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Chapter Text

The shrill sound of a phone ringing broke the silence of the spacious penthouse in King's Landing. For the second time within a few minutes. Whoever was calling clearly didn't plan on giving up. "Are you fucking kidding me?", Jon growled into the mattress and pulled the pillow over his head to enjoy a few more seconds of quiet bliss. He knew the kind of irritating persistence this level of ringing implied; it wasn't a friend or a casual acquaintance—it was business, and it was urgent. Still, he clung to the fleeting hope that if he just ignored it long enough, the world and all its demands would simply melt away.

Yet, he could still hear the annoying melody from somewhere in the living room, so having no other option he crawled out of bed to shout at whoever thought it was a good idea to wake him up at dawn on his day off. Why can't people just leave him alone? The sun had barely crept over the horizon, painting the edges of the city's skyscrapers in a pale, indifferent orange.

Freshly out of the sheets, goosebumps erupted on his arms from the sudden chill as he shuffled out of the bedroom. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, yet utterly unappreciated, view of the waking capital. The picture of his agent, Davos, was flashing on the screen on the sofa where he left his mobile.

Knowing him, he will not give up until he answered, so with an annoyed groan he reached to pick up the device. He swiped the screen with a frustrated jab. "What the hell, Davos? It's not even 7 yet!", he spoke groggily, foregoing any kind of semi-polite greeting.

"I know it's your day off, lad, but I need you to come see me in the office before 9," Davos rattled out quickly, cutting his rambling off. "Try not to be late," he added before cutting the line, preventing Jon to respond or have the chance to deny his invitation. Or rather a very firm demand.

The seriousness of his voice had Jon wide awake in an instant. He knew Davos enjoyed way too much to piss him off, but this time he didn't sound like his usual joking self and that had him worried. He tossed the phone, not quite hard enough to damage it, back onto the plush white cushion of the sofa. The silence that followed felt heavy, loaded with implication.

Whatever he wanted to talk about, must be important enough to call so early and order him to the agency. It was the kind of emergency that usually preceded either a major career coup or a PR disaster.

Glancing at the corner of the screen once again, he sighed. There is still a bit less than an hour and a half until he has to leave, just enough time to have a coffee and take a shower. He ran a hand through his already tangled hair. The thought of a strong, black coffee was the only thing that made the current situation bearable.

Accepting his fate, Jon threw the phone back onto the couch and took off to the kitchen. His mind was already racing, running through every possible scenario, from a last-minute casting call to an international scandal involving one of his co-stars.

Forty-five minutes later, Jon was running a comb through his damp, dark curls, glaring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The penthouse itself was a monument to his fame—glass walls overlooking the entire city, black leather, chrome, and an uncomfortable amount of white carpet—but Jon himself was feeling far less glamorous. Despite his wealth, his demeanor was one of perpetual, slightly disgruntled intensity. He was known for it, and it usually worked for him on screen.

He’d thrown on a pair of dark jeans, a form-fitting grey sweater, and an expensive leather jacket, the kind of casual wear that screamed "I’m a big deal, even on my day off." He avoided his eyes in the mirror; he wasn’t a morning person, and his exhaustion was clearly visible in the dark smudges under his eyes.

He grabbed his keys and wallet, shot a dismissive look at his quiet phone, and headed for the lift. He knew Davos's office on the top floor of the prestigious Blackwater Tower was only a fifteen-minute drive in the agency car, but the anxiety of Davos's unusual seriousness was already gnawing at him. He felt a cold, familiar knot tightening in his stomach—the same one he got before every premiere or major award show.

A new project, especially one that required such urgency, could be a career-defining role or just a new perfume commercial. Given the early hour, Jon hoped for the former, especially because for years he was trying to find the right role that would ensure that his career wasn’t only the 15-minutes-of-fame kind, but something much more substantial. He was tired of being typecast as the morally conflicted action hero; he wanted something with weight, something that critics would respect.

Davos Seaworth’s office was minimalist and expensive, decorated entirely in shades of blue and silver that made Jon think of cold water and sharp steel. Davos, a man whose slightly weathered face and salt-and-pepper hair made him look more like a successful fishing trawler captain than a powerful Hollywood agent, was standing by the window. He was already nursing a mug of tea, looking entirely too chipper for the hour.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," Davos said, turning with a tight smile. His eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were unusually focused. He gestured toward the expensive leather armchair facing his desk. "Coffee?"

"No thanks, I’m vibrating as is," Jon said, collapsing into the chair. The leather was surprisingly cool against his skin. "What is so bloody important that you ruined my beauty sleep, Davos? Did I forget some stupid event I had to be present at?"

Davos chuckled, taking a seat behind the massive desk. "Better. I’ve just landed you a role that will redefine your career, lad. Move you out of 'brooding superhero sidekick' and into 'serious dramatic lead.'" He leaned forward, his eyes alight with genuine excitement. "It's the one we've been waiting for, Jon, the one that guarantees an Oscar nomination." "It’s a passion project, a historical epic called 'The Iron King.’"

Jon raised an eyebrow, suddenly alert. The name alone carried a certain gravitas. "Wait, The Iron King? The Robert Baratheon biopic? I heard they were courting someone like Jamie Lannister for that. It’s been in development hell for years."

"They've finally got the budget, and they've pivoted. They realized the older story was stale. It's not about Robert anymore. It's about the first true king of Westeros, Aegon the Conqueror." Davos let the name hang in the air for a dramatic beat. "And you, Jon, are going to play Aegon."

Jon sat up straight, his earlier grumpiness melting into a satisfied grin. Aegon the Conqueror. The role was iconic, dark, and challenging—exactly what he’d been craving. It was the kind of role that won awards, not just box office returns. He felt a rush of adrenaline, the kind of professional high that was more addictive than any drug. "Aegon... that's incredible, Davos. When do I start?"

"They’ve set the shooting schedule for six months, starting in the autumn. Your deal is solid, over a million gold dragons, and you have final cut approval on all dramatic scenes. It’s the kind of power move we’ve been working toward." Davos slid a slim folder across the desk. "The only hitch—and don't panic—is the physical aspect of the role. It’s a really specific movie, set in a harsh medieval world. They need you to look authentic."

"Authentic? I'm already in peak shape. If it's sword fighting, I can handle it. I trained for eight months for the Long Night franchise. If it’s something else, I’m sure makeup artists can fix me up, it’s 2025 for goodness’ sake." Jon dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. He felt invincible, already imagining his name on the Oscar shortlist.

"It’s not the sword fighting," Davos sighed, rubbing his temples. "It’s the horses, Jon. Aegon is a warrior and rides horses like he was born for it. Probably learnt before he could even walk on his own two feet. They want you on horseback and when you’re there it needs to look like you own that shit."

Jon scoffed. "And? I rode for two scenes in the Long Night. They have body doubles for the rest. It’s what stuntmen are for. I'm an actor, not a bloody jockey." He crossed his leg over his knee, his irritation returning with a vengeance.

"That was your first contract. This is a passion project on a tight budget," Davos countered, his voice firm. "The director, Miss Selyse Florent, is notorious for wanting realism. She insists her lead actor must be able to ride beyond a shaky trot. She wants you galloping, mounting and dismounting cleanly, and looking comfortable doing it. And, frankly, Jon, your riding from the Long Night was… passable at best." Davos’s honesty, as always, was brutal and unerring.

Jon felt a familiar spike of indignation. "Passable? I had some lessons! Why isn't a body double budgeted for a film of this magnitude?" He could feel his cheeks heating up.

"Because Selyse cut the entire stunt riding budget to hire a better cinematographer. You have three months before pre-production wraps. You need to be competent by the time the cameras roll. If you can’t manage it, they have a dozen other brooding actors who can. Including Loras Tyrell, who, I might add, is an Olympic-level equestrian."

The mention of Loras Tyrell—pompous, talented, golden-boy Loras, who had tried to snatch every major role from Jon over the last five years—was a dagger. Jon hated him, but he couldn't deny the man’s skill. Losing Aegon to Loras over something as trivial as riding lessons was unbearable. He would sooner quit acting entirely.

"Fine. Fine, I'll ride," Jon grumbled, folding his arms tightly across his chest. He forced the words out, tasting his own defeat. "Get me the best instructor in the city. Someone who deals with actors. Someone who knows how to make this quick. I don’t want to put in more time and effort than necessary."

A slight, almost mischievous, smile returned to Davos’s face. "Way ahead of you, lad. Already agreed on everything and I took the liberty of sorting out the paperwork last night. You start Monday morning." He paused, reaching into the desk drawer and pulling out a glossy brochure. "You’re going to the infamous Great Grass Sea Riding School."

Jon took the brochure. The cover was a photo of a rugged, open field under a blue sky, with a herd of horses running free. The name was pretentious enough to fit the city's standards. "Great Grass Sea? Never heard of it. Is it one of those boutique wellness retreats or something? It sounds like a name for a hippie commune that gets off of sleeping in barns and talking to horses."

"It’s a bit different," Davos admitted, the smile growing wider, a sure sign that Jon was in for some suffering. "but it’s the best. They specialize in 'reforming' riders who have bad habits, and they’ve worked miracles with some of the bigger stunt shows. They're intense, but they get results. I signed you up for private, intensive lessons. The contract is non-refundable, and you’re bound for a minimum of ten weeks."

Jon sighed, already picturing a stuffy, tweed-wearing instructor lecturing him on posture. "Great. Just great. Ruined my morning and signed me up for ten weeks of torture." He stood up, clutching the folder and the brochure. The dream of playing Aegon felt suddenly much heavier. "You’d better not have messed this up, Davos."

Davos merely smiled, taking a sip of his tea. "Jon, lad, when have I ever messed up a million dragons contract? Just learn to sit on the horse, and you’ll conquer Westeros."

Jon nodded curtly, the image of Loras Tyrell spurring him on. He had to do this. He had to be Aegon. This is his make it or break it role. He shoved the brochure into his jacket pocket, a strange mixture of dread and determination settling over him.

As the elevator descended, Jon opened the brochure to the contact page. Under the school’s address was the name of his appointed instructor: Miss Daenerys Targaryen.

Chapter Text

The scent of dry hay, fresh leather, and horses—an earthy perfume Daenerys Targaryen had inhaled for many, many years now - filled the small, cluttered office of the Great Grass Sea Riding School. Outside, the morning sun was already baking the fields of Westeros, but inside, the air-conditioning unit, which hummed with the tired sigh of a machine long past its prime, struggled to keep the room cool. It was a battle it was clearly losing, the air thick with the promise of a sweltering afternoon.

Daenerys was bent over a ledger on her battered wooden desk, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her usual uniform of practical riding clothes—dark breeches, a simple white shirt, and sturdy, dirt-streaked boots—was a stark contrast to the elegant figure she used to cut in her younger, freer years. The casual observer would never guess this woman, stained with dust and smelling of liniment, was once a golden girl of the social set. Now, her hair, usually braided, was pulled back in a severe, no-nonsense ponytail. She preferred the simplicity of a life where effort was tangible, unlike the deceptive glitter of her past.

"The feed bill is late again, Dany," a gentle voice said from the doorway.

Daenerys looked up, relieved to see Missandei—Missy to her friends—leaning against the frame. Missy was the school’s office manager, accountant, and Daenerys’s unwavering anchor. Her face, usually open and bright, was currently clouded with worry.

"I know, Missy," Daenerys murmured, pushing a loose strand of silver-gold hair from her face. "But the last payment from the Westerlands Riding League was short. They’re claiming one of the horses wasn't certified correctly. It’s always something." She gave a short, humourless laugh that did little to ease the tension in the room.

She slammed the ledger shut. The numbers were crushing her. Every month was a desperate scramble to keep the lights on and the animals fed. The school wasn't just a business; it was the last tangible piece of her old life. It was a joint venture, started by her and her late husband, Drogo. Losing it would feel like losing him all over again. This place was her shield and her penance, and the thought of it slipping away was a cold dread in her stomach.

"Daario sent over another batch of invoices," Missy added, stepping into the room to set a stack of papers on the corner of the desk. Daario Naharis was their largest single donor and business partner, a wealthy, dangerously charismatic man who had been relentlessly pursuing Daenerys since Drogo’s death. "He wants to discuss the new sponsorship deal in person over dinner, of course." Missy rolled her eyes subtly, a small gesture of solidarity against the man they both considered a necessary evil.

Daenerys pinched the bridge of her nose. "Tell him I’m busy feeding the stable cats. Or riding a wild stallion. Anything but dinner."

"Already told him you’re booked until the Long Night, but he’s persistent. And we need his money, Dany," Missy said, her voice softening with regret. "He holds the purse strings, and he knows it. Without him, we’ll be struggling to make the payroll by October."

A sharp knock on the door frame interrupted them, and Rakharo, one of the head trainers, walked in, wiping his hands on a rag. His strong, imposing build and perpetually stern expression belied a surprisingly gentle touch with the horses. He was a quiet, powerful presence, the kind of man who spoke little but carried great authority in the stable yard.

"Khaleesi," he greeted her, using the Dothraki title that few outsiders were privy to, "a gentleman named Davos Seaworth called for you while you were out on the range. He said he is the agent to some actor. Forgot the name, sorry." Rakharo shrugged, clearly uninterested in the world of glamour and fame.

Daenerys sighed, picking up the desk phone. Her heart sank slightly. Celebrity agents meant celebrities, and celebrities meant drama, demands, and usually, a lack of respect for the hard work that went into training. They saw the horse as a prop, not a partner, and that always grated on her last nerve.

"He said it’s about a very large project and he insisted it was a matter of national importance and he is in need of private, intensive lessons," Rakharo added, noting the tension in her shoulders.

Daenerys waved him toward the door. "Thank you, Rakharo. I'll handle it. Let me know when Drogon is settled." She already missed the simple honesty of the stable yard and the unambiguous work with the animals.

He nodded and exited, leaving the door ajar. Daenerys took a deep breath, composed herself, and dialled the number that Rakharo had scribbled on a notepad.

"Davos Seaworth’s office, how can I direct your call?" a crisp voice answered.

"This is Daenerys Targaryen, returning Mr. Seaworth’s call."

The next voice that came on the line was smooth and professional, but surprisingly not lacking warmth. "Ms. Targaryen. Thank you for calling back so promptly. My client has a time-sensitive project, a major historical epic, and needs an intensive, private riding course. We require absolute discretion and a full ten-week commitment." He spoke with the confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

"I understand," Daenerys said, her voice flat. "Our school specializes in private training, but our rates for exclusive one-on-one instruction are premium, given the time commitment." She quoted a figure she thought would scare him off—a number triple their usual fee. She wasn't negotiating; she was building a wall.

Davos didn't bat an eye. At least it didn’t sound like that when he answered. "That's acceptable. The money is not an issue. We also require an NDA signed by all GGS staff who will be in contact with him."

"An NDA? Why?" Daenerys asked, a familiar feeling of unease beginning to bubble up.

"My client is a well-known actor," Davos replied simply. "A very well-known actor. He’s taking on the main role in a film that will undoubtedly be the biggest picture of the next two years. We need to ensure absolutely no leaks regarding his training, ability, or presence at your facility." The weight of his words hung in the air, confirming all of Daenerys’s worst fears about this high-profile request.

Daenerys’s stomach twisted. This was exactly what she didn't want. Celebrity clients meant paparazzi, and the paparazzi meant the risk of her past being dug up and exposed—the accident, the death of her son and her husband, Drogo. She had spent the last three years building a fortress around her grief, and the spotlight would tear it all down. The very idea made her feel physically ill.

"Mr. Seaworth," Daenerys began, her tone hardening. "We run a riding school, not a publicity mill. My staff is professional, but I will not risk the privacy of my other clients, many of whom are children, for a celebrity who will likely be arrogant and disruptive." She let the steel in her voice ring clear, daring him to push back.

"He might be," Davos conceded, surprising her with his honesty. "But this is a life-changing role for him, and frankly, Ms. Targaryen, your school is the best-rated for the kind of immersive training he needs. We did our research. Your methods are unconventional, but they produce the fastest results."

He paused, then delivered the clincher. "My client is prepared to pay the entire ten-week fee upfront, with a substantial bonus upon completion. That amount, Ms. Targaryen, would probably cover your feed and maintenance costs for the entire year. Seeing that you are not keen on working with celebrities, it might be enough to do it this once, because the fee we pay would eliminate the need to work with any other arrogant client for the foreseeable future." The offer was a tempting, almost insidious poison, promising a year of peace in exchange for ten weeks of chaos.

Daenerys gripped the phone, her knuckles white. She looked over the stack of Daario’s invoices. A year of financial security. A year of freedom from Daario’s leering attention. She could finally stop worrying about losing her and Drogo's legacy. The temptation was a sharp, physical pain in her chest, a direct challenge to her carefully constructed world.

"Who is your client?" she asked, already knowing the answer would make her want to hang up.

Davos hesitated only slightly. "The actor playing Aegon the Conqueror. His name is Jon Snow."

Daenerys closed her eyes. Jon Snow. She knew the name. The sullen, handsome face was plastered on billboards across the city. He was the epitome of the Hollywood machine she despised. Arrogant, entitled, and utterly sheltered. He was everything she had run from.

"Let me discuss this with my team, Mr. Seaworth. I will call you back within the hour," Daenerys said, her voice clipped.

She hung up the phone and stared blankly at the wall. A battle was raging within her, a conflict between practicality and deeply rooted principle.

"Jon Snow," Missy breathed, who had been sitting quietly through the entire conversation. "The Long Night guy. He’s huge." Her voice was a mixture of awe and panic.

"He’s a spoiled actor who thinks the world should bend to his will," Daenerys snapped, standing up and pacing the small office. "I don’t want him here, Missy. He'll treat my horses like props and my staff like servants. And the cameras—they will come, they always do, no matter how hard they insist on secrecy. I can't risk it."

"But, Dany, a year of stability," Missy insisted, walking toward her friend and taking her hand gently. "Think of what you could do. This is more than just money. This is a chance to put the school on the map, secure its future, and actually get rid of Daario for good. You hate working with him."

"I can't go through that again," Daenerys whispered, the strength suddenly leaving her. She pulled her hand away, walking to the window that overlooked the stables. "The last time I dealt with the Hollywood crowd, it ended in a scandal. Drogo's family was ripped apart, the school almost collapsed, and..." she trailed off, unable to finish the thought of the accident. The air seemed to drain from the room as the memory washed over her.

"I know it's hard," Missy said, her voice filled with quiet, fierce empathy. "You lost your life when you lost them. And every choice you make is about protecting this place because it’s the only thing that connects you to them."

Missy moved to her side, placing a hand on Daenerys's tense shoulder. "But your son would want you to live, Dany. Your husband would want the school AND you to thrive. If one grumpy, handsome actor gives you the stability to continue Drogo's legacy without the debt and without Daario’s strings attached, then you have to take it. You can handle him. You're the Khaleesi. You've tamed Drogon. You can certainly tame Jon Snow." Missy’s encouragement was a steady drumbeat of loyalty and common sense.

Daenerys let the familiar title wash over her, a faint flicker of the warrior she once was stirring beneath the surface of her grief. She looked out at the fields, where Rakharo was calmly leading Drogon, her huge black stallion, back toward the barn. The majestic animal was a reminder of her own power.

Drogon had been a wedding gift from Drogo, a wild beast no one else could ride. He only accepted her and became a symbol of her strength, and her connection to her past. He was the last beast she had tamed, and the memory of that victory was a tiny spark of resolve.

She turned back to Missy, the decision already made. The money was too vital. The survival of the Great Grass Sea was non-negotiable. She had to swallow her pride, grit her teeth, and face the man from the billboards. She was a Targaryen, after all, and survival was in her blood.

"Fine," Daenerys said, walking back to her desk and picking up the phone. Her voice was cold, sharp, and entirely professional. "Draft the contract, Missy. We're taking the job. Jon Snow is going to learn to ride the Dothraki way, whether he likes it or not."

She dialled Davos’s number. It was time to deal with the celebrity.

"Mr. Seaworth," she said when he answered, "you have a deal. We’ll send the paperwork over by tomorrow morning. Your client starts Monday. But let’s be clear: there will be rules. And if your actor causes any disruption, the contract is void, and you lose the upfront payment." She added the last part with a grim satisfaction, laying down the law.

"Understood, Ms. Targaryen," Davos replied, sounding pleased. "Just make a rider out of him."

Daenerys hung up, staring at the phone. "I don’t make riders, Missy," she muttered under her breath. "I make people understand the horse is their partner, not their slave."

She had three days to prepare the school for the whirlwind of a Hollywood star. It was going to be a long ten weeks. A small, almost vengeful thought crossed her mind: maybe she could make life just a little difficult for the handsome, entitled Jon Snow.

Chapter Text

Jon stared into his absolutely massive walk-in closet, completely stumped. The sheer scope of his wardrobe was a testament to his success, a dazzling, multi-continental collection of textiles and leather. He owned suits tailored in Myr, jackets stitched in Volantis, and a dozen pairs of sneakers that cost more than some small cars. He was, without question, a fashion icon, often topping "Best Dressed" lists in the industry's most influential magazines. Yet, he couldn’t find a single appropriate thing to wear for his first day at the Great Grass Sea Riding School.

“Riding clothes,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his perpetually messy hair. It was a style he’d perfected—a signature blend of artful disarray that the paparazzi loved. The brochure was no help, showing only a vague picture of a woman galloping bareback in what looked like faded linen. The image was annoyingly rustic and utterly lacking in any discernible brand name. Damn hippies. He briefly considered throwing on a pair of designer leather trousers, but then pictured the real leather getting covered in manure and shuddered. That would be a five-figure dry-cleaning bill, if the stain even came out. The risk was simply too high.

He needed an expert. A consultant of the highest caliber. He needed someone who would answer a ridiculous question without lecturing him on his lifestyle. He needed Arya.

He pulled out his phone and hit her contact. She picked up on the second ring, her voice muffled by what sounded like heavy wind. He braced himself for the usual abrasive greeting, a sisterly tradition at this point.

“Took you long enough, asshole. I’m scaling the Dragon’s Tooth right now, signal’s terrible. What do you want?” Her voice, though harsh, contained a familiar undercurrent of fierce loyalty.

“Hey, Arya,” Jon said, trying for a tone of casual urgency. “Listen, I need your advice. I’m starting this riding course today, the one for the Aegon movie. What do I wear?” He waited, knowing she'd find the question ludicrous, but trusting her practical nature.

Arya snorted, the sound echoing through the line. “You call me for fashion advice? Seriously, Jon? Is this a joke? Because it’s not funny. I’m literally hanging from a sheer rock face. Just wear something you don’t mind getting ruined. Leather boots you can actually move in, and pants that won’t chafe. You’re going to be sweating and getting covered in mud, not walking the red carpet.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Jon replied impatiently. He knew the basics. He was looking for nuance, for image. “I was just thinking about the image. Should I go for rugged denim? Maybe some distressed brown leather? I need to look authentic.”

“You need to look like you’re ready to learn, which, by the way, you’re not,” Arya cut in, the wind noise momentarily subsiding. He could practically see her scowl through the phone. “Listen to me, Jon. I know you think you can just charm your way through this and be riding like a Dothraki in a weekend, but it’s not that simple. It requires real work and dedication, two things you tend to gloss over. And don’t, for the love of the Old Gods, act like a Hollywood prick when you get there.”

Jon paced the closet floor, irritated by the lecture. The idea that he would have to genuinely struggle with a skill was offensive to his ego. “Relax, I’ll be fine. I’m a quick study. I’ll spend a few weeks, get the certificate, and never look at a horse again. It's a waste of my time anyway, they should have just budgeted for a body double.” He genuinely believed his time was too valuable for such rudimentary physical training.

“It’s not a waste of time, you idiot. The Great Grass Sea School? They’re the best there is,” Arya said, her tone carrying genuine respect. The respect in her voice was a stark contrast to her usual sarcasm and immediately got his attention. “They use the old-school Dothraki methods. It’s all about building a connection with the horse, making it respect you as a partner, not a boss. Every dumbass in the stunt world knows that’s the way to ride like you were born on the plains. This isn’t some fancy equestrian club, Jon. This is serious training for serious film work. And you’re going to have to actually put in the effort. Seriously, Jon, you’re training with the Khaleesi. Show some respect.” She emphasized the title, making it sound like a rank of royalty.

“Fine, duly noted. No prick moves. Got it,” Jon lied. He had no intention of genuinely changing his behavior, only of being slightly more discreet. “Thanks, Arya. And I’m going with the worn-out jeans and the black shirt. Looks appropriately brooding.” A familiar, bankable look that worked on screen and off.

He ended the call before she could offer any more unwelcome life advice. After all, he was the big-shot actor; he knew how to project authority. He closed his phone with a decisive snap, already mentally moving past the conversation.

Jon eventually settled on a pair of expensive but broken-in Levi’s, a thick black cotton shirt, and his only pair of boots without a designer label. They were simple, functional, and had cost him a surprising amount, but at least they didn't scream 'KL celebrity.' They looked practical enough. He grabbed a pair of matte-black sunglasses and headed out. He felt a vague sense of dread but pushed it down with professional resolve.

…

The Great Grass Sea Riding School was not the boutique wellness spa he had envisioned. He had pictured a sprawling estate with manicured lawns and possibly a juice bar. It was worse. Infinitely worse, in fact.

It was a sprawling property twenty miles outside the city, accessed by a dusty road that made his luxury SUV cough in protest. The tires of his expensive vehicle kicked up clouds of fine, reddish dirt, which promptly settled on its showroom finish. The main building was a large, utilitarian farmhouse, painted a faded yellow paired with an unusual red door and it was flanked by several large, weathered barns and corrals. There was no manicured lawn, no valet parking, and a definite scent of nature and manure that was entirely too strong for Jon’s comfort. The smell was an assault on his meticulously controlled sensory environment.

He parked next to an ancient pickup truck and stepped out. The dust immediately stuck to his boots. He sighed dramatically. This was going to be a long day. This was worse than he thought. So much worse.

He spotted a muscular man leading a massive, coal-black stallion into the nearest barn. The man was tall, dark-skinned, and moved with a confident, almost predatory grace. He wore simple, rugged clothes and had his dark hair tied back. He looked like a man who worked, really worked, for a living. This must be the head trainer, Jon thought, instantly deciding he’d be easy to boss around. Jon’s mind had already cast the man as a minor supporting character in his narrative. He certainly looked the part.

Jon approached him with a self-assured stride, removing his sunglasses. He ensured his expression was one of polite but demanding entitlement.

"Excuse me," Jon said, his voice carrying the polished confidence he used for interviews. "I'm Jon Snow. I'm here for my private riding lessons. I believe I have the first slot."

The man turned, his expression unreadable. "Ah, the new trainee. Welcome. I am Rakharo. I'm a trainer here." He spoke with a low, measured tone, his eyes giving nothing away.

Jon offered his hand, assuming the role of the client taking charge. "Right. Rakharo. Glad you'll be overseeing my lessons. Listen, I'm on a tight schedule. I'm the lead in a major film, so we need to move fast. No time for all that 'connect with the horse' nonsense. Just teach me the basics to pass inspection." He kept his hand extended, waiting for the subordinate to acknowledge him.

Rakharo’s brow barely twitched. He made no move to shake Jon’s hand. He simply looked at the outstretched palm and then back at Jon’s face. "I am not your instructor, nor will I be overseeing your training, trainee."

Jon blinked. The dismissal was unexpected, and he quickly retracted his hand. "You're not? Well, who is? I was told I was getting the best."

Rakharo simply pointed across the large, open training ring. He then calmly began adjusting the bridle of the black stallion he was leading, having clearly lost interest in Jon.

Jon followed his gaze. In the center of the ring, a group of five or six small children—some barely looking old enough to walk—were being instructed by a woman. She was rather tiny, but the energy she radiated was immense. A powerful force in a small package.

She wore a faded, oversized flannel shirt, riding breeches that were patched at the knee, and a pair of old, dirty, well-worn leather boots. Her hair, a striking pale blonde that was almost white, was tied up messily, with a few sweaty strands plastered to her neck. She looked like she’d been working for hours, completely unconcerned with appearances. She was in constant, kinetic motion, correcting a child’s grip, shouting instructions, and then, without a saddle, mounting a spirited chestnut horse and galloping a fast lap to demonstrate a technique. The maneuver was executed with a casual skill that made Jon gasp slightly.

She rode with a natural, fierce elegance that made Jon suddenly feel clumsy and overdressed. She didn't look like a celebrity trainer; she looked like a stable hand—a beautiful, utterly commanding stable hand. He grudgingly admitted she was stunning, even covered in dust and sweat.

"That," Rakharo stated, his voice carrying a mix of pride and respect, "is the Khaleesi. Daenerys Targaryen. She is the owner and the boss."

The name rang familiar to him and he suddenly remembered the school’s brochure and Arya’s mention of that weird-ass Khaleesi title.

Jon frowned, taking in the full sight of her—the dirt on her boots, the complete lack of professional polish, and the sheer power in her movement. This was his instructor? The one who was supposed to fast-track him? His Hollywood-conditioned brain struggled to reconcile her rough-hewn reality with his expectations of premium service.

He watched as she hopped off the chestnut horse and approached the fence, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of a leather-gloved hand. She looked exhausted, but her eyes, when she finally looked his way, were the brightest violet he had ever seen, and they were utterly devoid of the usual awe or flattery he was accustomed to seeing. They were just... assessing. She looked at him the way a master chef might eye a questionable cut of meat.

She walked toward them with an economy of motion, cutting a sharp figure despite the ill-fitting clothes.

“Mr. Snow,” she said, her voice a low contralto that was unexpectedly husky. It carried an accent Jon couldn’t place, something vaguely foreign and melodic. It was a voice of command, not suggestion. She didn’t offer a hand. “I’m Daenerys. I’m busy right now, so you will wait until I finish with this class.”

Jon was used to people dropping everything when he arrived. This immediately chafed. He decided to assert dominance, reaching into his jacket pocket for the folded NDA. He felt the familiar rush of control he got from setting his own terms.

“Look, Daenerys,” Jon began, using a tone of forced, patronizing patience. “Before we start, I need to make sure we’re all on the same page. I’m a major public figure. My agent insisted that every person here—from you to the stable hands—needs to sign a non-disclosure agreement. It’s a standard formality, but I need assurance.” He pulled out the document, waving it slightly.

Daenerys stopped dead in front of him, her boots inches from his own polished pair. Her expression didn't change, but the air around her suddenly felt colder.

“Mr. Snow,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “My school is built on respect. Respect for the horses, respect for the land, and respect for my time. My staff are professional and do not care about your movie status. They care about the animals, which is more than I can say for you at the moment. They are here to train riders, not gossip. The only contract that matters here is the one my agent signed with yours, which ensures I get paid and you shut up and follow my instructions.”

Jon felt his temper rising, unused to such open defiance. “Listen, you don’t understand the level of scrutiny I’m under. I’m paying a premium price for this private training. I expect a premium service. I expect privacy and the professional courtesy my stature dictates. And frankly, this setup is unacceptable. I need assurance that my visits will be kept discreet. We need to clear out all other appointments when I’m here. I can’t have children and… random people running around while I’m training.” He gestured vaguely toward the training ring, his disdain poorly hidden.

The silence that followed was heavy and immediate. The sound of Rakharo softly snorting next to Jon was the only sound.

Daenerys took a slow step closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous level of calm. “You are here because you cannot do your job and you need me to fix it. I took this contract because my school needs the money to feed my horses. That is the extent of my interest in your career. And because of that money, I will treat you with the professionalism you paid for.”

She leveled him with a stare that made him feel like a particularly insolent stable cat. He felt, for the first time in years, truly small.

“But let us be clear on the rules here, Mr. Snow,” she continued. “You do not dictate my schedule, you do not talk down to my staff, and you absolutely do not call the children I teach ‘random people.’ They are my pupils and my priority. They ride better than you do right now, and they respect the horses more than you respect me. My students are part of this school. If you don't like it, you can leave. I will gladly keep your money, and you can tell your film crew that you were too much of a King’s Landing prick to learn how to ride.” The finality in her voice was absolute.

She turned on her heel before Jon could respond, her flannel-clad back rigid with finality. She did not spare him a second glance.

“Rakharo,” she called over her shoulder, already walking back toward the children. “Put the trainee in the small paddock. Just lead him around on Vhagar for twenty minutes. And make sure he doesn’t fall off.”

Jon stood frozen, fury and shock warring inside him. He couldn't believe he'd been so thoroughly dressed down. Rakharo finally offered him a sympathetic look.

“Come on, trainee,” Rakharo said, giving Jon a slight nudge toward the barn. “Best not to start your first day by getting on the Khaleesi’s bad side. She means what she says.”

…

Jon spent the next hour feeling utterly ridiculous, being led around a small, dusty pen on the most boring-looking, old horse he had ever seen. Vhagar was a mottled gray mare who looked like she’d rather be sleeping. He fumed silently, watching Daenerys effortlessly command the respect of every human and animal in the vicinity. He was the star of a multi-million dragons film, and he was being treated like a petulant child on a glorified pony ride. He pulled out his phone the moment Rakharo let him dismount.

He didn't even get a chance to open his messages before the phone started ringing. It was Davos. His agent’s name flashed ominously on the screen.

“Don’t say a word, Jon,” Davos’s voice barked before Jon could launch into his furious tirade. The sheer volume of his agent’s frustration was immediately apparent. “I just got off the phone with Daenerys Targaryen’s office manager, Missy. And let me tell you, that woman sounds like she is ready to call the Goldcloaks on you.”

“She’s a psycho, Davos! She’s rude, unprofessional, and she refused to sign the NDA! And she has me walking around a pen like a toddler on a pony ride!” Jon spat the words out, the humiliation boiling over.

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Davos yelled, his voice cracking with rare fury. “You are there to learn to ride, not to throw your weight around. This is the biggest job of your career, and you risk losing it because you acted like an entitled fool! I do not make calls like this for fun, Jon. I am genuinely worried about your employment.”

Jon stumbled back against the fence, stunned by the sheer volume of his agent’s rage. He hadn't heard Davos this furious since he tried to renegotiate his last contract himself.

“Jon, they are doing you a favor by taking you on short notice, and they are doing you a favor by being the best. She is not some small-time stable owner; she is a legend in the industry. Now you listen to me, and you listen closely. The entire production crew is expecting you to be ready in ten weeks. If you throw a tantrum and void that contract, I have to report back to the studio. And if you’re not ready, Loras Tyrell, who is more than comfortable on a horse, is getting the damn job. Do you understand me?” The mention of his rival was a cold, effective splash of water on his ego.

The threat of Loras, coupled with Davos’s genuine alarm, finally broke through Jon’s celebrity ego. The reality of losing the dream role was more terrifying than the thought of a public apology.

“Understood,” Jon mumbled, his rage instantly deflating.

“Good. Now, you go back there tomorrow morning, you apologize for being a pompous prick, you do whatever that woman tells you, and you learn to ride. Your career depends on it. Your reputation depends on it. My retirement depends on it. Now go clean the mud off your expensive little boots.”

Davos hung up, leaving Jon alone in the dust, staring at the farmhouse where Daenerys Targaryen, the Khaleesi, was already preparing for her next class. He had never been so thoroughly humiliated, or so thoroughly put in his place. He felt a grim resolve settle over him, the kind that only comes after a devastating defeat.

He had an apology to make. The thought of saying the words was already burning his throat, but he just has to remind himself of the dream-role he is doing it for. He took one last look at his dusty Levi's, realizing he was going to have to get used to the dirt. His career was riding on it.

Chapter Text

The small, worn kitchen in the farmhouse smelled of garlic and oregano, a comforting, familiar scent that usually soothed Daenerys. She was sitting at the wooden table with Missandei and the two head trainers, Rhakaro and Kovarro, the small group eating a late dinner.

The oil lamp on the counter flickered every so often, casting long shadows that danced lazily across the stone walls. Outside, the crickets had begun their nightly chorus, and the steady hum of summer wrapped around the old house like a warm blanket.

Rhakaro, usually stoic, was regaling the others with a slightly embellished version of Jon Snow’s disastrous arrival that morning.
“...and then he asked if we could ‘clear out the common folk’ while he was practicing!” Rhakaro finished, earning a choked laugh from Missy.

“He thought I was the boss,” Kovarro added, shaking his head. Kovarro was younger than Rhakaro but possessed the same quiet, efficient skill with the animals. “He kept asking me about the NDA while I was cleaning Drogon’s tack.”

Daenerys remained silent, pushing the food around her plate. She hated how much the arrogant actor had already disrupted the usual calm of their evening. Normally, this hour—when the horses had been fed and the lights in the barn switched off—was her peace. It was when she could almost believe that the world outside their fences didn’t exist. But now, that peace had been shattered by celebrity contracts and studio schedules.

“Seriously though, Dany, how are we going to survive ten weeks of that?” Missy asked, resting her chin on her hand. “He’s going to complain about the dust, the sun, and the fact that we don’t have a latte machine.”

“We survive because he’s paying enough to keep the school running for a year,” Daenerys stated flatly.

“Which is why I’m looking for one of you to take over his training. I can supervise, but I can’t—I don’t have the time to deal with his ego for two hours every other morning.”

She looked pointedly at her trainers. “Rhakaro, you’re the best at breaking down those awful Western show-riding habits. And Kovarro, you have the patience of a saint. One of you needs to take him on.”

Rhakaro immediately pushed back. “Khaleesi, the studio specifically requested you. They didn’t want ‘one of the guys.’ They want the owner of the school, the one who rode the wild horses of the Free Cities. I heard Davos mention that the director, Selyse, wants the ‘Dothraki-trained’ angle for authenticity.”

Kovarro nodded in agreement. “Rhakaro’s right. They want your brand, Khaleesi. And frankly, if either of us tries to enforce the ‘clean the stall’ rule with him, he’ll try to get us fired. He needs to know he’s answering to the top.”

Daenerys swore softly under her breath, resting her head in her hands. She knew they were right. The money was tied specifically to her involvement. It was the price of survival.

“I hate working with celebrities,” she murmured, more to herself than to them.

“I know,” Missy said gently, reaching across the table to squeeze her arm. “Just think of him as a temporary, expensive, and very spoiled colt that needs breaking. A spoiled colt who is paying for Drogon’s winter feed.”

The table erupted in quiet laughter, the kind that came not from humor but from exhaustion. It had been a long summer - too many lessons, too few resources - and even laughter felt like a small rebellion against weariness.

The farmhouse had seen years of similar nights: the scrape of cutlery, the clink of glass, and the muffled sighs of people who loved what they did but barely scraped by doing it.

The conversation turned to the day’s work—a discussion of a pregnant mare and the schedule for the local children's riding camp. Daenerys participated mechanically, but her mind was already calculating how to make Jon Snow’s next lesson as unpleasant, and yet instructional, as possible. He needed to be humbled, and she was determined to be the one to do it.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters. Somewhere in the paddock, a horse snorted, restless in the night. Dany looked toward the window for a moment, the sound comforting - grounding. No matter how complicated the human world became, the horses remained constant. They didn’t care about fame or contracts. Only tone, trust, and patience mattered to them. That was why she preferred them to people.

***

The following morning, Daenerys was in the outdoor arena, working through a routine with a group of more advanced teenage riders, when a sleek, black convertible roared up the dusty drive. It was far too expensive and driven far too fast for a reputable customer.

The sound broke the morning calm like a gunshot. A few of the horses tossed their heads nervously, and one of the younger riders squeaked in alarm before Dany’s firm command - “steady!” - brought the group back in line. Dust swirled in the air, settling on the white railings of the arena.

She watched, her expression freezing, as the driver killed the engine with a flourish. Daario Naharis emerged, dusting off the lapels of his immaculate suede blazer. He was handsome, in a slick, dangerous way, with a practiced confidence that was even more irritating than Jon Snow's.

Daario’s usual look was a ridiculous attempt at ‘wealthy cowboy.’ He was outfitted in custom, designer denim, boots that cost more than a month’s payroll, and a wide-brimmed hat that looked suspiciously pristine. The irony was that Daario wouldn’t know the head from the tail of a working horse.

His vast wealth came from successful shipping and logistics; his foray into the horse-breeding business in Essos was handled entirely by his people. It was simply a status symbol.

He swaggered toward the fence, leaning against it with a casual posture that screamed entitlement.

“Daenerys, my Khaleesi,” he greeted her, ignoring the teenagers who had stopped riding to stare. “You’re looking beautiful, even covered in stable dust.”

“Daario,” Daenerys replied curtly, walking her horse closer to the fence. “You’re interrupting a lesson. What do you want? I told your office I wouldn’t be discussing your new sponsorship deal until next week.”

“I’m not here for the boring business of money,” he said, his smile failing to reach his predatory eyes. “I was just in the area and heard a whisper—through the King’s Landing grapevine—that you’ve signed up a high-profile trainee. A big star. Jon Snow, is it?”

Daenerys’s stomach clenched. The leaks were already starting. “That’s business between my school and the client’s agency. It doesn’t concern you, Daario.”

He chuckled, a low, theatrical sound. “Everything about you concerns me, Dany. Besides, I just want to ensure that if my generous funding is supporting the school, that you are being properly compensated for the headaches I know he’ll cause.”

He was probing, trying to figure out if Jon Snow’s presence gave him any leverage or access.

“The deal ensures my compensation, and my confidentiality agreement ensures your publicity stunt will fail,” Daenerys told him, her tone ice-cold. “Do not try to use my student for your profit, Daario. Stay away from him.”

Daario threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I was only trying to help you. Which brings me to the real reason I stopped by. Since you’re tied up with this new project, you deserve a break.” He straightened up, his tone shifting to the familiar, charmingly persistent plea. “Dinner tonight, Dany? That new restaurant in the Tower, I know you love the view. Just one night. No talk of business, no horses, just us.”

Her jaw tightened. There it was again—the word “us.” As if she ever needed a word to describe Daario and herself together.

This was the fourth time this month he’d asked. Daario was handsome, rich, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, which only made Daenerys loathe the idea more. He was everything she was running from: a pretentious, but daft man, who didn’t understand anything about her way of living.

“No, Daario,” she said, her voice leaving no room for negotiation. “The answer is no. I don’t date, I don’t socialize, and I don’t have the time. I’m busy. And even if I wasn’t, I wouldn't date a man who thinks the best way to interact with an animal is through a bank account.”

The charm briefly slipped from Daario’s face, revealing a flash of genuine anger. He recovered quickly, offering a wounded sigh.

“You’re still punishing yourself, aren’t you, Dany?” he said, his voice lowering to a manipulative whisper. “You need to let go of the past. Drogo wouldn’t want you to live like a nun in a stable. I could give you everything, the protection, the security. I’m right here.”

“I have everything I need,” Daenerys countered, gesturing around the dusty arena. “Now, if you have no business with the horses, you need to leave. You’re scaring my students.”

Daario paused, holding her gaze for a long, unsettling moment. “Very well, my Khaleesi. I'll take my leave. But I’ll be back soon. You can’t keep the world out forever.”
He turned, got back into his expensive car, and sped away, leaving a plume of dust that coated the fence.

For several seconds after he vanished, the only sound was the wind moving through the dry grass. Daenerys stood still, her hand resting on her horse’s mane, until her heartbeat steadied. Then she exhaled slowly and returned to the lesson, her voice even and calm once more. The students didn’t need to see the storm beneath her ribs.

***

Daenerys finished the lesson, the usual joy of teaching dampened by the encounter. As the last of the teenagers rode out, she dismounted and walked slowly toward the farmhouse.

The kitchen was empty, the dinner dishes already washed by Missy. Daenerys walked through the quiet living room and into her small, modest bedroom. It was a simple room: a bed, a dresser, and a window overlooking the quiet paddock.

The evening light had softened to gold, spilling across the wooden floorboards and catching on the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. It smelled faintly of hay and lavender - the last trace of the sachet Missy tucked in her drawers each spring.

She walked to the bed, knelt down, and pulled out a faded wooden shoebox that was tucked away in the back corner beneath her bed. It was her sanctuary, her vault of pain and memory.

She opened the lid, revealing a collection of artifacts wrapped in soft cloth: a crumpled hospital bracelet, impossibly tiny, the name barely visible on the worn plastic. A stack of ultrasound photos, black and white ghosts of the future she had lost. And at the very bottom, a handful of candid, laughing wedding photos—her and Drogo, wind-swept on the back of two horses, moments after their quiet, Essos-style ceremony.

Her eyes traced the outline of Drogo’s face. They didn’t get to spend much time together, but their relationship had been so freeing and they were so young, so certain of their future.

Daenerys looked at the tiny bracelet. One and a half years old. A car accident. A careless driver. A world irrevocably broken.

The memory came unbidden—the rain, the smell of burned rubber, the hollow silence that followed the sirens. She could still remember clutching at the paramedic’s arm, her voice hoarse from screaming a name that would never be answered again.

She didn't cry. The tears had been shed years ago, leaving only a vast, arid landscape of emptiness behind. Her heart was a carefully maintained ruin. She didn't want Daario or anyone else. She was a bad omen, a magnet for tragedy, and she was terrified of the crushing vulnerability that came with caring for someone new.

She couldn't afford to be cracked open again. Her broken heart was not a worthy offering.

She replaced the box, sliding it back into the dark recess beneath her bed. She had a school to run, horses to feed, and an arrogant actor to humble. Tomorrow would come, as it always did, with sunlight and dust and the quiet sound of hooves against the earth. The world wouldn’t stop for grief, and neither would she.

She would be the Khaleesi—the survivor, the queen of a great grass sea that was more sand than soil—and she would remain alone. It was the only way to keep the last pieces of her past safe.

Chapter Text

The familiar drive to Winterfell, the Stark family estate an hour outside King’s Landing, was Jon’s monthly anchor in the chaos of his celebrity life. It wasn’t as sleek as his penthouse, but the sprawling stone-and-timber manor was solid, unpretentious, and full of the chaotic warmth he missed.

The road wound through rolling hills, silvered by dusk, the faint scent of pine and woodsmoke drifting through his half-open window. For a few quiet miles, Jon let the hum of the engine and the fading light settle his nerves. It was strange how this place — with all its history and noise — felt more like home than anywhere else. Even after years away, he could still picture the exact bend in the road where the trees first parted and Winterfell appeared, rising from the mist like something eternal.

He arrived just as the sun dipped behind the tall pines, pulling his car up beside his uncle’s ancient Land Rover. Ned stood on the veranda, beer in hand, watching the last streaks of gold fade behind the trees.

“Jon,” Ned said, voice low and warm. He set his beer aside and pulled Jon into a firm hug. “Good to see you, lad. You look tired. The press conference wear you out?”

Jon sighed. “No, something worse.”

Ned raised a brow. “The tabloids?”

“Far worse. A horse-riding instructor named Daenerys.”

That earned a deep, knowing chuckle. “Ah. Your mother mentioned you were taking lessons.”

“Yeah, well,” Jon muttered, “she didn’t mention my teacher would be a dictator on horseback.”

Ned smirked faintly and gestured for him to come in. “You’ll find everyone in the kitchen. Dinner’s nearly ready, and they’ve already started gossiping without you.”

“Gossiping about me, no doubt,” Jon muttered as he followed Ned in.

“Always,” Ned replied, amused. “It’s a family tradition.”

***

The kitchen smelled like home: roasted meat, fresh bread, and the faint tang of herbs from the windowsill garden. The sound of laughter and clinking dishes carried down the hall. A dog - one of the estate’s old collies - padded past him, tail wagging, then immediately lost interest and collapsed near the stove. The air was warm and loud, a tangle of conversation and clatter. It was the kind of noise that meant family and safety.

Catelyn was stirring a pot of rice, Robb was slouched at the table scrolling his phone, Arya sat on the counter swinging her legs, and Sansa was setting out plates with careful precision.

Lyanna, Jon’s mother, leaned against the doorframe - smiling faintly, still in her worn stable jacket. She didn’t live in the main house, preferring the quiet of her cottage at the far end of the estate, but she came for supper most nights.

“He’s here! And already complaining about a girl,” Arya announced, leaping off the counter to hug him.

Jon groaned. “Daenerys Targaryen. The woman who runs the Great Grass Sea school. She’s awful - arrogant, impossible. Spent my entire first lesson making me feel like a toddler strapped to a pony.”

Sansa looked up from the table, amusement flickering across her face. “Maybe that’s what you looked like.”

Arya snorted. “Definitely.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at them. “You two are a nightmare.”

Lyanna hid a smile behind her mug of tea. “I told you she was strict. You should’ve started with someone local.”

Jon shrugged. “I didn’t exactly have a choice. The studio arranged it. Apparently, I need to ‘connect with the horse’s spirit’ before they’ll trust me with the camera.”

Robb grinned. “What, they’re worried you’ll fall off mid-battle scene?”

Jon gave him a flat look. “They should be worried I’ll quit.”

“That would make headlines,” Sansa said cheerfully. “‘Aegon the Conqueror Defeated by Riding Lesson.’”

Arya nearly choked on her drink. “I’d buy that paper.”

Catelyn turned from the stove, her eyes bright with interest. “The Great Grass Sea? Oh, Jon, that’s wonderful! You’re learning from Daenerys Targaryen?”

Jon frowned at her enthusiasm. “You know her?”

“Everyone knows her, she’s very well known,” Cat said, smiling. “Especially in the classical equestrian world. She won the Iron Island Endurance Race bareback three years running, and she teaches using old Dothraki methods. It’s not just riding—it’s philosophy, discipline, connection.”

Lyanna smirked, arms folded. “In other words, exactly what you’ve always hated.”

Jon shot her a look. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

Sansa leaned in with faux innocence. “Except when it involves dirt, sweat, or humility.”

Arya snorted. “So basically all of it.”

Even Ned chuckled as he took a seat at the head of the table. “You should listen to your mother, lad. That woman’s a legend. The Dothraki don’t take students lightly.”

“She’s a tyrant,” Jon insisted. “And she acts like I’ve never seen a horse before. We’ve always had horses, I rode here for two summers!”

Catelyn arched an eyebrow. “Yes, under strict supervision, and you refused to clean hooves or muck stalls. You only liked galloping around very slowly pretending to be a knight.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said—too quickly.

Lyanna laughed softly. “You were adorable. You used to name the horses after heroes from your movies.”

Robb grinned. “Didn’t you call one of them Stormbreaker?”

“Stormborn,” Arya corrected, deadpan. “He renamed him after a comic-book character when he got bored.”

Jon groaned. “Can we not?”

Ned, clearly enjoying himself, leaned back. “You can’t escape your own legend, lad.” He nodded toward Jon’s car keys on the counter. “You drive like a man who thinks he’s in a battle scene.”

Jon smirked. “Only when I’m late.”

“Which is always,” Arya said. “He was late to his own film premiere.”

“Traffic,” Jon protested.

“Excuses,” Sansa said sweetly. “Classic Jon Snow.”

Lyanna gave him a sideways glance. “Maybe that’s why you and Daenerys will get along - I’ve known her longer than you do and she doesn’t suffer lateness, either.”

***

By dinner, the long wooden table was crowded and lively. The fire crackled; conversation swelled and dipped with the rhythm of family life. When the talk turned to Jon’s new role—Aegon the Conqueror—the excitement was palpable.

“It’s very cool, Jon,” Robb said sincerely between bites of roast beef. “Really big break. You deserve it.” He hesitated. “But if you’re worried about Loras Tyrell getting the part, maybe you should pay attention not to insult his family.”

Jon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Robb flushed. “Well… I’ve been out with his sister, Margaery. A few times. She’s a model.”

Jon stared, incredulous. “You’re dating the sister of the guy trying to take my role? That’s actual betrayal. Like, textbook.”

Robb laughed. “We’ve been on two dates! It’s not espionage, Jon—it’s dinner.”

Sansa sighed dramatically. “She’s gorgeous, though. I follow her on social media. Perfect hair, perfect skin. Robb, honestly, I’m almost proud of you.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “You’re proud he’s dating your crush.”

“I do not have a crush on Margaery Tyrell,” Sansa said, too fast.

The table burst into laughter.

Jon threw up his hands. “I can’t believe this. The Tyrells are the enemy!”

Lyanna’s dry voice cut through the noise. “You’re not at war, Jon. You’re in a film. Loosen up.”

“That’s easy for you to say. He’s not trying to take your part!”

“Maybe he should,” Arya muttered. “I’m sure he’d be less dramatic about it.”

“Thank you, Arya, for your endless support,” Jon said, deadpan.

Catelyn smiled into her wine. “Oh, stop tormenting him, all of you. It’s good to have him home.”

Ned raised his glass. “To Jon. May he survive his trainer, his critics, and his family.”

They all clinked glasses, laughter rippling down the table.

***

After the toast, the conversation meandered. Sansa started talking about a charity gala in King’s Landing; Arya interrupted to ask if she could borrow Jon’s car; Robb bragged about winning a polo match; and Lyanna quietly topped off Ned’s glass, giving Jon a wry look that said, same chaos, different day.

Jon found himself relaxing for the first time in weeks. Even their noise was comforting - the clash of voices, the smell of dinner, the familiar creak of the old table beneath their elbows. The walls here had absorbed generations of arguments and laughter, and somehow that made him feel steadier, less like the polished stranger he’d been forced to become.

But Jon wasn’t finished venting. “Look, I’ll learn to ride, okay? But I’ll do it my way. I’m paying Daenerys a fortune. I’ll show up, ride hard, get certified, and that’s it. No lectures, no grooming chores. I’m not a kid.”

For a moment, only the sound of cutlery filled the silence.

Then Lyanna spoke, softly but with sharp humor. “Right. Because a Dothraki-trained endurance champion famous for taming wild horses is absolutely going to let a pampered King’s Landing actor set his own rules.”

Sansa grinned. “She’ll eat you alive.”

Arya smirked. “Maybe literally. You’ll make great tabloid fodder.”

Even Ned chuckled again. “Might do you some good, lad. A bit of humility never hurt anyone.”

Jon leaned back in defeat. “I’m surrounded by traitors.”

“Family,” Ned corrected gently, lifting his glass again. “You’re surrounded by family.”

Lyanna reached over and squeezed Jon’s arm. “And family means we get to laugh when you fall off the horse — but we’ll still help you back up.”

Jon couldn’t help it; he laughed too. “You’re assuming I’ll fall.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Arya said.

“Bring a camera,” Sansa added.

Ned smiled, quiet but proud. “If he gets back on, that’s what matters.”

And though Jon rolled his eyes, he smiled too—because he knew Ned was right.

Still, as the laughter swelled again and Lyanna’s teasing glance met his across the table, he couldn’t shake the image of Daenerys Targaryen’s fierce, unyielding violet eyes—the eyes that had seen through him completely.

He knew, deep down, they were all right.

He’d have to face his second lesson—and he’d have to do it her way.

He just wasn’t ready to admit it out loud yet.

***

Later that night, after the table had been cleared and the laughter faded into quiet murmurs, Jon walked his mother back to her cottage. The air was cold, the stars bright over the dark fields. The estate was still except for the low rustle of trees and the distant hoot of an owl.

“You handled that well,” Lyanna said, her tone casual but proud. “They missed you.”

“They showed it in their usual way — mockery and humiliation,” Jon muttered.

She smiled. “That’s love here. You know that.”

They walked in silence for a moment, boots crunching over the gravel path. The cottage came into view - small, stone, and warmly lit inside. A cat darted across the porch. Lyanna stopped before the door and turned to him.

“She’ll push you, Jon. Daenerys. But maybe that’s good. You’ve been coasting too long. Fame’s easy. Work’s harder.”

He sighed. “You sound like her already.”

Lyanna’s smile softened. “Maybe that’s why I like her.” She brushed a stray leaf from his shoulder, motherly and gentle. “You’re capable of more than you think. You just need someone who doesn’t let you hide behind charm and excuses.”

Jon looked away, uncomfortable with how easily she saw through him. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Get some rest,” she said, opening the door. Warm light spilled out, and the scent of hay and tea drifted toward him. “You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked warily.

“I told the guys at the Great Grass Sea, that they can use the lower field to exercise their mares on an unknown terrain.” Lyanna grinned. “She’s coming here early.”

Jon froze. “You - what?”

She winked. “Don’t be late, Aegon the Conqueror.” And before he could protest, she shut the door behind her.

Jon stood in the cool night air, dumbfounded. Somewhere beyond the trees, a horse whinnied — and he had the distinct, uneasy feeling it was laughing at him.

***

Back in the main house, Ned and Catelyn lingered in the kitchen, washing the last of the dishes.

“He looks older,” Catelyn said softly, passing Ned a plate to dry. “And lonelier.”

Ned nodded. “He’s been chasing the world too long. Maybe it’s time it chases him back a bit.”

Catelyn smiled faintly. “You think she’ll teach him something?”

“Daenerys?” Ned’s lips twitched. “She’ll break him before she teaches him — but that’s how you learn to stay in the saddle.”

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows. In the distance, Jon’s car door slammed.

“He’ll be fine,” Catelyn murmured.

Ned looked out into the night. “He’s a Stark,” he said simply. “He always gets back on.”

Chapter Text

The sun rose slow and golden over Winterfell Estate, the morning mist curling along the paddock fences like breath. Daenerys had been up since dawn, already checking the terrain where they would be training that weekend.

This was her favorite time of the day. Late enough that there was enough daylight and the horses were already awake, but still too early for the rest of humankind to bother her.

It was more than peaceful here in Winterfell.

Lyanna Stark had offered the use of her fields - sprawling, open, bordered by tall pines and cool shade - and Daenerys had accepted without hesitation. The land as open as this was rare so close to King’s Landing with its soft underfoot, no sharp rocks, plenty of space for horses to stretch into full gallop.

When they were settling the agreement for the weekend lease, Lyanna insisted on their team using the old farmhouse for refreshments, so Dany headed in the direction of the log kitchen to have a coffee in peace before the others got here.

The kitchen already smelled of fresh bread and cedar. Lyanna was there, sitting at the worn, solid table, dressed simply but elegantly — boots, faded riding trousers, a navy jacket she’d probably owned for twenty years. She looked up with a familiar grin.

“Morning, stranger,” Lyanna said, setting down two mugs. “You’re earlier than expected. I know you like to start your day as soon as possible, but I figured at this hour you’d still be in your tack room at the school.”

Daenerys smiled, taking the cup with a grateful nod. “You know me too well. I didn’t want to waste good light. Your land rides beautifully – we might need to agree on something much more permanent.”

Lyanna laughed, the sound easy and low. “You say that now, but wait until the southern sun gets mean around noon. It’s less forgiving than the Dothraki Sea.”

“You’re one of the few people who can actually compare the two,” Daenerys teased.

They’d known each other for years — not close friends, but allies in a small, competitive world where respect was hard-earned and women in control were few and far in between. Lyanna was present at several endurance events Daenerys competed in, and they’d occasionally shared a table or a drink at galas and circuits.

Even though Lyanna stopped competing long before Dany entered her first race, both were known for the same reputation: discipline, fearlessness, and a deep, intuitive understanding of horses.

They drank their coffee in companionable silence for a moment, the morning light slanting through the wide farmhouse windows. Daenerys’s gaze drifted to the photos on the wall — a familiar gallery of old competitions, young riders, and glossy, triumphant horses.

She smiled faintly. “You’ve got the same trophies I used to stare at when I was fifteen, trying to convince myself I’d ever win one.”

Lyanna shrugged. “You did more than win. You redefined half the rules.”

Daenerys chuckled softly, then glanced at a photograph near the corner — one she hadn’t noticed before. A boy - tall, dark curls, uncertain smile - standing beside Lyanna, maybe twelve, holding a rosette and a slightly nervous-looking gelding.

Something about the boy’s eyes made her pause.

“That’s a handsome young rider,” Daenerys remarked. “Your student?”

Lyanna’s expression softened. “My son.”

The nameplate beneath the photo read: Jon Snow, Winterfell County Youth Trials, 2008.

Daenerys froze. “Jon… Snow?” She turned back, searching Lyanna’s face. “That Jon Snow?”

Lyanna smiled quietly, a trace of mischief there. “The very same.”

The realization washed through Daenerys like a slow, electric current. “You didn’t tell me your son was the one I’ve been training this week.”

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” Lyanna said mildly, taking another sip of coffee. “Jon prefers to make his own way. He doesn’t like people connecting him to me or to Winterfell. You know how this world can be - a name opens doors you haven’t earned. That’s why he is not advertising his connection to the Starks.”

Daenerys nodded slowly, understanding dawning. “He said nothing.”

“He wouldn’t,” Lyanna replied. “He wants to succeed or fail on his own merit. I admire it, even if it drives me mad sometimes.”

For a moment, Daenerys was quiet - thinking of Jon’s pride, his defensiveness, the way he’d met her every command like it was a duel. It made sense now. That hard edge wasn’t entitlement - it was protection. The armor of someone determined not to be pitied or patronized.

“I’ll admit,” Daenerys said softly, “that changes how I see him. You could’ve mentioned it sooner.”

“And robbed you of the surprise?” Lyanna’s grin widened. “Besides, I wanted to see if he’d survive your first lesson without me meddling.”

Daenerys shook her head, smiling despite herself. “He did. Barely.”

Lyanna chuckled. “Good. Maybe he’ll finally listen to someone.”

The two women shared a long, companionable look — mutual amusement, mutual understanding. It was the look of two seasoned riders who had fought their own battles with pride, pain, horses too clever for their own good and men too stupid to understand that.

Lyanna leaned back in her chair, eyes glinting. “Be honest, Daenerys. Does he have it? Can you make a proper rider out of him in ten weeks?”

Daenerys considered for a long moment. “He has the strength. The rest depends on whether he learns to stop fighting the ground beneath him.”

“Ah,” Lyanna said, half-smiling. “That’s his father in him, I think.”

Daenerys didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. There was a quiet weight behind Lyanna’s words - one she instinctively respected enough to leave untouched.

She stood, brushing a bit of dust from her breeches. “We’ll start in half an hour. He’ll be here soon.”

Lyanna nodded. “Try not to break him completely.”

“I make no promises.”

They shared a smile before Daenerys headed out into the sunlight — a smile that felt older than both of them, full of quiet recognition.

***

By the time Jon arrived, the mist had burned off and the fields shimmered under the pale gold light. He looked marginally more prepared than before - the right boots, an actual helmet - but still carried that air of defiance, as if daring her to find him unworthy.

“You’re early, Mr. Snow,” Daenerys said. “Impressive. I was beginning to think you considered punctuality optional.”

“I figured I’d earn some goodwill before you destroy me again,” Jon replied.

Her lips twitched. “Wise strategy.”

They began with watching the footage of him riding in the farmhouse from the Long Night. She dissected his scenes with precision and brutal honesty, though this time, there was a note of patience she hadn’t offered before.

Jon didn’t know it, but her morning with Lyanna had reframed him in her eyes: no longer just an arrogant celebrity, but a man unknowingly walking in the shadow of a woman Daenerys respected.

When they moved to the paddock, Jon was more focused, less defensive. Still proud, still restless, but the edge had dulled.

“Relax your knees,” she said, circling him like a hawk. “Move with the horse, not against it. Breathe.”

He did - for once - and Rhaegal’s gait smoothed.

Daenerys nodded. “Better.”

From the fence line, Lyanna watched quietly, arms folded. Drogon grazed behind her, his sleek black coat gleaming like obsidian. When Daenerys dismounted later to cool Rhaegal, Lyanna approached, her gaze drawn inevitably to Drogon.

“He’s magnificent,” she said softly. “That’s the Dothraki-bred stallion, isn’t he? I heard rumors no one could break him in before you.”

Daenerys rested a hand on Drogon’s neck, her expression almost reverent. “I didn’t break him in. No one did. He decided he’d tolerate me one day, and I didn’t ask questions.”

Lyanna smiled faintly. “That’s not how horses work unless the rider has earned it. I know a thing or two about pride — in animals and in people. He has chosen you.”

Their eyes met, and something passed between them — an unspoken acknowledgment of shared strength.

Later, Jon approached, sweat-soaked and breathless from another round of balance drills. Lyanna handed him a bottle of water.

“How’d I do?” he asked, half-grinning, half-dreading her answer.

Lyanna smirked. “You stayed on. That’s progress.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am. But she’s right, Jon. You fight the horse like it’s a battle of wills. You’ll lose every time.”

He exhaled, frustrated. “You’ve been talking to her, haven’t you?”

“She’s hard to ignore,” Lyanna said with a teasing glance. “And I happen to like her.”

Jon groaned. “Of course you do.”

Lyanna’s voice softened. “You should have told her I was your mother.”

Jon blinked. “Would it have mattered?”

Daenerys, who was leading Rhaegal back into the stable, turned. “Actually, it would have. I knew your mother. Or of her. It’s quite sad that we could never compete against each other. She was… truly exceptional.”

Jon looked between them, caught off guard by the tone — mutual respect layered with history.

“She still is,” he said finally.

Daenerys’s lips curved. “That remains obvious.”

For the first time since they’d met, her tone carried warmth - not indulgence but understanding. Jon felt the shift, subtle but real. The battlefield between them had turned into a training ground.

As the sun dipped low over Winterfell’s fields, the day ended in quiet progress. Gone was the humiliation he felt after the first lesson.

Jon was exhausted, yes — but for once, he wasn’t angry. Daenerys watched him go, her expression unreadable, while Lyanna stood beside Drogon, wind in her hair.

Two generations of stubborn hearts, Daenerys thought — one who tamed wild horses, another who was learning to tame himself.

She smiled faintly. “The boy might just have it in him after all.”

***

The fields had gone still by evening. The last of the stable hands had drifted home, the scent of hay and saddle soap lingering in the cooling air. Daenerys sat at the small wooden desk in the tack room, the only light coming from a flickering lantern and the soft, rhythmic sound of Drogon breathing outside the open door.

The day’s notes lay open before her — pages filled with neat handwriting and precise observations: seat improving, tension still visible in shoulders, reflexively tightens on reins when uncertain.

She tapped the pen against her chin, then added a line that surprised her:
Shows potential when his pride doesn’t get in the way. Heart like his mother’s.

She paused, her gaze drawn toward the open window, where she could still see the silhouette of Lyanna walking toward the house. The resemblance between mother and son was subtle, not in looks but in presence - that quiet intensity, the unspoken battle between gentleness and fire.

It made sense now.

The boy she’d nearly written off as a spoiled brat had been raised by one of the fiercest riders she’d ever known. It explained the contradiction she’d sensed in him: the discipline hidden beneath the defiance, the humility buried under pride.

Daenerys leaned back, closing her notebook. Drogon shifted outside, his heavy breath misting in the fading light.

“I see it now,” she murmured, half to herself, half to the horse. “He’s not just another actor. He’s a Stark - and Lyanna’s son.”

She smiled faintly, the edge of it tired but genuine. “This might actually be worth my time if I can bring that out of him.”

With that, she blew out the lantern and stepped into the twilight, the cool night air washing over her. Drogon raised his head as she passed, and she brushed her fingers along his neck.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “We push him harder.”

The stallion huffed softly, as if in agreement.

Together, woman and beast stood for a moment in the quiet of the Winterfell estate — two creatures born of grit, already preparing for the next test of will and endurance.

And somewhere beyond the paddocks, in the cottage light across the field, Lyanna Stark was likely telling her son the same thing in her own way.

Chapter Text

The cottage was quiet that night. After the long Sunday dinner - Catelyn’s roast, Arya’s constant teasing, Ned’s dry jokes - the hum of laughter had faded into the soft ticking of the old clock by the hearth.

Jon sat on the porch steps outside Lyanna’s cottage, a mug of coffee warming his hands. The moon hung low over the trees, and the air smelled faintly of hay and pine. A few fireflies blinked lazily in the overgrown patch of lavender nearby, their tiny lights a soft contrast to the moon’s stark white.

His mother joined him a few minutes later, barefoot, her hair tied up in that effortless, slightly messy knot that reminded him why people always said they looked alike - the same stubborn set of the jaw, the same restless energy hiding under a calm surface.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, settling beside him.

“Too much thinking,” Jon admitted. “Too much soreness.”

Lyanna chuckled. “That woman works you hard, doesn’t she?”

“She’s relentless,” Jon muttered. “Doesn’t let anything slide. Every mistake feels like a personal insult to her.”

Lyanna’s smile softened. “That sounds like Daenerys.”

He looked at her sideways. “You know her well, don’t you?”

“Well enough,” Lyanna said, wrapping her hands around her own mug. “We’ve crossed paths for years - competitions, charity events, training symposiums. She’s one of the most gifted riders I’ve ever seen. Was, even when she was just a teenager. People used to whisper about her, you know - the Targaryen girl who could out-ride every man in the ring.”

Jon frowned slightly. “I didn’t realize she was that well-known.”

“Oh, she is. Or was, before she built that school of hers. The Targaryens were… complicated people. Moneyed, powerful, old bloodlines and all the baggage that comes with it.” Lyanna’s voice dropped slightly, her tone threaded with empathy rather than gossip. She paused, taking a slow sip of her drink, the steam momentarily clouding her face.

“Her family tried to control her. Expected her to marry within the circle, attend galas, breed prestige. Instead, she took her inheritance and ran off with a Dothraki horseman she met during an exhibition in Essos. Married him, even.”

Jon turned sharply. “Married?”

Lyanna nodded. “He was a stallion-rider from the plains - fierce, wild, magnificent. The tabloids had a field day with the story, of course. They called it scandalous. But I always thought it was… romantic, in a raw sort of way. Two people from opposite worlds who understood each other through horses.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened to him? I don’t remember seeing anyone beside her.”

Lyanna stared into the distance, the firelight from inside flickering across her face. “It’s not my story to tell,” she said softly. “Just know that she lost him young, and the world was cruel about it. But she survived. She rebuilt. That woman turned grief into discipline. Into mastery.”

The wind rustled through the nearby trees, filling the pause that followed. Jon took a long sip of his coffee, the taste suddenly bitter.

“She’s… not what I expected,” he admitted. “I thought she was just some hardheaded trainer who liked to put people in their place.”

“Oh, she is that and more,” Lyanna said with a faint smile. “But it comes from somewhere deeper. You two are more alike than you think. You both hold yourselves to impossible standards and pretend not to care what people think - but you do anyway. You both use pride as armor.”

Jon huffed a laugh. “Sounds flattering.”

“I mean it, Jon,” Lyanna pressed gently. “You’ve got her stubbornness, her fire. That’s a good thing, it can move mountains - but only if you learn how to bend it, not let it break you. She’ll teach you that, if you let her.” The advice was delivered without judgment, the way a mother teaches a child to ride a bicycle: steady support, then a gentle push.

Jon looked away, watching the dark outline of the paddocks where the horses slept. The rhythmic clop of a distant hoof echoed faintly through the night - one of the stable hands doing a last check before bed. It made the whole place feel timeless.

“You lent her the land for training this week,” he said.

“Of course,” Lyanna replied easily. “She needed a more open space, and our lower pastures haven’t been used since last autumn. Besides, I like having her around again. Reminds me of those old circuits - dusty arenas, late-night bonfires, endless talk about horses and freedom.” A spark of genuine longing passed through her eyes, a reflection of her own younger days.

Jon smiled faintly. “You miss it.”

“Every day,” Lyanna said. “But watching her ride Drogon today - gods, that horse. No one else could ever break him. People tried, failed, even got hurt. Then Dany just... walked into his stall one day, calm as a whisper. Didn’t force him. Didn’t shout. Just stood there until he came to her.”

Jon frowned, trying to imagine the wild black stallion submitting to anyone. Seemed like an impossible thought. “And he just - what? Decided she was worth listening to?”

“Something like that,” Lyanna said, smiling wistfully. “Some people don’t dominate. They command. There’s a difference.”

She nudged him gently with her elbow. “Maybe you’ll learn that too.”

Jon smirked. “Maybe.”

But that night, long after she’d gone inside, her words stayed with him. The idea of Daenerys - not just as a trainer but as someone who’d carved her own path through loss and pride - lodged itself somewhere deep, where admiration and curiosity blurred. He felt a pull toward that kind of self-possession, the quiet strength that didn't need a crowd to validate it.

***

The next morning, Winterfell was wrapped in fog. Jon loaded his bag into the car, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. Lyanna waved from the porch, her shawl draped loosely over her shoulders.

“Try not to fight her so much,” she called. “You’ll lose every time.”

He grinned. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, always appreciated, Mum.”

“Confidence you have plenty of,” she replied. “A bit of humility wouldn’t hurt.”

He rolled his eyes, but the affection in her tone made him smile. Then he started the engine and pulled away, the cottage shrinking in the rearview mirror until it vanished into the mist. The quiet stillness of the country morning was replaced by the low thrum of the engine, a mechanical heartbeat announcing his return to the world.

By the time he reached the city, the fog had burned away, replaced by heat and noise and glass. The skyline rose like a different world entirely - one built of ambition and pretense.

***

King’s Landing never slept, but Monday mornings always felt like a hangover. The city was a blur of exhaust fumes, impatient horns, and sunlight bouncing off glass. Jon drove through it in silence, the car humming beneath him. His hands were still raw from the brush and tack oil, a faint scrape across one knuckle where the reins had burned him. It throbbed softly, a physical reminder of humility.

The studio gates loomed ahead, polished metal and corporate branding, so far removed from the earthy quiet of Winterfell’s paddocks. He slowed to turn into the security checkpoint, feeling the usual wave of studio anxiety mixed with his new, unsettling sense of peace.

He was supposed to come in today for a table-read of the pilot episode and sign some more paperwork. There never seemed to be enough of that.

He parked near the main soundstage. The moment he stepped out, a familiar voice sliced through the chatter.

“Jon Snow,” Val drawled, sunglasses glinting. “Well, look what the storm dragged back.”

She was leaning against a catering table, iced coffee in hand, every inch of her styled to perfection - golden hair, coral lips, a cropped jacket that cost more than most people’s rent.

Jon managed a smile. “Val.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” she teased, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You vanish for weeks, no text, no call, and now you show up all broody and tanned. What, did your horse trainer put you in a desert boot camp?”

“Something like that.”

Val smirked. “I heard about her and her kind of people. The Dothraki miracle makers from the countryside? Must be quite the experience.”

“Daenerys is good,” Jon said simply. “The best, actually.”

Val’s lips curved. “Oh, so it’s Daenerys now. Not ‘the horse trainer.’ Should I be jealous?” She let the question hang in the air, a familiar little game they used to play.

Jon ignored the bait. “She knows what she’s doing. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

Val snorted softly. “Please. It’s a fantasy movie, Jon, not a documentary. You think anyone’s going to care if you’re holding the reins wrong?”

He looked at her - really looked - and for the first time saw how small her world seemed. Everything about her was polished, rehearsed. Safe. “Maybe not,” he said quietly. “But I’ll know.”

She tilted her head, amused. “You sound like a monk. What happened to the guy who used to sneak into my trailer between takes and didn’t give a damn about philosophy?”

Jon smiled faintly. “He’s probably still around somewhere. Just sore in different places now.”

Val laughed, stepping closer. “Well, I could help with that. Massage oil, wine, my couch or bed - pick one.” – she drawled sensually.

He met her eyes, calm but firm. “Not tonight.” The refusal surprised him as much as it did her.

Val blinked, a touch of disbelief flickering in her expression before she masked it with a smirk. “Come on, Jon. We had fun. No strings, no drama. You can’t tell me you didn’t miss me a little.”

Jon hesitated - and for a heartbeat, he almost wanted to fall into her. There was something safe in the familiarity of it, the easy rhythm they’d fallen into between shooting days. But the memory of Daenerys’s eyes rose unbidden - sharp, steady, unamused.

She’d look at him now the same way she had when he’d clutched the reins too tightly: judgmental and disappointed.

He exhaled. “It’s not that, Val. I just… I’ve got too much on my plate right now.”

She laughed again, brittle this time. “You? You’ve got people doing your laundry and scheduling your meals. What’s really going on? Did the trainer hypnotize you or something?”

He smiled slightly. “No hypnosis. Just perspective.”

For a second, Val’s façade cracked - a flicker of genuine curiosity cutting through her glamour. “Perspective on what?”

“On what matters. On what’s real.”

She stared at him, then scoffed. “You sound like someone who spent too much time in the sun.”

“Maybe.”

Val took a sip of her drink, her tone cooling. “Well, don’t come crying when she breaks your pretty-boy ego. Those types always do. It’s part of their charm.” She adjusted her sunglasses, a subtle, dismissive gesture.

Jon’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing. He glanced toward the distant skyline where the studio’s banners fluttered - all the posters, the hype, the artificial glory of it all. It suddenly felt hollow.

Val followed his gaze, then sighed, shaking her head. “You used to be fun, Jon.”

“Maybe I’m trying to be something better.”

For a long moment, they just stood there - two people who’d shared bodies but never hearts. Then Val turned, her strong, heady perfume trailing behind her like smoke.

“Good luck with your enlightenment,” she tossed over her shoulder. “And say hi to the horse whisperer for me.”

Jon watched her go, then took a long breath and looked toward the rising sun. Somewhere far north, he knew Daenerys was already awake – getting ready to come back to the city. Probably at the stables, hands in the hay, voice calm and commanding. The thought was a strange kind of solace, a quiet, internal anchor.

And though she wasn’t yet here, he could almost hear her voice in his head: Move with purpose, not pride. He smiled to himself. “Working on it,” he murmured, and walked toward the set, feeling for the first time like he finally understood what she meant.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled across the paddocks in long gold stripes, cutting through the faint mist that still clung to the low grass. The air smelled of hay, dew, and saddle soap - clean, grounding.

Daenerys loved these first hours before the world woke fully. A thin, silver haze hung over the distant ridge line, promising heat later in the day. It was the time of day when even the most restless horses were calm, when the earth itself seemed to hold its breath.

She was already at the yard when Jon arrived.

For once, he was early - earlier even than some of her staff. He parked neatly, grabbed his gloves and helmet without being told, and greeted one of the younger grooms by name. Daenerys watched him from a distance, hiding her faint surprise behind a neutral expression.

A small, unlabelled travel mug was gripped in his left hand, and he took a long, slow sip before walking past the tack room. There was something different about him today - less swagger, less defensiveness. He moved with quiet purpose, nodding politely to whoever crossed his path.

When he finally noticed her, his mouth tugged into a small, careful smile. “Morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Snow.”

“You can call me Jon, you know,” he said as he adjusted his gloves.

“I could,” she replied evenly, “but I find ‘Mr. Snow’ helps remind certain actors that they’re still students.” He chuckled.

“Fair enough. It's better than that ridiculous nickname one of the stagehands gave me last week. I won't even repeat it.”

“I imagine not,” Daenerys said, her gaze sweeping over his attire. “At least you are wearing the proper boots today. Progress.”

“Baby steps,” he admitted, shrugging slightly and trying to catch her eye. “I didn't think I’d ever be saying this, but I actually missed the smell of the barn this morning. My apartment smells like instant coffee and regret right now.”

Daenerys didn’t smile, but a hint of amusement reached her eyes. “Instant coffee is for the lazy, Mr. Snow. And regret is a poor motivator. Now, let’s see to Rhaegal.”

There was an ease in the exchange that hadn’t existed before - the faint rhythm of two people who had stopped trying to win and started trying to understand. They worked in near silence for the first hour, grooming Rhaegal and checking tack.

Jon’s hands were steadier now; his movements more deliberate. Daenerys noticed how he murmured to the gelding under his breath, the same way her Dothraki teachers had once taught her — soft voice, steady energy, no sudden shifts.

“You’ve been practicing,” she said finally, her tone soft but approving.

Jon looked up, a little caught off guard by the rare praise. “Yeah. My mum - Lyanna - she told me once that horses can sense impatience. I’ve been trying not to rush.”

At the mention of Lyanna’s name, something warm stirred in Daenerys’s chest. “She was right. Impatience is a poison in the saddle. Your mother always understood that.”

“She told me you used to ride together.”

Daenerys smiled faintly. “Ride and argue, mostly. Lyanna was as stubborn as they come. Brilliant, though. She had this uncanny way of making a horse trust her - even the ones everybody said were hard cases. I respected her more than she ever knew.”

Jon seemed to take that in with quiet pride, his shoulders relaxing. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

He ran a brush over Rhaegal's flank. "It's funny, all the stuff she tried to teach me about horses when I was a kid. I thought it was just boring farm work. Now... now I get it. It’s a language, isn't it?”

“A language you learn with your body, not your mouth,” Daenerys confirmed, running a final inspection of the bridle’s stitching. “Lyanna was always great at that. She would stand out here for hours, just observing. She didn’t want to command a horse; she wanted to partner with it. I always found her a great inspiration in my own career.”

“A partner,” Jon repeated softly. “I like that. It makes the silence feel less like work and more like… listening.”

Daenerys simply nodded, a slow, approving motion. The sun had finally burned off the last of the mist, and the paddocks were now drenched in bright, almost aggressive sunlight.

***

The morning unfolded into the next phase of training. Today she had him back on Rhaegal, but this time with a light saddle and looser reins. The goal was rhythm, not control.

“Don’t force it,” she said as he mounted. “Find the horse’s center, not your own.”

Jon rolled his eyes lightly. “I swear, you sound like my drama coach.”

“Then you’re finally in the right classroom.”, she responded, and it earned her a reluctant smile from him, one she found herself wanting to return.

He was improving. His seat was stronger, his posture looser.

Every time he relaxed his hands, Rhaegal responded beautifully. Daenerys caught herself nodding in approval more often than correcting him. For once, she allowed the corners of her mouth to soften.

“Better. Much better.”

“Really?” Jon asked, breathless but grinning. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she said, but there was laughter in her voice.

“Not a chance,” Jon promised, reining Rhaegal in for a moment. “I’m taking a mental screenshot of that moment. My agent won’t believe it.”

“Tell your agent that a good performance is earned, Mr. Snow,” Daenerys instructed, walking slowly alongside him. “Your posture needs to be less ‘leading man in a leather jacket’ and more ‘man who understands physics’.”

Jon gave a mock gasp. “You wound me. But noted. Less brooding, more balance.” He shifted his weight, and Rhaegal immediately lengthened his stride, finding a smoother trot.

“That’s it,” she praised. “See how the movement comes from your core, not your shoulders? It’s subtle, but the horse feels the change.”

They were still circling the yard when Jon’s attention drifted.

Across the paddock, a small group of toddlers - three- and four-year-olds from the riding school’s family program - were being helped onto tiny ponies. Their parents stood nearby, phones out, laughing as the children tried to keep their balance. Jon slowed Rhaegal, frowning.

“That’s… not safe, is it? They’re barely out of diapers.”

Daenerys turned sharply. “Excuse me?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her tone. “I mean, they’re so young. One wrong move…”

“Those children,” she interrupted, voice taut, “are supervised by three instructors and they are seated on two of the calmest ponies I’ve ever trained. They are in no danger. My staff are professionals. We don't take chances with our youngest students.”

Jon raised his hands slightly, placating. “I didn’t mean-”

“I would never endanger a child,” Daenerys said quietly, the words clipped but trembling with something deeper.

Her gaze lingered on the children - bright helmets, laughter, sunlight glinting off polished leather - and something flickered across her face, a brief, unguarded sorrow.

Jon saw it, but wisely didn’t press. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

She took a slow breath, forcing her voice to steady. “It’s all right. You just don’t understand, not yet. The Dothraki children start riding before they can even walk properly. It’s how they learn balance - how they learn respect. A horse doesn’t just carry them; it teaches them who they are.”

Jon nodded slowly. “That’s… beautiful, actually.”

Daenerys gave a small, brittle laugh. “It’s survival. Out there, the saddle is the only cradle that matters.”

The moment stretched between them - a current of understanding humming in the silence.

Then, quietly, she said, “Let’s continue.”

They continued their circle, the silence now heavier, punctuated only by the rhythmic clop of Rhaegal's hooves and the distant, cheerful shrieks of the children on the ponies. Jon focused intently on his hands, making sure the reins were perfect, his earlier lapse in concentration forgotten. He felt an abrupt shame for his careless judgment, recognizing the depth of feeling in her voice.

***

By midday, the tension had melted. Jon’s progress was real, and she let him know it. Every correction came softer, every word of praise landed heavier than he probably realized.

At one point, she walked up behind him to adjust his posture, placing her hand gently at the base of his spine. He stilled - the brief contact sparking awareness between them - but she ignored it, focusing instead on the alignment of his hips and shoulders.

“There,” she said, her voice calm, professional. “Now move with him.” Jon exhaled, and for the first time, he truly did.

The horse flowed beneath him, his motion unbroken and confident. Daenerys stepped back, watching in quiet satisfaction.

When the lesson ended, Jon dismounted gracefully. “Not bad, huh?” he said with a grin.

“You’re improving,” she admitted. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

He grinned wider. “Careful, that almost sounded like optimism.”

“I’m still deciding,” she said, but she was smiling now too.

As he led Rhaegal away, she caught herself watching him longer than she meant to — the easy way he patted the horse’s neck, the calm steadiness she’d never seen in him before.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Snow,” she called out, already turning toward the stable office.

“Jon,” he corrected her, turning back with a genuine, sun-drenched smile. “And I’ll be early.”

He was gone before she could issue a counter-retort, and she found herself smiling for the second time that hour. The sound of the latch closing on the gate was final, and the paddock returned to its usual mid-day quiet.

***

Later, after the stables quieted, Daario appeared. He arrived as he always did — too polished for the dust and too charming for his own good.

“Khaleesi,” he greeted with that infuriating half-smile.

“Daario,” she replied, not looking up from the ledger she was checking. “If you’re here about the mare from Pentos, we already sent the papers.”

He leaned against the fence, casual as ever. “Actually, I was thinking of something less formal. Dinner, maybe? A drink? You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been working,” she said flatly.

“You’re always working.” He grinned. “Just one evening. No contracts, no school business, no horses.”

Daenerys sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re relentless.”

“That’s one of my more charming traits.”

“Your charm,” she said, “is highly debatable.”

He laughed, unfazed. “Then prove me wrong. One date. If it’s terrible, I’ll never bother you again.”

She hesitated — partly from exhaustion, partly from exasperation. Maybe one dinner would get him to stop hovering around the yard like an unwanted peacock.

“Fine,” she said at last. “One date. Then you stop asking.”

“Agreed,” he said, too quickly, as if he’d just won a game.

Daenerys didn’t even look up as she added, “And it’s not a date. It’s dinner between acquaintances.”

“Of course,” Daario said, smirking. “Strictly.”

He pushed off the fence and gave a brief, respectful nod. “Wednesday, seven o’clock, then. I’ll make the reservation somewhere fancy. Dress… less for the mud.”

Daenerys watched him walk away, her lips thinning into a straight line. She immediately regretted saying yes. It felt like a distraction she couldn't afford, a chore dressed up in an expensive suit.

***

That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind a tangle of thoughts she didn’t care to untangle. The house was silent except for the distant whinny of a horse and the low hum of crickets.

She could feel the slight ache in her shoulders from holding her form perfectly all day, a satisfying fatigue that only hard physical work delivered.

She thought of Daario’s smirk, of his casual confidence, of the emptiness behind it. He was handsome, yes – very much so – but everything about him felt shallow, rehearsed.

She knew what he expected from their dinner. She also knew she’d never give it to him.

Mixing business and pleasure had never ended well for her - not once. And besides, the thought of it made her stomach turn.

She closed her eyes, and unbidden, Jon’s face flickered through her thoughts - serious, honest, infuriatingly earnest. And his voice, echoing from earlier that day: “That’s not safe, is it?”

Her jaw tightened. He’d been wrong, but his concern hadn’t come from arrogance. It came from care. And that, somehow, made it harder to dismiss.

Her last thought before sleep was the sound of the children’s laughter in the paddock - bright, alive - and his voice again, half-reproach, half-worry.

He thought I’d endanger a child.

The ache that followed was old, buried, but still there - like a scar beneath the skin. She turned onto her side, willing her mind to quiet, and finally, sleep came.

The sheets felt cool against her skin, and she tried to focus on the feel of the cotton, pushing away the memory of his quiet apology. Tomorrow, the lessons would continue, and she would be back in the saddle, where the only thing that mattered was the rhythm beneath her.

Chapter Text

The small bedroom tucked into the farmhouse of the Great Grass Sea Riding School smelled faintly of hay and lavender polish - and something expensive that didn’t belong there. Missandei had left her perfume out on the counter, along with a sleek black dress draped carefully over the back of a chair.

Daenerys eyed it like it might bite her. It wasn’t just the cut; it was the color. Black was too certain, too much of a statement. Her usual wardrobe was all muted leather and functional denim with the occasional plaid shirts and she liked it that way.

“I can’t wear that,” she said flatly, not even lifting her up from the offending garment. “It’s… strapless.”

Missandei looked up from her phone. “Yes, that’s the point. It’s called 'making an effort,' Dany.”

“I said I’d go for dinner, not audition for a perfume ad. And I definitely don’t want to make an effort for Daario.”

“You said you’d go for one dinner,” Missandei corrected, grinning. “And you’re not walking into the Bayview Lounge in your usual boots and breeches. Daario Naharis will have a coronary. And no, don’t say what I think you want to say.”

“Good,” Dany muttered anyway, crossing her arms. “Maybe that’ll finally shut him up. He seems to think my time is an open invitation.”

Missandei laughed and pushed the dress toward her. “You never get out, Dany. You work, you train, you polish tack, you scowl at men. Just wear it. One evening of pretending to be fancy won’t kill you. Treat is as a sort of Cinderella outing. Even if Daario doesn’t end up becoming your prince charming.”

Daenerys sighed, picking up the gown. The fabric felt soft, cool, and utterly foreign. “I don’t even have shoes for this.” She ran a hand over the material, the silk feeling like cool water on her skin.

“I took care of that too,” Missandei said, already opening a box with elegant black heels. “You’re welcome. They're a block heel, so you won’t feel like you’re walking on stilts.”

“I hate you.”

“You’ll thank me when the waiter flirts with you.”

Daenerys gave her a look. “If anyone flirts with me tonight, I’m leaving. I mean it, Missandei.”

“Sure you are,” Missandei teased, but her eyes softened as she adjusted the gown on Dany’s frame. “You look… incredible, Dany. Maybe it’s good to remind yourself you’re not just the cowgirl in dirt-streaked boots yelling at movie stars.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “You’re good at this, you know. You should be a stylist instead of a barn manager.”

“Being right? Yeah, I really do have a neck for that.”, Missy responded laughing.

When Daario arrived, he looked every inch the man who expected to own a room - dark blue suit, careless charm, that grin that always felt half rehearsed. He whistled when he saw her.

“Well, well, would you look at that. The Khaleesi does clean up beautifully. I was beginning to think you only owned leather.”

Daenerys smiled, polite but distant. “Don’t call me that. It's Daenerys.”

***

The restaurant glittered above the waterline, its deck strung with fairy lights and soft jazz humming in the background. Waves rolled lazily below the glass panels, the city lights of King’s Landing shimmering in the distance. The scent of sea salt mixed with expensive wine. It was undeniably beautiful, but Daenerys felt like a trespasser. Someone that didn’t belong here.

She sat across from Daario, posture straight, mind already half gone. She’d promised herself one dinner. One. She just has to get through it.

He talked — mostly about himself. His new breeding stallions, a partnership in Volantis, a lucrative offer from some Westerlands noble who wanted a private racing line. He spoke with the casual confidence of a man who’d never worried about an invoice.

He sprinkled the conversation with compliments and perfectly timed smiles. It felt so weird and rehearsed.

“And you,” he said finally, leaning forward. “You’ve got a movie star training at your place. Quite the publicity boost, hmm? I imagine the phone hasn't stopped ringing.”

Daenerys didn’t look up from her wine. “I don’t train for publicity. I don’t care about the papers or the media. I train because people pay me to make them competent. That’s the end of story.”

Daario chuckled. “Of course. Still, must be quite the arrangement. How long’s he staying? Couple of weeks? Months?”

“Long enough to learn something,” she said coolly.

“And I imagine a nice fee for your trouble?”

Her gaze snapped up, sharp and glacial. “Why are you asking?”

Daario raised his hands in mock innocence. “Just conversation. Everyone’s talking about him in town. The Stark family, the show, the riding school - it’s all anyone mentions lately. He's certainly managed to monopolize the conversation.”

“Then perhaps you should join the gossip columns instead of pretending to care about horses,” she said, throwing a cool smile towards him, her voice calm but steel-edged.

Daario blinked. “You wound me. I do care about horses and I thought we were having a lovely time.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He tried to recover with a charming smile and motioned to the waiter. “I got you something, by the way. A little thank you for finally saying yes to dinner.”

He pulled a small velvet box from his jacket and opened it - a delicate silver bracelet, inlaid with sapphires that caught the light like tiny sparks.

Daenerys stared at it for a long second before exhaling softly. “It’s beautiful. Truly. But I can't take it.”

“Please do, I got it specifically for you. It’s yours.”

She closed the box gently and pushed it back. “No, it isn’t. This is not something I can accept from you.” Her fingers brushed against the cool velvet.

“Dany-”

“If I take it, you’ll think this dinner meant something it doesn’t,” she interrupted, her tone still even but firm. “This isn’t progress between us, Daario. It’s closure. You’ve been kind to the school, and I appreciate that. But I’m not for sale. Not my time, not my attention, and certainly not a place in my bed.”

Daario’s easy grin faltered. The charming facade cracked, revealing a flicker of raw annoyance. “You think I’m trying to buy you?”

“I think you’re trying to collect me,” she replied. “Like one of your prize stallions. I’d like it make it clear once and for all, that I’m not interested.”

The silence that followed was thick, but Daenerys didn’t flinch. When the waiter came back, she smiled politely, asked for the check, and finished her wine without another word. The glass felt cold in her hand, a grounding contrast to the evening's tension.

***

While Daenerys was preparing for dinner, Jon was enduring Kovarro’s unusual sense of humor.

“Relax your shoulders, Snow. You ride like the horse owes you money,” Kovarro said, laughing at his own joke as Jon tried to keep Rhaegal steady.

“I thought the idea was to show dominance,” Jon shot back, half-grinning through his frustration. A bead of sweat ran down his temple; he was determined not to fail this lesson after he started to progress finally.

“With women maybe, not with horses,” Kovarro teased. “Daenerys will have your hide if you pull the reins like that again.”

Jon grimaced. “Yeah, well, she’s not here, is she?”, he said trying and failing to hide his annoyance.

“Busy,” Kovarro said simply. “Other obligations. One of those fancy society things, I guess.”

Jon didn’t ask, but the thought needled him. Other obligations. The phrase felt irritatingly vague. He found himself picturing her, for a moment, somewhere with bright lights, no horses and no dirt.

Training finished near sunset. Rhaegal was warm beneath his hands, steady, breathing calm — the first real connection Jon had felt with an animal since this whole ordeal began. He couldn’t even believe himself how bonded he felt to the animal already and they only spent together mere hours. He rubbed the horse’s neck, murmuring something soft, then led him back to the stables.

That’s when he saw the car.

Sleek, dark, glossy. A man in a suit held the door open. And Daenerys – dressed in a beautiful silk gown that hugged her curves wonderfully, looking radiant, hair falling in loose, gleaming waves, the silver strands catching the dying light - stepped inside. The gown left her the gorgeous milky skin of her shoulders bare and dressed like this she seemed impossibly fragile.

Jon froze. He leaned back into the shadows of the stable entrance, suddenly wishing he were invisible.

She looked… different. Not the hard-edged instructor who barked commands, but something else entirely. Something softer. But her smile - what little of it there was present on her face - didn’t reach her eyes.

He turned away before anyone noticed him staring. He waited until the car’s taillights had disappeared down the winding country road before he allowed himself to move again.

***

Missandei was locking up the office and the farmhouse for the night when Jon caught up with her.

“Hey,” he said, pretending nonchalance. “Your boss heading somewhere fancy? She looked… nice.”

Missandei smiled, clearly amused by his horrible attempt to gain information. “Looks that way.”

“Who was that guy?”, Jon asked, trying to find out the one thing that interested him the most.

“Daario Naharis,” Missandei said. “He’s been after her for ages. He owns half the stables on the coast.”

Jon frowned. “Boyfriend?”

“Not yet.”

He blinked. “Not yet?” The two words tasted strangely metallic on his tongue and he wished Missandei wasn’t looking at him with that unsettling, knowing smile of hers.

Missandei tilted her head, her tone playful. “Well, he’s trying. Whether she lets him is another story. She doesn’t give in easily.”

Jon shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, forcing a small smile. “Right. Good for her.”

“Good for her,” Missandei echoed softly, though her knowing look lingered a little too long. She paused, then added gently, "Don't let the clothes fool you, Jon. She's the same woman."

As Jon walked back to his car, the image of Daenerys in that black dress refused to fade. He told himself it was just curiosity - surprise, maybe - seeing his tough, no-nonsense trainer looking like that. He replayed the moment he saw her, trying to find an expression on her face that explained the whole evening.

But when he got home, he caught himself checking his phone, half expecting a message that wasn’t coming. He didn't know what kind of message he wanted, just one that would break the silence she had left behind.

***

The bracelet sat unopened on her nightstand. She’d taken it only because Daario insisted and she hadn’t wanted a scene. It was a small, glittering hostage.

The evening air was still thick with the city’s salt and hum. She undid the pins in her hair, letting it fall, and stared out toward the plains at the back of the yard. The dress was already tossed over the chair, and she was back in her worn cotton pajamas – feeling finally comfortable.

Missandei had been right - it had been a long time since she’d dressed up. But glamour felt like a costume that didn’t fit. It was the armor of another person.

Her thoughts drifted back to the yard. To the horses. To Jon Snow, who had looked so earnest, so determined even when frustrated. She remembered the way he’d flinched when she’d snapped at him about the children - the flicker of genuine concern that had made her voice catch before she’d covered it.

“Dangerous for children,” he’d said. A simple observation, yet it had lodged itself in her mind.

The words still echoed.

She sighed, turning off the lamp. The city lights bled through the window blinds, tracing faint gold lines across the floor. She thought of the bracelet’s sapphires, cold and bright, and of Jon Snow’s grey, steady eyes.

Tomorrow, she’d have to face him again. And for the first time in a long while, Daenerys Targaryen wasn’t sure whether she was dreading it - or looking forward to it.

Chapter Text

Daenerys Targaryen had been awake since dawn, sitting at her cluttered desk with a mug of cold coffee and a calculator that had started sticking on the number seven. The stale, bitter scent of the coffee did little to wake her, but the anxiety kept her pulse uncomfortably hammering.

Invoices were spread across the surface like a losing poker hand: feed delivery, vet checkups, tack repairs, insurance renewal. Numbers swam together until they stopped meaning anything at all, but that didn’t mean they ceased to exist as well. She knew the ledger was bleeding red, but calculating the exact rate of financial exsanguination felt like an exercise in self-torture.

When her phone rang, she nearly ignored it. She really wanted to, not feeling to talk to anyone at all. But the number was local, and hope - foolish, stubborn hope, she didn’t even know for what - made her pick up. It was a desperate, tiny flame that refused to die in the face of overwhelming debt.

“Daenerys Targaryen speaking.”

“Good morning, Miss Targaryen,” said a smooth male voice. “This is Hizdahr zo Loraq, assistant to Mr. Naharis.”

Her stomach clenched. She recognized the overly-formal, unctuous tone immediately and it never meant anything good. If it did, Daario himself would have called. “Yes?”

“I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Naharis to inform you that he will be discontinuing his sponsorship of your academy, effective immediately. He’s… pursuing other business ventures in Pentos.”

Daenerys blinked. “Discontinuing - what? We have a three-year contract.”

“Clause 9B allows for early withdrawal, provided notice is given. You should consider this phone call as your notice. Mr. Naharis asked me to pass along his deepest gratitude for your ‘unwavering professionalism and dedication to the craft.’”

Daenerys stared out the window, the glass dusty, reflecting her own exhausted face. Barely seeing the yard beyond, her swirling thoughts blinding her. “Right,” she said finally. “Well. Do tell Mr. Naharis that next time he wants to play philanthropist, he should try remembering that people depend on him. People, not horses. People with employees and bills to pay. For some of us this is not just business but our entire livelihood.”

There was a pause. Then, a quick “Of course, Miss Targaryen,” before the line went dead.

She let the phone drop to the desk. It landed on a pile of unpaid invoices with a dull thud. The sound was oddly final, like a coffin lid closing.

“Unwavering professionalism,” she muttered. “Seven hells. What the fuck am I going to do now?”

She sat back in the chair, eyes burning. Daario Naharis — the ever-charming, ever-persistent peacock — had finally found a way to wound her without even trying. It wasn’t about the business; it was about the control he couldn’t exert over her, and this was his spiteful revenge.

He was acting exactly like he expected from his kind. His fragile male ego was hurt on the not-a-date date and this is how he decided to clap back. Stabbing her where is hurts the most.

***

Missandei found her half an hour later, still sitting there, staring into space.

“Bad news?”

Daenerys didn’t look up. “Daario’s cutting his funding.”

Missandei froze in the doorway. Her gentle features tightened with sudden alarm. Dany didn’t have to explain to her what it meant. “All of it?”

“Every copper. Not even a severance check to soften the blow, despite breaking the contract early.”

“But he’s been—”

“Reliable?” Dany laughed, brittle. “He’s been flirtatious with a god complex. There’s a difference. He didn’t get what he wanted and this is his revenge.”

Missandei stepped closer. She placed a warm, steadying hand on Dany’s shoulder. “We’ll figure something out. We always claw our way back, Dany.”

“We always do,” Dany said quietly. “But I’m tired, Missy. Tired of patching holes faster than they appear. I feel like I’m running on fumes, fighting a battle that never ends.”

“Then let me help,” Missandei said. “We’ll call the suppliers, negotiate delays, we’ll go through the contracts line by line for an out-”

Dany shook her head, she didn’t want to torture Missy with a task that was most likely to fail anyway. “No. I’ll handle it.”

She stood abruptly, needing to move, to breathe. Her skin felt too tight. She pulled her hair back into a hasty, messy knot, a small gesture of control.

***

Outside, the stables were alive with noise and warmth — horses shifting in their stalls, the soft clang of buckets, the faint scent of hay and leather. The familiar, earthy smell was the only thing that calmed the tremor starting in her hands, the only place where she truly felt she could breathe.

Drogon lifted his head as she approached, dark eyes following her every step. Rhaegal nickered softly, green-tinged coat catching the light. Viserion, as usual, stomped his hoof impatiently until she came to him for some cuddles as well.

Dany leaned her head against Drogon’s neck. “I should’ve seen it coming,” she whispered. “He didn’t like being told no. That’s all this is. It's a tantrum, disguised as a 'business venture’.”

She trailed her fingers down the horse’s thick neck. “If I’d just let him think he had a chance…” She stopped, disgusted with herself. That not something she would ever do, it was way below the line she was willing to stoop down to. “No. Not for money.”

Still, the math was relentless, and one plus one was always just two, she couldn’t make it more, doesn’t matter how much she wanted to. Without Daario’s donations, she’d have to find another investor - or sell something. Her gaze drifted to Viserion’s stall. The thought was a cold, sharp stone in her gut.

He was restless, as if he could feel her eyes on him. His white-gold coat seemed too bright, too valuable.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she murmured. “I might not have a choice.”

Viserion tossed his head, pale mane flashing. The silver light of the day caught on the muscle defined beneath his skin. He was magnificent, a champion.

Illirio Mopatis’s offer echoed in her mind — a ridiculous sum, absolutely over exaggerated, enough to stabilize the academy for a year. But the thought of Viserion, her baby, cooped up in some Pentoshi noble’s marble stable made her stomach turn. She knew Mopatis would treat him like an ornament, some rare jewel in his collection, not a living creature with spirit.

She ran her hands over his nose. “You deserve better than to be sold like a prize, don’t you?”

The horse exhaled hot air into her palm, and she smiled faintly despite the ache behind her ribs.

***

Jon Snow had been ready to leave an hour ago as he should have.

Instead, the table read dragged on, the director pacing in front of the long oak table, wringing every last drop of nuance out of scene twelve. Jon tried to focus on his lines, but his eyes kept flicking to the clock. The fluorescent lights of the studio were beginning to give him a headache, and the air was thick with theatrical pretense.

He could already picture Dany’s disapproving glare, saw it every time he blinked. She didn’t tolerate lateness. Punctuality was a sacred rite at her academy, and he was about to desecrate it. She will not be pleased.

When they finally wrapped, he gathered his script and stood—only for Val to block his path, tossing her hair.

“Leaving so soon, Snow?”

“I’ve got somewhere to be. Somewhere important.”

“Yeah, your little cowboy school thing.” Her voice dripped with amusement. “So rustic. Do they at least have Wi-Fi? Or do you have to communicate via smoke signal?”, she cackled at her own joke and Jon suddenly didn’t understand what he saw in her for all those years they were hooking up.

“Not the point,” Jon muttered, edging around her.

Val trailed after him. “You know, for a production this big, you’d think they’d solve it some other way. We’re not stunt riders. We are actors who shouldn’t be risking their own well-being for something so useless. Why are we wasting time with real riding lessons?”

“It’ll do me good to learn,” Jon said shortly. “Can’t hurt to understand the world you’re pretending to live in.”

She snorted. “You sound like your PR team. All nobility and method acting.”

“I sound like someone who’s trying not to embarrass himself on camera.”

Her lips curved. “You could use a break though. Come by later, maybe? Catch up properly? We could order takeout and forget about horses.” She was relentless.

Jon hesitated just long enough for her to see it.

She smiled, triumphant. “Thought so.”

“I can’t,” he said, brushing past her. “Busy.”

Her smirk faltered. “With the horse lady? Still trying to impress her?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking, the script clutched tightly in his hand. It was not about impressing Daenerys. Maybe only a little bit, but that was not his main goal.

By the time he reached his car, his phone battery was already at five percent. He dialed the academy — no answer. Tried again - dead. Then the screen went black. The silence from the dead phone was worse than a busy signal.

He exhaled sharply and slammed the phone onto the passenger seat.

***

Traffic into the countryside crawled like punishment. Every stoplight seemed designed to mock his urgency and he caught at least three tractors driving extremely slow and he couldn’t pass them for such a long time it seemed like an eternity. When Jon finally reached the Great Grass Sea School, the sun was bleeding out across the horizon, orange melting into purple.

Daenerys stood in the yard, hands on her hips, posture like drawn steel. Her hair, usually plaited neatly, was loose around her shoulders, giving her an untamed, dangerous look.

Jon got out, heart pounding. “I’m sorry. The table read went long, the director lost track of time-”

“It’s extremely rude to play with other people’s time,” she said. No hello, no warmth — just the frost of command. “We are here because you need help. Respect the schedule you were given. Respect my time, Jon.”

“I know, but I tried calling-”

“No excuses. A professional makes arrangements not excuses.”

Something about her voice wavered - not much, just enough to make him blink. He caught the flicker of deep distress in her violet-tinged eyes before she masked it.

“I have other matters to attend to now,” she continued, tone clipped. “If you still want to be useful, you can clean out Rhaegal’s stall. Groom him. Feed him. That’s all the instruction you’ll get today. Consider it a lesson in humility.”

He clenched his jaw. “You’re cancelling the lesson?”

“I’m reprioritizing. My priorities have shifted, and they don't include coddling a late-coming actor.”

Then she was gone, boots striking the dirt path in short, furious steps.

Jon stood there for a moment, chest tight. He’d messed up, sure - but she’d never been this angry. There was something else beneath it. Something that looked a lot like pain. It wasn't professional anger; it was personal devastation.

***

He did as she said. He mucked out Rhaegal’s stall, brushed the gelding’s coat until it gleamed, hauled water until his shoulders ached. The physical labor was a good way to burn off his frustration and guilt.

The work grounded him - familiar, physical, honest. He appreciated the uncomplicated reality of muck and hay.

He was finishing up when he heard her voice, low and sharp, from Drogon’s stall.

“Not now, boy. Not now. Stay still for me.”

He turned just as she pulled the gate open, leading Drogon out into the open yard. She wasn’t wearing a helmet. No saddle either. Just jeans, boots, and fury. The horse’s reins were loosely held, but his massive presence didn't seem to intimidate her in the slightest. She was moving with the same rhythm as the animal.

“Daenerys,” he called before he could stop himself.

She didn’t turn.

With a single fluid motion, she vaulted onto Drogon’s back. The horse reared once, a magnificent, terrifying silhouette against the dying light, then launched forward, pounding across the field.

Jon watched, breath caught in his throat. She was magnificent - terrifying and beautiful, hair flying, the setting sun igniting her silhouette like living fire. The hooves drummed out a pattern of pure escape on the packed earth.

But there was no joy in the way she rode. Only escape.

He stood there long after she vanished into the horizon, his hands tightening unconsciously around the brush. The scent of horse and leather filled his lungs, but he felt utterly helpless.

Whatever storm had broken inside her tonight — he’d only seen the edge of it.

Chapter Text

The yard was quiet now, long after sunset.

The others had gone home, leaving only the soft hum of crickets and the faint shuffle of hooves in the paddocks. A heavy, sweet scent of hay and damp earth hung in the cool evening air. The moon, nearly full, cast long, silvery shadows across the uneven ground.

Jon brushed the last flecks of straw from his shirt, his arms aching pleasantly after hours of mucking stalls and hauling feed. He’d cleaned, groomed, and even helped Rakharo patch a loose fence board once he was done with everything.

Every movement felt slow, satisfyingly weary. Anything to make up for being late - and for erasing from his memory the look Daenerys had given him when she’d dismissed him earlier.

He’d never seen anyone so furious and so… hurt at the same time. It was a look that had stayed with him, a sharp, unwelcome image that contradicted her usual steely composure.

He was heading toward the gate when a soft movement caught his eye. Under the old oak tree near the paddocks, a faint silver shimmer - moonlight catching on pale hair.

Daenerys sat alone on a beautifully carved wooden bench, elbows on her knees, the posture of someone who’d run out of energy to keep standing. Drogon’s reins lay coiled beside her boots, which were streaked with mud. The horse itself was a dark, patient shadow nearby, occasionally flicking its tail.

Jon hesitated, then walked over, careful not to startle her. “Daenerys?” he said quietly.

She didn’t look up right away, just sighed. “You’re still here?”

“Just finished with Rhaegal,” he said. “He’s… a bit cleaner now. I think.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile. “I was going to head out,” he added, “but I wanted to-”

“Apologize?” she interrupted, glancing at him at last.

Jon nodded. “Yeah. For being late. It wasn’t intentional. You know I don’t do that anymore. The table read ran long, and-”

“I know,” she said softly, cutting him off. “And I owe you an apology, too.”

He blinked. “You?”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” she admitted. “You didn’t deserve it. I was already angry before you even arrived. Bills, staff, the usual chaos. You just happened to be in the crossfire.”

Jon shifted awkwardly. He felt the urge to sit next to her, a gesture of shared quiet, but remained standing, respectful of her space. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I know.” Her lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But I wanted to. You helped with the horses. That mattered.”

“Rhaegal’s a good horse,” Jon said. “Stubborn as hell, but good.” That made her laugh - quiet and genuine. The sound was like a breath of fresh air after the day's tension. It didn’t happen often that he'd heard her truly relax. “You sound like a Dothraki.”

Eventually Daenerys gestured for him to sit and they sat together in silence for a while, the air cool and damp with night. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted softly. Jon noticed the precise, delicate lines of the bench's carving, realizing it was more than just a piece of commercial yard furniture.

The silence between them felt less like awkwardness and more like a necessary truce. Finally, Daenerys rose, brushing off her jeans. “It’s late. Go home, Jon. Get some rest. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

He nodded, watching her head toward the farmhouse. Only when she disappeared through the doorway did he notice the brass plaque fixed to the bench’s side, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

In loving memory of Drogo and Rhaego.
Forever free. Forever loved.

Drogo - her husband. Everyone knew that. But Rhaego? He frowned. Another family member, maybe?

A brother? A nephew? The unfamiliar name settled uncomfortably in his mind. Dany was already too far to ask. Not that he would - it wasn’t his place. But something twisted inside him as he stared at the names, feeling the echo of the grief that must have built that bench.

***

Rakharo was in the yard, oiling a saddle when Jon approached. The lamp hanging over the tack area cast a warm, yellowish circle of light, highlighting the focus in Rakharo's face as he worked. The strong, distinct smell of leather treatment filled the small space.

“Rakharo,” Jon began carefully. “That bench near the paddock… it’s got names on it. Drogo and Rhaego. I know Drogo was-”

“The Khaleesi’s husband,” Rakharo finished, voice flat.

Jon nodded. “Right. And Rhaego?”

The Dothraki’s hands stilled. For a long moment, he didn’t look up. The silence stretched, heavier than the leather Rakharo was treating. Jon waited, suddenly certain he was about to hear something painful.

“Her son,” he said finally, in a tone that made Jon’s throat tighten. “A child. Not even two years old.”

Jon’s breath caught. “Her son?” He felt a cold shock, realizing the depth of the tragedy the bench represented. The image of Daenerys’s face earlier, hurt and furious, suddenly made chilling sense.

Rakharo nodded once. “Car accident. Years ago. Horse trailer overturned. The Great Stallion spared her, but took them.”

He set the saddle down gently, his usual sharp grin gone. His eyes were distant, shadowed with old memories. “It broke her. For a long time, she spoke to no one. Only the horses. Only Drogon. You ask how a person comes back from losing a child?”

Jon didn’t answer. The question hung in the air, unanswerable. He could only manage a slow, somber shake of his head.

Rakharo sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t come back from it. Ever. She still rides with ghosts, Snow. So when you say she endangers children…” Jon winced, the words striking him like a lash.

He realized how callous his criticism must have sounded to her, how ignorant he had been. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly.

Rakharo’s expression softened, though his eyes remained sad. “Now you do. Be gentle with her. She pretends she’s made of iron. She’s not.”

Jon just nodded, unable to speak. He felt a sudden, profound shift in his perception of Daenerys.

The path to the parking lot felt much longer now. As he walked to his car, the farmhouse windows glowed faintly. For the first time, he didn’t see the strict instructor.

He saw a woman still learning how to breathe through grief. And for reasons he couldn’t name, he wanted to make things easier for her.

***

The farmhouse office was stifling — a mix of heat, paper, and worry. A single, buzzing fluorescent light overhead did little to lift the heavy mood, casting harsh shadows on the stacks of bills.

Daenerys sat cross-legged at the end of the long table, surrounded by files and invoices, while Missandei read off numbers from a spreadsheet.

“So, that’s feed, rent, insurance,” Missy said, ticking items with a pen. “We’re three weeks behind on the hay order. And the blacksmith won’t reshoe the younger mares until he gets paid.”

Dany pressed her fingers to her temple. “We could delay the hay another week if we ration. But the mares-”

“-will go lame if they’re not done soon,” Missy finished for her. “I know.”

Daenerys sighed. “The money from Jon’s project is only half here. The rest doesn’t clear until his final week. I can’t hold out that long.”

Missandei looked down at the contact list they’d been working through. “Then we keep calling.”

She picked up the landline, its plastic casing warm from use, and pushed it toward Daenerys. They started from the top, going through the names of suppliers and potential patrons one by one. Some politely declined, others promised to “revisit next quarter.”

Each 'no' was a small, deflating sound in the quiet room, chipping away at Daenerys's resolve.

Then Missandei’s eyes landed on one name halfway down the page. “Lyanna Stark,” she read aloud. “You didn’t mark her.”

“I know,” Dany said quickly. “She’s one of your older contacts, right? You two go back.”

“She’s also Jon’s mother,” Dany said flatly. “A current client’s parent. I’m not asking her for money. It would be unprofessional.”

Missandei raised an eyebrow. The skepticism in the gesture was clear. “Professionalism won’t keep the horses fed.”

Daenerys gave a dry laugh. “No. But pride might.”

Missy sighed. “You’re impossible.” She closed the file with a soft thud, a final acknowledgment of their stalemate. She knew when to stop pushing.

***

An hour later, Missandei went to fetch more paperwork from Dany’s bedroom. On the nightstand sat a small velvet box. It looked expensive, out of place among the usual clutter. Its presence was a silent accusation.

She opened it - and there lay the bracelet Daario had given Dany: gold intertwined with delicate silver, inlaid with tiny opals and sapphires that caught the light like water.

“Are you still keeping this?” Missandei asked holding the box up, when she returned.

Dany barely glanced up. “No. I was planning to throw it in the river.” Her voice held a definite, bitter edge, betraying her lingering resentment.

Missy tilted her head. “It looks valuable.”

“It’s also cursed with arrogance.”

“Maybe so,” Missandei said with a small smile, “but if it’s actually gold and the stones are real, it could solve a few problems. You should have someone appraise it. If it’s worth anything, sell it.”

She placed the box on the table, the silk interior a splash of rich color against the dull papers, a temptation and a solution.

Dany hesitated. “You think so?” She looked at the bracelet, a flicker of practical calculation overriding her distaste for the gift. The horses needed the money more than she needed her pride.

“I think I’ve never seen that many stones on one bracelet outside a museum. Go. Take it to King’s Landing. See what it’s worth.”

Daenerys blinked, the faintest spark of hope flickering through her. “You might actually be a genius.”

“I keep telling you that,” Missandei said with a grin. "Now go before you change your mind. We can't afford to waste time."

***

By the time Daenerys reached the jeweller’s district in King’s Landing, the sun had dipped low, turning the windows into molten gold. The street lamps cast long, sharp shadows, and the evening air was suddenly cleaner, crisper than the farm air.

The city’s noise was a low, constant hum. She entered the most elegant shop she could find - Belaerys & Sons, the kind of place where the floor gleamed and the staff wore white gloves.

The heavy front door closed behind her with a hushed, expensive sound. She felt instantly out of place in her mud-streaked jeans.

A tall, polished man greeted her with a bow. “Good evening, madam. How may I assist you?”

“I’d like an appraisal,” she said, setting the bracelet on the counter.

He lifted it delicately, examining it with a magnifying lens. His eyes flicked just slightly - recognition. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and his manner was impeccably smooth, giving away nothing.

“Exquisite craftsmanship,” he murmured. “I’m familiar with this design.”

Daenerys frowned. “You are?”

“Yes. It’s one of a kind - purchased through our private collection. I’d be willing to buy it back, actually. Not at full market value, of course - I’d need margin for resale. But you’d be getting a fair deal.”

She crossed her arms, suspicious. “How fair?”

He named a figure. It was less than she’d hoped, but more than she expected. Enough to cover feed and wages for a few weeks.

“Deal,” she said. It wasn’t a hard decision to part with the bracelet, but maybe she could have made more money out of it – nevertheless, the needs of the horses won over her curiosity.

He smiled smoothly, producing paperwork. “I’ll have the funds transferred to your account by tomorrow.”

As she signed, the jeweller’s eyes lingered on her name. “Miss Targaryen,” he said lightly. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

She nodded, taking the receipt. “Likewise.”

She felt a small, fierce sense of relief that the immediate crisis was averted, even as a vague unease settled over her.

He watched her leave, the shop door swinging softly shut behind her. Then, with practiced ease, he reached for the phone beneath the counter. The movement was casual, unhurried, yet highly deliberate.

“Mr. Naharis?” he said when the line connected. “You’ll never guess who just came in.”

Chapter Text

Missandei had already rewritten the numbers three times, but no matter how she rearranged them, how she tried to stretch or squeeze them, the page still bled red.

The afternoon sun had dipped low, the sky turning molten over the paddocks, and still Daenerys had not come back from her ride. Missandei knew what that meant: Dany was avoiding the house, the office, the bills, everything.

She only disappeared in the saddle when she needed to outrun panic. She was riding Drogon, her fierce, enormous black stallion, whose speed mirrored the frantic pace of her mind.

The phone rang again - another supplier following up, another request of payment, another reminder.

Missandei let it go to voicemail.

She had to protect Dany from one more immediate pressure, just for tonight. She inhaled, exhaled, stared at the name on the list.

Lyanna Stark.

Dany had drawn a faint line over it and then erased it halfway. The eraser smudge was still there - indecisive, guilty, hopeful, ashamed all at once. A clear sign of “not this one, not unless absolutely nothing else works”.

“I’m sorry, Dany,” Missandei whispered, and hit the call button.

This was a betrayal, but it was also a desperate act of loyalty to save the school they had built.

Lyanna picked up on the second ring.

“Daenerys?” Her tone was brisk, warm.

“It’s Missandei,” she said, trying not to wring the phone cord. “I’m calling from the school…”

“Oh! Of course. Is everything all right?”

Missandei closed her eyes. “Not exactly.”

She explained - gently, carefully, making it sound a bit less dire than it truly was. Daario pulling funding. His assistant calling. The bracelet incident. Feed bills overdue. They were weeks away from losing their insurance and having the power shut off. Jon’s payment only half-transferred and the rest locked until training completion. Dany trying to hide everything behind a straight spine and a tired smile.

Lyanna was silent for a long moment. Missandei could hear the low hum of conversation and the clink of dishes in the background - the sound of a normal life.

“She knew I could help. When was she going to tell me?” she asked quietly.

Missandei swallowed. “Daenerys didn’t want Jon to feel pressured. Or… indebted. She’s trying to protect his experience here.”

There was another pause, then Lyanna sighed - deep, steady, not angry, but concerned.

“I understand, Missandei. But Jon is a grown man. He deserves to know the cost of his silence, and the cost of hers.” Lyanna let out a long sigh, “thank you for telling me. I’ll speak with Jon.”

Before Missandei could reply, she heard the familiar sound of hoofbeats - a single horse, fast, then slowing to a trot. Daenerys.

She’d spent the last hour running from this exact conversation.

“I have to go,” she whispered, and hung up.

Daenerys dismounted from Drogon stiffly, her face flushed from wind and tears she hadn’t shed. She didn’t speak. She just handed the reins to one of the stablehands and walked past Missandei standing on the front porch with her shoulders drawn tight.

Missy watched her go, worry rising like a tide that would not go back out. A tide that would swallow them all.

***

Winterfell smelled like pine, hearth smoke, and home - a sharp contrast to the bright, sprawling chaos of the King’s Landing studios and his all-glass penthouse. Jon loved coming back on weekends, but this time his stomach had been twisted since the moment he parked his car.

He’d spent the entire drive rehearsing a dialog for his role when he clearly should have been focused on Daenerys and their last conversation. There was a certain unease that didn’t leave him, especially after he learnt about her losing not only a husband, but a child as well.

Once he entered the spacious Stark house, he found Lyanna in the kitchen first. She was pouring tea, but the moment she saw him she set the pot down a little too hard. The sound was a flat, metallic clank on the countertop. “Jon.”

Something’s wrong.

“Mum?”

“I talked to Missandei.”

Jon’s throat tightened. “Is something-?”

“Yes.” Her expression folded into worry. “The school is barely staying afloat. Daario Naharis pulled his funding without warning, breaking his contract with them. And Daenerys hasn’t told you because she doesn’t want to jeopardize your training.”

Jon felt the breath leave him. The world seemed to tilt on its axis; all his worries about his own career felt cheap and insignificant. “I… didn’t know.”

“I gathered that,” Lyanna said softly. “She didn’t want you to.”

Before he could respond, Catelyn’s voice floated from the dining room. “Everyone! Food’s ready!”

The long table was already crowded: Ned carving roast, Robb pouring wine, Arya stabbing a roll with a fork, Sansa smoothing the tablecloth as if hosting foreign dignitaries.

Jon felt the weight of his family’s normalcy pressing down on him as he realized the depth of Daenerys’s silent crisis. Jon slid into his chair, still stunned. He tried to smile, but it felt wooden. It didn’t take long before Arya narrowed her eyes.

“What’s with your face? You look like someone told you Ghost died.” Her voice was too loud, drawing unwanted attention.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Sansa sighed. She passed Jon the potatoes, but her eyes held a concerned question.

Robb leaned back, grinning. “So? What’d Mum say that made you look like that?”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not about me. It’s Daenerys. The riding school’s finances are… worse than she’s letting on.”

He repeated Missandei’s carefully chosen words, trying to keep as vague as possible, but they sounded lame even to him. He was ashamed he hadn't noticed sooner.

Ned frowned. “Why wouldn’t she ask for help?” He stopped carving, the knife held mid-air. “She has patrons, doesn't she?”

“Pride,” Lyanna answered simply. “And wanting to stand on her own two feet. She built that place with her husband.”

A sudden, quiet tension settled over the table at the mention of her late husband. Ned put the carving knife down slowly. Catelyn’s expression softened at that - she knew grief when she heard it.

“That poor girl. Trying to keep everything running after such a loss... that takes a toll.”

Arya tilted her head. “Is that why she behaved like she wanted to murder you that first week?” Arya didn't understand subtlety.

Jon muttered, “It’s more complicated.” He took a long, defensive drink of water.

Robb snorted. “Everything is complicated when you fancy someone.” Robb winked across the table, entirely missing the seriousness of the situation.

“I don’t-” Three voices cut him off: “Yes, you do.” – Arya “Obviously.” – Robb “It’s adorable.” – Sansa

Sansa smiled faintly, a supportive, knowing look. Jon glared at all of them, cheeks warm. “I’m her client. Her trainee.”

“Temporarily,” Sansa countered. “You’re going to be a done with your training soon, Jon. The client status is just a formality now.” “

And she’s way out of your league anyway,” Arya added cheerfully. She took a large bite of bread, undeterred by his glare.

“Arya,” Ned warned.

“What? She is. She's a legend!”

Jon groaned. “Can we drop it? This is about her livelihood!”

“No,” Robb said, smirking, though his tone softened. “But we can focus on why you look like you’re about to storm King’s Landing.”

Jon finally answered, voice firm: “I want to help her. The school doesn’t deserve to collapse. The kids don’t deserve to lose that place. Neither do the horses.”

The sincerity in his voice made the table go silent again. Ned looked proud. Lyanna rested a hand on his arm. “Then help her. Not because you fancy her, not because you feel guilty - because it’s the right thing to do.”

“We’re a family of lawyers and investors, Jon. We can find a solution that isn’t charity.”

Ned nodded, steady and warm. “You’re a Stark. We take care of people.”

Jon swallowed, guilt and determination rising together. The feeling was like cold steel settling in his gut. He was done standing on the sidelines.

“I’ll drive back tonight. I want to talk to her before tomorrow’s training.” He pushed his chair back, the meal forgotten.

Robb waggled his brows. “Tell her you’ll save her farm if she marries you.” Arya choked on her water laughing.

Sansa swatted Robb’s arm. “Ignore him, Jon. Just be honest.”

Jon stood, grabbed his jacket. Lyanna called after him, “And tell her I’m available if she needs to discuss proper loan terms. I know people, Jon. She doesn’t have to fight this alone.”

Jon nodded - already halfway out the door. He knew the only way to help Daenerys was to face her stubborn pride head-on. He had to be fast.

***

Daenerys stared at the columns of numbers glowing on her laptop. Even with the emergency sale of the bracelet, even with the small promises from a few existing patrons, she was still short.

She calculated the amount down to the last penny, a futile gesture against the sheer size of the debt. She rubbed her forehead. Just a few more weeks. Just until Jon’s full payment clears. Just hold on.

She recited the mantra like a prayer, but it offered no comfort. The farmhouse felt too quiet. Too still. She needed the horses - needed their warmth and their calm.

So she left the lights on in the office and walked across the darkened yard toward the stables. Drogon nickered the moment she entered, head lifting over his stall door.

“Hey, big guy,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “I know. I’m tired too.” The scent of hay and horse sweat was the only peace she’d found all day.

She stayed like that for a long minute - breathing him in, grounding herself.

The stable door creaked.

Daenerys looked up. “Missy? I’m in here.”

But the silhouette stepping inside wasn’t Missandei. It was Daario. He seemed to fill the entire doorway, blocking the last sliver of the moon. She froze. Every muscle in her body locked. His smile was wrong - sharp, tense, stretched too wide.

“Well, well. Thought I’d find you here.” His voice echoed, making the large space feel suddenly small and suffocating.

Daenerys’s pulse spiked. “You need to leave.”

“After what you pulled today?” He stepped closer. “Selling my gift? Running to jewelers like a desperate little-”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked but she lifted her chin. “You don’t get to speak to me like that.”

“Oh, I think I do.” He grabbed her arm. Hard. “Because you owe me. You don’t sell something I gave you. You don’t throw me away like I’m trash.”

Daenerys yanked back. “I didn’t throw you away, Daario. I told you multiple times that I’m not entering a relationship with you. You refusing to accept that is your problem.”

His expression darkened. The shift was instantaneous - like a door slamming shut. His eyes turned cold and flat.

“You should be grateful I even look at you,” he hissed. “After you married some Dothraki brute? Really?”

Daenerys’s stomach dropped. That was a line he never crossed. A raw, gaping wound he now chose to press.

He shoved her against Drogon’s stall. The wood cracked behind her. His hand clamped over her mouth.

“You act so untouchable, so perfect,” he murmured, breath hot with anger. “But you’re not. And you shouldn’t pretend you are.”

Daenerys twisted, fought, clawed - but he was so much bigger and stronger than her.

He pinned her wrists with one hand and tore at the strap of her top with the other. Her scream was smothered against his palm. Panic surged, wild and blinding.

Drogon kicked inside the stall, the walls rattling with the force. The stallion roared, a sound that should have driven Daario back, but he was too far gone to hear it.

Daenerys fought harder, nails scraping at his wrist, her breath breaking, her body shaking. She bit down hard on his palm, tasting blood, desperate for him to release her.

But Daario was stronger. He pushed harder. Pulled harder. Her vision blurred. And then - A car engine.

The distinct, rumbling and familiar sound of a truck, not turning off, but idling near the driveway.

Door slamming. Footsteps. Close. Daario didn’t hear them.

Daenerys did.

Hope, sharp and sudden, pierced the terror. Her eyes flew wide. But her voice - trapped beneath his hand - couldn’t reach the air. And the barn swallowed the sound.

The footsteps stopped just outside the main stable door.

Chapter Text

Jon was halfway across the yard when he froze.

A sound - faint, muffled, but utterly wrong. A struggle? A shout choked off? A heavy, unsettling thud?

The stables weren’t usually loud at night. Horses were creatures of nervous silence; they slept lightly, and any disturbance was unnatural. The moonlight cast long, skeletal shadows across the dust.

Then he heard it again, undeniably: Drogon’s stall slam hard enough that the entire barn echoed with the vibrating shockwave of wood on wood. It was a sound of panicked, desperate power.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through Jon’s exhaustion.

This isn’t just a spooked horse. Something is wrong.

He broke into a run, the gravel crunching loudly under his boots. He didn’t slow down, didn’t think about caution - he just moved.

He threw the stable doors open-

And everything stopped.

The air inside was thick with dust, the sharp scent of fear, and the metallic tang of rage.

Daario had Daenerys pinned against a stall door, her wrists trapped effortlessly in his one hand, his body a looming threat. Her dress was torn at the strap, exposing the pale skin of her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, utterly lost in panic, and she was trying desperately to scream, but his palm crushed over her mouth, muffling the sound to a pained whimper.

Inside his stall, Drogon was rearing, his great hooves slamming the walls in a frantic, furious rhythm, nostrils flared, trying to reach the intruder.

Jon didn't think. Instinct, pure and primal, took over.

He surged forward, his voice a low, dangerous snarl that cut through the barn's violent noise.

“Get your hands off of her!”

Daario turned, startled - the moment of shock was all Jon needed.

Jon grabbed his shoulder, his grip iron, and ripped him back, shoving him with a force born of adrenaline and moral outrage. Daario hit the opposite wooden wall with a bone-jarring impact.

Rhaegal shrieked, a high, panicked call from his own stall.

Daario stumbled, rubbing the back of his head, recovering with toxic speed. He pointed a finger at Jon, his face a mask of wounded pride and sudden hatred.

“This is none of your business, Snow. Don’t get involved in things you don’t understand.”

Jon slammed him back against the wall again, leaning in, his face inches from Daario’s. “You were attacking her. That is everyone’s business.”

“It was just a misunderstanding between two people who know each other very well -”

Jon didn't let him finish the lie. His fist connected squarely with Daario’s jaw - a clean, hard strike that snapped the other man’s head back.

Daario went down hard, sprawling in the dirty straw and hay.

Jon stood over him, breathing heavily, his shadow engulfing the downed man.

“If you ever come near her again,” Jon growled, his voice a low rumble that promised violence, “I won’t stop at one. Do you understand me?”

Daario spat blood mixed with straw. His glare was sharp and poisonous, flicking from Jon to Daenerys. “She’s been leading me on for months. Acting like I’m nothing after everything I did for her.”

“She said no.” Jon stepped closer, voice ice. “You heard her. You didn’t care. She does not owe you anything.”

Daario’s eyes flicked toward Daenerys, who was leaning against Drogon’s stall, shaken, breathless, arms wrapped tightly around her torn dress.

He smirked, a sick, satisfied curve of his lip. “You shouldn’t leave doors open you don’t want knocked on, princess.”

That did it. The absolute lack of remorse, the disgusting implication.

Jon grabbed Daario by the front of his shirt, hauling him up like he weighed nothing, and shoved him violently toward the barn doors.

“Get out. Now. I mean right now.”

Daario stumbled outside, cursing under his breath - a string of pathetic, impotent insults. But he didn’t fight. He looked into Jon’s face, which was cold, hard, and utterly unforgiving, and knew he would lose, probably badly.

As he reached his vehicle, he paused at the edge of the moonlight and pointed a finger at Daenerys again, his final, childish threat.

“This isn’t over, Daenerys. You made a mistake.”

Jon took one thunderous step forward, and Daario scrambled into his car. The engine roared to life, and he sped away, the tires spitting gravel.

The moment the headlights vanished, the world went quiet.

Too quiet.

***

Jon stood in the open doorway, letting the silence settle for a few agonizing seconds. He could still hear Drogon's frantic huffing and the faint, panicked sound of Rhaegal shifting in his stall. He turned slowly, his muscles still tensed and ready for a fight that was already over.

“You’re safe now.” – he whispered, like one would to a wounded animal.

Daenerys stood pressed against Drogon’s stall door, trembling so hard her teeth chattered slightly. Drogon was still stomping and snorting behind her, a great, dark presence of furious protection.

Her eyes lifted to Jon’s - huge, dark, and still disoriented by the terror.

And Jon felt something inside him clench, a painful tightening in his chest. I almost didn't come back. I almost missed this.

He approached her slowly, deliberately keeping his hands open, making himself as non-threatening as possible.

“Daenerys…? It’s me. Jon. You’re safe. He’s gone, I promise.”

She didn’t move. Her gaze was fixed on him, but it seemed to look through him, still lost in the preceding moments.

So Jon stepped closer – slowly and gently. He located her fallen shawl on the ground and draped it back over her shoulders, covering the tear in her dress. When his fingertips brushed her arm, she gasped - a choked, involuntary sound - and that seemed to snap her out of the frozen state.

“Jon…” Her voice was barely a breath, fragile as ice. “I - I couldn’t… he was so… fast.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying futilely to keep the tremors at bay. Her vulnerability was devastating.

Jon swallowed hard, his own throat dry. “He won’t touch you again. I swear it.” He paused, calculating his next move with infinite care. “Can I… can I touch your hand? Just to help you steady? We should get you out of this cold.”

She nodded—a small, shaky movement.

He took her hand. It was freezing, even in the humid night air.

“Come on,” he said softly, his voice nothing but a steady anchor. “Let’s get you out of here. Let’s go inside.”

***

Jon led her across the moonlit yard. He kept one arm loosely around her shoulders, steadying her as if she were made of glass that might shatter. He didn't speak again until they were inside the warm, familiar confines of the farmhouse kitchen.

He settled her at the small kitchen table, grabbed the thickest blanket from the sofa, and wrapped it around her carefully, tucking the edges in.

Daenerys stared down at the wood grains of the table, focusing intently on their pattern. Her throat bobbed as she struggled to swallow. Her hands twisted nervously in the wool blanket.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

Jon blinked, utterly bewildered. “What? No. Daenerys, you listen to me: none of this, absolutely none of it, is your fault.”

She shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes, finally released by the safety of the room. “I should have told someone. I should have reported him. I should have stopped him earlier.”

“Stop him?” Jon echoed, his voice rising with disbelief. “He didn't just annoy you, he attacked you. That is entirely on him. No one else. He is solely responsible.”

Her breath hitched, and she finally let out a choked sob.

Jon sat in the chair beside her, close enough to offer warmth and a sense of presence, but far enough not to crowd her small space of safety.

“If you want to talk… even if it’s just nonsense… I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Daenerys’s voice was ragged when she finally spoke. “He’s been… bothering me. Since… forever really. He always wanted more, but I never encouraged him. Didn’t leave me alone. Text messages, showing up unexpectedly. Claiming I owe him something for his loyalty.”

“Harassing you,” Jon corrected gently, placing the correct, legal weight on the action. “That's called harassment.”

She nodded, clutching the blanket. “And today… I sold a bracelet he gave me some time ago. I needed the money immediately. He heard of it through his connections - and he took it as a personal, calculated insult.”

Jon stiffened, his initial anger displaced by a sudden alarm that he must inform Daenerys about what he knows. “Wait – before you continue, I have to tell you something.”

Dany looked up at him with curiosity shining in her eyes. “What?”

“Missandei called my mom. I know about your financial struggles. That’s why I came here today actually to talk about that.”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, her gaze fixed on the table. “Jon… the school is almost completely out of funds. We’ve been running on fumes for weeks. I’m not sure how you or Lyanna can help me at this point.”

Jon felt his heart slam sickeningly in his chest. “You didn’t tell me. Why didn't you tell me?”

“How could I?” Her voice rose, trembling with distress and old defensiveness. “You came here to learn, not get dragged into my entire mess. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to save us. And you’re already paying so much for the lessons-”

“That doesn’t matter right now.”

“It matters to me!” she snapped, the emotional floodgates open - then instantly winced, her head bowing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me. Not for anything.” Jon’s voice was quiet, steady, unwavering. “You’ve had more than enough taken from you tonight.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to catch her breath. “I didn’t want you – or your mother for that matter – to know how… how desperate things were. Missandei had to beg the feed suppliers just to extend credit until the end of the month. I was seriously considering selling Viserion because he’s worth the most and I’ve had someone eyeing him for a long time. I don’t want to take handouts and become a charity case. So, I sold the bracelet… it’s worth enough to stay somewhat afloat until your payment finished processing. That payment, Jon, is the only reason we’re still open right now.”

Jon’s chest tightened painfully with the knowledge of how close she'd come to true disaster, both financially and physically.

“You should’ve told me,” he whispered, the words thick with regret and concern. “We could have found a way to solve this in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you cannot stand on your own feet.”

She looked up at him finally - her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, full of exhaustion, hurt, and something unbearably fragile.

“I didn’t want you to feel responsible for saving us, it’s not your job,” she repeated, the core of her pride.

Jon held her gaze, not looking away, letting his own resolve show.

“I already feel responsible.”

Daenerys let out a shuddering breath that sounded like her entire spirit was emptying. “I’m so tired, Jon. I’m just so tired.”

“I know.”

“I keep trying to keep this place together, keep the horses fed, keep the kids safe, keep the staff paid…” Her voice broke entirely. “And then Daario… and tonight… and I thought I could handle everything but I can’t. I really can’t.”

Jon didn’t think; he simply reached for her hand again.

This time, she didn’t flinch, didn't hesitate. Her fingers curled around his with surprising strength, a desperate anchor in a sudden storm.

They sat like that for a long time, simply breathing in the same small space, the farmhouse quiet around them, the only sounds the ticking of the clock and the settling of the wood.

After a long silence, Daenerys whispered, “Thank you for coming back tonight. I don’t know why you did, but thank you.”

“If I hadn’t…” Jon swallowed hard, the image of what he'd seen refusing to leave his mind. “Daenerys, I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if I hadn’t heard that noise.”

She closed her eyes, and two fresh tears slid down her cheeks. Jon caught one with his thumb - gently, instinctively - wiping it away, and she didn’t pull away.

“Do you want me to call Missy? Or Rakharo?” Jon asked softly, his focus returning to her safety. “Someone to stay with you tonight? I can call them and have them here in minutes.”

Daenerys shook her head slowly against the high back of the chair.

“No. Just… could you stay a little longer? Please. Don't leave me alone yet.”

Jon nodded immediately, his heart aching with protective tenderness.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t.

They sat together on the worn, but comfortable sofa, holding hands until her breathing evened out, until the last of her visible shaking eased, until the blanket slipped down her shoulders and she leaned just barely toward him - slightly touching, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to feel safe.

For the first time in years, Daenerys allowed herself to rest, her emotional guard finally dropping.

And Jon sat guard, watching the door and the window, his jaw set, his eyes burning with a resolve he had never felt so fiercely:

No one would hurt her again.

Not while he was alive to stop it.

Chapter Text

Daenerys woke on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of hay and Jon Snow. The familiar scent, a mix of clean cotton, pine, and something uniquely his, was a powerful anchor in the wake of the previous night’s terror.

Her eyes fluttered open to see him dozing upright in the armchair just across from her, head tipped back, curls mussed, one hand half-closed around nothing. He must’ve fallen asleep keeping watch.

Her chest tightened with a powerful, almost painful emotion. He hadn’t left her alone.

Slowly, she shifted, sitting up and pulling the rough wool blanket closer around her shoulders. The small movement stirred him; Jon blinked awake, shoulders tensing instantly before the fog cleared and he recognized her.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and sleep-rough, like gravel rolling over silk.

“Hey.” She pushed a strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear and tried to smile, finding it wobbly. “You stayed.”

He straightened slightly in the chair, running a hand over his face. “I wasn’t going to leave you after that. You know that, Dany.”

Her throat bobbed. Gratitude hit her so hard it felt like a physical weight, pressing against her sternum.

“I didn’t think I’d sleep,” she confessed softly. “I kept running through it all.”

“You needed rest more than anything,” Jon said, his gaze serious, tracing the faint lines of exhaustion under her eyes.

Daenerys hummed — a small, vulnerable sound. The silence stretched, companionable yet charged.

Jon hesitated only a moment before asking, “How are you feeling, truly?”

She drew in a long, measured breath. “Sore. Tired. Every muscle aches. But… better than last night. Thanks to you. I don’t know what could have happened if you didn’t show up.”

Jon nodded, his jaw briefly tightening, a flicker of residual anger passing through his eyes before he looked down.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “We should file a report against Daario. I’ll go with you. Today.”

Daenerys tensed immediately. “Jon, no. Absolutely not.”

“He assaulted you,” Jon insisted, leaning forward, his usual careful demeanor replaced by a stubborn resolve. “He can’t get away with that. What if he tries it with someone else? What if he comes back and tries it with you again?”

“Jon.” She met his eyes firmly, steeling herself against his protective intensity. “A report from me means a lawsuit from him. He’s rich, connected, and cruel. He’ll twist the story. You know how people talk about me here. ‘Dothraki widow.’ ‘Hot tempered.’ ‘Wild like her horses.’ ‘Financially desperate.’ He’ll use every stereotype to paint me as the unstable one, the liar, the aggressor.”

“He won’t win,” Jon countered, shaking his head.

“That’s not the point,” she said, her voice cracking a little, but she held steady. “I don’t want to be dragged through a public circus. I don’t want the school dragged through it. And I refuse to be defined by his violence. I want to move on. Not reopen wounds I just managed to close.”

Jon sat back, exhaling through his nose in a ragged sigh. It was clear he hated her answer, finding it insufficient retribution, but he respected her enough not to push further.

“Okay,” he finally said, the word heavy with reluctance. “If that’s what you want, I’ll drop it. But if he comes near you again, I swear to the old gods and the new, I won’t wait for the police to be involved.”

“I know,” she said, offering a small, grateful smile that softened the hard edge of their conversation. “Thank you, Jon. Truly.”

He nodded, his brow still furrowed with concern.

“Then let me help another way, let’s at least resolve the financially desperate part” he said after a few seconds of silence, his tone shifting from protector to focused colleague.

Daenerys stiffened, anticipating an offer of a loan. “Jon-”

“No, listen. Not charity. I mean it.” He leaned forward again, forearms braced on his knees, his eyes clear and earnest. “A business arrangement. Something real. An investment. Or a project that stands on its own merit.”

She blinked, confused by his sudden intensity. “I don’t want to accept your money just because you feel obligated. Last night doesn't change anything about my pride.”

“It’s not obligation,” Jon said, his gaze unwavering. “I’ve been thinking about this even before last night. I told my family at Winterfell as well, that I want to support you in exchange for you supporting me through my training. And after Missandei’s call to mom, it became clear that you could use the help. I want to help your school survive past my training. A real solution, not a temporary bandage.”

Her breath caught, the revelation silencing her. “Missy called Lyanna?”

He flushed slightly, a rare show of shyness. “Yeah, Missy reached out to my mom about a possible patronage and when we got talking, she asked why I was so invested in the school when I couldn’t have cared less about horses before.”

“And what did you say?” she pressed, holding her breath.

“That you deserve better than scraping by.” His voice softened, becoming almost tender, and he looked at the rustic farmhouse around them. “And that this place matters. The training you offer matters. You matter, Dany.”

A soft sound escaped her - something between a breath and a startled laugh. Her cheeks warmed, and she had to look down at the blanket for a moment.

“Jon…”

He lifted a shoulder, shy but earnest, waiting for her reaction.

“My family is willing to fund a proper breeding program for your horses,” he continued, speaking quickly before she could protest. “Carthac lines, Northern lines, whatever you think mixes best with your Dothraki stock. It’s an investment in a potentially profitable market. You run the entire operation, keep the majority of the profits. We’d only take a small equity - a genuine business share - and help with all the start-up costs for infrastructure and buying the initial stock. You can see, it’s really not charity.”

Daenerys stared at him, speechless. This was more than money; this was a vision. A path to long-term sustainability that didn't compromise her independence or her dignity.

And smart. And generous in a way that didn’t patronize.

“It could actually work,” she whispered, her mind already racing with the logistics. “This could pull us out of the hole, permanently.”

Jon smiled slightly, a genuine, relieved, and devastatingly handsome expression. “Yeah. I thought so too. We’ll draw up the paperwork with a solicitor, whenever you say the word.”

They looked at each other - really looked - and the air around them seemed to thicken and slow. The proximity, the shared vulnerability, and the immense shared accomplishment of this plan merged, deepening the moment.

Jon’s eyes flicked down to her lips.

Just once.

Daenerys’ breath hitched.

He leaned in. Slowly. Carefully. Giving her so much time to pull away. His hand lifted – hesitant - brushing a loose strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear, the warmth of his fingers sending a jolt down her spine.

Their faces were inches apart. The scent of pine and Jon Snow filled her senses. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it over the quiet morning sounds of the farm.

And then-

Daenerys pulled back. Not abruptly, not harshly - just a small shake of her head, eyes glistening with apology and conflict.

Jon froze, withdrawing instantly. “Sorry. I- I shouldn’t have-” He stood up, turning his back for a moment as if to put physical distance between them.

“No.” Her voice was gentle, the softest she had used all morning. “It’s not that I didn’t want to.”

Jon turned back, his expression a mixture of confusion and guarded hope.

Daenerys breathed out, shaky. “I just… I’m not ready. Not yet. And neither are you. Not while I’m still your instructor. Not while the school is in crisis. And certainly not the morning after-” Her voice wavered, remembering Daario’s hands on her, suddenly feeling extremely dirty from just the memory alone.

He swallowed hard, his eyes mirroring her understanding. “I understand.”

Daenerys gave him a faint, grateful smile. “I know you do. You’re the most decent man I’ve met in years.”

The near-kiss hovered between them, warm and fragile and full of promise - but neither reached for it again. Not this morning. Not yet.

Jon cleared his throat. “I should go home now so I can sort a few things out before our afternoon training. And I’ll start drafting the initial projections for the breeding program. We can go over the financial plan later today.”

“Okay.” She exhaled, leaning back against the couch. “Thank you, Jon. For everything.”

He stepped toward her, touching her shoulder lightly- a supportive, steadying gesture that spoke volumes. “Any time, Dany.”

He gave her a final, long look, then quietly left the farmhouse, pulling the door shut behind him.

***

A few moments later, Missandei burst into the farmhouse with a stack of invoices and a hopeful expression - which instantly collapsed when she saw Daenerys’ torn dress, the bruising at her wrists, and the exhausted slump of her body.

“Dany- what happened?”

Daenerys tried to sit straighter, hiding the bruises with the blanket. “It’s okay, Missy. I’m fine. It was Daario, but Jon was here. He appeared out of nowhere and stopped him.”

Missandei’s face drained of color, then flushed with immediate, fierce fury. “That filth. I should’ve known he'd pull something. I swear, if I see that man again-”

“Missy,” Daenerys said softly. “It’s over. I’m all right. I’m not filing a report, I just want it to be done.”

Missandei shot the closed door, then turned back to Dany. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left early yesterday, I should’ve been here-”

“Don’t apologize,” Daenerys said, reaching for her hand. “None of this is on you. It’s not your job to be responsible for me. If anyone is at fault, it’s my own stubbornness.”

Missandei hesitated- then her expression softened, becoming cautious, almost guilty.

“About that stubbornness,” Missandei said, taking a deep breath. “I know Jon most likely told you already, but I called Lyanna Stark yesterday. Before the attack. I told her about the financial situation and the danger of the bank repossession.”

Daenerys frowned, but the sharpness of her anger never came, it was replaced by a weary resignation. “I know. Jon mentioned it. I wish you hadn't, Missy.”

“I know you didn’t want me to. But you were drowning, Dany. Someone had to throw a rope, because you’d rather go down if that meant keeping your pride.”

Daenerys rubbed her forehead. “I didn’t want Jon’s family involved. It feels humiliating.”

“No, what’s humiliating is nearly dying because someone you don’t want to be in a relationship with thinks he owns you,” Missandei snapped, her loyalty burning bright. “Everything else is solvable, even your ridiculous pride.”

Daenerys blinked, startled by the rare sharpness in her friend’s tone.

Missandei softened, sitting beside her on the couch. “You can’t run this place on stubbornness alone. You can’t keep carrying the world by yourself.”

A long, heavy silence settled between them.

Missandei lowered her voice, her gaze direct and penetrating. “And you certainly can't avoid every feeling just because you’re afraid of repeating your past.”

Daenerys’ cheeks heated. “What are you talking about?”

“Jon,” Missandei said plainly, without preamble. “You can pretend this is about your career or the crisis, but what is really holding you back?”

Daenerys stared at her friend, momentarily speechless. “Missy-”

“You like him, Dany.”

“I-” Daenerys floundered. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything worthwhile is,” Missandei said simply. “But you haven’t looked at someone this way since Drogo. Not with that mix of fear and sheer hope.”

Daenerys’ throat closed. The memory of Drogo, her late husband, was still sacred, a gentle ghost she carried.

“Drogo will always be part of your heart,” Missandei said gently. “He gave you strength and the courage to start this life. But he’s gone, Dany. And you’re still here. You deserve safety. You deserve love. You deserve a life that isn't always a solitary struggle.”

Tears welled in Daenerys’ eyes, blurring the edges of the room. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to trust that someone won't end up hurting me again.”

Missandei leaned in and took her hands. “Then let someone stand beside you. Not behind you, where they can control you. Not above you, where they can judge you. Beside you. Jon Snow is a good man, Dany. You know that. He just proved it.”

Daenerys exhaled shakily, closing her eyes. Jon Snow’s face appeared in the darkness behind her eyelids- steady, kind, protective, careful with her in ways she didn’t know how to accept.

“I don’t know where this goes,” Daenerys murmured.

“You don’t have to,” Missandei replied, her voice firm. “Just don’t shut the door before you even try to open it.”

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight warmed the riding ring, spreading long golden beams across the sand. Daenerys was already there when Jon arrived for his training - brushing Rhaegal’s glossy flank, murmuring soft High Valyrian into his dark mane.

Jon slowed as he approached.

She looked peaceful like this; strong and soft at the same time. Her braid had become loose, a few silver strands hanging by her cheek. Rhaegal bumped her hip affectionately, and she laughed - a sound Jon wanted to hear more often, because it did something to him he was not yet willing to investigate deeper.

“Morning,” he said.

Daenerys turned to him, and her smile was small, tired, but unmistakably warm.

“Morning.”

He moved to her side, keeping his voice low as though not to disturb the serenity between her and the stallion.

“Rhaegal’s calmer today.”

She nodded. “He picks up on my mood. Today he decided not to be a stubborn ass.”

Jon grinned. “Lucky for us both.”

Daenerys handed him a brush, and for a moment their fingers brushed. They didn’t pull away immediately.

Jon met her gaze, a small, shared tension humming between them. “Ready to work?” she asked.

“Always.”

They brushed and tacked Rhaegal together with an easy rhythm. Their shoulders brushed now and then, neither moving away, both pretending not to notice.

“It seems like you woke up early,” Jon observed, glancing at the lingering shadows.

Daenerys sighed softly, running her hand along Rhaegal’s neck. “I didn’t sleep much. The Daario business… it was more unsettling than I let on.”

“I understand,” Jon said, his voice instantly grave. “Are you sure you’re okay to ride?”

“If I stop every time something bad happens, I’ll never move,” she replied, offering a shaky smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Riding is my therapy. Keeps me grounded.”

He simply nodded, his worry evident. He reached out, hesitating, then gently smoothed a stray lock of silver hair back from her face.

“Just promise me you’ll tell me if you need a break.”

Daenerys leaned into the touch for the briefest moment. “I promise. Thank you, Jon.”

“Now let us start!”

***

“You handled that sudden spook perfectly,” Daenerys commented as she adjusted the bridle. “Most beginners freeze and even though you’re not a beginner anymore, you did good.”

“You were there,” Jon said. “That made it easier.”

Her eyes softened, lingering on him longer than usual. “You’re learning faster than I expected.”

He looked down, ears warming. “Trying to impress the best instructor in all of Westeros.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes, blushing faintly. “Flattery doesn’t get you out of mucking stalls. Just so you know.”

Jon laughed. “I’d never dream of escaping that fate.”

“The strange thing is,” Daenerys mused as she checked the girth strap, “I expected you to be much more clumsy, frankly. All that swagger on screen, but here, you’re quiet, precise, diligent. Almost… gentle.”

Jon stopped brushing, looking up, a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I’m not playing a role here, Dany. This is just me.”

“I know,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “That’s what’s surprising.”

She mounted Rhaegal bareback and held out her hand. “Come on. You haven’t practiced balance riding since day two.”

Jon hesitated. “After what happened… are you sure-?”

“I’m sure,” she said softly. “I feel safe with you.”

Something in Jon’s chest tightened.

He swung up behind her, settling carefully - arms around her waist but not touching unless she moved. Rhaegal shifted under them, and Daenerys leaned back instinctively to steady herself.

Into him.

Jon’s breath caught.

Her hair brushed his cheek, and for a long, suspended moment, the world narrowed to shared warmth and the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

“Jon?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You’re holding your breath.”

He exhaled quickly. “Right. Sorry.”

Daenerys laughed under her breath, but she didn’t move away.

“Is it very different, being here, compared to the movie set?” she asked, her voice low against the rumble of Rhaegal’s slow walk.

“Night and day,” Jon admitted, his chin resting near her shoulder. “There, it’s all noise, cameras, a thousand people telling you what to do. Here… it’s quiet. Real.”

“You prefer this kind of real?”

“More than anything,” he confirmed. “No one’s trying to sell anything here. No one’s expecting me to be ‘The White Wolf’, it’s much simpler to be just… Jon.”

Daenerys tilted her head back slightly, her silver hair tickling his jaw. “I like Jon.”

He felt a sharp, unexpected rush of joy. “And I like Dany.”

They rode slow circles, her back resting lightly against his chest, his hands hovering near her hips in case she slipped.

“We should talk about your schedule,” Daenerys said abruptly, the change of topic jolting him.

“My schedule?”

“You’ll be leaving soon. Have you heard from your production company about their plans? My accountant needs to prepare for the loss of a paying client.” Her tone was light, but Jon detected a faint tremor.

“Not yet. I told them I need more time than originally planned. I want to be ready. Truly ready.” He tightened his arms, pulling her back against him a fraction, needing the connection for this serious conversation.

“It’s fine if you need to go, Jon. We agreed on a ten-weeks training anyway. I understand commitment to a career.”

“It’s not just the career,” he countered, his voice earnest. “It’s what I’m learning here. It matters. And… so does this. Being here. It grounds me.”

At one turn, their cheeks came close - too close - and Daenerys’ breath trembled.

“Dany…” Jon murmured.

Her eyes closed.

Their bodies leaned in-

“Jon Snow!”

A voice cracked through the air.

Both of them jolted. Rhaegal snorted. Jon slid off immediately, Daenerys gracefully dismounted beside him.

Davos.

He strode down from the gravel path toward the barn, stern as ever.

Daenerys touched Jon’s arm briefly - a quiet apology - then led Rhaegal toward the barn. Jon followed with her until they reached the stall.

“I think you are needed out there.” Daenerys muttered, her eyes narrowed at Davos’ retreating figure. “Just when there’s a moment of peace.”

“He’s probably just worried about the production schedule,” Jon lied smoothly, though he knew Davos’ focus was squarely on him, like always.

“No, it looks like that that man’s worry is personal,” Daenerys contemplated, pulling the saddle blanket off Rhaegal. “He watches over you like a hawk. You’re more than just a client to him, aren’t you?”

“He’s… a mentor. He’s been in my corner since I was a kid.”

“A very protective mentor,” she remarked, running her hand down Rhaegal’s back. “I’m sorry, Jon. Davos is a really good man, but he’s not exactly subtle.”

“It’s fine,” Jon said, trying to sound nonchalant, though his heart was still hammering from their closeness moments ago. “I should go see what he wants.”

As Daenerys guided Rhaegal inside, Davos arrived to the doorway.

“Morning, Daenerys.”

“Hello, Davos.” Dany responded as she led Rhaegal into the stall.

Davos tipped his head towards Jon. “Do you mind if I steal him for a minute?”

Dany smiled politely. “He is all yours.”

“Walk with me, lad.”

Jon shot Daenerys one last look before following Davos out of the barn.

***

The moment they were outside and alone, Davos crossed his arms.

“Tell me what happened with that perfumed peacock, Naharis.”

Jon blinked. “Daario?”

“Yes, Daario. The man whose beard looks like it was glued on by a toddler. I heard he tried to strangle Daenerys and you ended up in the middle of it, playing hero.”

Jon stiffened. “How-”

“I have ears and eyes everywhere,” Davos cut in. “And when one of the most renowned stable owners nearly gets raped, word travels.”

Jon looked away. “I just did what anyone would’ve done.”

Davos gave him a long, fatherly stare.

“No. You did what a good man would’ve done. And I’m very proud of you because of that.”

Then his tone hardened.

“But in your line of work? This is dangerous. One rumor - one photo - and suddenly the studio thinks you’re tied up in scandals. PR disasters don’t just hurt feelings. They cost careers.”

“The studio doesn’t own my life, Davos,” Jon argued, his voice tight with controlled anger. “She was in danger. I don’t regret helping her, and I won’t apologize for it.”

“No one’s asking you to apologize,” Davos countered, his voice rising slightly. “I’m asking you to think, Jon. You’re riding a wave right now. One mistake, one bad association, and that wave breaks. You have millions of dollars and countless jobs tied to your name.”

Jon clenched his jaw. “I couldn’t just let him hurt her. I wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror.”

“I know.” Davos sighed. “And I’m not blaming you. As I said, I’m proud of you for what you did, but I’m warning you.”

He looked Jon over, noting the way his hands were balled into fists. “You’ve grown attached to this place, to her. I see it. It’s unprofessional, Jon.”

“It’s human, Davos.”

“Human doesn’t pay the bills or keep you on the A-list,” Davos snapped back.

He paused, lowering his voice.

“Tell me truthfully - what do you think of Daenerys?”

Jon hesitated.

“I think… she has a good heart.”

Davos scoffed.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you staring at her good heart.”

Jon choked. “Davos-”

“Don’t insult my intelligence, lad. I saw you two on that horse just now. Looked like a romantic shot for a movie poster.”

Jon’s face went crimson. “It was a training exercise! Balance riding!”

“With your chin practically resting on her shoulder? I know a few things about balance riding, Jon. That was not purely training and you know that as well.”

“She’s gorgeous, lad. Anyone can see it. She’s got that wild Pocahontas-meets-Mulan shit going for her. Hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial even when she’s knee-deep in horse shit.”

Jon dragged a hand down his face.

“Why are you describing her like a Disney warrior princess?”

“I’m painting the picture,” Davos said dryly. “Point is: she’s a distraction. And distractions ruin careers.”

“She’s not a distraction,” Jon argued, his voice firm. “She’s the reason I enjoy being here. She’s the best part of this whole job.”

Davos sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And that, Jon, is exactly the problem. You can’t be emotionally invested in the talent. It never ends well. I’ve seen it a hundred times in this business.”

“But she’s not ‘talent.’ She’s my instructor.”

“She’s a woman you’re attracted to, who’s now indebted to you for saving her life. That’s a dangerous mixture, son. She’s got issues, Jon. Scars. Emotional baggage you don’t need right now.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “And you know all this how?”

“I do my research, same as any proper agent would. She’s been through a lot. She’s not looking for a temporary Hollywood romance. She’s looking for something serious, stable. Something you, frankly, can’t offer right now.”

Jon swallowed hard, but didn’t argue.

Davos clapped his shoulder.

“Keep your focus, Jon Snow. Or you’ll lose everything.”

He walked away, leaving Jon staring at the barn door, torn between duty and the silver-haired woman inside.

***

The day after, Daenerys met Lyanna Stark in the office. Papers filled the table - breeding charts, cost breakdowns, Essosi bloodline notes.

Lyanna inspected everything with sharp eyes.

“These three Essosi stallion lines crossed with your Dothraki mares could create a profitable endurance breed,” she said.

Daenerys nodded. “They’ve always had strong bone structure and speed. I’d love to expand the breeding program into that direction.”

“You should.” Lyanna leaned back. “And that’s why I’m willing to invest.”

Daenerys looked at her with a faint blush. “I know I said it already, but I feel like I need to make it clear. I really am grateful for this joint venture. Without this, without you I’m not sure we could keep the school afloat.”

Lyanna smirked. “You shouldn’t be thankful to me. It was all Jon’s idea.”

Daenerys blinked - then flushed.

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

Lyanna’s smile softened.

“You didn’t know because he didn’t want you to feel… indebted.”

“He spent an entire night going over your business plan with me, Dany,” Lyanna continued, her eyes holding Daenerys’s. “He sees the value in what you do. He truly believes in you, not just as an instructor, but as a business owner. He was really passionate about it.”

“He never mentioned a word.”

“That’s Jon. He does things quietly, without demanding credit. Unlike some other people you’ve had to deal with lately.” Lyanna gave a pointed look, referring to Daario.

Daenerys’ throat tightened.

Lyanna folded her hands.

“Dany… Jon cares about you. It’s clear as day. And I’m glad. You’re one of the finest people I have the good fortune to know.”

“He’s an actor, Lyanna. I know their type. They leave, they move on to the next location, the next co-star. This thing, it’s probably just temporary for him.”

“Is it? He’s refusing to set a firm departure date. He’s actively looking for ways to stay connected to this place. He changed his entire shoot schedule for this role, and now he’s changing his life and his job for you. That’s more than a temporary romance.”

Daenerys’ voice was small.

“But?”

“But if you’re not interested,” Lyanna said gently, “don’t let him build hope. Don’t lead him somewhere you won’t follow.”

Daenerys looked away toward the paddocks.

“It’s not that I’m uninterested,” she whispered.

“Then what?”

Daenerys swallowed.

“It scares me. After everything… after Drogo, after Rhaego… caring for someone again terrifies me.”

Lyanna’s expression softened with genuine warmth.

“The things worth having usually do.”

“You deserve happiness, Dany. Lyanna continued. ”You deserve to be safe, truly safe. Jon’s a complicated man, but he’s solid. He’s my son, I know him better than anyone. And I’m telling you, he’s not going to hurt you.”

“I know he won’t hurt me,” Daenerys said, her eyes glistening. “But what if I hurt him? What if I let him in, and then I’m not strong enough to love him properly? What if I lose him, too?”

Lyanna reached across the table and covered Daenerys’ hand with her own. “You’ll never know if you don’t try. Don’t let the ghosts of your past prevent you from having a future, dear.”

Daenerys squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. “It’s been so long since I let myself feel this way.”

“Then it’s time to start living again.”

Chapter Text

The table in Daenerys’ office was buried under stacks of breeding charts, diagrams, and maps of Essos’ horse-provinces. Rakharo had pinned a chart showing muscle development to the wall; Kovarro was flipping through lineages with a squint of exaggerated seriousness; Missandei was jotting down numbers almost too fast to read. Dany rolled out another long parchment. The afternoon sun, filtering through the high, arched window, cast long, dusty gold shafts across the meticulously organized chaos, illuminating the density of their work.

“This one,” she said, tapping it, “is the Qohor Strider. Good endurance, good recovery time, but they don’t adapt well to cold climates.”

“Our winters would break their spirit,” Kovarro said thoughtfully. “But crossed with something hardier…” He gestured vaguely toward a map section depicting the mountainous regions beyond the school's territory.

“The Northern Warmbloods,” Missy suggested.

“They’re slower,” Dany countered their argument. “Strong, yes, but they don’t have the speed we need for early sales. We need something eye-catching within a year.” She drew a small, impatient circle on the Qohor chart with her fingertip.

Rakharo leaned over the table. “What of the Red Sand Runners? Small, fast, stubborn.”

“Too stubborn,” Dany said. “And their temperament makes them terrible for anything but light riders. It would be nearly impossible to sell.”

“So we need a sire with strong bone density,” Missy summarized, “but a finer frame for speed.”

“And a mare line with good temperament,” Dany added.

Kovarro grinned. “So… three perfect horses.” He sighed theatrically, as if the task were already finished and exhausting.

Missandei sighed. “Which will cost… a frightening amount of money.”

“But,” Daenerys said, straightening with a spark in her eyes, “if the first foals are impressive, we can sell them for enough to stabilize everything.” The determined look in her eyes brooked no argument, a familiar glint of the famed Khaleesi resurfacing.

Missy nodded. “But the bloodlines have to be chosen precisely. If we improvise, we risk a wasted breeding season. And we cannot waste anything right now. Especially not several months of time.” Her tone was quietly serious, the words delivered with the weight of someone who managed their limited funds.

There was a long pause. Nobody around the table talked for a while.

Rakharo rubbed the back of his neck. In the end he broke the silence with a practical argument that was grounded in the realities of the stable. “Khaleesi, we cannot choose a sire from scrolls.”

“We need to evaluate them,” Kovarro agreed. “Watch them run. Inspect their build. See the way they move, the temperament in their eyes. How they feel under our hands or in the saddle.” He mimicked a horse's trot with his hands, demonstrating the necessary physical assessment.

“And the mares,” Missandei added. “Temperament especially. A single bad match can ruin an entire line and it will be even harder to come back from a failure.” She tapped a column of numbers, highlighting the statistical risk.

“And we all know that Essos has the highest-quality sires,” Dany murmured, looking down at the maps. “The best breeders. The oldest lines.” She was tracing the route from their current location, a journey of both necessity and daunting distance.

Silence settled, heavy and inevitable. The soft rustle of parchment and the ticking of an old clock were the only sounds in the office.

Missandei finally said what they were all thinking: “You need to go.”

Dany closed her eyes for a moment. She ran a hand briefly through her silver hair, a gesture of weariness.

Kovarro added gently, “No one else can negotiate these deals. Or judge the lines as you can.”

Rakharo pointed to the numbers. “And if we delay, Lyanna’s investment is wasted, because the breeding season will be over.”

Daenerys let out a slow breath - excitement and dread mixing in her chest. The weight of the school's future settled on her shoulders once more.

“So,” she said, folding her arms. “A few weeks. Essos. Multiple farms, several negotiations, and selecting three foundation horses.”

“Yes,” Missandei said softly. “It’s the only real way forward.” She gave a small, encouraging smile.

Dany tried to smile, but it came out crooked. “Perfect. A brilliant plan. And terrible timing.”

Missandei noticed her hesitation. “They’ll manage without you,” she said gently. “Kovarro can train Jon. The school will keep running.”

Daenerys looked down. “It’s not the school I’m worried about,” she murmured. She started picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.

Rakharo and Kovarro tactfully exchanged glances and excused themselves to check the stables, leaving the two women alone. They quietly gathered their papers, recognizing the shift in atmosphere.

Missandei folded her arms, smirking faintly. “It’s Jon.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes, flustered. “I just… we were finally-”

“Finally what?” Missy nudged.

Dany sighed, sinking into the chair. The sudden slump of her shoulders showed the tension she’d been carrying. “Finally finding some kind of rhythm. Something warm. Something-”

She stopped herself.

“Something real?” Missandei finished.

Daenerys didn’t answer, but her silence was loud enough. She stared blankly at the map of Essos, the distance suddenly feeling vast and insurmountable.

“I feel ridiculous,” Dany whispered. “The moment I let myself think… maybe something could happen - I have to leave for weeks.”

Missy knelt beside her. “If it’s real, a few weeks won’t destroy it. And if it isn’t, leaving won’t change that either.” Missandei’s hand rested lightly on Dany’s knee, a familiar comfort.

Dany hesitated, her fingers tightening around a chart. “I don’t want to lose whatever is growing between us.”

“Then don’t,” Missandei said simply. “Go handle the things you need to handle - and trust that he’ll still be here.”

Daenerys’ eyes softened with a mix of hope and fear. She looked toward the door, imagining the figure of the man who had unexpectedly grounded her.

***

The training ring was unusually quiet. Even Rhaegal was subdued, sensing something in Daenerys’ demeanor. A thin, silver crescent moon was already visible in the twilight sky above the open arena.

They worked through a few commands, but Dany’s focus kept slipping. Jon noticed - he noticed everything - but he didn’t press. He was acutely aware of her restlessness, the way she kept glancing towards the main stable house.

Finally, she stopped beside him. The gravel crunched beneath their boots as she stepped closer. “Jon… I should tell you something.”

His hand stilled on Rhaegal’s reins. “Alright.”

“I’ll be away for a while.”

His heartbeat flickered. “Away?”

“Essos,” she said, keeping her tone businesslike. “For the breeding project. We need to secure contracts and evaluate potential horses in person.” She avoided meeting his eyes, focusing instead on the dragon-shaped head of Rhaegal’s saddle.

He nodded slowly, jaw tightening just a fraction. A brief look of something unreadable - disappointment or concern - flashed and vanished. “How long is ‘a while’?”

“A few weeks. Maybe more.”

Jon looked down at Rhaegal’s mane, brushing a hand through it. He took a slow, deliberate breath, visibly composing himself. “Right. Makes sense. You’re the best person for it.”

Dany studied his face, trying to read him - trying to find disappointment, frustration… anything. But Jon had drawn those emotions tight to his chest. His composure was frustratingly perfect, a shield she couldn't penetrate.

“Kovarro will take over your training,” she said. “He’s excellent. You’ll… finish your training plan together. He’ll make sure you’re ready for your role and you can start filming.”

Jon gave a small, polite smile. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure he will. He is almost as good as you are. I’m sure I’ll be in good hands and it might not hurt to learn from another trainer as well. New perspectives and all that.”

“Right,” she said softly.

A beat passed. The silence between them felt louder and more complicated than any conversation. It felt like there was something else both of them wanted to say. Something neither dared.

Jon cleared his throat. “I mean… you have to do what you think is best. For yourself. For the school.”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I suppose I do.”

He forced a light chuckle. “And it’s not like I’m going anywhere.” He tried to inject a casualness into his tone, but it fell flat.

Daenerys smiled at that, though it carried uncertainty. “Good,” she said quietly. “I’d… like if you stayed.”

Another silence - charged, tense, but unspoken. The air seemed thick with unsaid promises and hidden anxieties.

“When are you leaving?” Jon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The day after tomorrow. This is our last training together.”

“Safe travels then, I guess.” Jon said.

“Thank you,” she replied.

And that was all. She turned, her walk back to the stables feeling heavy and final.

***

Lyanna watched Jon blow steam off his coffee, shoulders hunched, eyes distant. The little café in the downtown of King’s Landing was warm and smelled of cinnamon and woodsmoke, a stark contrast to Jon's mood.

“You’re brooding,” she said.

“I’m not brooding.”

“You have the Stark Brood Face.”

Jon rubbed his forehead. “Is that a real thing?”

“Oh yes. Your grandfather had it. Your uncle has it. You, unfortunately, inherited the deluxe edition.”

Jon tried - and failed - to smile. He pushed the mug away, the coffee untouched.

Lyanna softened. “Tell me.”

He hesitated. He looked around the café, as if confirming no one else could hear. “It’s… Daenerys. She’s leaving.”

Lyanna nodded, unsurprised. “The trip to Essos?”

“You knew?”

“She told me a few days ago what they were discussing with her team and that she might need to go. She didn’t want to announce it to anyone until it was certain.”

Jon stared into his coffee. “She said Kovarro will take over my training.” He lifted the mug, then set it down again without a single sip, unable to focus.

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He exhaled. “I thought… there was something happening between us. Something real. And now I’m not sure, maybe I just imagined all of it.”

Lyanna sipped her tea calmly. “Did she tell you she wasn’t interested?”

“No.”

“Did she act like she wasn’t?”

“No. Not exactly. At least it didn’t seem like it. She didn’t seem indifferent.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Jon ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The gesture was one of deep confusion and vulnerability. “I just… don’t know what she wants. With me. Or at all. And Davos told me not to get distracted, and maybe he’s right, maybe I’m sabotaging myself with having a crush on my riding instructor and maybe this is all just… complicated timing.”

Lyanna’s expression sharpened. She leaned forward, her eyes losing their soft humor. “Davos doesn’t know her like I do. He can say whatever he wants, but he’s only speculating and his perspective is tainted with all those fake Hollywood relationships around him.”

Jon looked up.

“Daenerys isn’t… casual, Jon. Not after everything she’s survived. She doesn’t let people in easily. And she certainly doesn’t flirt with someone she doesn’t feel something for.”

Jon’s chest tightened. A flicker of relief mixed with the anxiety in his eyes.

Lyanna continued softly, “She lost a husband she truly loved. She lost a child. Yet, she continued to run this school out of pure grief and stubbornness. She has spent years surviving for other people instead of for herself.” Her voice was laced with a deep, personal understanding of Dany's past.

Jon swallowed, throat tight.

“So yes,” Lyanna said, “she may pull back. She may hesitate. She may even run halfway across the world to buy horses before letting herself fall for someone again.”

“Do you think she’s running from me?” Jon asked quietly.

“No,” Lyanna said. “I think she’s scared of letting herself want something that isn’t practical or necessary.” She reached across the table and placed her hand over his.

“And me… I’m not practical.”

Lyanna smiled sadly. “No. You’re important. That’s so much harder.”

Jon leaned back, absorbing her words. The noise of the busy café faded around him. “So what do I do?”

“You give her time,” Lyanna said. “You let her build what she needs to feel safe. And when she returns, you show her that you haven’t gone anywhere. That you’re not planning to go anywhere.”

Jon looked out the window, hope flickering in his expression. The heavy weight on his chest seemed to lessen slightly. “She’s worth waiting for,” he murmured.

Lyanna squeezed his hand. “Yes,” she said. “She is.” She then motioned to his coffee. "Now drink that before it gets too cold. You’re going to need your energy if you’re to keep up with Kovarro’s routines."

Chapter Text

Kovarro already had Rhaegal moving at a loose canter across the training ring when Jon arrived. Morning sun spilled through the slats of the roof, painting Rhaegal’s coat in warm bronze.

“You are late, Snow,” Kovarro called.

Jon checked his watch. “It’s seven minutes early.”

“Which means three minutes late,” Kovarro corrected with a broad grin. He straightened from where he’d been leaning on the center post. “Daenerys measures time differently.”

Jon snorted, but it eased something in his chest. "Is that the official Targaryen time standard now?" Jon asked, looping his reins over the hook. "Should I arrive everywhere at least ten minutes early?"

Kovarro chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "It is the only one that matters. Now, saddle up. We have work to do."

The session began with groundwork, then saddle work. Rhaegal was responsive, lighter on the reins than ever. Kovarro observed Jon ride for several minutes, nodding faintly. “You have improved,” he said. “Two months ago, you looked like a sack of potatoes tied to a chair.”

Jon raised a brow. “You’re getting poetic.”

“I am always poetic,” Kovarro said seriously. "It is a talent I was born with. Like my ability to make you sweat profusely."

Jon pulled Rhaegal into a perfect halt at the wall. "I'm not sweating. That's just a healthy glow."

"Of course," Kovarro agreed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "A healthy, seven-minutes-late glow." He paused, watching Jon adjust his seat. "You finally learned to breathe, too. A good rider breathes with the horse, not against it."

They worked through transitions, posture corrections, and confidence exercises. When Jon finally dismounted to cool Rhaegal down, Kovarro leaned against the rail. “You have only two weeks left,” he said. “Maybe a little more.” Jon held Rhaegal’s reins gently, stroking the gelding’s neck. Rhaegal nickered softly, nudging Jon's shoulder.

“I know.”

“It is fast, hm?”

“Too fast.” Jon looked out towards the pasture watching a grazing foal.

Kovarro gave him a sharp, knowing look. He crossed his powerful arms over his chest.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

Jon looked away. He stared at the way the light caught the dust motes dancing in the air of the ring.

Kovarro’s tone shifted, softer. "We will miss you, Snow. It has truly been an honor to train you. And thank you.”

Jon blinked. “For what?”

“For the breeding project. For bringing Lyanna into it. For giving Daenerys hope she did not know she could ask for.”

“I didn’t do anything special.”

“You did everything.” Kovarro’s voice carried weight. He pushed himself off the rail and took a slow step closer. "You showed her that not everyone expects something in return. You made her believe that the school could continue. That she would not have to carry it alone.”

Jon swallowed.

“I just… wanted to help.” He gently ran his hand down Rhaegal's damp shoulder. "It's a beautiful place. It would be a crime if it ended because of the financials."

Kovarro’s dark eyes softened. "She thinks so too. But thinking and knowing are different things."

“She is a great leader,” he continued. "Perhaps the best I have ever known. She holds herself to a terrible standard. A great rider. A great trainer. But sometimes she forgets she is a person as well. You remind her.”

Jon felt heat crawl up his neck. He focused intently on checking Rhaegal's girth, though it was already loosened.

He cleared his throat. “You’ve known her since… Drogo?”

Kovarro nodded. "Since she was a girl. A young khaleesi, lost and unsure of her power. We all rode together in Drogo’s khalasar.”

Jon frowned. “Khalasar?”

Kovarro smiled faintly. "It sounds much better when you hear the horses’ hooves drumming out the rhythm. Like thunder following the wind. But it’s an old word from our people. A kind of tribe. A riding company. A brotherhood that followed a leader - a khal. Drogo was our khal. Fierce. Loyal. He loved Daenerys more than anything.”

Jon stayed silent. He waited, knowing this was an important story, a kind of necessary history. He could hear the affection and the pain in Kovarro's voice.

“When he died,” Kovarro went on, his gaze distant, “we feared she would fall apart. But she rebuilt herself. She rebuilt all of us. This school… it is not just a place. It is her heart.”

Jon’s chest tightened painfully. "She puts everything into it," Jon whispered, the words barely audible. "She can't lose this."

“No, she deserves peace,” Kovarro said. “And loyalty. And someone who sees her - truly sees her for who she is.” He looked directly at Jon, the meaning plain in his stare. "She is not easy to love, Jon Snow, but she is worth the effort."

Before Jon could answer, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Jon stepped away, wiping sweat from his brow. He quickly checked the caller ID, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. Davos. The way the screen flashed felt too aggressive.

“Davos? I just finished training-”

“Turn on the news, google the riding school!” Davos said. His voice was clipped, urgent. “Right now.” The static on the line was almost as loud as the frantic edge in Davos’s voice. "Do it, Jon! Don't argue!"

Jon typed the name of the school into the search bar and froze.

His hand, still holding Rhaegal’s reins, tightened into a fist. He looked at Kovarro, whose expression had instantly hardened. He didn’t even hang up - he just ran. He dropped the reins, trusting Kovarro to handle Rhaegal, and bolted for the office, his heart hammering against his ribs. The gravel scattered behind his boots.

***

Jon sprinted back across the yard toward the farmhouse office, his boots pounding gravel. The sound was deafeningly loud in the sudden, terrible quiet of the morning. He felt a sharp stitch in his side but ignored it.

“Missandei!” he shouted before he even reached the door. Missandei whirled around, startled. She was just setting down a mug of tea, and her eyes were wide with alarm.

“Jon? What’s-?” He shoved his phone toward her. “Daario went to the press.” He was breathing hard, hands braced on his knees to catch his breath. "Davos told me... that it’s on the news." It took only seconds for her to read the headline, and her entire body went rigid. Her tea mug clattered onto the desk. Her face drained of color.

“Influential patron claims riding school unsafe -

Actor Jon Snow ‘Manipulated and Endangered’ by Instructor” Then the video started. Daario’s perfectly groomed face filled the screen, dripping false sincerity. His suit looked expensive, a tailored shade of gray that screamed wealth. His eyes, however, looked cold and calculating. He managed to look sincere and predatory at the same time.

“I only want to protect people,” Daario said smoothly. "Safety is paramount. It is my duty to the public and to my friend, Jon Snow. We must hold these people accountable."

“Daenerys Targaryen became obsessive.” He went on. “She forced Jon Snow into risky drills to show off. He was nearly thrown - I saw it myself. When I confronted her, she had him attack me. It was a shocking, unprovoked assault, a clear sign of the toxic environment here. I was merely trying to reason with her."

I worry for Jon. And for the people in Daenerys Targaryen’s care.” Missandei stared, horrified. Her mouth was slightly open, a soundless gasp caught in her throat. She closed her eyes for a brief, agonizing moment.

“He’s… he’s implying she abused you. Used you. Endangered you. This is - this is vile. He is twisting the narrative completely. He makes himself the hero and her the villain. He's weaponizing your relationship with her."

Jon’s hands shook with anger. He snatched the phone back, his knuckles white. The video of Daario was a grotesque distortion of the truth.

“She’s in Essos. She doesn’t even know this is happening.”

“He waited until she was gone. He planned this. He knows she can't defend herself immediately." Missandei added.

She snapped into action, grabbing her bag and the office keys. The shock was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective urgency. She checked the door was locked. “We go to Davos," she said. “Now. We can't waste a second feeling sorry for ourselves. We need a strategy. Get your keys, Jon."

***

Davos’ office was chaos. It felt small and suddenly loud, filled with the harsh glow of screens and the smell of old coffee. Grenn had three screens open. One showed the live feed of the Daario interview, looping. Another displayed social media trends.

Ed was swearing at a news aggregator. "He's using the word 'cult,' Davos! A cult! The comments section is a nightmare!"

Melisandre calmly highlighted lines on a legal pad like she was preparing a sermon. She looked entirely unfazed by the surrounding panic. Her focus was absolute.

Davos looked up the moment Jon and Missandei burst in. His face was grim, etched with lines of stress. He had a pencil clenched between his teeth. “Good,” he said. He didn't waste time on greetings. "Shut the door. Everyone stay calm. We need all hands.”

Jon paced, adrenaline still burning through him. He felt like he needed to run another mile just to burn off the restless energy. He rubbed his temples.

“He’s lying about everything. He’s flipping the whole thing around-”

“We know,” sighed Davos, but it didn’t even reach Jon’s ears, he continued without hearing it."We have the truth! I can tell what really happened - Daario assaulting Daenerys, trying to rape her and me stepping in"

“We know,” Davos said once again. He held up a hand, cutting Jon off gently but firmly. "But you attacking him is still the headline right now. And the story’s spreading fast. Daario’s got enough friends in the media to make it stick unless we hit back.”

"The truth is slow, Jon. Lies move at the speed of light. Our job is to slow the lie down.", Melisandre added from the other end of the table.  

Missandei sat down, already opening her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, accessing files and contact lists.

“What’s the plan?” Davos pointed at Grenn.

“Press conference. ASAP. Jon and Daenerys both need statements. Clear, clean, controlled. We need to control the narrative, not react to it."

Jon stiffened. The thought of being publicly interrogated made his muscles tense. "I don't do public speaking and Dany is in Essos.”

“She can send a video statement,” Melisandre said. “Short. Calm. Professional. A message of confidence and safety from the woman herself. It must be immediate. She must look poised and unbothered."

Missandei winced. “She hates being on camera.” "She finds it invasive. It will take some convincing."

“Doesn’t matter,” Davos said. He slammed his hand lightly on the desk for emphasis. “If she stays silent, she looks guilty. We have to beat the narrative before it sets like concrete. Her silence will be interpreted as an admission."

Jon exhaled shakily. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "Someone has to call her, then."

“What about witnesses?” Missandei asked. “People who trained with us? Students? Staff?”

“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Grenn said, typing rapidly. “We’re building a list of every public figure, influencer, stunt performer, anyone with a social media presence who’s ever taken a course at the school and didn’t die.”

“Which is,” Ed added, “every single one of them.” He threw his hands up in a gesture of exasperation at the stupidity of the situation. "We need to flood the zone with positive accounts."

Missandei nodded. “Dany keeps meticulous safety records. We can use those. Dates, times, signed documents, emergency protocols. Everything is logged. We can release the full safety audit."

Melisandre looked up, eyes sharp. She set down her pen, giving the room her full attention. She pointed to Jon. “And we need positive testimonials. Videos if possible. Written statements at the very least. Jon, you will be the most important testimonial. Authentic voices are the only things that can drown out Daario's manufactured sincerity."

Jon clenched his jaw. The injustice of it all was a bitter taste in his mouth. He felt the weight of being the central figure in this lie.

“She’s the safest instructor I’ve ever met. This is insane.”

“That’s why we have to get ahead of it,” Davos said, stepping closer. He rested a hand on Jon's shoulder, his grip firm. He leaned in conspiratorially.

“And Jon - listen to me carefully. This is the most critical part, you have to stay professional, you cannot let this look like a romance scandal.”

“Daario is already pushing the idea that you’re infatuated,” he went on. “That she manipulated you and your feelings.”

Jon’s stomach dropped. The blood seemed to rush from his face. He felt exposed. “I’m… she’s not-”

“I know,” Davos said. “But public opinion doesn’t care. So until we fix this, you keep it cold. Professional. No comments about your personal feelings. Understand?”

“You are a student. She is your instructor. The relationship is strictly mentor-mentee. That is the entire story. No one can hint at anything more."

Jon nodded, throat tight. He swallowed hard, fighting down the surge of protective anger. "Professional," he repeated, the word tasting like ash.

Davos clapped his shoulder. “Good man. Now let’s save your career - and her school.” They rolled into formation: phones dialing. The low murmur of urgent conversations filled the room. Ed was already on the line with a PR contact.

Lists forming. Grenn's keyboard clicking like rapid-fire artillery, compiling every success story.

Draft statements being written. Missandei and Melisandre bent over the same screen, editing lines, removing anything that sounded defensive.

A press conference outline taking shape. A huge whiteboard was dragged into the center of the room, labeled 'COUNTER-ATTACK PLAN' in angry red marker.

And through it all, Jon’s only thought was: How is Dany going to take this? He knew this made-up scandal would hurt her more than any training fall ever could.

He pulled his own phone out, needing to be the one to tell her, to cushion the blow.