fair. Sam was no where to be found, but Jon guessed he was buried up to his neck in ancient tomes. There really were books of all kinds at the fair, ranging from shiny new children’s books to crumbling folios of plays written by men Jon had never heard of.

A few booth sold things besides books. There were artisanal baskets, local art, and even a few stalls selling local honey. As Jon progressed down the aisles, he kept an eye out for a food and beverage booth.

Finally, he found one. Ghost picked up a scent, and Jon let himself be dragged by the giant dog until they reached a curry and chip booth. Two women sat fanning themselves at the table, with the food set up behind them. In front of them, an assortment of lemonades, sodas, and bottled waters were arranged enticingly in a cooler.

“Hi, er, how much for two bottles of water?” Jon asked.

The women eyed him up and down before one of them, a slender woman with deep tanned skin, spoke.

“Three pounds fifty. It is known.”

She had a similarly heavy accent to Missandei and Grey. Jon shoved his hand in his jeans pocket and came up with exact change. As he was being handed the water, he noticed the booth next to them.

It was hard to miss, honestly. Blood red, staffed by the unmistakeable sisters of the Red God. A very occult spread of candles and tarot cards was on their booth table, and there was a decent crowd gathered by a woman giving fortune tellings.

That’s not what most caught Jon’s attention though.

Standing somewhat awkwardly apart from the booth was a young girl, about his age. While she was dressed fairly modestly, she didn’t wear the red robes of the convent. Her hair was so white it shone silver in the bright sun, and she had three crows perched on her shoulders.

Suddenly, as though sensing his eyes on her, she turned. Even from a few yards away, Jon could clearly see her eyes. Violet. The color of northern heather.

Ghost whines again and panted against Jon’s leg, interrupting his reverie.

“Sorry boy, let’s find somewhere for you to have a drink.”

Jon turned, looking for somewhere he could safely give a massive dog water without splashing it all over a precious volume of poetry.

A soft voice at his side startled him. “Looking for a place for your dog?”

It was the girl. Up close she was even more stunning, eyes wide and mouth turned up prettily at the corners. Jon coughed slightly.

“Er, yeah. I don’t want to make a mess.”

The girl laughed. It sounded like silver bells, and gods, but Jon was smitten instantly.

She nodded her head at a park bench under a shady tree. “There’s a bench there, if you’d like to sit.”

Jon nodded dumbly as she led them to the bench, unsure of how he’d managed to already sit down alone with her, and not even have had a proper conversation.

They sat, and Jon quickly opened the water to give to Ghost. The girl giggled a bit as she watched him pour it in the dog’s giant maw, his tail wagging appreciatively.

When he’d finished, Ghost turned his attentions to the girl, offering his huge head up for pets. While the crows seemed displeased, taking off to settle in the tree above them, the girl didn’t mind at all, running her small hands through Ghost’s thick fur.

“What a good boy you are,” she cooed. She looked up at Jon, and he felt his heart skip another beat. Fuck.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m being terribly rude. My name is Daenerys.”

Sounded fairly Welsh, Jon thought.

“I’m Jon,” he said. “Jon Snow.”

Daenerys smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jon Snow.”

Her warm southern accent lingered on his last name. It sounded nice, coming from her. Didn’t sound like the curse it was.

“I didn’t mean to pull you away from the fair, but it looked like you needed a quiet spot to sit with your dog.”

Jon chuckled. “It’s no trouble at all, really. I got kicked out of the B&B I was staying at, so I came here.”

Daenerys frowned. “Missy kicked you out?”

Jon shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. It’s just my stepmother. She doesn’t like me being around.”

Daenerys cocked her head to one side, regarding him. “So you came to the fair?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here. He’s the reason I’m even here. I imagine he’s neck deep in books about magic and dragons and whatnot.”

Daenerys nodded, pensive.

“You’re not from anywhere close by then.”

It was a statement, not a question.  Jon nodded.

“Aye. I’m from Winter Town. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it, it’s pretty far up north. Past Thurso.”

Her expression clearly said she had no idea where either of those places where. Jon laughed.

“Don’t worry about it.”

One of the crows, perhaps sensing that the great white beast wasn’t a threat, fluttered back down and settled on Daenerys’ shoulder. It stared at Jon with one beady red eye.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a crow with red eyes before.”

Beside him, Jon felt Daenerys stiffen. “My birds…are special. I can’t really explain it.”

Jon held his hands up. “Hey, I’m not judging. I have a seventeen stone albino dog.”

He gestured back at the red booth. “So are you with the red sisters?”

Daenerys shook her head. “Not really. I grew up in the convent, but I’m not a follower of the Red God. Though,” she said, biting her lip, “Maybe I should be.”

“So do you know anything about the fire that happened five nights ago? We saw it driving in. The smoke was incredible, but no one has said a word about it since we got here.”

Daenerys was quiet for a moment, and Jon worried he’d misspoken somehow. Then, she spoke.

“Do you believe in magic, Jon Snow?”

A long time ago, Jon would have laughed and said no. He’d have told this stunning girl she had her head in fairy tales like his sister Sansa, that knights and princesses and magic were things of the distant past, impossible dreams.

Now though, the question made Jon’s chest ache.

He rubbed at the place where his scar was under his t-shirt, throat dry.

“Aye, I believe.”

At his words, Daenerys looked so relieved it made his heart ache. Like she’d been waiting for someone to believe her.

However, nothing could prepare him for her next words.

“Five nights ago, I set myself on fire in my garden.”

She said it so calmly, as though she were talking about trimming her hair.

“That’s what the fire was. I poured kerosene from the flame rooms on myself and lit myself on fire. I burned for two hours before anyone found me.”

Jon’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t help it.

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath.

Daenerys nodded. “I blacked out. When I woke up, nothing had changed. At least, not physically. I was unburnt.”

“The red sisters said it was a miracle,” she added.

“I’d have to agree with them.” Jon couldn’t believe it. And yet, he could. Somewhere, the knowledge of his own brush with death teased him, made him aware of powers he couldn’t explain.

He looked at Daenerys, trying to find some proof that she’d really been burned. Nothing seemed strange at all, save her exotic appearance. No scars, no angry red skin. even her hair was glossy and long, ends unsinged. If she’d really burned, she’d faired better than he had.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked finally. It was the only thing he could ask. “Are you okay” seemed too contrite, too bland. Besides, it’s not what he wanted to know.

She picked at her hands. “I was in a really bad place.” She stopped there.

“Was. You’re better now?” Five days later?

She smiled at him, eyes squinting a little. She was so pretty it hurt.

“If I look back I’m lost.”

“Fuck.”

“Sorry.” She looked genuinely concerned now. “I know that’s a lot to put on a stranger.”

Jon shook his head. “You’d be surprised. I’ve actually heard worse.”

She smiled again, and Jon smiled back, lost in the way she seemed to absorb and reflect all the light around her.

“So, what do you do when you’re not surviving impossible fires?”

She shrugged. “Not a lot, honestly. I never really planned for my future. Living in the convent was all I knew until recently.”

“That’s depressing.” The words were out before he could stop them. “I mean, fuck, sorry.”

Jon raked a hand through his hair. “That was rude.”

She shook her head. “You’re right though. I want to do something with my life. I want a purpose.”

Jon snorted. “Well if you ever want to come up north and convince everyone to give a shit about our national park, that’d be great.”

“What, like politics?”

Jon nodded. “Aye. We have thousands of acres of natural wilderness beyond the Wall. It’s kind of a refuge for some of the people who’ve lived there for centuries too, people who don’t want to start living a modern life. But everyone is intent on cutting it down, turning it into a theme park, or some kind of industrial complex.”

He glared, at nothing in particular. “Nobody gives a shit about the environment, or the people who depend on it. We’re all gonna die if we don’t do something,” he said darkly.

Daenerys blinked. “Wow, that’s…intense.”

Jon sighed.

The sun was already sinking low over the trees, and the book fair was packing up for the day. Sam still hadn’t made an appearance, so Jon took out his phone to text him. He has a missed call from Arya, and a text from Sansa warning him not to come back to the B&B that night. Apparently Catelyn was still pissed about what had happened earlier.

“You wouldn’t happen to know of any other place in town I could stay, would you?” he asked Daenerys.

She chewed her lip for a moment, thinking. “Well,” she said slowly. “I just moved in to my apartment today. It’s only one room, but Missy and Grey are bringing some furniture today. You can stay, if you like.”

“You’d let a total stranger stay at your new place?” Jon teased.

Daenerys tossed her hair. “I’ve decided I like you, Jon Snow. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“Fine, fine. But I have to bring Ghost with me, too. Will that be alright, d’you think?”

The smile he received in return was blinding.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Daenerys liked Jon. Sure, there was that quiet but insistent voice that told her she’d been duped before, but she liked him. He was smart and self aware, and he didn’t make her feel small or unimportant. Jon saw her, in a way she’d never felt seen before. Drogo had seen her, but only as a prize to be won, conquered, and made domestic. Jorah saw her as something to be protected and hidden away. Jon was none of those things.

And he was good looking, she thought as she watched him prowl around her apartment. He’d already complained about the creaky doors, the leaky faucet and the locks on her windows.

“I’ll fix it for you,” he kept saying as he unearthed new flaws in her home. He seemed incapable of standing still, restlessly moving from place to place even in the small studio. So different from Daenerys, who was accustomed to sitting still for hours on end, waiting patiently.

“This outlet is a fire hazard,” he said, toeing a loose socket with one booted foot. “I’ll—“

“—Fix it tomorrow?” Daenerys smiled. “You don’t have to, you know.”

Jon smiled weakly at her, raking one hand through his dark hair. “I know. But it’s only fair. You’re giving me your floor after all.”

They’d argued a bit about that. Missandei and Grey had dropped off a futon and some chairs, along with a few provisions. Daenerys had offered Jon the futon, and as she’d expected, he’d refused. She tried to push it, feeling bad about him sleeping on the cold floor, but he’s brushed it off with a “I’ve slept on worse,” and that had been it.

Daenerys wanted to ask him about his past. It seemed Jon had been though a lot “worse” in his life, though he was reluctant to talk about it. It was curious that he had so readily believed her about the fire.

She’d caught a glimpse of scars on his upper arms, faint silver lines that criss crossed across his tan skin. She figured that whatever it was that haunted him, it was at least as heavy as what haunted her.

They ate in relative silence, feasting on leftovers from Missy and Grey. Her crows perched in the exposed ceiling beams, observing their guest with watchful eyes.

After dinner, Jon helped her set up her wifi, and with the ancient laptop she’d pilfered from the convent’s accounting offices, she connected to the internet for the first time.

Jon disappeared into the bathroom, having given the flimsy excuse of “wanting to test the water pressure, in case it needed fixing.” She knew he just wanted to get the dog hair off of him, and she couldn’t blame him. Ghost had settles down for the night in the coolest corner of the apartment, and already there was a ring of dog hair settling around him in the dust. She’d be cleaning the place for weeks after, she knew.

While her guest was occupied, Daenerys did some research. She found out that Winter Town was the largest town that far north, with only small fishing towns extending up near the Wall. She found pages and pages of results for activists in the north, protests and counter movements against the southern reign of industry.

The national park, too, she found online. Photos of a vast wilderness, snowy banks and tall trees engulfing the horizon and stretching out forever. It was beautiful.

She also found pages upon pages of news stories relating to traffickers using northern ports to smuggle children. One link led to another, and Daenerys felt tears sting her eyes as she discovered the horrors of child trafficking. She devoured articles and blog entries, wanting to learn as much as she could.

Missandei, she knew, had been a victim of trafficking. Her oldest friend never spoke of it, but it was hinted at in her conversation with Grey, in certain triggers and behaviors. Daenerys never knew the extent of it.

Hands trembling, Daenerys searched for ways to stop it. A few key words piqued her interest. Advocate, lawyer, ambassador. Politician.

Her web of interest led her to university programs. She found one halfway between Winter Town and Hay-on-Wye, a private university called Dragonstone. It was pricy, but they offered a degree program in political science, as well as a law school.

Viserys had named her his heir, and as such, she was entitled to a trust fund created by her brother Rhaegar. She wasn’t even sure if it still existed, as her family solicitor had not been in contact since Viserys’ last visit. But it was worth a chance.

Now that she was free, Daenerys could go anywhere. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, Daenerys wanted to make something of herself.

Jon emerged with a cloud of sandalwood scented steam. Clearly, he’d forgotten there was no where to go but the one room, and so stood there for a moment, slightly dazed, as Daenerys stared at him.

Or rather, at the scar.

“Sorry,” he muttered, quickly moving to cover his chest with his discarded shirt. Daenerys closed her mouth, shocked.

“How did you survive that,” she said, her voice so low even she could barely hear it.

Jon grimaced. “I didn’t.”

He didn’t say anything more, his faced closed off and brooding, so Daenerys dropped it. Instead, she went to her satchel, where she withdrew a bottle of wine, also stolen from the convent.

She popped the cork out and took a deep draught. Jon watched her, eyes dark. Daenerys blushed. She couldn’t yet tell what it was, the tense feeling between them. Was it just the knowledge of each other’s scars? Or was it something more?

She swallowed. Held the bottle out to Jon. “Want some?”

He took the bottle from her, eyes never leaving hers. He drank deeply, a bead of wine escaping the seal between his lips and the bottle, sliding down to meet his jaw, his neck.

Daenerys wanted.

She’d not felt a want like this since Drogo. Even then, her desire had been a rebellion, a form of self harm she’d not recognized until that moment when he’d finally broken her.

He held the bottle out to her and she took it, raised it to her lips. Kinvara used to tell her that this is how people wed in the olden days. Sharing a cup, sharing a drink. A bond.

She drank, and felt the dry taste of the wine, like pears and rubbing alcohol, in her mouth. She winced as she swallowed, and Jon laughed low in his throat.

“Never liked church wine,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Daenerys shook her finger at him. “Convent wine,” she corrected.

He laughed and took the bottle back. Daenerys felt the effects of the wine, felt her body become warm and her pulse quicken. He was too distracting.

He sat down on the floor, arranging the few blankets and pillows into some semblance of comfort. Overhead the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. It was a little sad, the picture of her barebones home, and this man who’d come into it, who’d done nothing but be kind to her. Daenerys wanted to make it more inviting somehow.

“I know what we need,” she said, jumping up. She swayed a little on her feet, and Jon laughed at her again. She liked his laugh. It was low and rumbly, his northern accent coloring even the lightest sound.

She rummaged through her belonging, taking out some candles and a box of matches. Jon watched warily as she lit candles, setting them in their little glass cups around the room.

“Candles,” he said. “Fire hazard.”

“Does it help to know that I’m fireproof?” she asked.

Jon considered this, then said, “We don’t know if you’re fireproof all the time. Could be a one time thing. Like me.”

Daenerys filed away the ‘like me’ bit for another time. “You’re right. Only one way to find out.”

She passed her hand through the open flame of the candle in her hand. In an instant, Jon was on his feet, yanking her hand away from the flame.

“Are you crazy?!”

He was standing so close now. They were both breathing roughly; Jon because of his panic and sudden movement, and Daenerys, because she’d been right.

“Jon, look.”

She moved the candle under her hand again. The flame passed through her fingers, and she didn’t flinch. Jon pulled her hand back again, but more gently this time, turning it over in his hand to check for damage.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, breathing out through his nose. “Fuck. You’re unburnt.”

Daenerys smiled.

The candle sputtered out in her hand, moved by some gust of wind. Daenerys shivered.

Her other hand was still in Jon’s grasp.

“Jon.”

She turned her hand, moving so she was holding his hand instead of being held.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He was so close, she could see the violet of her own eyes reflected in his grey ones. 

Daenerys stepped closer, pulled in by his dark gaze.

“Tell me it’s not just me,” Jon said. “Tell me you feel it too.”

Daenerys reached up to stroke a silvering scar over his brow. He was so pretty it hurt, she thought.

“Kiss me,” she said, deciding everything in an instant. Only if for a night, she thought. I want to feel this connection.

“Kiss me.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jon knew there was magic in the world.

Maybe not magic, per se, but something. Something strong, powerful.

It was the force that saved him when he nearly died in the forest behind Winterfell. He’d been a boy then, not yet ten years old, and circled by wolves. Suddenly, he’d felt a tug at the edge of his mind, a faint pull that beckoned to him. He’d refused to cry, no matter how terrified, staring the wolves down with fear in his heart until he felt that pull. The faintest of suggestions. He’d screamed “leave me alone!” And the the wolves had run, leaving him behind in the snow.

Later, that same tug had led him to Ghost and his siblings. No one believed him when he’d said that he was led to the pups by a vision, not even Robb.

He still dreamed of being in Ghost’s mind, visions of muddy paws and faraway snow banks filling his dreams. Once, he woke to the taste of blood in his mouth. Ghost had killed a rabbit, his white face stained red with its blood.

Ygritte had called him a warg, an old word for a skinchanger. She swore, up to her dying breath, that he was magic. “Crow magic,” the wildlings called it.

He’d brushed it off for most of his life, until the Night’s Watch. When he’d become a fireman, more strange things happened to him. He never tired, his body taking twice the beating of his brothers. He’d run back to back shifts on the truck without blinking, when most men would beg for a day off.

When three of his brothers, jealous and angry, had jumped him after work one day, even he’d thought it would be over for him.

But not even a blade to the heart could stop him. Those who were there still talk about it, how his body lay cold in the ambulance for the whole hour it took to drive to the hospital. How he’d sat bold upright in the emergency room, before a doctor had even touched him. Three days later, with no serious injuries to keep him, he’d been discharged, much to the confusion of the doctors. Some magic had done that, he knew now.

Now he watched as the same magic worked on most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, who burned herself in front of his very eyes, her pale skin unchanged by the white hot flame.

And then she’d asked him to kiss her.

The first meeting of their lips felt like static shock. She was warm and pliable beneath him, her body drawing nearer, seeking out his warmth. Drawn in by the taste of the wine on her lips and the tug of her hand sin his hair, Jon kissed her harder.

He’d wondered if she would feel breakable in his arms. She certainly looked it, the way she was all pale moonlight and lilac eyes, with her long skirts and easy smile.

But she was like fire in his arms, unrelenting and hot. The heat of her surprised him.

She bit his lip, and he had to keep himself from growling, desire threatening to choke him as it bubbled up from the pit of his stomach into his throat.

He licked into her mouth, kissing her and angling her ever closer. Nothing was close enough, though, both of them forgetting to breathe through their lust.

She nipped at his throat, and Jon reflexively clenched his fist in her hair, relished in her little cries.

“More,” she cried.

How could he refuse?

He lay her gently down on the futon. Around them, candles flickered and sputtered. He’d complained at first, noting the fire hazard, but he was quickly learning that everything about Daenerys was a fire hazard. Not just to the apartment, but to him.

She trailed a hand down his chest, tugged at his shirt to pull him down on top of her.

Their lips met again, slanting together. Jon tasted blood in his mouth. Wondered if it was his or hers.

“Take it off, off,” Daenerys was saying. Vaguely, Jon realized she was talking about her blouse and skirt. He fumbled with the buttons for a second, then ripped the filmy material down the center, exposing her white bra and soft skin. She gasped.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against her skin, already pressing wet kisses against her breast. Her hands were in his hair, pulling and urging him on.

“Shut up,” she said. “I love it.”

Her bra was ripped with just as little care, joining the shredded blouse on the floor. Jon pressed feather light kisses into her ribs, her breasts, chasing each shiver with a kiss until she was writhing beneath him. Something about this felt like worship, felt like a beginning. Jon shook such thoughts from his mind, and bit the tender skin of Daenerys’ hip.

Her skirt joined the rest of her clothes on the floor, and then she was surging up, legs wrapped around his hips, hands pulling him closer, closer, while her sweet mouth made him wild with kisses.

“Off, off,” she was saying, pulling at his shirt, his belt. Jon hesitated only slightly before ripping away his shirt, letting her see all of him.

Her eyes were dark as she took him in, her lips forming an ‘o’ as she ran her hand over his scar. He winced, pulling her hand away, wanting to kiss her, to distract her, so she wouldn’t run…

Daenerys replaced her hand with her lips, tracing the scar with her tongue. Jon shivered.

“Dany,” he said, voice thick. He felt her smile against his skin, lips moving lower.

He flipped them so she was on top, settling her down on his chest. He worked his jeans off, then his briefs.

Wordlessly, she leaned back, eyes on him as she stroked his length, then sheathed herself on it. He groaned, taking in the sensation.

“Gods, Dany…”

Her eyes glittered, cheeks flushed red and mouth open as she rode him.

“Fuck, Jon, I—“

She came, trembling over him, eyes closed tight. It was exquisite. Jon pulled her down for a kiss, helped her through it, moved his hips against her as she ground down on him. Her silvery hair formed a curtain around them, the candles making her glow.

Holding her close, Jon moved them again, laying her down on the futon. Her arms came around his neck, and he moved inside her, slowly at first, then harder, chasing his own release.

He came hard, Daenerys pressing him even closer to her, pulling him deeper inside. He felt her nails rake down his back, felt her sharp inhale as she came for the second time with him.

“Fuck.”

Jon rolled to side to avoid crushing her, totally spent. Daenerys curled up around him immediately, still pressing soft kisses to his neck.

“Sorry. Should have been more careful.”

Jon looked over at her, trying to catch her eye. She smiled wanly, looking down.

“I don’t think it matters. I miscarried a month ago. I haven’t bled since.”

Oh. “Shit, sorry. Is that why you…?”

She tucked her head in his shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah.”

Jon lay back, mind still foggy from the post-sex haze. He felt Daenerys trace small circles on his chest. He wanted to make her laugh again, take away the tense mood.

“Well. At least my ploy worked.”

She perked up. “What ploy?”

He grinned. “The ploy to get you to share the bed, of course.”

She laughed, and he felt the tension go out of his body again.

“I would have shared anyway. I know this is strange, but the moment I saw you, I felt that I had to know you. Something magnetic, you know?”

Privately, Jon agreed. He’d known Daenerys a scant eight hours, and he was already scared of how much he felt for her. How deep their connection ran. He’d been so sure he was the only magic in the world, so sure no one would believe him, and here she was, the living proof he wasn’t alone.

Out loud, he said, “Shower?”

In the shower together, it was harder to mask the scars. Daenerys saw them, she touched them with her fingertips, but she didn’t ask. She poured water over him, washed his back with the same sandalwood scented soap he'd used earlier. She caressed the scars, eyes flicking up to gauge his reaction, but she didn't ask. Still, Jon knew he’d have to tell her sooner or later.

“I was stabbed. Several times, in the heart. It was some men from the fire department up north, the Night’s Watch. We handle fires in the national park, strange fires, stuff other firemen can't handle. We were supposed to be like brothers. They betrayed me.”

She took in the words silently, letting him talk, just listening. The water had made her hair and lashes a dark silver, and her expression was somber as she stood under the water, waiting for him to continue. 

“I went there because my stepmother didn’t want me. My father, he had an affair with a woman from Morocco. She never forgave me for it, especially after he died. People send their bastards to the Wall all the time. It's a way of kindly forgetting they exist. Most of them don't get murdered in cold blood, though.”

“But you came back,” Daenerys whispered. Jon nodded. Daenerys stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, her lips wet and warm. She fit their bodies together so he could stand with her under the warm water, and it was so tender, for a moment, Jon wondered if this was the reason he'd come back. 

He nodded again, chin tucked over her head, arms wrapped around her small frame. 

“I came back.”

Dany smiled against his chest. “Like me. You’re magic, too.”

And in that moment, standing with her under the water, Jon had to agree.

It was magic. 

Chapter Text

When I was a man I thought it ended
When I knew love's perfect ache
But my peace has always depended
On all the ashes in my wake

--Arsonist's Lullaby, Hozier

Daenerys had never felt so at peace in her life, yet so turbulent at the same time. Jon had fucked her to within an inch of her life, managing to be at once gentle and savage. Daenerys wanted to know how much deeper that wild streak ran, but for now she rested, watching him through half lidded eyes as he fiddled with his cell phone.

“Hey, Sam. Yeah, I know it’s late. No, I’m not coming back tonight. Is Arya there?”

Daenerys stretched out. She’d forgone clothes, choosing to lounge naked on the futon. After all, it was her apartment. She made the rules for her own life from now on, after all.

She turned over on her stomach, pulling her laptop over so she could research the university program more while Jon talked.

“Hi Arya. Yeah, I didn’t see Sam at the fair. Guess we must have missed each other. Look, I found a place to stay for the rest of the trip. Ghost is with me too. No, it’s not too expensive. No, I’ve not been kidnapped by wildlings, you know there aren’t wildlings this far south.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow at him, and he winked at her.

“Okay. No, I know. Bye.”

“Not too expensive, I hope?” Daenerys said archly.

Jon laughed softly and gave her ass a smack. “Only cost me my darkest secrets.”

She smiled and turned back to her tab on Dragonstone University.

Drogon had flown down to sit by her, and he was now contentedly using her pale hair as a nest, adjusting strands with his beak to suit his fancy.

Jon regarded the crow with a strange admiration. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Daenerys shrugged. “I guess I’m used to it by now. They hatched in the fire that I started.”

“You know, I’m starting to think we ought to be enemies, not lovers.” Jon said.

“Why’s that?”

He spread his hands. “’Clearly because you’re an arsonist and I’m a firefighter.”

Daenerys giggled. “Actually, I think that’s why we’re perfect together.”

______________________________________________________

The next three days passed in a blur for Daenerys. Jon made good on his promises to fix up her apartment, and though she still had the barest of furnishings, at least she could proudly say her faucet was in working order and her squeaky door had been silenced.

She and Jon would go to the fair in the morning, where Daenerys would help at the booth while Jon perused books or walked with Ghost. Then they’d return to her flat, where they’d invariably fall into bed and fuck each other senseless. Jon was a quick study, and by their third time together he knew all the ways to make her scream in pleasure. More than once he’d finished inside her, only to dip back between her legs with his mouth and fingers and wring several more orgasms from her, until she could take no more.

When they weren’t making love, they were always touching, always a hair’s breadth away from each other. Often, if Daenerys woke in the night, or strayed too far in bed, she’d find herself being drawn back in to Jon’s tight embrace.

This is how they passed the time, in her simple apartment, just drinking each other in like dying men in a desert.

She’d learned a lot about Jon in this short time; he loved hiking, his favorite subject was history and maths, he used to play rugby, but was banned from his local team after beating another player to within an inch of his life. “He threatened my sister,” was all Jon had to say on the subject, a dark look crossing his face.

He didn’t talk much about the dark spots in his past, preferring to deflect and talk about his little sister, Arya, or his brother Robb. He never spoke of his parents, and Daenerys could feel a palpable pain in the room whenever the subject came up. Bastards weren’t regarded with such distain in the convent, but the Starks clearly made it clear where their priorities lay between trueborns and bastards.

He preferred to talk about his siblings. Daenerys learned that he had many half-siblings; there was Robb who was of an age with Jon, then Sansa, then Arya, then Bran and Rickon. Jon talked about all of his siblings with such affection in his eyes that it almost made Daenerys feel ashamed of her own familial relations.

That was the other thing about Jon; he never made Daenerys feel weak. She’d told him the whole sordid tale of her past, of the circumstances of her birth, and even of Viserys. He’d not once felt repulsed, only sympathetic. The only time he showed real anger was when she told him about Drogo. He’d gone very quiet and very still, then crushed her small frame to his in an embrace that felt like he was trying to devour her, if only to keep her safe from the world inside of him.

“Never again,” he whispered, over and over, lips pressed into her hair.

On the third day, she’d met his two sisters.

They went to a small fish and chips shop with outdoor seating for Ghost. She’d not known what to expect, as she’d never grown up with other children. She sat with Jon, fiddling with the end of her long braid, butterflies in her stomach. Her three crows, ever vigilant, were perched on the chair backs. Drogon, the mama’s boy, took a fierce stance on her shoulder, cawing at anyone who passed too close to his mother. Jon just sat back and laughed at them all.

The two sisters, as unlike one another as could be, had regarded her with suspicion at first, deferring their questions to Jon. Then Sansa had shyly asked Daenerys about her hair, and Arya had eagerly tried with no luck to get Viserion to perch on her shoulder. By the time they finished their food, the four of them were laughing and sharing childhood stories, letting each other in on inside jokes. Sansa had snapped a picture on her Polaroid camera, then dated it, and handed it back to Daenerys.

“To remember us by,” she said, and her pretty face was lit up by a rare smile. Daenerys felt tears sting her eyes as she accepted the photo before pulling Sansa in for a hug.

All in all, it had been a perfect week, the happiest thus far in Daenerys’ life.

It was no surprise then, when on the fifth day, it all went to shit.

Jon was out with his friend Sam, who’d nagged him about spending time at the book fair. Jon was reluctant to leave the apartment, but Daenerys had urged him on.

“You came here with him, it’s only fair you spend some time together,” she’d said. Of course, she also wanted the place to herself for a few hours. She hadn’t told Jon yet, but Daenerys had sent an email to her family solicitor, Illyrio, asking about the trust fund. She’d explained that she was looking at a university program, that she’d left the convent and started a new chapter. Illyrio had responded rather quickly, asking for an address where he could send post by Royal Mail.

In hindsight, perhaps Daenerys might have known it was odd, the way he asked for her home address, and not the P.O box she’d mentioned. She might have noticed how he asked how ‘you both’ are getting on, implying the presence of cohabitation. Most telling of all, she would have remembered that Illyrio was her estranged brother’s personal retainer.

Viserys showed up on her doorstep on the fifth day with a printed copy of her correspondence with Illyrio and a knife.

Daenerys hadn’t known how to react; she opened the door, slack jawed, and watched as her brother, her only family, stormed in to her apartment. His eyes were narrowed, cruel, as he took in the surroundings. He made disapproving noises at the crows, who flew anxiously around the room as he paced.

“So. This is why my sweet sister has suddenly decided she wants her share of Rhaegar’s fortune,” he sneered. “Whoring yourself out to horse trainers didn’t work out for you?”

At her shocked expression, he cackled. “What, you didn’t think I’d leave my baby sister all alone in that wretched convent without some way of keeping tabs, did you? Here’s a hint, little sister: old bears will do anything for a little honey.”

“No,” she whispered, her mind putting the pieces together. Not Jorah, Not Jorah please…

“Jorah Mormont would do anything to erase the red in his ledger. Even spy on the heir to the Targaryen legacy.”

Viserys gripped her arm tightly, his hand twisting her skin until she cried out. He took her chin in his other hand, twisting her face so she was looking at him. The knife pressed against her cheek, the cold metal a very real reminder of the real damage he could do. Daenerys glared, pouring all the hate she could muster into her gaze. Her brother just laughed.

“Here’s another little tidbit of knowledge. There is no trust fund. Rhaegar was a self interested prick, he never put anything away for you or me. Too concerned with being a champion of love and beauty, and playing that godawful music.”

His tone was fragile, voice breaking over the words, and Daenerys felt the hurt. Felt how much he must have felt betrayed to find out that their brother had left them with nothing. Viserys had been just an enamored of their talented brother as she, after all.

“Fortunately for us, dear sister, I’ve got a plan to restore our family name and get the money we deserve. Did you know, there are at least a dozen Saudi princes just begging for a wife that looks like you? They’d pay a fortune for this face…and these tits.”

Daenerys spit in his face.

Viserys scowled, his pretty features contouring in rage. “Bitch.”

He pushed her, hard, her back hitting the wall and sliding down to the floor. Daenerys hadn’t felt this weak in so long. If only she had Jon with her, maybe they’d stand a chance together.

Her brother paced the apartment, turning over pillows and shaking out blankets. “Now then, before I take you back to Meereen with me, I want to know what my sweet sister did with all the gold and jewels her little horse fucking boyfriend gave her.”

He shook out her satchel, her clothes and a few odds and ends falling on the floor. When it became clear that nothing was hidden in the apartment, he turned his full rage back on Daenerys.

“I’ll keep you here until you tell me where the gold is, pathetic bitch. I want my fortune now, and I want to make a good impression on your future husband.”

Daenerys grunted, trying to shrug off the pain of the impact. “You’ll never find it. Not even I know where it is. I buried it all after Drogon died.”

He smirked, lips twisting in a cruel mockery of a smile. “Come now, Dany. Don’t try to play me for a fool. Do try and make this easy for me, Dany. Just tell me where your whore’s gold is and we’ll be on our merry way.”

Daenerys shook her head. Her whole body hurt from the impact, but she pulled herself upright.

“Never,” she hissed. “I will never come with you.”

She struck out, trying to catch him off guard. It worked, her little fist making contact with his ear, but he was striking back even harder not a moment after. Face red, he panted as he shoved her back into the wall, using the heel of the knife to strike her across the face. Her head whipped to the side, and Daenerys felt a slow trickle of blood move down her temple. Her vision wavered.

Drogon and Viserion dive bombed him, using their sharp beaks to peck and pull, tugging on his pale hair and scratching his face. Viserys flailed his arms, beating back the birds with closed fists. Eventually they had to retreat, as feathers dropped from their wings. Daenerys shuddered, watching sadly as they all three flew out the window.

Viserys preened, fixing his hair and wiping angrily at his scratched face with one sleeve. He came closer, peering down into her eyes. His own eyes were lighter than hers, more pink than lilac. It gave him a slightly crazed look, as though he’d been on this endless crusade all his life. Which, Daenerys thought, he may well have. The Red sisters called him the Beggar Prince. There was not a more apt name for the once noble man who now stood  by his sister, her blood on his hands.

Looming over her, Viserys kicked at her with a narrow boot. “Don’t wake the dragon, Dany. You don’t want to wake the dragon.”

Wake the dragon. Wasn’t that what he’d always said, when he’d hit her in anger at the convent? He’d go from passive to raging in seconds, his bony hands making contact with her face. And after, always the same words. “Don’t wake the dragon…”

Lying on the floor, Daenerys tried to make herself small so Viserys would ignore her. Just wait it out, just close her eyes until his rage had passed. Curling up against the free edge of the futon, she pressed her back into the wall behind her and wrapped her arms around her head. She could feel something cold protruding from under the futon. A glimmer of hope. Could it be…?

She could hear Viserys talking on the phone now. It sounded like Illyrio. Traitor. She wished she’d never sent that email, wished she’d just kept quiet about her dream of university.

She wiggled her shoulder against the futon, easing the flat object from out beneath it. When she had it all the way out on the floor, she doubled up, turning the opposite direction so that her back was now facing Viserys. She heard him pause, but played it off as pain, giving a little whimper as she shifted. His voice returned to normal, attention shifted away from her for the moment.

Daenerys slid the object out. Sure enough, Jon had left his phone plugged into the outlet behind the futon. Fortunately for Daenerys, he didn’t have a PIN on the phone, just the slide to unlock feature. She quickly put the phone in silent, then scrolled through his contacts, trying to find Sam.

She rattled off the text message as quickly as she could, then shoved the phone back under the futon, doing her best to hide the charging cable.

Now she just had to wait.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

In hindsight, Jon had received all the signs well before Sam had relayed Dany’s terrifying text message. When he’d awoken, she’d been too eager to see him off to the fair, saying something about a personal affair she was seeing to that day. He’d thought it more than odd; after all, they’d shared things between them that Jon had thought he’d take to his grave.

Then Ghost hadn’t wanted to get out of the car when they’d arrived at the book fair. He’d sat firmly down in the back seat, tongue lolling but tail still. It had taken the full strength of Jon and Sam to pull the beast out of the car, and still the dog had been reluctant to follow. He kept panting, his teeth bared and red eyes flashing. Jon had only seen him act this way once, the day Sansa had come home crying about Ramsay. That had ended with a full on brawl on the rugby field and Jon’s lifetime banishment from the Winter Town Wolves. Still, he brushed it off as coincidence, trying to ignore the growing sensation of dread in his chest.

The third sign had Jon running back to the car before Sam had even pulled out his phone. Three crows, each shining a dazzling jewel tone in the sun, flew over the crowd at the book fair. People cooed and cried out in amazement, but the sight struck fear into Jon’s heart. Three crows. He looked around wildly for Daenerys, but she was no where to be seen. He asked the sisters at the booth of the Red God, tamping down his disgust for them for Dany’s sake, but they said she’d not been by all day.

Then, Sam had gotten the text. Seven words that brought Jon to a standstill, terror making his pulse jump in his veins.

Viserys is here. Tell Jon. Send help.

Daenerys had told him about Viserys, about his visits to the convent, as well as his later abuse. Jon was no stranger to domestic abuse; though he didn’t talk about it much, he’d done his own research, gone to meetings and talked with friends about the things he experienced as a child. Of course, he’d never been beaten like Daenerys, just ostracized, shunned. Made to feel lesser than his siblings, less than human.

Instinct took over. His blood was boiling, rushing in his ears and Jon could barely hear Sam stuttering over the pure rage that took over. It had been years since he had been moved to such fury.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jon wondered if this was normal. His reaction to what should have amounted to a summer fling was tantamount to the love he showed his family. True love. He killed the voice inside that told him to fear his love for Daenerys, and started the car. So lost in his own fight response, he barely noticed that Ghost was gone. Only when Sam finally broke through to him, as his friend pulled on his seatbelt with shaking hands, did Jon think to look for his dog.

Then he felt it.

Or rather, he saw it. A low horizon, people moving past in a  blur. A world of greys and violets, unsaturated hues and smells so vivid his nose hurt, and he wanted to howl. Ghost was on the move. Jon could see through him, felt the hot pavement against his sensitive skin, saw the familiar steps of the apartment complex. Ghost had run all the way there, had beaten him to it. Jon knew he was grinning, knew he looked like a madman, but he didn’t care.

The same rage that coursed through him also coursed through Ghost.

A million different thoughts raced through his mind on the drive over. Why was Viserys here? What had he done to Dany, what was he planning to do still? His hands were shaking on the steering wheel, mind already in a thousand thousand shreds, all for this burning girl Daenerys.

Ghost waited for him on the steps, his body low and his hackles raised. The three crows perched ominously on the stoop, bodies strangely twisted, as though bent in anticipation. Rhaegal, the green-flecked one, cawed out loudly as Jon and Sam approached. Sam startled easily, flicking away from the four leery beasts.

“Sam. Wait out here for me, will you? If something happens, go back to the girls, get help.”

Sam stood shaking, confused, and Jon felt badly, but not more than he felt anger and worry for Dany. He tossed Sam the keys to the car, then opened the trunk, pulling out a roughly worn messenger bag. He pulled out his fireman’s jacket, his trauma shears and a cloth mask. The rest he shoved back down before replacing the bag in its place under the spare tire. Jon gave Sam a nod, then headed inside.

The apartment complex stood alone on a street corner, surrounded by an old stone garden wall and hedging. The front steps led up into the foyer, a long lobby that doubled as a mail room and front desk. Ghost followed inside, close on his heels as he cased the building, looking for alarms and exits. Jon crept up to the second floor, saw the light on under Dany’s door. Finding the glass cased fire alarm on the wall, he used the padded elbow of his jacket to smash it before pulling down hard on the lever. The alarm sounded, shrill and grating even to Jon’s trained ears. The sprinklers came on, wetting the pilled carpet, and one by one, doors opened and disgruntled tenants filed obediently out into the hallway with their dogs and children. Jon waited until they passed him, keeping close to the wall. Dany’s door remained shut, the light still on. Jon cursed, then ran back down the stairs, performing a quick sweep of the building with Ghost, who sniffed at doors and nosed at dogs left behind, pushing hem to the exit. Everyone had left, occupying the vacant lot across the street. Once he was sure the building was empty, Jon emerged, donning his fireman’s jacket. He waved, and offered an apologetic smile to the crowd.

“Sorry, folks. Safety check. I’ll fetch you when the building’s cleared. Nothing to worry!”

He got some nasty side eye from a couple people, but he paid them no mind as he rushed back inside, closing the door behind him. He took the stairs two at a time until he got to the second floor, moving as softly as he dared as to not disturb Viserys before he entered. Pressing an ear to the door, he could hear a man’s voice, nasal and reedy, shouting at someone. Soft, low cries reverberated against the flimsy wood, and Jon thanked the old gods and the Seven that he hadn’t replaced the buggy lock yet. With his trauma shears, he used his full weight to slam into the door, using the shears to shunt between the lock and the frame. It splintered easily, the lock bursting under the combined weight and force. Jon kicked the door in, brandishing the shears in front of him.

A tall, pale man stood in the center of the room. He’d taken a defensive posture already, a cell phone in one hand. Behind him, curled against the wall and the futon, was Daenerys. Jon’s heart skipped a beat when he saw her tiny body folded up, but at the sound of the door, she twitched, eyes opening. Her face was tearstained, but the trickle of drying blood at her temple had Jon seeing red. He stepped towards her, but the pale man insinuated himself between them, hand raised.

“Ah ah. I’m afraid I can’t let you interfere here. Family matter, you see.” He smiled thinly. He had the same colouring as Daenerys, but his eyes were red rimmed and watery. Jon assessed him, taking in the threadbare but gaudy clothes, his lank hair and thin wrists. The man was nearly skeletal. Jon knew he could take him, but he needed to know that Dany was safe first.

Jon raised his hands, the trauma shears looped harmlessly over his index finger.

“I’m here for Dany. I’ve got no quarrel with you.”

Viserys smiled wider, thin lips stretching grotesquely. “What a coincidence. I’m also here for Daenerys. She has something very valuable that belongs to me, and I intend to take it.”

Jon swallowed. This man was dangerous, he was seeing it now. Something about unhinged assholes like this reminded him of Ramsay. Men who believed they could take and take and take, and never pay the price.

“Easy now.” He took another step forward. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

Viserys sneered, baring his teeth. “I greatly doubt that. Unless you’re willing to pay cash for the luxury of my sister’s flesh.”

Jesus fuck. The situation was getting more and more depraved by the second. Jon took another step, hands still outstretched. Viserys backed up into Daenerys, who muffled a cry at being touched again. A silver glint flashed in the dim light, and before he could make sense of what was happening, Viserys was on the floor pulling Dany up against him. A knife pressed to her throat, no doubt procured from within the gaudy rag he was wearing. Daenerys struggled on her knees, but Viserys grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her back against his chest, pressing the flat of the knife to her white throat.

Daenerys looked at Jon with wide terrified eyes. Her lips were parted, chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. Jon felt helpless as he watched, hands open, surrendering.

“Drop the weapon, bastard.”

Jon flinched. He couldn’t help it. He knew—there was no way Viserys could know—but it stung nonetheless. He dropped the trauma shears. They clattered to the ground, the sound his hollow surrender. The three of them stood, unmoving, the only sound coming from Daenerys’ panicked breathing. She struggled weakly, but only made the knife slip against her throat.

The little trickle of blood that slid from her white neck down to her clavicle was Jon’s undoing. White hot anger filled him, charged him and propelled him forward.

Jon won no prizes for agility, it was true. That gift had always belonged to his littlest sister, who’d studied every martial art under the sun, flitting from class to class like a butterfly. But Jon was strong, and he was quick. Most importantly, he was clever.

He brought his left hand down on the arm that grasped the knife, twisting and wrenching until Viserys cried out in pain and released. With the other hand, he grabbed the back of Daenerys’ shoulder, shoving her roughly away from her brother as soon as the knife was loosed from her skin. She tumbled behind him, but Jon surged forward, bringing that right hand around to land a hit that sent Viserys to the ground, clutching his face and howling.

Daenerys was calling to him, her voice faint and muffled but Jon could not hear, blood rushing in his ears. As Viserys scrabbled for purchase on the floor, Jon stomped one heavy boot on his outstretched hand. Viserys wailed, body convulsing. Jon grabbed him by the arm and dragged him upright.

“LOOK AT ME,” Jon roared. Viserys sniffed, mouth twisting. His purple eyes met Jon’s. Jon pinned him to the wall with one hand, the man’s feet dangling off the ground.

“I won’t stop,” said Viserys, his voice thick. “Not until she’s mine. Not until she pays.”

Directing his words to Daenerys, he cried out, “Do you hear that, bitch? I will hunt you down until you cave to me. You will help me restore our family name, even if I have to whore you out to every man on the planet!”

“You should have kept your mouth shut,” Jon said. Then he lunged.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Daenerys felt the blood drip down her neck. Everything seemed to move so slowly after Viserys put the knife to her throat, as though in an old film or underwater. She could feel the pain, but only slightly. The blade was like a child’s toy to her, and she almost laughed from the ridiculousness of it all. The theatrics of her lover bursting in to save her, and her mad brother slitting her throat. Then she’d looked at Jon, and whatever levity she’d been feeling drained away with her pulse at the look on his face.

He was terrified.

His face was pinched and white, and sweat beaded on his dark brow. When he’d dropped the shears he was holding, she’d known. They were fucked.

Daenerys could only watch now as Jon lunged at her brother, his fists battering the other man’s face. Blood sprayed on the white wall. Daenerys felt the sickening crunch of bone before she really heard it, as Jon broke Viserys’ nose. The moan of agony that followed caused a wave of nausea in her stomach. She wretched on the floor, spitting up blood and bile. She could hardly move, spit dribbling down her chin as her arms, useless due to the pain in her shoulders, hung limp at her sides. Tears followed, blurring her vision and making her even sicker. The pain in her throat was unbearable.

A cool breeze wafted from the open window, cooling her brow. The sudden comfort was so unexpected, Daenerys choked on her gratitude. She lifted her face to it, opening her eyes. Familiar red ones peered back at her. A red beak, and black feathers. Drogon.

He hopped over to her, nudged her clenched hand until it opened, and dropped something in it. A match. Her clever crow had brought her a match.

“Jon.” The word was barely a whisper. She tried again, put all her strength into it. “Jon.”

He turned around. His hands were bloody, face spattered with blood and his eyes. She didn’t recognize his eyes. They were wide, wild, the pupils blown wide and gleaming. He looked feral, but she did not fear him. Her brother clung to his arms for support, still conscious and mumbling to himself. His nose was a bloody mess, smashed to one side, but he was alive.

She raised the match in her trembling hand and Jon understood. Throwing Viserys aside, he went to her.

“You’re sure?” he asked. She nodded. He scooped her up into his arms, so gentle with her. Her white wolf. He was all steel and gnashing teeth, his body hard with anger still, and adrenaline. There was some kind of electricity about him, an unmistakable feeling, like the scent of lightning after rain. Ozone. Magic.

He stomped over to where Viserys was slumped on the ground. “If you value your life, run.”

Viserys sputtered. “F-fucking lowlifes. I’ll fucking kill you.”

He saw the little match in Daenerys’ hand and laughed. It was a sick sound, wet and garbled with blood.

“Stupid bitch. Fire cannot burn a dragon.”

Daenerys smiled sadly. “No, brother. Fire cannot burn a dragon.”

She lit the match and flicked it at him. It landed on the collar of his jacket, the worn fabric catching fire quickly. He wriggled on the floor, trying to lift an arm to smother the flame, but was deterred by the pain wracking his body. He resorted to rolling on the ground, but the flames had caught his tangled hair. Realizing the gravity of the situation, Viserys began to beg.

“Dany, Dany, please! Dany, help me!”

Daenerys only watched as he burned. His body twisted and bent as he tried to escape the flames, and his screams filled the room. Dany felt the flames begin to lick at the air, felt the oxygen leave the room with a gasp. Jon pulled his fireman's jacket around them, shielding himself from the flames as they grew. Daenerys paid them no mind. Viserys screamed and writhed on the ground, body almost totally hidden behind red flames. After a few minutes he rose, his body filled by some final strength. Jon pulled back instinctively to protect them both, but Viserys was blind to them. He staggered on his feet, and charged to the window, throwing it wide before leaping out. Neither Jon nor Daenerys went to see him fall. They stood in the flames, hearts pounding as they waited. They heard the body hit the ground a moment later.

Then came the sirens.

“Jon.” Her voice was so weak. Daenerys put a hand to her throat. She felt jagged edges of skin, and warm, wet blood. “Jon, please..”

“Dany? Dany stay with me. Gods, Sam! Somebody!”

Everything went to black, and the last thing Daenerys knew was the feeling of being enveloped in warm, white fur.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the days that followed, life returned to a semblance of normalcy alarmingly quickly. To Jon, it seemed that awful day had been just a brief moment. His actions and Viserys’—it was over so quickly, it hardly seemed real. But the fear was real, and the nightmares. Jon lay awake at night in the guest room at Missandei’s inn tormented by what he’d seen. Flashes of gruesome scenes—Daenerys curled up on the floor, the knife at her throat, her brother’s screams of pain as he burned.

The first twenty-four hours had been rough. The local authorities had not been equipped to deal with the scene at Dany’s apartment. So reinforcement came in. They studied the CCTV from the building, the room where it happened. There had been no eyewitnesses, and none of the tenants had dared say anything about Jon showing up, likely terrified by the image of him emerging from the flaming building, bloodied and furious, holding Daenerys cradled in his arms.

He hadn’t waited for police or fire to arrive. He drove straight to the nearest hospital, checked Daenerys into the emergency room. His love was immune to fire, but not, it turned out, to knives in the throat. It pained him to see her tiny body covered in bruises and stitches, but the nurses assured him that within the week she’d be released.

The cops had appeared soon after, questions and accusations on their tongues. When they saw Daenerys though, they dropped it. Meekly, they’d taken a statement from Jon, who told them what he would tell everyone over the coming days: that Daenerys had been assaulted by her estranged brother, and she’d called him to defend her. The fire had been an unfortunate accident, caused by knocking over a candle in the brawl between Jon and Viserys. The nurses in triage had assessed some of Jon’s wounds as too severe to be caused by his own attacks on Viserys. Jon didn’t bother correcting them. Let them think that the contusions were a result of the mad brother, and not from his own powerful rage.

Daenerys slept peacefully for two days, drip fed through an IV and given measured doses of pain medicine to help her sleep. Jon had handled the doctors as best he could without having any of her documentation with him, and was relieved when two red sisters arrived that first evening to take over. He hadn’t wanted to go home—how could he leave her there, her pale throat bandaged and her slim frame drowned in hospital dressings?— but he’d been overruled by a council of women. A somber woman named Kinvara and her ward, another acolyte of the Red God, plus Missandei and a dozen nurses had ushered him out the door with cries of “We’ll take care of her,” and “For R’hllor’s sake go take a bath!” So he’d left.

He returned the next day, and the next, to sit with her during visiting hours. Often he dozed off, and when he did, he dreamed through Ghost’s eyes. The adrenaline was slow to wear off, and it seemed whatever gift he had was stronger after the incident. His ill gotten sleep, when he managed, was plagued by visions of grass, and other dogs, and his sisters as they pet him and gave him treats. A few times Jon had woken only to immediately spit up, the taste of some putrid animal lingering on his tongue.

On the third day, his vacation time was drawing to a close. He spent the morning with his sisters, who’d not been allowed to visit the hospital. Catelyn, of course, was furious with Jon. Why exactly he wasn’t sure. If it was that he’d embarrassed her by involving himself in a scandal, or that he’d beaten a man half to death, or perhaps she didn’t even know at all, and had simply decided to challenge herself to be even more malicious towards him. She never spoke to him the rest of the trip, anyway. All messages were reared through Sansa, or more reluctantly, through Arya.

“She’s horrible. Honestly, I can’t wait to go away to university,” Arya said. They were back at the fish and chip shop, whiling away the hours before Jon could go and visit Dany. “The way she talks about you, it’s awful! She’s even worse than usual right now.”

Sansa sniffed. “As much as a loathe it, I agree with Arya. Mum is genuinely losing it right now. First Bran announces he’s decided to skip two grades at his private school, then Rickon goes missing—“

At Jon’s raised eyebrow she sighs. “Didn’t we tell you? Well, the sitter mum hired lost Rickon yesterday. Literally lost him! They found him playing Cowboys and Indians with some boys on the Ramsay’s property. It’s a wonder they weren’t shot.”

“He’sh fine dough,” Arya said quickly through a mouthful of chips. “But it shcared mum ha’ to deaf—“

“Arya, chew with your mouth closed,” Sansa snapped. Her expression softened. “How’s Daenerys?”

Jon had given his sisters the abbreviated story, doing the most to spare them any gristly details. They’d both been crestfallen that Catelyn had forbade them to join Jon on visiting days, though Arya kept saying she’d sneak in anyways.

“She’s fine. Missandei says she woke up today, she up and about and all that. Should be coming home tomorrow.”

Both sisters looked at each other and frowned. “What?” Jon asked. Sansa bit her lip. “It’s just…Arya and I were saying—“

“You two were talking to each other?” Jon feigned incredulity, but he was surprised. Arya stuck her tongue out.

“Yeah, idiot, we do that sometimes. Anyway, Sansa had a brilliant idea—“

“—That Daenerys should come north for the summer.”

Jon blinked. “North? As in Winter Town?”

His sisters giggled at him, sharing yet another mystifying look. “Well, not north north, exactly. We were thinking King’s Landing. Robb and Talisa have a huge house there, and it’s only an hour’s drive to Cambridge.” Sansa clapped her hands together, a dreamy look coming over her face. ‘Oh, Jon it would be so fun if she could go!”

Jon shook his head. “And what does Robb think of this plan of yours, eh?” Arya smirked.

“All taken care of big brother. We phoned them last night from Sansa’s cell. Robb and Talisa are dying for you to visit them, Jon. You haven’t seen Robb since the wedding! And you know they’d adore Daenerys.”

Jon sat back in his seat. He was impressed with how thorough the girls had been, and more than a little touched by their attentions. Especially Sansa, who could be so hard to read sometimes. It was hard to believe they were both teenagers, almost young ladies. Jon felt a wave of pride come over him for his two young siblings. 

“Alright, Robb’s on board. But you two forget, I work. The Night’s Watch is a full tome committment.”

He stared them down confidently, waiting to see what kind of retort they’d come back with. Sure enough, Sansa spoke up, but it was not what he’d expected to hear.

“Jon, you died at the Night’s Watch. I still don’t know what happened that night, but we all saw you die. I know your work is important, but you don’t have to be a slave to the people who let you die up there. There are other ways to protect the park, Jon.”

Her voice was soft, but there was still that hard edge that Sansa possessed, that let everyone know that she would not be swayed. She knew she was right. And worse, Jon knew it as well.

It was true. Jon had enslaved himself to the Night’s Watch, first because of his low birth and family trauma, and then it had been to appease his father. After he’d died, he’d been possessed by a need to change the world, to convince everyone of the worth of their frozen north. What little remained of it. But over the years, he’d let himself become a machine of the Watch. Work, sleep, work, sleep. Waking up in the same bunk he’d died in, wearing the same uniform with the patch over his heart. He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d felt just as dead after coming back. At least, until he met Daenerys.

“Aye,” he said, and coughed before his voice could betray him. “Maybe you’re right.”

He sighed deeply. “Alright, we go to King’s Landing. If Daenerys wants to go,” he added, wagging a finger at the girls. They rolled their eyes at him and chorused their agreement, but he knew they’d won this battle. And, judging by the gusto with which they attacked their battered fish, they knew it too.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

The worst part of going back to her apartment was the smell. Ash and char, and the coppery tang of blood and acid. Jon had been reluctant to take her back, but Daenerys had insisted. As soon as she was discharged, he drove her back to that place, back to where it had happened.

This time, there was no charred mark in the grass where her brother had fallen. Custodians had already swept and mopped and pruned until the grass under her window was fresh and green. Only the faint line of new turf could raise any questions. Inside was another matter.

“Gods, it’s bad,” she said. The wall was still taped off, blood marks now dried to a rusty brown. There were char on the wooden floors, and a stain where she’d spit up. The lock was bashed in, the door hanging by splinters in the frame.

“Guess you don’t have to worry about it squeaking anymore,” she joked lightly. Jon said nothing, arms folded across his chest. Daenerys picked up the few items she wanted from the apartment, just some personal odds and ends. The picture from Sansa, her mother’s ring. Mementos she cherished. Everything else, she left. Come next week, the apartment would be gutted and renovated. Her lease had, of course, been terminated.

“Come on, love.” Jon guided her back out to the car, one hand on her waist. He’d been hypervigilant around her all day, the first time he’d seen her awake since the incident. Not a moment passed that he didn’t have a hand on her shoulder, her thigh. It grounded her, made Daenerys feel less scattered.

The drive back was calm. Too calm, as they both weren’t saying what needed to be said. Daenerys stroked the white gauze at her throat absentmindedly, looking out the window. Jon tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, whistling along with whatever pop song Margaery Tyrell was warbling over the radio. Neither of them spoke. Neither wanted to admit their own fears, the hurt they were feeling. Not yet. Not there. For Daenerys, it felt too open. She felt vulnerable, and knew she needed to be made whole again before she could break.

She put a hand on Jon’s thigh, just to touch. Just to feel. Watched as his throat bobbed and his hands shook on the wheel. Wondered for the second time, if he felt the same way she did.

Amazingly, they made it all the way back to Missy and Grey’s place, all the way to the front gate and into the foyer, past the anxious couple and Jon’s disapproving stepmother, all the way into their shared room until it became too much to bear.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jon said, even as he was pressing her into the door. His hands traveled up her body, touching and grabbing her everywhere he could, taking her hospital shirt with her, dragging his rough fingers over her breasts.

“You can’t,” she panted. She arched up into him, pressing her body against his, feeling the hard lines against her soft ones. “You could never hurt me. Never.”

His hands threaded through her long hair, winding the strands around and around. He tugged hard, pulling her parted lips to his. She bit hard on his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth and pushing back against his kiss until he was breathing raggedly. She had always though that to connect with someone physically, there must be some sort of imbalance, a natural battle for dominance. With Jon, she realized the truth. Every tug of her hair yielded softer kisses rained down upon her. Every nip of her teeth against his neck she soothed with her tongue, chasing the gooseflesh down to his shoulder. It was perfect. Balanced.

Jon knelt in front of her, kissed her bare stomach until she moaned and twisted against the door. The paper hospital pants joined the shirt on the floor, and then he was lifting her legs, hands cupping her bottom and lifting her to his greedy mouth. Daenerys had bite down on her hand to keep from screaming as his tongue worked, stroking her and licking inside. He held nothing back, denied her nothing as he fucked her, sliding two fingers into her cunt. Her legs shook, and Daenerys ran her other hand through his dark hair, caressing him and urging him on, begging him to fuck her harder.

When she came, it was with her eyes closed, head tilted back against the door, Jon’s name on her lips. He kissed her center as she shook, curling his fingers inside her until she was dizzy with pleasure. He set her on her feet, unsteady as a fawn, and laughed softly, gripping her waist to steady her.

“Easy now,” he murmured, and Daenerys almost cried for how much she loved him. She led him to the bed, laying back against the soft pillows and inhaling the lemony scent of the clean sheets. He hovered over her, seeming to want nothing more than to look at her, despite the hard evidence of his arousal between his legs.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he said. Daenerys scooted forward to the edge of the bed, guided him inside her. She needed him to fill that space inside her that had been desiring him since their first night. He shuddered, hand coming to rest by her head. He pressed kisses to her cheeks, her lips, her throat, so gentle she wanted to scream.

“Move,” she whispered, and he did. His hips snapped into hers and he began a rhythm that had her gripped the edge of the bed to keep from moving, her body shaking.

“Fuck, Jon,” she panted. Pulled him down into a snarling kiss, all teeth and tongue. He groaned, driving deeper, stretching her and filling her in the most delicious way. He gripped her hand in his, something so sweet it seemed out of place during such a moment. It was like worship, she thought. Their coupling was a prayer, a holy palmer’s kiss pressed from his hand to hers as they made love. Love, Daenerys thought, could be as cleansing as flame.

Soon, she felt that crest of pleasure building inside again. She canted her hips to meet each thrust, raked her nails down Jon’s back and pressed him closer, her legs spread wide. He came just a second before she did, and she felt that warm full feeling of his orgasm deep inside, making her shiver with pleasure as she came around him. The sensation was so much, so good, she felt that needy love bubble up in her throat.

“I love you.” The words were said on an exhale of pleasure, barely audible, but she knew he heard. Felt him twitch inside, and the dark eyes that caught hers as she looked up.

“I love you, Jon.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I love you, too.”

The words echoed in the shower, sounding louder than Jon had intended. He winced as his own voice came back to him, immediately wanted a redo. Dany stilled, hands caught in her hair as she rinsed the shampoo from it. “I know.”

Jon rolled his eyes. Somehow she could take his worries away even with the most flippant of statements. “Thanks, Han Solo.”  Dany tilted her head, lip pouting in the most adorable way. “What?”?

Jon groaned, feigning a look of betrayal. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen Star Wars?” He flicked some water at her playfully. “It’s a line from the movie. Princess Leia tells Han she loves him, and he says ‘I know.’ It’s super cheesy, but everyone knows it.”

Daenerys splashed him back, getting soapy water on his chest. “Well clearly, I don’t.” Her eyes narrowed at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “So does that make you the princess?”

Jon laughed, then ducked his head. “Well…Yes, I suppose it does.”  Daenerys laughed delightedly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She truly was mesmerizing. Jon couldn’t help himself. “We’ll have to watch it together when we—“ He cut off abruptly, unsure of how to continue. He wasn’t even sure of himself, how could he ask her to leave everything behind and come with him?

Dany noticed his hesitance but misunderstood it. “Jon, it’s okay. I know-I know you’re leaving in three days, and I know you probably never expected anything like this to happen. But I want you to know that I won’t stop fighting for us to be together. I can work, I’ll work for Missy and save to come north. There’s a university close by and—“

Jon hushed her with a kiss. He couldn’t believe his little dragon, how fierce she was. How loved she made him feel. “Hush, Dany. I was goin to say, we should watch it when you come up north with me.”

She blinked owlishly. “What?” Jon laughed, pulling her to him. Her wet body fit perfectly against his, and he felt the stirrings of a second round within, but first he needed her to know. “I’m not leaving you in Hay-on-Wye, Daenerys Targaryen. I’m taking you back north with me, come hell or high water.” He looked down at her confused face and kissed her nose. “You’re mine now,” he said, voice low. The effect it had was immediate; her purple eyes went dark, pupils wide. She stood on tip toes to ghost her lips over his.

“Is that so? And what, I have no choice in the matter?” Her tone was still playful, but he heard the hitch in her breath. He slid his hands down her back, gripping her ass. She teetered on her tip toes, arms coming around his neck to steady herself. He dropped a few kisses on her lips, feeling her warm under his touch before he answered her.

“I’m afraid not, love. My siblings have gotten involved, and not even the Long Night could keep them from working their nefarious plans.” He kissed her long and slow now, sliding his tongue between her lips, licking into her mouth before pulling back. “There’s a house waiting for us,” he said, trying to still his heart, which beat fast as he laid his desires bare for her. “A house, with plenty of room for us, and Ghost, and Drogon and everybody. I know King’s Landing isn’t the most beautiful city, but it’s got a fire department, and a university, and I’m sure we’ll find a use for all your fire and—“ He was cut off by her lips on his, kissing him fervently until all the air was gone from his lungs. They broke apart, and she was crying. tears mixing with the little drops of water from the shower.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” she said, pressing her lips to his face again and again. “I’d scale the Wall and cross the Great Grass Sea to be with you.” She kissed him again, hands cupping his face and it was like the magic that pulled him to Ghost, pulling Jon into Dany, into her kiss.

He shut the water off, scooped her up with a shriek and a laugh, and she was his. Blessedly, wholly, his.

When they made love together again, bodies wet and slick from the shower and their want, it was sweeter. More intense. They looked into each other’s eyes and murmured sweet words to each other and it was so loving, Jon felt tears prick his eyes.

It was true, what they said then. He believed it now. Love comes in at the eyes.

Chapter Text

When I was a man I thought it ended
When I knew love's perfect ache
But my peace has always depended
On all the ashes in my wake

--Hozier, Arsonist's Lullaby

Hay-on-Wye saw a surprising turn of weather the second week of Jon’s vacation-turned-adventure, reflective of the emotional turmoil he felt. Rain peltered down on the roof of Missandei’s inn, trickling into the overflown gutters and dripping cold run off inside the house. Jon had been up on the roof all morning with Grey, nailing thin strips of plywood and tarpaulin  to the leaky tiles. The work was a welcome relief from the tension boiling in his shared room with Daenerys; the last three days for Jon and Dany had been much more fraught than Jon would have liked to admit. Though they’d made their promises to each other and shared each in other’s love, they’d still not touched on what had happened with Viserys. Daenerys seemed determined to forget all that had passed; when Jon would bring it up to her, always so gently, at night before they slept, she would only cast her eyes away, saying the same thing each time: “If I look back, I am lost.”

It was mildly infuriating. Jon was determined to help her move on from her trauma, to help her in the way he couldn’t help himself, but she was steadfast in her refusal. Every time he’d bring it up, treading on eggshells to ensure he wasn’t pushing too far, she would block him out. She’d done everything from busying herself with chores to distracting him with sex to slamming doors in his face. It stung, but Jon knew he had to keep trying. He couldn’t bear to watch his silver girl become as bitter and as scarred as himself.

Gritting his teeth, Jon pounded down on a nail with his hammer. It drove into the soft wood, splintering instantly. He sat back with a curse and wiped the rain and sweat from his brow. Grey watched, eyebrows raised in a passive face of amusement.

“Here,” Grey said. “Hammer this beam instead. Thicker wood, harder to break.” He jerked a thumb at himself, then to the area Jon was butchering. “This one will work on that side.”

They awkwardly switched places by shuffling slowly along the slick rooftop, passing each other and handing off nails and tools. Jon settled back on the thicker center beam of the roof and started anew. Grey was right—the thicker beam took Jon’s frustrated pounding much better than the flat part he’d been working at before. They worked in silence, only the rain and the heavy hammerfalls to colour their labor. Jon appreciated Grey’s stoicism. It was something he’d not realized he missed, the company of people who could be quiet and disciplined and yet still make good company. Dany filled the silence with idle chatter, telling stories or talking softly with her crows. Her voice was as sweet and clear as bells, and Jon never tired of it. Yet it was pleasant to sit in the rain and just work, work with his hands and forget the rest.

Hours later, the rain had let up and Jon and Grey clambered down the roof, content that there would be no leaking that night if the storms kept on as they had been. Jon saw Missandei and Dany standing in the back garden, pulling nasturtiums out of the moist earth. Walking towards them, Jon could sense instantly the moment Grey relaxed beside him, his stiff posture slacking the slightest bit as Missandei turned and gave him a radiant smile. They both were made for each other, living alone in their little eden of brightly coloured flowers and herbs. Jon found himself imagining more and more each day what it would be like to build something like that with Dany; though deep down he knew they’d never have a cottage with a garden. They were too restless, too unbending. They wanted too much, needed to change the world too much to settle down like Missy and Grey had. Some part of Jon mourned the life he might have had, with a pretty lady and a simple house.

The other part of him, the part that was magic and violence and love, wouldn’t have it any other way. Daenerys was the fire that burned in his chest, and he wouldn’t give that up for any number of sweet women or pretty gardens.

In an uncharacteristic show of public affection, Grey swept up Missandei in his arms. She shrieked with laughter, clinging to his neck with both arms. Daenerys had tucked a few bright orange nasturtiums in Missandei’s dark curls, and they fluttered down now to rest on Grey’s shoulders, crushed and wet and filling the air with a peppery scent.

Jon caught Dany’s eye; she ducked her head, blushing, but he could see she was smiling, too. “C’mere, you!” He lifted her from ground as easily as he’d lift his little sisters, she was so slight of frame. He spun her round and round, watching her face flush pink and her white hair fly out behind them. Breathless, she giggled, arms coming about his neck and tugging gently. Jon brought their faces together, noses bumping in a butterfly’s kiss. Dany clutched at the back of his neck, nails leaving little half-moon marks as she pulled his lips up to hers. Jon could only smile against her soft lips as she kissed him again and again, teeth nipping and nails digging in. The rain came down over them again, and distantly, Jon heard Grey and Missandei retreat back inside. Droplets of rain hung like jewels around them, suspended in the glow of Dany’s hair. “Little dragon,” he rasped, shivering under the flick of her tongue. “Let’s get you inside.”

The rain continued that night, battering the patchwork roof. Jon and Dany helped as much as they were allowed in the kitchen with their hosts, until they were booted out by Missandei. “I said you could help earn your keep, not take over my business from me,” she’d said in that warm voice of hers. She’d posted Grey outside the entry to the kitchen, and he guarded her as though she were a queen and he her most loyal commander. Jon and Dany had fled up the stairs, giggling like children as they ran, hands interlaced tightly. They collapsed on the quilted bed, door clicking shut softly after them.

It was there, several minutes later with his fingers curled inside of her as she whined and panted beneath him, that Jon finally broke through to her. She came with a soft keen, and a tear slipped through her lashes. Outside the storm raged on, and as she pulled herself up and into Jon’s waiting arms, lightening illuminated the room, lighting them both an eerie shade of blue in the dark. Jon shifted as he took her in his arms, sitting fully on the bed. Dany pressed herself to his chest, legs wrapped about his hips. He could feel her heart racing, placed his hand on her back to sooth the wicked pulse to calmness.

“Thank you,” she muttered, lips half pressed wetly to his skin. A small sniffle followed, then a rustle as she lifted a hand to wipe at her face. Jon sat patiently, cheek pressed to the crown of her head. A moment later, he heard her sigh. “I don’t know how to feel these things. Loss. Pain. Sorrow. They seem as much a part of me as my skin, for so long that it seems I’ve never known another feeling. It still hurts, but I had nothing to compare it to. Only a kind of longing. But now I feel—“ Here her nails dug into his skin again painfully. Jon leaned into the pain, pulling her even closer in his lap, stroking her back. “—I feel so happy. With you, Jon. You make me so happy, and it terrifies me.”

She pulled back just enough to raise her eyes to his. They were red rimmed and water, her nose and lips puffy and flushed. “Viserys is dead, Jon. I killed him. And yet, I feel so relieved, and I’m here with you now, and I can’t help but feel that despite it all, it was worth it to lead me here. To you.” She blinked, bit her lip. She looked so wretched it made Jon’s heart twist. “Is that awful of me?”

Jon shook his head. “No, love. ‘Course it’s not.” He held her close again and rocked with her in his arms. “I never told you the full story behind why I stopped playing rugby.” Dany tensed in his arms, waiting for him to continue. Jon kept talking, voice low as he rocked her gently. “This was after I came back. I had this…this rage in me, all the time. I never felt something that dark before. I kept a tight lid on it, tried to keep it together at work and all, but this prick son of our neighbor, Ramsay, he…” Jon swallowed hard, feeling the old anger bubble up even now. Dany was quiet, heart pounding beneath his hands. “He was talking all kinds of shit about my sisters, especially Sansa. Talking to the team about all the things he wanted to do to them. One day, Sansa came home cryin’. Said he’d touched her. That’s all I needed to know. The next day we had a game, and I saw red. Beat the fucker half to death before someone pulled me off him. The whole team piled on top of me, and I had to fight my way out just to breathe.”

He sighed. “I got kicked off the team, of course. But Ramsay never looked at my sister again.”

Dany kissed his chest. “You did the right thing,” she whispered. Jon shook his head sadly. “I wish I could say I did, Dany. You weren’t there. He begged me to stop, just before he was knocked out.” Jon felt his face twist in a painful grimace. “I could have stopped, if I wanted to. But I didn’t. I would have kept going until there was nothing left of him but a bloody stain in the grass, if it meant my sister was safe.” A pause. Then, “I felt the same when I saw your brother standin’ over you. I would have kept goin’. Just to keep you safe.” He sighed. “I just don’t want you to feel that darkness again, Dany. I couldn’t bear it if you had all that hurt bound up inside.”

Dany nodded. “I think it’s different,” she said. “That rage you talk about—I feel it too. Sometimes, when someone is hurt. When there’s injustice.” Jon shifted uneasily, thinking about their hosts. Dany said whispered bits and pieces of the story to him, careful to omit anything too personal. Trafficking. Abuse. Heavy stuff, heavier than even he could comprehend. He could imagine his little dragon burning with anger, raining fury down on those who would hurt her loved ones.

“With Viserys, with Drogo…it was different.” She hummed softly. “It’s sadder, I think. I just felt empty inside. It doesn’t haunt me like it used to. I was protecting myself.” She huffed, sitting up. “Maybe I still am.” She smiled at Jon, an offering of peace, an end to the heavy discussion. He took it gratefully.

“Doesn’t matter now. I’ve got you, forever.”

“Forever,” she agreed.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

Finally, their last day in Hay-on-Wye arrived. It was cold and drizzling, starlings gathered on the power lines in the small town. The towers of the convent were shrouded in heavy fog that rolled in from the coast, salty and sharp.

Daenerys perched atop her battered suitcase, salvaged from some storeroom in the convent. The sisters had come by earlier in the day to leave some last belongings of hers; a few of her old modest dresses, her birth certificate, among other things. She’d been surprised to find a packet of envelopes included in the bundle. Scores of handmade cards, letters and notes, all messages of love and prayer. Daenerys felt tears well up in her eyes as she read them, tucking each one back inside its little envelope before returning the whole lot to her suitcase. Kinvara had been the one to leave them, and the usually stoic woman had held Daenerys for a full five minutes, enfolding her in the flame red robes she wore. Then the woman had produced a single folded sheet of lined paper from her pocket.

“This one was for you to read before you left,” she said cryptically. Daenerys opened it in front of her, had stifled a sob as she read the contents. Simply, it said “Princess, I’m so sorry.” It was signed from Jorah Mormont, her old bear.

Kinvara had watched closely, a deeply disapproving look on her face. “We sent him to the Citadel,” she said. “We have hired a former member of Grey’s Unsullied to take over his post.” She sniffed. “Normally we wouldn’t contract someone so overly qualified, but then again, we’ve never had to dispose of a spy before.” She smiled crookedly, red lips thinning. “Will you send a missive to your strong bear?”

Daenerys hadn’t wanted to at first, couldn’t find it in her to forgive. At long last, she’d scribbled a note on a torn piece of the same lined paper and handed it folded up to Kinvara. “This is all I wish to say to him,” she said quietly. Kinvara simply nodded, and disappeared down the winding garden path, red robes a fluttering trail of color behind her. 

Now Daenerys sat waiting for Jon to pull up in her Astra. They’d agreed to take her car to Kings Landing, leaving Jon’s car with Sam to drive back to Winter Town. Jon had gone to pick it up from where it was parked at her old apartment. She hadn’t wanted to go. Now though, she sat restless on the stoop, fingers braiding and unbraiding her long hair. She peeked out, watching the road for signs of the familiar black and red Astra.

Jon was becoming something of a problem for her. When they were together, they were like the hurricane and the eye, the wave and the rock. One always restless while the other waited patiently, or else both raging in a tempest of emotion. Daenerys found herself growing impatient with him many times, only to feel the immediate ache of not being at his side as soon as she took her space. It was like being drunk, to be with him.

As he pulled into the drive in her Astra, the relief Daenerys felt was crushing. It took her by surprise, how strongly she felt, the ache of being away for even a moment, and the magnetic pull to him, drawing her by her pulse towards his lithe strong body. As he opened the drivers side door, the sun glanced off his dark hair, and it appeared as molten amber under the harsh sun, curling against tanned skin. In seconds she was at the driver’s side, pulling him down, crashing her lips to his. He was knocked off balance, but quickly steadied himself with a hand on her waist. She stood on the balls of her feet, reaching higher, pulling him and dragging her fingers through his inky hair.

“Missed you,” she managed, breathing shakily. Jon just nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off of her. Daenerys felt hot under his gaze. He was so beautiful, she thought. So strong.

“You ready?” The question was innocuous, but the curling of his fingers against her waist was urgent. She knew Jon was eager to get on the road, to drive to the city. He’d been so cautious about it with her, as though he expected her to be reluctant to leave. While the decision to leave behind her hometown and her only friends and family behind was not an easy decision, Daenerys knew in her heart it was the right one. Besides, they would be less than 10 hours away by car. Even less by train or by air. She’d said her tearful goodbyes already to Missandei and to Grey, who promised to visit in Kings Landing.

“We’ll plan a trip together,” Missy had said. “Us four, Kings Landing to Dragonstone. It’ll be a beach holiday.”

Those words, and the warm smile of her best friend, were what propelled Daenerys forward. This was her new life, but her old friends would be by her side. The idea filled Daenerys with determination.

The two of them loaded up the Astra in record time; Jon’s duffel bags and Daenerys’ single suitcase, plus the wicker birdcage. Drogon was the most put out by the whole ordeal, mostly likely offended by sharing the backseat with Ghost, though Viserion and Rhaegal both batted their wings angrily at the cage, beaks plucking at the wicker material.

“It’s for your own good,” Daenerys said, laughing. “If you’re not in here, you’re making a mess in my backseat.”

“Or pulling my hair out,” Jon said darkly. Daenerys snorted a laugh and ruffled his hair, and he ducked, grinning as he slid the keys in the ignition.

The engine rumbled to life, not so much a purr as it was a disgruntled cough. Jon adjusted the seat and mirror, then checked the engine lights and petrol. “Are you sure this thing will get us to Kings Landing, love?” he asked, skeptical. Daenerys patted the center console lovingly. “Of course it will. This old thing is older than I am.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Jon muttered under his breath, pulling out of the drive. Daenerys smacked his arm. “It’s reliable, Jon. My Astra is the last of it’s kind, I’ll have you know. That means he’s got something to prove.”

With that, she slid her sunglasses on her face and rolled the window down. She could see Jon smiling despite himself, hands already relaxing on the steering wheel as the Astra drove steadily from the main road onto the highway. Ghost lolled his head out the backseat window, tongue hanging out happily. Daenerys fiddled with the radio, flicking from station to station as the country lines again to shift and change. After five straight stations playing nothing but maudlin harp rock music (who wants to listen to The Rains of Castamere on a road trip?) she landed on some mainstream pop station. The sweet, raspy voice of Margaery Tyrell rang out from the speakers, bass thumping along with the glitzy synths. Singing a little under her breath, she leaned back to check on the crows. They each stared balefully at her from between slats in the cage, and she cooed and fussed until they were preening and chuffing once more.

Jon was unimpressed. “You listen to this stuff?” He nodded to the radio, lip curled. Daenerys raised an eyebrow and feigned offense. “What, you don’t like Margaery Tyrell? They say she’s redefining Westerosi pop music.” Jon snorted through his nose. “Right, and I’m the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror.” He flicked the radio to the next station, which was playing some awful screaming music. Daenerys frowned. “The White Walkers? Really?” She flicked it back to the pop station. Jon let it play for a few seconds, then changed it again when she wasn’t looking. “Jon! Stop it.” She changed it over to the next station after White Walkers. Immediately, she recognized the familiar voice playing over the radio. Only one Welsh artist used polyrhythms and double stringed harp in indie music. She coughed, playing her surprise off as a dry throat. Of course, Jon picked up on it.

“This is his music, isn’t it?” He didn’t need to say the name. She’d mentioned Rhaegar to him many times, played his demo tapes to him in her apartment. She nodded. Jon left the radio alone, and as they made their way deeper into English country, and the roads got wider and smoother, it felt a little more like home than it did before. Daenerys pulled Jon’s phone from the cup holder beside him—she still didn’t have her own and Jon let her use his with increasing exasperation—and shot off a quick text to Missy, letting her know they were safely on the road. That done, she cracked open a fresh bag of chocolate direwolves and settled in for the drive, eyes drifting shut as they moved further into king’s country.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

It was just past two am when Jon pulled the Astra into his brother’s drive in Kings Landing. In the passenger seat Daenerys was sound asleep, lips parted and breath lifting little tendrils of her white hair with each soft exhale. Jon left the car in park, getting out quickly to grab the key Robb had left him under the mat. Ghost came with him, leaping over the driver seat and escaping through the open door. Jon shushed him, calling the massive dog to heel as he crept up to the house. He unlocked the door as quietly as he could, letting Ghost inside, then went back to the car.

“Dany. Love, wake up.” He unbuckled the passenger seat belt and lifted Dany out gently. She twisted in his arms, burying her face in his neck. “Five more minutes, Jon, we’re not there yet.” He huffed out a laugh and went to the trunk, settling Dany over his hip and shoulder so he could use one hand to reach inside. Once he’d got their bags in hand, he kicked the trunk shut and made for the door.

Robb waited in the foyer, hair mussed and dressed only in boxers and a jumper. He yawned and smirked at Jon’s predicament. “Look at the strong man, eh? Woman in one arm and a million bags in the other.” Jon grinned tiredly and kicked at his brother, just grazing his shins. Robb stumbled back, reflexes impaired by sleep. Jon nudged the door shut behind him and stepped fully into the house. “Don’t even need my hands to kick your ass, brother.”

He made his way up the stairs, still carrying Dany in one arm and the luggage in the other. Robb trailed behind, talking his ear off about life in the city.

“Just wait till you see Talisa, she’s about to pop…oh, and remind me to take you to the Sept, they do concerts every Friday…I saw Margaery Tyrell there a few months ago, but don’t tell Talisa. that..”

Finally, Robb opened the door to the guest suite, ushering Jon inside. “Well, brother, make yourself at home. It’s good to have you back.” Jon could only blink and smile, his whole body exhausted from the journey. Thankfully, Robb knew him well, and clapped a hand on his shoulder before bidding him goodnight. Once the door clicked shut, Jon set the luggage down with a groan, his shoulder aching. He lay Daenerys down on the bed, wincing as the release of pressure left his other shoulder burning. He stripped down to his briefs, pulling his shirt and jeans off and tossing them in a hamper by the door. Once comfortable, he turned the same attention to Dany, who still hadn’t woken. She was a deep sleeper, completely unlike him. Jon woke with the slightest movement. Dany often complained she couldn’t so much as breathe in bed without him waking, and it was true.

He pulled her shoes off, setting them by his. He left her in the soft summer dress she’d worn, but carefully worked her hair loose of its braids, setting each hairpin and elastic on the nightstand. Lastly, he pulled back the thick northern quilt from the bed and tucked her in, smoothing her hair. Crawling in beside her, he pulled her warm body to his, forming himself around her as he always did, as though even sleeping he were her own personal shield. Her little body burned hot, a warm ember to his skin. The heat lulled him to sleep quickly, and before long Jon felt himself pulled under.

He woke to that same heat pressed up against his body, and the sun forcing its way between his eyelids. Soft hair tickled his face. “Jon…Jon, are you awake?” He rolled over, trapping that soft heat under his body, wrapping it in his arms. “Let me sleep,” he grumbled. “Drove all night.” He buried his face in the pillow, but was soon poked and prodded into opening one eye, staring into violet eyes. “What?” Dany brushed a kiss against his lips. “It’s after ten. Don’t you want to get up?”  Jon looked at her through slitted eyes. “Not particularly.” He drew her in, wanting nothing more than to sleep with her head against his heart. Dany had other ideas. “Why don’t we say hello to your family, Jon?”

He groaned and sat up a bit, slouching against the pillows. Dany scrambled back, pulling the covers up and around her shoulders like a cape. She peered at him from beneath pale lashes, the white slashes of her brows coming together to frown at him. “You could have taken a break you know. I’m perfectly capable of driving, and if I’d known you’d get this exhausted—“ Jon hushed her with a finger and a shake of his head. “I’m not that tired,” he lied. His dishonesty caught him out, and he yawned dramatically as he struggled through the last syllables. Dany laughed at him. “Silly boy. Fine then, sleep the day away if you like, but I want to get up and meet your brother.” At this, Jon sat bolt upright. No way she was going into that wolves den alone. “Alright woman, let’s go then.” She smiled, pleased.

Robb and Talisa were already in the kitchen when Jon and Dany finally made it downstairs. His brother had been all too right—Talisa looked ready to pop, her stomach straining against the pink fabric of her maternity clothes. She looked to be in pleasant spirits though, immediately perking up when she caught sight of Jon and Dany.

“Jon! I was so happy when Robb said you’d agreed to stay with us. And this must be Daenerys.” She pressed Dany’s small pale hand in her brown one, dark eyes shining. “You’ve made this brooding man quite happy, I hear.” Dany flushed, but was smiling, and behind Talisa Robb was making ridiculous faces at Jon.

“We’ve got some scones and jam if you like, though they’re made in the style of Volantis, not Welsh I’m afraid.”

Dany perked up noticeably. “You’re from Volantis? I have ancestors from Valeryia.”

Talisa shot a proud look at Jon, as though she were congratulating him on his choice in girlfriend. Then she took Dany by the hand, leading her to the dining room. Jon could hear them chattering away, and bits of broken Valeryian being spoken between them. Robb grinned. “Well, well. Finally Jon Stark brings home a worthy woman.” Jon flinched, both at the comment and the name. “It’s still Snow, Robb. And I’m glad you approve of her already, but I don’t think my past choices were that bad.”

Robb sighed impatiently. “I told you already. Dad died, and I’ve claimed you as a Stark. You might not have accepted it, but in the eyes of the law and out family, you’re a Stark.”

Jon shook his head. “Not to Catelyn.”

At this, Robb rolled his eyes. “Forget about her. You’ve got more Stark blood than she has anyway. Be glad you didn’t get the ginger hair, brother.” He ruffled Jon’s hair, mussing it up from the carefully tousled look Jon had crafted. “Did you ever find out, by the way? About your mum? You mentioned something about Sam looking for genealogy books or birth records at that festival or whatever.”

Jon frowned. He hadn’t had time to think on it, given all that had happened. Sam had chanced across a book of birth records from Dorne that corresponded to the year Jon was born. He’d taken pictures, sent them to Jon, but he’d not opened them yet. “No time like the present,” he muttered, taking his phone out. Robb watched him closely. In his camera roll was the picture from the text Sam sent, a decent shot of a page in a book. He zoomed in on it, scanning the names and dates.

“Male child, born Friday, April 13th in 1996 to one Ashara Dayne. Baptized Jon Sand.”

Robb whistled. “Must have been before Dad brought you back, changed it to Snow.” Jon nodded. Robb poured a cup of coffee from a pot on the counter, handed it to Jon. He poured himself a cup, then spoke. “Do you wish you’d met her? That it had happened differently?” Jon paused, the coffee cup halfway to his lips. The steam curled around his face, making him uncomfortably aware of his own skin. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine.” Robb nodded, expression sympathetic. “Best not to think about it too hard, eh?”

The truth was, Jon spent a lot of time thinking about her. What she looked like, what her voice sounded like calling his name. He used to lie in bed and imagine what it might be like to eat dinner with his mother, have her offer him something warm and rich, talk to him about school, and girls, and sports. There was a phantom mother that haunted him at times, that he would grasp for but always she slipped away like smoke through his fingers. Now he had a name, a place. He could look for her. One search on the internet and the mystery would be solved. It was at once overwhelming and disappointing, this revelation. Jon knew the time would come for further answers, but that time was distant and hazy. For now, he was content with this.

He smiled slowly, looking down into his cup. Robb looked puzzled. “What is it?” Jon looked up, knowing full well he had a loopy grin on his face. “I know my name day now. Friday the 13th of April.”

Robb laughed. “It is like you to be born on a bloody unlucky day, isn’t it.”

Chapter Text

"I knew that something would always rule me
I knew the scent was mine alone"

--Hozier, Arsonist's Lullaby

King’s Landing, Dany soon learned, was a contradiction wrapped in glitzy gold leaf and dipped in slime. It was a cesspool of gambling, ale, bad rock’n’ roll bars, and seedy strip clubs juxtaposed with magnificent cathedrals, palaces, and the historic Red Keep, now the center of government and commerce. Blackwater Bay glistened below the city, and though Dany grew up in the salty waves and sandy beaches of Hay-on-Wye, each morning, looking out on the bay, she thought she’d never seen water quite that blue before. The three crows adored it; they spent hours each day flying over the city, diving into the crowds to steal a beakful of food or a trinket. More than once, Dany had caught Dragon or Rhaegal bringing back a necklace or a shiny rock to add to a constantly growing collection of things they piled in their birdcage.

Three days passed in the Stark-Maegr household, blissfully uneventful and indulgently relaxing. The Starks had money, lots of it, Dany learned as well—just not for Jon. Robb and Talisa’s townhouse was tall and stylish, furnished with handmade crafts tables and chairs made from the red heartwood of the North. Dany, accustomed to sleeping on a convent cot, sank into the feather bed every night with sheer pleasure at being enveloped in the softest thing she’d ever touched. Jon always laughed at her, being at least more used to the lifestyle than she.

“The charm’ll wear off when you meet the rest of them,” he’s said on the second morning, only half joking. “Then you’ll be begging me to take you back to the convent. Catelyn will want to put the fear of the Seven in you.”

Dany, who’d been dozing off slightly in the obscenely large duvet, opened one eye sleepily. “You’re wrong, Jon Stark,” she’d said, pointedly calling him by the family name as Rob did. “I am a dragon, and dragons fear nothing.” She snuggled into his side and tugged the duvet over his stretched out legs. “There is nothing that could take me from you, not even your zombie deer,” she whispered, already falling into sleep again. Jon had laughed, then tucked her in. “Zombie deer are a real crisis, I’ll have you know,” he mumbled, watching her breathing even out. “Global warming, Dany. We’ll all be slaves to the zombie deer and the raging bush fires soon enough.” He paused, thinking. “Not that you have to worry about bush fires,” he finished, before settling in for a midday nap of his own.

Three days passed quickly though, and on the fourth, Jon was getting restless. Dany woke to him putting a briefcase together hurriedly, stuffing tons of papers and folders in haphazardly into the small space. He was wearing a nicer sweater than usual, dark blue instead of black, and pressed slacks. Dany sat up, rubbing her eyes and wondering how she’d slept through his whirlwind morning routine.

“Whass goin’ on,” she slurred, tongue heavy. Jon glanced up at her and smiled. “Good, you’re up.” He rubbed his face tiredly and mussed his hair, making it stand up even more than it already was. It looked as though he’d been tugging on it for hours. “Robb helped me get an interview at the National Park Service Fire Brigade.” He checked his phone and cursed. “I have to be at the Red Keep in forty minutes for the interview and personal history.

Dany sat up, rubbing more sleep from her eyes. Jon continued his assault on both the suitcase and his hair, alternately trying to fit more papers inside and then raking his hands through his messy curls when they didn’t cooperate. She observed him for a few moments, then put a hand on his arm to still him. “Have you had any coffee yet?” she asked. Jon was an anxious mess before he’d had any coffee. He shook his head. Dany pushed him gently towards the door. “I’ll get these sorted, you go have something to settle yourself.” Jon wavered, but finally agreed, pressing a kiss to her forehead before darting out the bedroom door.

Dany passed her hand over her face, then attacked the briefcase.In a few moments, it was organized, and Jon was rushing back in, a piece of toast in his mouth and a to go flask of coffee in his hand.

“Gotta blast,” he muttered, kissing her on the mouth before sprinting out the door. Dany heard doors opening and shutting, and a brief whine from Ghost, likely sat by the door thinking he’d be included on this excursion.

Robb and Talisa were both at work, so Dany was left to her own devices, at least until someone returned. She let her crows out of their cage, opening the window in the bedroom so they could stretch their wings. Then she explored the house, unable to keep herself from nosing through the pictures hung on the wall and the many keepsakes stored on handmade shelves. There were many of Robb and Talisa, some featuring the siblings she’d already met. A professional family photo caught her eye, in a large frame above the bannister. A much younger Robb and Sansa stood with a half-pint Arya between them. Cradled in Sansa’s arms was a baby, and Robb held the hand of a toddler. Behind them stood a tall man with dark hair, the spit and image of Jon, save his lighter eyes and paler complexion. Where Jon was grey this man was ice, and where Jon was warm, this man was cool. He had a kindly look to him, though his mouth was pressed in a thin line. Beside him was the woman Dany assumed to be Catelyn. She was beautiful, but severe. Warm brown eyes sharpened and seemed to glare out of the frame, while full lips pursed in disapproval. She and Sansa were two of a kind as well.

Dany noted with some surprise that Jon was actually in the picture as well, albeit somewhat hidden at the man’s side. He was the tallest of the children, yet somehow seemed smaller than they were. He wasn’t gazing off into the distance, like the other members of his family, but rather looking directly into the camera lens. Dany ran a finger over this younger Jon’s thin face.

As morning dragged into afternoon, and all three Starks were still at large, Dany decided to nap in her room.

Sometime later, a tapping at her window woke her. It was still golden hour outside, the red rooftops of the city bathed in amber light. Drogon perched on the sill, rapping at the pane of glass, which must have swung shut by the breeze. Dany opened it, and he flew in and came to rest on her shoulder. He nuzzled hi be a against her cheek, and Dany felt something cold brush against her skin.

“What have you got there,” she murmured. She offered up her hand, and Drogon coughed out the object. Cold recognition flooded her senses. “How on earth…” she turned the little gold coin over in her palm, stunned. Of course she knew it; it had been the cause of so much joy and pain. A single gold Honor, stamped with the sigil of Meereen.

Drogo had given her hundreds. “My Honor, for my lady,” he’d jokingly said, heaping upon her dozens of the heavy coins. Dany had no use for that kind of money back then; Drogo had given her not just coins, but jewels and clothes. All of which lay buried, scattered between the convent and the Great Grass Sea in the neighboring county. Dany had blocked it from memory until Viserys brought it up, then forgetting where it was exactly that she’d hidden it.

“How did you find this,” she whispered to the bird. Drogon hopped down from her shoulder and strutted down the inside of the window sill, feathers ruffling with pride. He shook himself and fixed her with one red eye, head cocked as if to say, ‘aren’t I a good son, mother?’

Daenerys laughed and pocketed the coin. “Well, thank you,” she said. Then looked out the window. Rhaegal and Viserion were just flying in as well, though they carried something much larger than a single coin. Dany hurriedly threw open both sides of the window, giving the crows just enough room to land with the sack clutched in their talons. “What the..”

The sack hit the floor with a thud. Coins and jewels spilled out all over the floor. A large freshwater pearl rolled out of the sack and stopped at Dany’s toes. She stooped to pick it up, marveling. Distantly, the front door slammed, and she knew that Jon had arrived back home. When he opened the door to their room, she was still standing stock still holding the pearl.

Jon whistled low. “Bloody hell, what is all this?” He set his briefcase down by the door, and came to look over Dany’s shoulder.

She finally looked up, his touch bringing her out of her trance. Her own hands trembling, she took his hand and set the pearl in it for him to see. She fished the gold Honor out of her pocket as well and handed it to him.

“You remember that treasure Viserys was after?” she said. “Well, I think my crows may have found it.”

________________________________________________________________________________

As it turned out, ten thousand gold Honors and several bags of diamonds, rubies, and silver worked out to be well over a million gold Dragons. The teller at the Iron Bank had been completely dumbfounded by the two twenty-somethings wanting to exchange gold and jewels for cash, but after working out the benefits of opening an account with them, they’d been more than happy to oblige.

Jon had vehemently opposed sharing the money, stating that it was Dany’s to begin with and he didn’t need it anyway. But she’d been firm, and in the end she’d insisted on splitting it into four parts. It wasn’t right, she’d said, for her to keep it all. Jon could sense some guilt there, and knew she still carried so much pain from her past. So he’d agreed. Two parts would go to Jon, one in checking and one in savings, and Dany would do the same. Still, even with half the fortune in savings, it worked out to be more than enough to move out of Robb and Talisa’s townhouse and find a place of their own.

Surprisingly, Jon and Dany had disagreed in opposite ways on where to move. Dany had argued for the North, saying Jon would be happier closer to his homeland, and closer to the National Park he loved so much. Jon had denied this, wanting to stay in the Crownlands so that Dany could go to the best college possible. In the end they compromised.

Their new home, situated in a town just west of The Twins, was deceptively small, though it had cost a pretty penny. Two floors, three bedrooms, and the most important part, a fenced in yard for Ghost. Jon had been called back to more interviews for the National Park job again in King’s landing, and Dany would be starting classes at the Eyrie University soon, so they had to share the Astra for the time being, at least until Jon got a monthly train pass from work. The town they were in was almost right in the middle between The Neck National Park and the Eyrie University of Westeros. The downside was that it was much further from Hay-on-Wye, almost 15 hours, but it was only an eight hour drive up North to Winterfell, and from there very easy to get to Jon’s hometown.

For Jon, it was disturbingly domestic, their new life together. His whole experience with Dany had been tumultuous and filled with danger. She was the magnetic pull to his iron will, ‘the fire to his ice’, as Robb had put it rather embarrassingly. To come home from a long commute every morning and find her cheerfully putting on a kettle for tea was bizarre, though not unwelcome.

It wasn’t long after they moved in that Jon got the fire brigade job at the park service. He was well over qualified for it, given his experience up North and his position with the Night’s Watch, but it still made him ridiculously happy to know that soon he’d be back doing what he was best at, and not too far from home either. The Neck was a small but important park that unfortunately boasted one of Westeros’ weirdest natural phenomenons, the bog lights. Tiny swamp fires that lit up, glowing an eerie green, and blew out just as quickly, seeming to float on the marshy surface of the water. In the dry season, the bog lights would set fire to the dry brush and dead limbs around the bog. The best part was that the local ranger in charge, Howland Reed, let Jon bring Ghost a couple times a week to patrol. The train ride from the Riverlands to The Neck was a pain with Ghost, but they both loved it anyway.

Working in The Neck wasn’t as high stress as The Wall by any means, but it was work, and it was good. And it allowed Jon to push the limits of his gift with Ghost. At first, he’d thought that only he could see through his wolf’s red eyes, but he found that to be untrue. Jon could look at a rabbit den or a bog hole with moles, and from yards away, Ghost would come running. He also found that Ghost chose to flood his mind with images and smells sometimes when he thought something was of particular importance. Of course, for a giant dog that often meant that Ghost had found where Jon stashed his treats, and wanted one urgently. The strangest thing was the dreams. Jon woke in fevers, body aching or mouth thick with the taste of fur and blood, and in the back of his mind he knew it’d been Ghost.

It bothered him, sometimes. Some nights his mind would start to slip, or Ghost would start to nudge at his consciousness, and he would fight it. Drink, or work longer, harder hours trying to keep his mind and his body one. Dany was always there for him. Always. He would find her in the midst if this madness, wrap his arms around her and she would know. Knew exactly how to soothe that raw nerve, how to calm the wilderness in him. The darkness.

Late winter came around, and there was still much work to be done. Dany was preparing for her first spring semester at university, and Jon was working long hours in The Neck. Wintertime may lessen the fires, but the poachers and illegal ice fishers were out in full force. Foxes ran rampant, and bears, as well as angry Crannogmen who wanted to be left in peace during the cold months. and it was hectic as hell for Jon and Ghost, who were constantly battling for control. Ghost’s attention span was next to zero when there were bears and foxes to be chased, and Jon had been fighting against the pull of his mind for days. Four weeks before Christmas, Jon almost lost it.  Ghost had been howling, both in the yard and in Jon’s head, for hours relentlessly. Jon felt the wolf’s excitement in his mind, the rush of the hunt as his wolf prepared for a long night of chase. Jon knew that if he gave in, he would pass out only to wake hours later sore and with the taste of death in his mouth. But he couldn’t tame it. His body was wired and tense, and desperately, he went to Dany. She was been in the bath, and called to him as he stood, torn, outside the bathroom door. 

“I know you’re there, Jon” she called. He twisted the handle, shaking. The scent of jasmine and bitter orange overwhelmed his senses, and he could feel Ghost pawing at his nose on the other side as well. He breathed deeply, trying to ground himself in the familiar perfume. Dany was soaking in what Jon knew to be scalding hot water. The steam rose off of the surface and off of her body, coiling around the smoke detector she’d disabled months ago. There were candles set all around the tiny bathroom. Tea candles around the rim of the clawed foot tub and the sink, tapered candles on the white tiled floor. It had been a lost cause for Jon, who was so wired to fireproof, but Dany had insisted that the tiled in bathroom was safe. She passed one slim hand through a flame, eyes fluttering shut, and Jon momentarily felt a very different kind of urgency. He closed the bathroom door behind him. Dany opened one violet eye, then the other, taking him in. She nodded to the toilet.

“Have a seat,” she said, and Jon did so. She watched him trembling, eyes darting back and forth from her to the open window. Ghost’s whines could be heard from the yard below. She eyed him pityingly. “Again?” she asked. Jon nodded. “It’s bad tonight,” he said, voice low. “He’s wanting to bring me along for the hunt.” He held his hands out in front of him so Dany could see them tremble. “That’s not fear. That’s how much my own body’s fighting me for control.” He pulled back in, resting his head in his hands. Dany sat up, putting a damp hand on his shoulder. “What do you need,” she asked. Jon shook his head. “I need—“ Ghost let out a piercing howl, and Jon clapped his hands over his ears. Dany stood quickly, slamming the open window shut and cutting off the cry. Jon still felt it echoing in his head, but he looked up, relieved. His heart leapt at the sight of Dany, standing naked in the tub, hands still fastening the latch on the window. She turned, catching his gaze in hers and Jon felt Ghost’s presence begin to retreat. The wild panic of the wolf he’d felt moments ago was replaced by his own urge to give chase.

“Put the candles out.” His voice sounded hoarse and needy even to his own ears. Dany looked at him, and when he nodded, she grinned. ‘Put the candles out’ had become something of a code for them, something Jon said when he needed Dany all to himself, no distractions. She started with the candles closest to him, putting them out with her bare fingers. The little curls of smoke rose up to the ceiling, and the smell helped to dampen the overwhelming input from Ghost, who had left for the hunt. Jon stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to drown out the distant growls and yips of other wolves in the lands beyond their fence. Dany bent over to put out the lat candle, and as soon as Jons smelled the smoke off of the wick, he was reaching forward, snatching his Dany to him, breathing in her perfume. To his heightened senses, she was like a drug, both calming and exciting him more. He touched her wet skin, hands smoothing over her long hair and pulling her closer, always closer. Jon felt that if he could just bring her close enough, she would be enough to drown out all the noise, all the pain, forever. He could devour her and keep her safe inside. She made him feel so selfish, and so loved.

Breathing ragged, he kissed her mouth, voicelessly pleading for what he needed. She knew, and kissed him back, hard, before pulling back. “Let’s go,” she breathed. She tugged Jon out of the bathroom, not bothering to put on the robe she’d hung on the door, and led them into their bedroom. It was just better than the one in her old flat, but the bed was still on the floor. Quickly, methodically, she undid the buttons on his uniform, pulling the heavy fireproof jacket off, then the undershirt. She pulled his belt off then, and Jon had to steady himself with his hands on her hips, breathing in sharply as he fought to not throw her down on the bed right then. Dany left him to do his canvas slacks and fire boots himself, which he did with far less grace, tossing them to the floor. His hands still shook, and when he was finished, Dany took them and placed them on her waist. She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, then another, taking steps back with each one to lead him to the bed. When she’d found the edge of the mattress, she hooked her arms around Jon’s neck and looked him in the eyes. “What do you need?” she breathed. Jon tightened his grip on her waist. “You,” he said. “Always you.”

Dany smiled then, and tilted her head up to drag her tongue over the hard beating pulse in his neck. He shuddered.

“Then take me.”

Those three words were like the spark to the inferno. No sooner had she spoken than Jon was lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling her down onto his cock. She moaned into his neck, hands tugging at his hair, pulling it out of its knot. Jon gave another tug down from her hips, seating himself fully inside her. He’d never gotten used to how hot she was, always burning up a fever around him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take her standing like this for long without support, as much as he needed her, so he moved away from the mattress to the wall. When Dany’s back met the wall, she gasped and dug her nails in his back. Jon grabbed her ass, tilting her body up to meet him more deeply, and thrust inside. Setting a steady pace, he tried to reign in the wolf’s instincts still clamoring within his mind, the darkness begging him to take and take and take. His lover wasn’t making it easy for him, nails and teeth punishing him, each bite of pain causing him to drive harder into her soft flesh. “Dany.” He dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing hard. “Please.” In answer, she lifted her hips to take him deeper, tight like a vice around him. Jon groaned. “I’m trying to be gentle, love.” She smoothed her hand ove this brows, bringing his face up to hers. “Why?” she questioned. She searched his face, her wide eyes sparkling. “I’m just as dark as you, Jon,” she said lowly, offering him a sweet kiss. “You’re mine. My Jon. My sweet wolf.” Her words stirred something within him. He nipped at her throat, beginning to move against her again. “Mine.” he said, whispered against the skin of her neck. “Mine.” His hips snapped into her, driving up until she was panting. “Gods, yes, Jon!” she moaned.  He could feel her body tense all around him, knew she would come on his cock soon. He thrust even harder, needing to feel her come for him. Her nails scraped his back and then she was coming, tilting her head back as she screamed. Jon sucked at her neck, not relenting until he felt his own climax approaching. He came with a snarl, pushing Dany up against the wall so he could feel her body flush against his as he spilled deep inside her.

After, he carefully let her down onto the bed. She was a sore sight, her pale skin mottled with dark purple bruises and and pink splotches where he’d bitten and grabbed at her. From the pain in his neck and back, he knew he was just as bad, but he still winced to see the marks he’d left on his Dany. He quickly grabbed a washcloth and wet it with cold water, then came to clean her up. She sighed contentedly, letting him care for her.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said earnestly. He stroked a bite mark on her shoulder. “That was rough.” She shook her head, sitting up. “I wanted rough. You needed it. Tell me, are you still hearing Ghost now.” Jon paused, then shook his head no. Dany smiled. “So it was worth it.” The she frowned, reaching to cup Jon’s face in her little hand. “I wish it wasn’t like this,” she whispered. “You have a gift, Jon. It shouldn’t be this painful.” Jon laughed and took her hand in his, turning it over and pressing it to his lips. “Ghost is a little shit. He was before we knew about this magic, and he still is now. I should get used to it.” He sighed. “It’s the midwinter season. It’s always been the worst time for me. I guess the Winter Moon is stronger, or something.” He leaned back on the bed.

Dany quirked her lips in a playful smile. “Well,” she said, moving to sit on his lap. “At least now we know what snaps you out of it.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively and Jon barked out a laugh. “You’re incorrigible,” he said. Dany nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the least I can do,” she said furtively. “You know, in the interest of preserving your sanity and all.” She stretched, tasing her arms high over her head and twisting this way and that. Jon observed her, and despite his own embarrassment for having marked her so much, felt himself grow hard at the sight of her so thoroughly ravaged. She noticed, and grinned down at him.

“Why Jon,” she said, feigning surprise. “I think you’re still not well.” She straddled him, leaning up to feel his forehead as if to check for fever. Her breasts came dangerously close to his face, and Jon caught her hips, stilling her in that position. “Dany,” he warned. She ignored him, shifting back just enough to sink back down onto him. He hissed, gripping her tightly. “Fuck, Dany.”

She smiled, her lashes fluttering even as she drew in a sharp breath at her own movements. “Just checking.”

Jon let out a sound not unlike a wolf’s snarl as he rolled, pinning her underneath him.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Christmas came to the Riverlands, and Dany could think only of impending orientations, classes, uni cliques and strict professors. She spent, on average, eight out of twenty-four hours in a day worrying over the spring semester, when she would start at the Eyrie University of Westeros. It was a small university, only three colleges, but it was very prestigious. She’d received her application almost as soon as she’d sent it, which she suspected was on merit of her name alone. The Eyrie was a respected college of music, along with humanities and writing. It used to be a girl’s college, but in recent years became coed.

So occupied was Dany in fretting over her future, that she’d begun to spend her days in the local library while Jon was at work. It was a good way to pass the time when she’d otherwise be lonely, and she rationalized that she was getting a head start on her studied. Years of homeschooling and studying only with the sisters or with a rare good samaritan had left Dany with a few gaps in her education. Her Valeryian was better that most’s, her knowledge of ancient texts and religious sects of top quality, but she had not made it past even the most basic of mathematics. Her knowledge of current events was also abysmal, which she would have to remedy in order to manage a major in humanitarian justice. She got to know the local librarian very well, a Septa named Eglantine, as well as a few of the regulars. Most of them were schoolchildren of the rough and rowdy type, but there were more than a few studious adults as well.

Her three crows accompanied her a few times. She’d expected to be chastised for bringing wildlife into the library, and prepared a well thought out apology for that very occasion, but to her surprise, no one so much a batted an eye. When she’d told Jon about it, he’d laughed. “The further North or South you go,” he’d said, “The less people are surprised by anything new.”

Well, that may have been true for the birds, but Dany herself was the target of more than a few suspicious stares. A few children had even run up to her on her first visit to the library to ask very shyly if they could touch her “faery hair”.

Come Christmas Eve, Dany was so burned out on reading and studying that she hadn’t even paused to think that it was the holiday season. It was easier to forget this far up North; even in the middling counties of The Twins and Greywater, the commercialism of the Crownlands and of South Wales was missing. A few houses had string lights up, but that was all. Dany didn’t miss it; she didn’t even notice, having grown up in a convent that celebrated no modern feast days. So when she came home that afternoon from the library, the last thing she expected was to see their little cottage ablaze with Christmas lights and wreathes of blue winter roses.

“Jon! What on earth is all this?” She ran up to greet Jon, who was sat on the front step with Ghost. He was home early, she noted, then kicked herself. Of course, it was a holiday. He stood, arms open to receive her embrace. They collided, and Dany breathed in deeply the scent of pine forests and sphagnum moss. “You smell like a Crannog,” she murmured, nuzzling into his sweater. Jon huffed, laughing. “Better than a Wildling,” he retorted, but there was no bite to his tone. Dany lifted her head, smelling something else. “Did you make cider?” she asked, perking up. Jon nodded. “And baked scones.” Dany blinked. “I realize it’s Christmas, but what’s with all the…?” she waved a hand at the lights and at Jon, who regarded her with a quizzical expression. “The…?” he teased. Then he seemed to get self conscious, rubbing his hands together. “It’s just our first Christmas together, and I know you probably never did anything nice, so…yeah.”  He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “And I invited Howland Reed for tea. I figured he’s a lonely old guy, and nobody should spend Christmas alone.”

Dany grinned, simply unable to contain her love for this man. “You’re so sweet!” she yelled, and tackled him to the floor of the porch. Ghost and Drogon both dove at the same time to save their respective human from the perceived attack, leaving Dany and Jon to swat at muzzles and beaks.

An hour later, Howland arrived, and Dany was pleasantly surprised by her lover’s superior officer. He was definitely weird—but then again, she hadn’t a leg to stand on when it came to weirdness. They had just tucked in to tea and scones, a fire burning in the hearth, when the front doorbell rang. Jon and Dany shared a look. Howland looked up from the scone he’d been demolishing. “Are you expecting someone?” he asked Jon, who shook his head. “I’ll go look,” Dany offered, getting up. No sooner had she unlocked the door to peek outside than it was thrown open, wrenching the knob from her hands.

“JON!! WHERE ARE YOU?”

In barreled at least four people, by Dany’s count, completely sidestepping her as they stormed into her home. A bit dazed, Dany almost closed the door in her haste to get inside and figure out what the hell was happening, until she noticed a fifth person on the stoop. A person in a wheelchair.

“Sorry about that,” said the person in the wheelchair, who looked to be about thirteen. “My name’s Bran. Would you mind terribly pushing me in?”

Feeling even more confused, Dany nodded. She wheeled the boy inside, where he affirmed his ability to take it from there, wheeling himself into the sitting room. Dany heard raised voices, and hurried after.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Jon was yelling. Two redheaded women stood opposite him. Dany recognized one of them as Sansa, but the other had her back turned. Howland was standing awkwardly in the corner, clutching his mug of tea. He rather looked like he wanted to bolt, and Dany couldn’t blame him.

The other redheaded woman was speaking. “Well, we don’t hear from you for months, and then Robb calls and says you’ve moved to the Riverlands with some woman and a fortune in gold. I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.” Jon snorted. “You’d probably have preferred it if I was.” Sansa gasped. “Jon, don’t say that!” She was immediately hushed by both the woman and Jon. Dany wanted to go over to Jon, but the mood had become so tense between him and his family, she didn’t want to make matters worse.

“How did you even find my house?” Jon said, voice strained. The woman scoffed. “You make it sound like we’re stalkers, honestly Jon.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair. “Well, what am I supposed to think, Catelyn?” Ah. Dany winced. So this was Catelyn. A small finger poked her in the side. Dany looked over, then down when she couldn’t see anyone. Another boy, even younger than Bran, stood at her side, looking up at her in wonder. “Are you a Christmas angel?” he asked, eyes wide. Helpless, Dany just shrugged. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. She knelt down beside him. “I’m Rickon,” the little boy said. “If I tell you my wish, will you tell St. Nicholas?”

Dany’s heart almost burst. “Sure, Rickon,” she said. Excitedly, he leaned in and cupped his little hand around her ear. “I want a new bicycle and a puppy,” he whispered. Then paused. “Can I ask for another thing?” Dany nodded. He leaned in again. “And I want Mama to stop yelling so much, and for Jon to come home.” His voice quivered, and Dany felt her eyes sting with tears. “Rickon, I promise your wish will come true.” She turned over to him, but he was already darting away. Wiping at her eyes, Dany heard a sigh from behind her.

“The attention span of a child. So fleeting.”

Dany stood abruptly. It was Arya—she’d guessed as much, based on the sardonic tone alone. The short girl was looking around the house appraisingly. “You’re out of toilet paper,” she said to Dany, not looking at her. Then she motioned at the tableau playing out in the living room. “This may take a while. I’d say grab a snack, but you only have digestives and Jon’s scones.” Dany stared at her. Arya was totally unfazed, pulling out a folding chair and sitting down. She motioned for Dany to join her. In the hallway, Bran and Rickon were having a loud disagreement about the virtues of waging war with trebuchets versus dragons. Jon and Catelyn were still going at it in the living room, and Dany could make out Howland’s craggy form edging ever nearer to the doorway. He seemed to be the new topic of discussion between Jon and Catelyn, and his every movement earned him a finger jabbed in his general direction. 

“I cannot believe you would bring this man into your home!” Catelyn was screaming. “After what he did to our family!”

Jon screamed back just as loudly. “I had no idea who he was until you barged into my home uninvited!” he roared. Sansa stood between them both, eyes darting back and forth like it was a tennis match. Dany was on the verge of getting up to intervene, but Arya put a hand on her arm. “Leave ‘em to it,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Catelyn’s all bark, and Jon’s the sappiest guy in the world.” She rustled around in her coat pocket for a minute, then drew out a small packet. “Jelly baby?” she offered. Dany politely declined.

Howland had finally made his way around the perimeter of the whole sitting room, over to where Dany and Arya were sitting. Arya looked him up and down, mouth setting in a thin line. “Ma says you’re the reason our family is broken,” she said bluntly. “Aside from the Sand woman and Jon, of course.” Howland made a sour face. “Your mother is an unforgiving woman,” he said. “And seems to think I had a larger part in all this than I really did. All I did was cut the cord at Jon’s birth and keep his true identity a secret all his life.” Dany and Arya just stared at him. He sighed. “Alright, that is a little dramatic. But I didn’t make Ned sleep with the woman, for godssake!” He  looked at his watch, then back up the family drama playing out before them. “Christ,” he said. Dany agreed.

Finally, Sansa crossed party lines to stand with them in the doorway. Arya looked disapproving, but made room for her. The redheaded teen apologized quickly. “Gosh, Mama is pretty upset today,” she fretted. “Jon ought to back down soon.” Dany felt her face flush in anger. “Back down? She came into our house!” Sansa winced, cheeks burning. “I just mean that he knows how she can be when she’s, er,  concerned.”

Dany narrowed her eyes. “This doesn’t look like motherly concern to me. In fact, I’ve had enough of this. It’s fucking Christmas.” She marched forward, slightly vindicated by Sansa’s scandalized gasp behind. She went directly to Jon’s side, leaving no doubt as to who’s side she was on. As soon as she was within reach, she grabbed his arm and wilted into his side. Immediately, he caught her, and stopped mid-tirade to look her over concernedly. “Dany, are you alright?”

Dany nodded, though she closed her eyes tiredly. She draped herself over Jon’s arm, and sighed dramatically. “It’s just…all this yelling. I feel so faint, Jon. I’m afraid I might pass out, right here. Now.” Jon looked puzzled. “Pass out? Dany, what—“ She shook him slightly, trying to communicate that he needed to play along. He squinted, still confused. Dany rolled her eyes. “All this stress, the crowd of people…you know it’s not good for the baby.” She emphasized the last part, speaking loudly so Catelyn could hear her. Sure enough, both Jon’s and Catelyn’s eyes just about popped out of their heads.

“Baby? Did she say baby?” Catelyn fumed. She pointed a finger at Jon, eyes glaring daggers into his very soul. “Not only do you disrespect me by disappearing during our holiday, but you turn up months later living right under my nose, and you’ve knocked up some teen?!”

“Hey!” Dany said angrily. “I’m twenty-one, you hag.” Catelyn glared at her. “You won’t get a penny from us for this brat,” she said to Jon. “And I don’t want you hanging around Bran or Rickon. Gods know what kind of filth they’ll learn from you.” She reached over to the mantel to pick up a photo frame. Dany recognized it as a mini of the large copy hanging in Robb and Talisa’s house. “And this,” Catelyn hissed, “You don’t deserve to have this in your home. You’re not a Stark.” She tossed it in the hearth, fire crackling around the burst glass as it shattered.

“No!” Dany leapt forward. Jon tried to hold her back, but she wrenched free, going for the hearth. Time seemed to hang still as she reached into the flames to snatch the photo, and there were audible gasps from the spectators. She pulled her hand out, the photo still on fire in the wooden frame. Not minding the on fire wood at all, Dany opened the little pins quickly to pull out the photo. She tapped some ash onto the floor, but overall, the photo itself was fine. The frame had caught fire first, and there was only a little burn on the edge of the acetate. She handed it to Jon.

“Y-your hand…” Sansa stuttered. Dany looked down at the flaming wood still in her fist. She looked up calmly. “Is everyone quite done here, or shall I throw this at someone?”

Catelyn was already ushering her younger children towards the door. She didn’t even bother with a final snarky comment, just pushing her way out of the house with a haughty sweep of her coat. Sansa trailed after sheepishly, and offered a mumbled apology as she scurried out. Howland had already made himself scarce, which left Arya. She came up to inspect Dany’s on fire hand with some admiration, then regarded Jon.

“I am sorry, brother,” she said. “We didn’t know we were coming. She told us we were driving down to see Robb. I honestly don’t know how she found you.” She peeked at the photo in Jon’s hand and smiled. “I don’t know how you did that,” she said too Dany. “But I’m glad. Jon is a Stark, no matter what Catelyn says.”

“Watch your mouth,” Jon muttered, but he pulled his little sister in for a hug anyway. They walked Arya to the door and waved her off. When the SUV had safely pulled out of the drive and onto the road, Jon shut the door and groaned. “Is it too soon to move out,” he asked, and Dany knew he was seriously considering it. “Only if you want to move to Essos,” she joked as she put out the flaming picture frame. Jon fixed her with a look that said he really might just do that. She set the frame down, then tugged on his collar, meeting him for a kiss. He kissed her back, but pulled away, frowning.

“You’re not really, erm, you know.” He gesticulated vaguely. Dany snickered. “Pregnant? No, I’m not. I just needed something dramatic to put an end to that nonsense.” Jon dropped his arms to his sides. “Oh, I see.” Dany peered up at him. “Are you disappointed?” He tried to shake her off, but Jon just couldn’t hide his dejected face. Dany gasped. “Oh my gods, you are disappointed!” She grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him all over. “After uni,” she promised, and Jon’s face lit up. “Promise?” he asked seriously. She nodded. “Cross my heart.”

Jon grinned, then ducked his head, blushing. “Well, hurry up and hit the books,” he mumbled, and Dany smacked him on the arm. Jon side stepped her second swing and caught her wrist, kissing the skin over her pulse. Dany shivered. “Jon,” she said. “It’s Christmas.” He hummed, busy finding the most ticklish part of her arm to kiss. “Jon,” she said more firmly. He looked up, and he looked so sad at being interrupted that she had to giggle.

“It’s Christmas,” she said again. “I want a present.” Jon looked pensive. “What kind of present,” he asked, though he was already feeling her up over her corduroy skirt. Dany shifted to give him slightly more access, which he took advantage of to run his hands under her skirt over her bare skin. “Practice. I want to practice as my present.” Jon raised an eyebrow. Dany blew out a long breath. “Jon Stark, you have ten full days of vacation before the park service opens again and I intend to spend every moment of it fucking.”

Finally he got it. “Yes, ma’am!” he swept her up, throwing her over one shoulder in a fireman carry. “I have direct orders, and I intend to see them out, my lady.” He made a mock salute, then stomped down the hall, up the stairs, and to their bedroom.

Dany was tossed unceremoniously on their bed, hair flying. Jon smiled down at her. “You look like an angel, you know that?” Her heart melted. “Come here, Jon. Let’s see how fast you make this angel fall.”