Chapter Text
The sharp wind of the North blew against Daenerys and her host, encasing them all in a chill that set her on edge. She clutched her coat closer around her waist, thinking of the strong gusts of Dragonstone which had never bitten into her skin like this. She longed for the heat. The coarse sand underneath her feet as she and her Unsullied liberated the Bay of Dragons, the sun as she stood on her balcony overlooking Meereen. This land was too cold and too bitter for a Dragon Queen.
Daenerys tried her best to stay focused on the road ahead, but found nought of significance to gaze at, the road as desolate as the deserts she had crossed across the sea. The slowly forming blizzard grew thicker with every pace of her horse, and when Daenerys looked back she barely spotted the shifting silhouette of Jon and his great fur cloak. Jon caught up to her as she pondered those empty days in the Red Waste, his horse struggling in the cold, shouting over the harsh wind.
“Welcome to the North, my Queen!” Jon looked straight at her, beaming as the cold wild blew in his face and forced his eyes into a squint.
Daenerys rolled her eyes. They had entered the North several days ago, landing at White Harbor and then up on the Kingsroad, but the snows had only been light there and the climate nowhere near as brutal as this. Aboard the ship, curled up together in the velvets of her bed, Jon had talked of his home, of its green summer forests and rolling hills. She had yet to see it.
“The North is harsh, my lord. I imagine it’s people will be the same?” she asked. Jon’s smile dropped at her words, and Daenerys did not need any other response, turning from Jon to stare ahead of her. “I am their Queen. I do not need their love, only their respect. I’m here to save them, not to tuck them into their beds at night and sing them lullabies.”
Those she brought across the Narrow Sea would show her more love than a million northerners, she knew. It wouldn't matter what she ever did for them, and Daenerys' heart sank at the thought. The mask of the Dragon Queen slipped, she realised, if only for a second, but it was long enough for Jon to see.
“They will love you, Dany, just as I do, but they’ve been through a lot at the hands of the South. My siblings most of all. Give them time… then they will come to see you for what you are,” Jon said quietly, wary of those around them that may hear.
Daenerys wished she could be more open around Jon. She yearned to be free and childish and brave by her love's side, but she knew that the Northerners would see her as a seductress if she did. Jon would love her, but his people never would. She smiled back, and they continued to ride in silence side by side. Not longer after, the horses came to a stop at Daenerys' order, and the group dismounted with barely withheld groans to set up their camp for the night. They were not far from Winterfell, but the blizzard was tiring out far more than just the horses. Daenerys half-stumbled into her tent and collapsed onto the nearest seat, not even pausing to take in how unnecessarily luxurious the decor was. With the rustle of the tent flap, her hand, Tyrion, was not far behind.
“I pray the journey is not being too hard on you, Your Grace?” he asked, but she knew he was not here to check on her frozen fingertips and sore thighs.
“Whatever you need to ask, Tyrion, ask it now. I wish to retire,” she snapped, her face resting on her fist.
Tyrion's conversations had become increasingly frustrating since their journey North began, and his cryptic conversations weighed on her unnecessarily. Tyrion hesitated and looked back to the large tent opening, where they both knew two loyal Unsullied stood guard.
“Jon Snow-” Daenerys immediately groaned. This was to be a lecture. “He is fond of you, My Queen.” He seemed to expect a response, his eyes blank as they stared back at her, yet she continued to watch him in silent judgement. “Do you believe this dalliance of yours to be wise? You have not even considered any other su-”
“And which suitors might they be? Euron Greyjoy? Jaime Lannister? As far as I'm aware every other male heir to a great house is very, very dead,” she interrupted.
“Perhaps if you hadn’t burned alive Dickon Tarly you would have had another option,” he snapped back.
The silence hung in the air for a moment, both frozen at the venomous reply. He seemed to shake a little, his fists clenched at his side as his eyes narrowed at her. Before he could open his mouth again, she dismissed him from the room with a harsh wave of her hand. Dickon Tarly refused to bend the knee, and he willingly died at his father’s side. She did not make exceptions, and Tyrion should bloody well know that by now.
As Tyrion bowed and left the room, his face bitter and weary, he was replaced by another figure. Her hair was a deep brown that was poorly cut yet still practical. Daenerys stood, ready to call for her Unsullied, but the dark brown eyes of the woman made her pause. She looked like Jon.
“My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell. The King in the North’s sister,” the woman said. “You’re Daenerys Targaryen”.
Daenerys nodded, the offense of Arya Stark's words bubbling in her chest but her lips sealed in the face of Arya’s icy gaze.
“I’ve heard many stories of the Targaryens. Some good, some bad. My favourite tale was of Visenya, Aegon’s sister-wife. She was a warrior who protected her king and kingdom with her heart and her sword. But my father would also tell me of Aerys, who butchered my grandfather and uncle for his own pleasure.” Arya knew her history, far better than the average noble.
"I do not need you to teach me the histories of House Targaryen," Daenerys replied.
“Oh, no, I'm sure I don't. I am not asking you to know your ancestry, your Grace. I'm asking which one are you?”
For the first time in a while, Daenerys was at a loss for words. She had not expected Jon’s sister to be so brazen in her approach. Nevertheless, it was a difficult question. She was not her father, she desperately hoped. The men she had killed in Essos had been slavers and warlords, butchers of innocents. But neither could she claim to be Queen Visenya, she had rarely seen battle, and could not even wield a sword.
So, what answer to give?
“I am neither, Lady Arya. I am Daenerys Targaryen.”
History would decide which of her titles would define her. Mother of Dragons? Breaker of Chains? Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Or perhaps just another failed claimant to the Iron Throne? Arya’s glare intensified at the title but appeared satisfied with her answer for now. She bowed and left without another word, leaving Daenerys alone with nought but her thoughts and the sound of the howling wind.