How We Heal

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12243456.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Relationship: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Grey
Worm/Missandei, Gilly (ASoIaF)/Samwell Tarly
Character: Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister, Davos Seaworth,
Arya Stark, Sansa Stark, Bran Stark, Samwell Tarly, Missandei
(ASoIaF), Grey Worm, Jamie Lannister, Varys (ASoIaF), Meera Reed,
Howland Reed, Gilly (ASoIaF), Gendry Waters, Bronn (ASoIaF), Ghost
(ASoIaF), Drogon (ASoIaF), Rhaegal (ASoIaF), Tormund Giantsbane,
Edd Tollett, Night King (Game of Thrones), Brienne of Tarth, Podrick
Payne
Additional Tags: Jonerys, Boatsex, The smut that was promised, lots of feels, You may
cry once or twice, Winterfell, jonerys trash, A targling is coming, there
will be angst, And a few cliffhangers, The prince or princess who was
promised, Ghost and Dany bonding, Dragons, Dragon Riders, Jon
Snow is a Targaryen, Targaryen Restoration, Jon's a dragonrider, Battle
for the Dawn, Children of the Forest, Green Men, Red Priestess,
Lightbringer, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complete, season 8 fix-it,
starts at the end of s7- canon divergent thru the end of 8, What
Should've Been
Language: English
Collections: Discerning Tarts, AU of GoT Seasons 7 and/or 8, my heart is here
Stats: Published: 2017-10-02 Completed: 2019-04-25 Chapters: 22/22 Words:
135267

How We Heal
by justwanderingneverlost

Summary

What was intended to be some love-filled Jonerys drabbles, but has turned into a full blown
S8 canon adventure complete with romance, dragons, drama, angst, politics, prophecies,
and the Battle for the Dawn. Fluff, smut, and all the feels still included.

Notes

This is my first Jonerys fic though I've been in the fanfic world for years in different
fandoms. I may or may not move my other stuff over here at some point, but for now it'll be
all Jonerys. This will be a multi chapter fic, not sure how many chapters yet, probably
around 6 or 7. These two captured my heart so completely I couldn't not write about them. I
still don't feel like I've done them justice, but I tried. Hope you enjoy!

I am not the first person you loved.

You are not the first person I looked at with a mouthful of forevers. We have both known
loss like the sharp edges of a knife. We have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin.
Our love came unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up on asking love to come. I think that has to be part of its
miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms will bandage and
we will press promises between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. I will write novels to the scar of your
nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe the way it feels
to have finally, finally found you.

And I will not be afraid of your scars.

I know sometimes it’s still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection, but please
know: whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sun or the nights you collapse
into my lap your body broken into a thousand questions, you are the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.

Clementine von Radics, “Mouthful of Forevers”

 Offer me my deathless death

Jon’s hand is shaking as it hovers above the intricately carved sigil on her door. He feels
something akin to the tight coil of excitement and apprehension he gets before battle deep within
his gut. His life will forever be changed once he allows his knuckles to rap against the wood.

It changed the moment you laid eyes on her, you fool. You've been lost ever since. But a Queen like
her deserves a king so act like the king you claim to be.

One more breath… Gods be good.

Three soft knocks sound against her door. He needn't have done so. She knew he was there, her
ears picking up his approach, recognizing his steps, already so familiar. She felt him too,
hesitating, anxiety filling the air around her, and maybe, even in...her blood?

No, not possible. And yet...

Less than a year ago she feared she would never feel again, that her heart was closed, shut off from
the world. And now...now there was Jon Snow.

She's not sure when exactly it began–when their eyes met for the first time–in the cave, when
Drogon accepted him, or maybe when he left her standing on the shore feeling more alone than
she’d ever felt. By the time she watched him fall through the ice she knew she’d been wrong about
her heart, so terribly wrong. No matter when it began it still leaves her unsettled. Never before has
she been so aware of another’s presence or their absence. All she knows is The King in the North is
much more than the stubborn, arrogant man he first appeared and he has come to mean more to her
than any man should.

Turning from her papers, she brushes the non-existent wrinkles from her night skirts, then smooths
her hair even though Missandei brushed it to a silky shine not half an hour ago. She curses herself
for acting the silly girl as she walks to the door and opens it.

And there he is, stealing her breath and stopping her heart. His handsome face, usually so somber
and serious, holds a crippling tenderness, asking for something they both have refused to put words
to. Those dark eyes, the black pools that seem to always hold the weight of the world in them, stare
at her with more emotions than she can name, but none of them hide the heat growing in their
depths. She wants nothing more than to drown in their burning darkness. To drown in him.

Everything about him makes her weak.

She pushes the door then drops her hand, silently bidding him to enter.

He needs no other invitation, his blood now coursing with the rare boldness only she seems to
inspire in him. Eyes locked with hers, he steps inside her room and shuts the door, the latch
clicking into place, harsh against the silence between them. Every word he planned to say feels
pointless at the vision she is, along with the air in his lungs.

Her silver hair is loose and tumbling like waves over her shoulders and back, nearly reaching her
waist. He’s known she was young from the moment he laid eyes on her, but like this, her youth has
never been more apparent. All of her hard edges are gone, replaced with a softness so sweet it's
almost painful. The filmy nightgown she’s wearing only adds to her allure. It does nothing to hide
her curves from his eyes, the candle light streaming through it heightening her own unearthly glow.
Every time he’s looked at her he’s sworn she wasn't real, now he believes it more so than ever.
She's the most beautiful sight his eyes have ever seen. His heart aches behind its scar, seeming to
urge him closer to her with its every beat.

The battle he’s been fighting within him for weeks, turns, whether it's in his favor or not, he doesn't
know, but it propels him forward, spine straight as his sword, determination as strong as the steel
it's welded from.

Dany tries to will her own heart to slow and her breath not to catch. She’s attempted to control her
response every time she’s seen him, to keep her queenly mask firmly in place, not to let him, or
anyone else know of her attraction. She probably failed many times, she knows she's failing now.

There's never been a man more beautiful.

His wild, raven hair isn't tied back in its usual warriors knot, but loose about his face, the curls
glinting as they catch the candlelight. They’re damp. He bathed before coming to see her. She can
almost feel the soft, cool strands slipping through her fingers. He’s not weighed down by his heavy
fur cloak or thick armor either. While not as distracting as his bare, bruised and scarred chest, the
soft linen shirt and leather britches fitted tight to his form come very close, allowing her eyes a
taste of what's hidden beneath.

This man moving towards her is not ice, but fire. Not the shy, reserved, or painfully respectful man
he’s been for weeks. No, tonight he is stepping into the title she knows he never wanted but lives
up to so well.

King in the North.

He’s done with shifting around, exchanging words filled with hidden meanings, and stolen glances.
He came prepared to get what he wants, becoming every bit the man, the wolf, she knows he is.

She's never been more drawn to him.

Even though she swore she would make him come to her, she finds herself moving forward as he
does, their steps slow and careful, yet intent on bringing them together.

They shouldn't, there's too much to do, to plan. Kingdoms to save.

For once she wishes she weren't a Queen. Wishes they were both free of the clinging restraints of
duty and honor that weigh them down like slavers chains. Wishes they could be the man and
woman they are underneath all of that.

Images of another life filter through her mind… A simple house with a red door, the sharp tang of
the lemons hanging plump and ripe from the tree outside blowing through the window. The giggles
of little voices and their running feet filling the house as they run to greet their father. His smile,
bright and full of happiness as he gathers them up in his arms then walks over to greet their mother.
His eyes as soft and warm as his mouth when it meets hers in a kiss.

The vision stops her, every inch of her body trembling in protest. Jon’s eyes haven't left her.

“Why must you look at me that way?” she whispers, forcing her eyes from his to the floor, before
she does something rash.

“How am I looking at you, my Queen?” His voice is soft and smooth, deeper than any rich, dark
wine she's ever soothed her thirst with, yet rough enough to send a pleasing shiver down her spine.
It spins her senses further out of control.
His scent has wrapped itself around her. Crisp and clean like the snows of his northern home, yet
warm like the fire in the hearth, mixed with well worn leather. All distinctly Jon. He’s so close
now, his strong body a breath from hers.

He may not be the height the other men in her life were, but he's just as strong.

No, stronger. Outside and within. Weak men do not survive the frozen waters of the north, nor
knives to the heart.

And somehow, Dany knows Jon Snow will fit her like no other ever has and she him.

You're not like everyone else.

She’d wanted so badly to return the sentiment, but he’d kept speaking, filling her heart with more
hope than she'd dared to let herself have in years. No other man had ever questioned it. It should
have angered her when he did, but it didn't. His words were given softly, gentle. He’d meant no
disrespect. It was as if in the chaos surrounding them he desired only to give her hope, to lift the
punishing weight of grief from her heart, and maybe, it was even an offer to take it from her
altogether.

The memory sets her nerve ends tingling with want to touch him, to be sheltered in his arms, to
hide in him. Her fingers twitch against her palms, her legs shaking, just as they did when they
stood face to face in the dragonpit two days ago.

“Dany,” he whispers, his northern accent caressing and twisting her name into something pleasant,
almost musical.

It breaks her from the trance he has her under, or pulls her deeper. She cannot tell. Her eyes finally
meet his again and she knows what she’s only allowed herself to dream.

One to bed, one to dread…

One to love.

“Like you love me.”

Jon steps closer still, sliding his hands up her arms, begging her to fall with him as he pulls their
bodies flush against one another, sending fire throughout her body. “And what if I do?”

She shudders, not able to control her response to the meaning of his words, or the heat of his touch.
Both of which she has been craving for weeks.

But she must. One of them must.

“We shouldn't—”

Jon leans closer, feeling the heat of her soaking into his bones. Next to her he is never cold, truly
knowing what it means to be warm for the first time in his life. “You are a Queen. I, a King.” He
lets his words blow across her cheek while his full lips brush against her soft skin. “Last I knew,
we could do as we wished.”

“I'm not best for y—”

His finger silences her, pressing her lips closed, but she needs him to hear, to truly know. Stepping
back, she takes his hand in hers, raising her chin as she pins him with her violet eyes, hoping they
hold more strength than she feels. “I thought you understood. I cannot give you what you deserve,”
she utters, trying and failing not to let her tears fall.

Jon’s heart feels as if it's shattering within his chest, seeing the pain she works so hard to hide
written so clearly in her eyes. Knowing,despite the unyielding presence she projects, underneath
lies a fragile heart, one that’s been denied its fondest wish. He brings his hands up and gently cups
her face, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. He heaves a great sigh, his brows furrowed as he
stares into her eyes resolved to set her straight. “I, am a bastard. You, are more than I would
deserve in a hundred life times.”

Dany doesn't even try to hold back her sob, her head shaking vehemently within his hands. “Please
don't say that. It's not true, you deser—”

“Shhhhh. Let me finish,” he shushes her.

She swallows down the knot in her throat, nodding, as she looks away, blinking back more tears.

He pulls her closer, leaning in and pressing his soft lips to her forehead, before resting his against
it. Dany bites hard into her bottom lip to keep another cry from escaping.

Has any man ever been so gentle?

“I understood. I don't know that I believe it, but either way it doesn't matter. Not to me,” he
whispers, pulling back and staring at her with his soulful eyes again. “Neither do your titles, your
lands, your armies, your ships. Not even your name. None of those make me love you. My people
might need them, but I only need you. Just, you. Just, Dany.”

She tries to pull away, his declaration too much to bare and leaving fat tears streaming down her
cheeks.

How does he know exactly what she needs to hear? The secrets of her inner heart? Able to untie
every knot she's holding herself together with so deftly?

Not letting her run, Jon pulls her tight against his warm chest and wraps her in his arms. “I have
fought all my life, first for things I thought I needed. A name, a mother's love, a place I could truly
call home. I never got them. So I fought for other men and what they wanted.”

She melts into him, letting the vibrations of his voice soothe her. It's been so long, too long since
she's allowed herself to let down her walls. But, Jon... Jon knows. Finally, finally, someone knows.

“I fought for the people of the North and for what was right. They murdered me for it.”

Dany pushes against him. “What? No. You lived.”

Reluctant for more reasons than one, Jon lets her go. He should've done this sooner, when she first
asked. She’s already seen them, but now he needs her to know. All of it. Taking a deep breath, he
pulls his shirt off over his head and drops it at their feet.

Dany's eyes once again stare in horror at the wounds scarring the pale skin of his battle-hardened
chest and torso. Wounds far from healed, looking so fresh she fears they could erupt with dark
blood at any moment. Another she loved also suffered terrible wounds, he left her and never came
back.

But Jon came back to you. He’s here, right here.

Her hand shakes as she reaches up, running trembling fingers over the damaged skin above his
heart, a new pain filling her own. “Why?” It's the only word she's able to put to her many
questions.

“My own men. Six of them. The last, just a boy, his knife pierced my heart. They left me to die, to
bleed out where I fell. They succeeded. I died that night, layin’ in the snow, my blood spillin’ black
as the sky above me.”

Something deep inside Dany shifts, a memory slipping loose; the howl of a wolf filling her with
sadness, causing her feel more alone than she already had.

It couldn't possibly have been, but she knows it was. Knows she felt this man die before she even
knew he existed, felt his loss within her very soul. Her tears fall anew as she shakes her head,
trying not to think of all the times they nearly lost each other.

She can't imagine the pain he must have suffered. How anyone could turn against this man... “I'm
so sorry,” she whispers, pressing her palm over the wound and a kiss to the center of his chest,
wishing with all she is she could take away his hurt.

Jon closes his eyes, forced to take a deep breath, swearing he feels her fire burning away the bitter
memories. When he looks at her again, there's still questions floating in her wet, luminous eyes.
“The Red Woman, Melisandre brought me back, said her Lord of Light had plans for me.”

“Why didn't you tell me before?” she asks, her voice cracking.

Knowing he's not hiding the pain from his eyes, but no longer caring, he tries to help her
understand what he does not. “I almost did that day on the cliff before Ser Jorah came to you. I’ve
never told anyone save Davos and Melisandre. It's something I don’t care to think about. The
betrayal is hard enough on its own, but the rest… I don't have the answers to my own questions, let
alone anyone else's. I don't know why they thought I deserved to die, and I surely don't know how
it's possible for me to be standin’ here, alive and breathin’, after…”

Dany runs her fingertips through the short stubble covering his jaw, her heart threatening to break
within her ribs. “However it's possible, I’m grateful you are.”

Jon takes her hands in his, bringing them to his lips, leaving a lingering kiss on her fingers. He
doesn't release them. “I wasn't so grateful at first. I had done nothin’ but fight my whole life. I held
tightly to the honor my father taught me and they killed me for it. When I was dead, I didn't have to
fight anymore. There was nothin’, just black silence. I was free of it all. Then they brought me
back. I was so angry and bitter. I didn't understand any of it. I did everything right and still I failed.
I felt lost. Some called me a god, others put a title round my neck.” His whole body seems to rise
then fall, a heavy breath of weariness leaving him. “King. That's what I’m called now, but I didn't
ask for it, never wanted it. I still don't. A title doesn't matter to me, only that I can use it to save
others. But all of that only made me have to fight again. I was tired of fightin’, but now…”

“Now?”

“How can I not be grateful? If I wasn't livin’ and breathin’ I never would've met my Queen.”

“Jon.” His name leaves her lips on a shuddered breath, barely even a whisper. Every fiber of his
being wants to take those lips with his own, but not yet. Soon though, very soon.

“And I have my answers now. I know why the Lord of Light brought me back.”

“Why?”
“I'm meant to be by your side, to fight with you, so we can save them all, together. I'll fight for my
brother and sisters, for my men, my people, your people, but I'm also here for something even
more important and I'm not gonna to fight it anymore. I refuse,” he says, his voice no longer soft,
but as strong as his northern roots. “I’m here to be yours and you mine. You're everywhere. I
cannot think or even breathe that you're not there, and you feel the same, I know you do, because
when I look at you, everything I feel is starin’ back at me. You love me, Daenerys, just as I love
you.”

Gods forgive me, I do. I’ve been a fool to keep us apart. No more. Never again.

Rising on her toes, her hands sliding up his chest and into the damp curls at the back of his neck,
she whispers against his lips, “Love is too small and simple a word for what I feel for you, Jon
Snow.”

“Aye.”

It's the only response he can manage, there's no time for words now. Their bodies have waited long
enough, aching too deeply to suffer anymore talk.

His hands find her first, burying deep into silver strands to bring together wanting lips and the
world seems to tilt beneath them. It's not the gentle rocking of the ship under their feet, but
something more. Like the last piece of a puzzle slipping into place. Both of them feel it, shocked to
stillness, but only for a moment; nothing will stop them now. They kiss like they're the only ones
who ever have, until lips are full, swollen, and bruised, feeling as if they’ve been drained of a
thousand kisses yet still want more. More is what they give. More kisses–more touch, more
warmth, and more love.

Jon wraps an arm around her waist and picks her up, bringing them face to face before moving
back towards the bed. He eases her slowly down his body and Dany's breath catches feeling his
need pressing into her soft skin, hot and insistent. Then he sits down, pulling her between his
spread thighs.

“I need to see you. All of you,” he whispers, reaching up and lightly dragging one of his fingers
from the hollow of her throat all the way past her sternum, leaving chill bumps in its wake.

Dany slowly shrugs one shoulder, letting the thin strap slip off, then moves to do the other, but he
stops her.

“Can I? Please?” he asks.

She nods, her breathing nothing more than shallow pants as he slowly removes her dress. It slips to
the floor in a whisper of silk leaving her bare as her name day. He stares at her, dark eyes taking in
every inch of skin, a mixture of both awe and love on his face. “You’re so beautiful, Dany. My
eyes have never seen the likes of you.” His fingers ghost up her arms, across her collarbone, and
down over her breasts.

Her nipples strain against his touch, but he doesn’t linger there. Instead he spreads them around her
rib cage and pulls her even closer, close enough to place a kiss over her pounding heart just before
laying his cheek against it. Their arms find their way around each other and they stay locked
together for some time, soaking in the peace only they seem to be able to provide one another.
There’s too much to say, so they don’t say anything at all.

There isn’t a word for–all I once knew is no more, now there's only you–anyway.
Soon hands begin to travel softly over sensitive skin, touching places that thought they had long
been forgotten, making them shiver with the joy of being remembered.

No longer willing to wait another moment, Jon stands and rids himself of his boots and pants and
it's Dany’s turn to stare in awe and love. He doesn't let her look long, pulling her close, everything
about him still hungry for her. He molds them together, his hands fisting in her hair, his demanding
mouth taking from hers and suddenly there’s not a breath of space left within them that isn’t filled
with burning.

Every cell in Dany’s body is on fire for him in a way she's never felt before. It was never like this
with the others. Not even close. It must be the same for Jon, she can feel it in the way his hands
touch her. So very hungry yet almost reverent at the same time. They feel as if they’re leaving hot
trails behind them as they glide across her skin. Her nerves sizzle under his fingertips. His lips and
tongue like flames against her own, searing and scorching, only making her thirst for more.

For Jon, she’s the moon and he's the tide that can’t help but rise to meet her. She’s become his
gravity, one that’s taken over his mind and body, drawing and pulling him ever closer and deeper.
There’s no hope of turning back, stopping, or escaping her, nor does he want there to be. He's alive
in her arms. More alive than he’s ever been.Jon breaks away to trail kisses down her neck and
towards her aching breasts. He circles his tongue around one painfully tight nipple before gently
sucking it into his hot mouth, his fingers teasing and pinching the other. She squirms and moans
under his slow, careful attentions, throbbing for the stiff, heavy weight pressed against her thigh.

She has walked through fire, is called the Unburnt, flames cannot harm her, yet Jon Snow has built
an inferno inside her, one that is spreading from her center up and out her limbs threatening to turn
her to ashes at his feet. All she wants is to burn, and burn, and burn again.

And she wants it right now.

She pushes him back hard enough he falls onto the bed. When he sees the fire in her eyes he crawls
up the bed making room for her, she’s on him before he’s settled, pressing her body tight to his,
their lips and tongues dancing again.

He wants to pull her into him until they melt into one. She’s nowhere near as close as he needs her
to be.

Her hands are searching every inch of the hot, smooth skin of his broad back and rippled sides they
can reach. He feels even better than she imagined he would and she's drowning in her need for him.

Just as Jon is for her. His hands roam all her lines and curves, pressing and gripping gently. He
wants to cherish her as if she’s his most prized possession, to preserve her body to his memory. Not
able to wait another second he flips them. Then slowly, reverently enters her, both of them gasping
as they become one.

Finally.

Maybe there is a word for this… whatever this feeling is between them, but Dany I cannot spare a
breath to utter it. There's nothing to hide them from each other, not an inch of their flesh is being
left untouched, and they are one in body. She wonders if with one more kiss, one more thrust of
hips, that they won’t light up and burn.

Then suddenly Jon raises up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. His breath is rushing out in gusts
from between his swollen lips, cheeks flushed, pupils blown as wide as the sea they float upon. He
takes a breath, holding it, then his whole body shudders as it leaves him. He looks almost
frightened, as if he can't believe any of this is real, yet nearly drowning in relief and Dany no
longer remembers who she was before this, before he looked at her like this.

Love comes in at the eyes.

She’s overwhelmed to the point of tears, but then he’s back, kissing her, loving her with everything
he is.

All the thoughts, the feelings, they’ve kept so carefully within themselves spill out through fingers,
hands, and lips, pouring out onto skin, crashing over them like waves against the shore. Both
surrender to it all and relish in it. They love each other into the past, in the time before the first
men. Before there was a name to call what they feel. Writhing limbs, gasping lungs, and eager
souls, raw and wanting. They love with all they are–hunger, suffering, lust, and love, until there’s
nothing left to do but take. Their need seeming to find no end, only crests and ebbs.

Afterwards they lay spent for sometime, amid the ruins of their bodies, buried in each other's skin,
souls still intertwined, unable yet to be two. They're silent other than their labored breathing even
though their minds are filled with thoughts.

Dany marvels at the feelings he's left in her. Jon Snow has consumed her, yet centered her with his
strength. Dominated her body, fueled her passions, and intoxicated her emotions. She feels helpless
against him, but for once is thankful for it, because she knows this king submits to her–his heart,
his soul, and his strength are all hers for the taking. Hers to love. Hers to cherish. It’s what he
wants most, for her to take him and make him hers. And she will, most likely forever, or at least
until her last day.

Jon wonders how he ever thought one night would satisfy this aching within him. Now he knows a
lifetime with her wouldn't be enough. The ache was maddening before, now it's almost intolerable.
What has she done to him? Whatever it is, he doesn't care, nor does he wish her to stop. He wants
nothing more than to look at her forever. To never take his eyes off of her. To be able to forget the
weight of the world bearing down on them both and love her and be loved by her.

Please, gods.
 My dearest love, I'm not done yet

“Should I go?” he asks, his voice quiet, unsure. So unlike the man who just spent the last hour
shattering, then remaking everything she thought she knew of what could be between a man and
woman.

Dany tosses the damp cloth back in the basin then makes her way across the cabin and steps
between his open thighs. She slips her hand under his chin, drawing his face up, his gaze to hers.
His cheeks are still flushed, lips pink and full, inky curls a tangled halo around his beautiful face.
And gods, those eyes. She'll never get enough of the way they look at her, liquid and full of his
tender, vulnerable heart. No man has ever been more lovely. “Do you want to?”

He gives the smallest shake of his head.

“Then you'll stay. Tonight, and the next, and the next,” She ghosts the back of her fingers over his
cheek, “because it's what we both want.”

He has to know that, needs to.

His hands, the ones she will never look at again without thinking of how they’ve mapped her body,
slide up the back of her legs, over the curve of her ass, then wrap around her waist, pulling her
close. He kisses the taut flesh between her breasts, lingering there, breathing her in. When he looks
up, his expression is still full of concern. “You're sure? I won't have them speak ill of you because
of me.”

Gods, what did she do to deserve this man and his unwavering loyalty and honor? His love?

“Don’t worry. They wouldn't dare.” She steps out of his grasp, climbing back into the bed, holding
the furs up until he joins her. She settles herself against his side, their arms and legs intertwining.
Her lips curl up realizing once again she was right. No one has, or will ever fit together better than
they do. “Everyone on this ship is loyal to you, me, or both of us. I'm fairly certain they knew the
moment I agreed to sail with you this would happen.”

“That's not why I—”

She rubs his chest, kissing the smooth skin beside the scar over his heart. “Shhhh, I know it's not.”

“They won't approve regardless.”

She cranes her head back, scowling. “And why not?” Her anger is showing. Not at him, but that
anyone would dare say what this was between them was wrong. Nothing has ever felt more right
than him. Nothing. “Even if we had no feelings for each other, our alliance makes political sense.
Together we are much stronger. What could they have against it?”

“Oh, I don’t know… That bastards aren’t good enough for—”

Dany rolls her body over his, straddling his lean hips, fire in her eyes as she stares down at him,
hands pinning his to the bed, her hair a silver curtain shielding them from the outside world. She is
every bit the dragon queen she appears, elegant and bold, despite her nakedness, or maybe because
of it. She's glorious to look upon and Jon wonders once again how it's possible he’s here, with her,
that this incredible woman loves him every bit as much as he loves her.

“I, say you are good enough. If any want to challenge me, let them. They will not be long for this
world.”

Amusement finds its way through his awe of the woman seated over him and he smiles up at her.
“Are you gonna to kill every man who speaks ill of me?”

She snarls like her children. “I might.”

Her defense of him melts another piece of his icy heart. He doesn't deserve it, or her, but it stirs
him all the same.

She begins stirring another part of him too, sliding her still wet center over his hardening cock. His
heart is momentarily forgotten.

“My first decree as your Queen is you are not allowed to call yourself a bastard anymore.”

He fights the lusty haze she's weaving around him, holding onto reality a bit longer. It's a strong
suit of his. A man like him has never had the luxury of giving into his baser needs.

“Whether I say it or not, it's still what I am. What I’ll always be.”

Her eyes glint, like amethysts burning. “You're a King. My King.”

She's a mirror of Longclaw in this moment, sharp and lethal, and he knows within his control will
become all the more powerful. He flips them over, his movements smooth and graceful after years
of training.

Eyes wide and pupils blown, she gasps, and then again as his mouth begins to trail over her perfect
milky skin. First her mouth, then her jaw and down her neck. Her delicious moans spur him on,
further down her body. He’s going to claim her just as fiercely as she did him, and give her another
reason to call him king.

The sudden change in him takes her breath, lying under his pale, beautiful body, trapped by it and
his scorching eyes and mouth. This is what she wants, nowhere else she would rather be. Beneath
him, at the bottom of his dark, delightful madness, knowing he will push her gasping and
screaming into the light.

Jon wants nothing more either. Only to watch her come apart at the end of his hands, to shatter
underneath his mouth. To listen to her breaking over and over, then to the sighs that come after. To
lay with her, beside her spent body, still glistening with the exertions of her pleasure. Just to be
near her in the soft quiet, the world forgotten.

So that's exactly what he does.

This time Jon is the one to leave their bed, walking across the room to the basin, his gait slow and
loose, his joints and muscles no doubt as relaxed as hers. Snuggled into the warm furs, nearly
asleep, she watches him. His body is that of a warrior's, years of training and fighting leaving him a
sculpture of alabaster perfection, each muscle in sharp relief from the glow of candlelight dancing
around the room. She almost lets a giggle escape thinking of the sonnets the minstrels could sing
of his ass alone. It is a thing of pure beauty.

He finishes washing himself, turning back to join her again, bringing a clean cloth for her. He must
catch the smile still lingering on her lips because his usual brooding mask slips allowing through
what must be the first truly unguarded smile she’s ever seen from him. She’s struck speechless by
the sight, not only by his beauty, how young and alive he is, but by how much she loves him.
It's then she realizes the restlessness that has always plagued her from her earliest memory and
everyday since, is gone. She thought it would leave her the moment she set foot on Dragonstone. It
didn't. After weeks of nagging uncertainty she decided it wouldn't come until she sat on the throne,
her kingdoms whole. But now, here with this man, she feels it. What she never has before. Peace.
Belonging. Home. In two short months, Jon Snow has changed her life and everything she thought
she knew and wanted, settling something deep within her. She nearly cries from the relief of it.

Jon hurries to her, not missing the emotions crossing her face. “Dany, what is it? What's wrong?”

She sits up, cupping his cheeks and pressing her lips to his. Once, twice, three times, before pulling
away to stare into his warm, but worried eyes. “Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. I just love you,
Jon Snow.”

Surprise marks his beautiful face, then his smile returns, a sweet blush beginning to glow across
his cheeks, making her love him all the more. Wrapping his arms around her he twists and pulls
them down onto the bed, kissing her softly. “I love you too, Daenerys Targaryen,” he answered
back, the weight of his words heavy and full of his heart.

They lay there staring at one another, like the contented lovers they are, smiling, eyes glowing,
hands touching, just basking in each other.

Eventually Dany breaks the silence. “My second decree–”

He chuckles. “Back to those already?”

“Yes. You are not to tie your hair back anymore,” she says with false command, her fingers
dancing in his dark curls and against his scalp.

The sensation it causes threatens to close Jon’s eyes and he knows if that happens he'll quickly
succumb to sleep. He never wants this night to end so he props his head up on one hand, while
keeping the other busy making trails over the silky pale skin of her side. “Is that so?”

Dany nods curtly, trying and failing to control the twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.
“It is.”

He does the same, apparently lip twitching is contagious. “I never used to, but I got tired of being
called pretty.”

“But you are pretty,” she giggles at his expense.

Jon, for once doesn't care he’s the brunt of the joke. He’s never heard such a joyous sound from
her, it warms his heart as nothing else ever has. He gives her a smile of his own, while brushing
back some of her pale hair from her face. “Not as pretty as you.”

“Who knew the brooding Jon Snow was such a charmer?” she muses, light dancing in her violet
eyes, while she traces the curve of his smile with a fingertip. “My third decree is you must smile
just like this at least five times a day. And only for me. You will be my pretty, happy King.”

He laughs quietly, then places a kiss on her lips, soft and reverent. “As you wish, my Queen.”

A tear slips lose then, she can't help it. She doesn't know whether to rejoice at finally finding him,
or weep with sorrow. What they're facing… They’ve so little time. It's just not fair.

His thumb, gentle and soft, wipes her tear away. “Dany. I can't bare to see you like this. Talk to me.
Let me help.”
As much as he wants help, she's not quite ready to go there yet. It won't be long though. She
burrows into his chest, wrapping her arms and legs around him and changes the subject. “Did you
know Melisandre came to Dragonstone?”

His body tenses beside hers. “I did not. What did she want?” He cannot keep the wariness from his
voice. She might have brought him back, allowed him this time with Dany, but he still doesn't trust
her.

“She showed up uninvited one night speaking of a prophecy.” Jon’s chest rises and falls with a
heavy sigh. She looks up at him. “You know what she was talking about?”

“The prince who was promised.”

“Or princess.” His eyebrows raise. “Missandei said the translation wasn’t clear. There is no gender
attached to the word, it could mean either, prince or princess.”

“She told me I was the prince, and I’m assumin she believes you're the princess.”

“She didn't use those words exactly, only that we both had a part to play in the great war. She told
me to summon you.”

“I thought Tyrion was behind it.”

“He encouraged me, said you were a good man.”

Jon huffs humorously. “I bet his opinion has changed a bit.”

“No, it hasn't.”

“Yours surely has,” he teases her, nuzzling into her neck, tickling it with his beard.

She laughs and it sounds like bells to Jon's ears. “Only a little.”

He scoffs, though there's a mischievous glint in his coal dark eyes. “Admit it, you wanted to burn
me alive.”

She's giggling now and can't seem to stop. “The thought did cross my mind. You were so
stubborn.”

“Me? And what about you?”

“I am never stubborn.”

It's Jon’s turn to laugh. He does, loud and long, shaking her and the bed beneath them, and Dany
thinks it must be the most beautiful sound, and sight, she's ever known.

She pins him with a false glare once he contains himself. “I can still burn you alive, you know?”

His eyes narrow, lips still in twitching. “You wouldn't dare. I doubt Drogon would either, he likes
me.”

Dany stills, all the mirth leaving her face. “He’s never liked anyone else. Never. It took him ages to
like me once he had grown some.”

“Does it bother you?”

“What? No, of course not. But it does make me think, as does Melisandre and her prophecy.” She
takes him in, eyes and hands tracing his beautiful face. “Do you think we were meant to be? That
the gods, fate, conspired to bring us together for a purpose?”

A deep crease forms between brows, her fingers itch to smooth it away. “I’ve never put stock in
any prophecy, and I surely don't trust a woman that burns children at the stake for her so called
Lord, but—”

“Burns children!?”

“Aye, she did. Stannis’ young daughter. She thought he was the prince. Convinced him to burn his
own daughter to make the prophecy come true. After he failed she came to Castle Black, decided I
was the prince she needed. She brought me back because Davos begged her to. Of course she
stayed close after that, followed me to Winterfell. When I found out what she'd done, I banished
her. Told her if I ever set eyes on her again I’d kill her myself.” Dany can only shake her head,
staring at him in disbelief and concern. “Apparently she came straight to you.” He watches her,
almost seeing the thoughts running through her sharp mind as she stares up at the ceiling above
them.

“Magic can be dark and twisted, I haven't trusted it for a very long time. It's always been used
against me till now.”

“Till now? What do you mean?”

Dany purses her lips and shakes her head. “Those are stories for another night, but while she took
the life of that child, which is unforgivable, she also gave me you. How can I not be grateful? And
all the rest…it seems too…I don't know, not easy, but planned? A prophecy, fate, the gods–I just
feel something or someone wanted us to be together. Please tell me I’m not mad, that you feel it
too.”

Jon slides his fingers into her hair and around her neck, leaning his forehead against hers. “You are
not mad,” he assures her, kissing her softly, “and aye, I feel so much for you I don't know what to
do with it all.” He pulls away, only enough to look into her eyes. “I’ve felt many things, but never
this. I knew my heart was heavy–all my responsibilities, duties, people's lives–but now… I didn't
know it could feel like this. Your uncle, maester Aemon—”

Surprise fills her eyes, her plump lips open with bated breath. “You knew my uncle?”

“He was at the Wall with me.”

“Did he know I was alive? Did he care?”

Jon's heart nearly breaks, hearing words so like those he asked long ago. Seeing the hope in her
eyes, hope he's very familiar with and knows even a lifetime of pain cannot damper is kin to the
bite of steel sliding into his gut. Thankfully he can tell her different than his Lord Father told him.
He strokes the soft skin of her cheek with his thumb and smiles down at her softly. “He knew, and
he cared, but he was very old, blind, and bound by his vows. He couldn't have helped you, no
matter how much he wanted to.”

Her hand reaches for his wrist, gripping it, needed something to cling to as her emotions spin.
Tears well in her violet eyes, but she doesn't let them fall. “Thank you. You have no idea what that
means to me.”

His head falls against hers again, his eyes closed. “Aye, I do.”
Dany nudges him back, worry filling her. “Your family, they weren't kind to you?”

“As well they could be.”

“Your father, surely.”

“He was never cruel, but his Lady Wife… I brought shame upon her family. It was enough he
allowed me to live amongst them. I know I had it better than most. A roof over my head, food to
fill my belly, masters to study under, siblings to grow up with.”

He’s smiling, but Dany knows it isn't true. She's given enough false smiles to recognize one. “But
what of love?”

His solemn mask is now firmly in place as he rolls away from her and onto his back. “Most of my
siblings didn't let their mother's feelings affect theirs, but they knew I was different, knew I didn't
quite belong. But Arya loved me, Robb, Bran, probably Rickon too. He was so young when I left.”
Pain slices through his heart, the vision of his baby brother running to him, begging him with his
terrified eyes to save him. Not for the first time he wishes he could bring Ramsey back from the
dead just so he could kill him again, slowly.

Dany's gentle touch pulls him from his dark thoughts. “I'm sorry, I interrupted you, you were
telling me about my uncle.”

He kisses her in silent thanks. “He asked me what honor was next to a woman's love. He said the
gods fashioned us for love. At the time I scoffed at him, thought he was a crazy old man. He
wasn't.” Cupping her face he kisses her again, before whispering against her lips. “Nothin
compares to this.”

They lose themselves for a time, their mouths and hands saying all that needs to be said. Eventually
they settle, bodies pressed close together, fingers mapping skin.

“Am I horrible for entertaining the idea of turning this ship east?” Dany whispers, breaking the
silence.

“If you are, I am too,” Jon answers, his voice rough, with disuse or emotion. Probably both. “I’ve
thought of fleein more times than I care to admit. Of gettin my siblings, then all of us leavin that
shit place behind us. Lettin the Night King have it and everyone that refused to listen to me. I'm not
much of a king, am I?”

“Nonsense. I can't imagine the frustration of not being believed. I'm sorry I was a part of that.”

“You do now, that's what matters.”

“Is there any hope?”

“More than we had, thanks to you.”

“I suppose there's none of keeping you off the battlefield?”

His eyebrows raise. “Is there any of keeping you off your dragon and locked in my castle?”

“If you're fighting, so am I.”

Jon sighs and pulls her closer. “I know. I would not ask that of you, but...I just found you and the
thought of… I’ve had nearly everythin in my life taken from me. It was barely worth livin before,
without you–”

Dany squeezes him and presses a kiss to his chest. “I know.”

“But I want to fly north and slaughter them all for takin your child from you. I want them to suffer.
Then I want to march south and help you win the throne. I want to watch them crown you queen, to
see you make this world better. I want to help you achieve it all,” he runs his hand low over her
stomach. “everything you've ever wanted.”

“Jon.”

“I mean it, Dany. All of it. We deserve some peace and I mean for us to find it.”

“I'm not sure I know what peace feels like, if I ever knew.”

Jon rolls on top of her, caressing her face, smoothing her hair back. “This is peace. Us, here.
Tonight. I’ve never known anythin’ like it. I know I never want to feel anythin’ else but this, so it
must be.”

Her smile is small, tucked away in the corners of her mouth, shining just enough to be seen in her
eyes. “It must, and now that I know,” she swallows, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, then
letting it slide free again, “I will fight for us to have it, as I’ve never fought for anything else. We’ll
have our peace, Jon Snow,and we'll have it together.”

“Together.”
 Honey, you're familiar like my mirror
Chapter Summary

The morning after

Jon is the first to wake, the thumps of heavy boots echoing through the wood beams over their
heads jolting him from sleep. He lays panting, heart racing as his ears strain to determine threat
from mundane. He hears no shouting, or earth shattering roars from any dragons so all must be
well.

Her warm, soft body shifts beside him, silver strands of silk sliding over his chest and stomach
raising goosebumps along his skin despite the sticky heat between them. Blood of the dragon
indeed. He'll never be cold again next to her. She turns over, settling on her back with a quiet,
contented sigh.

By the gods, she's beautiful.

If not for seeing her here next to him he would have thought it all a dream. Life has never treated
him so well as it did last night. Not even close. He’s known anger, not love. War, not peace. And
fear instead of happiness. He has known pain and waste like a virgin sacrificed to false gods. He
has even known death. He’s tried not to allow them to overtake him, to turn him into a man of hate
and bitterness, keeping a tight grip on hope. That hope became flesh and blood the moment he laid
eyes on her. Not just hope for his people, but for his soul.

It's difficult to believe last night happened, let alone that this amazing woman beside him seems to
love him every bit as much as he does her. Yet here she is, sleeping peacefully, an offer and a dare
in one, laid out before him like a feast. Supple limbs, enticing curves, and fiery blood flowing
under soft, smooth, pale flesh all wrapped around a warrior’s heart.

What has he ever done to deserve her?

Not a fuckin thing.

That's what scares him most. That she'll wake up, maybe this morning, or the next and realize she's
too good for him. That she'll see him for what he really is, just a bastard pretending to be a king.
She'll leave him behind. The ones he loves most always do.

Maybe if he pretends all the harder he can keep convincing her. And maybe the gods too. If
nothing else he has to persuade her to let him stay close so he can protect her. He knows she can
take care of herself, but the kingdoms need her and she deserves to rule. One more soldier guarding
her won't hurt. Even if she turns him from her bed and her heart he will see her sitting on the Iron
Throne. He will serve her in whatever way she allows, even if it means giving his life.

For now though, he’s going to push those thoughts aside and love his Queen. Memories of last
night–their passion, her sweet cries, the peace he felt–are all too much to ignore.

The swell of one soft breast is peaking from under the furs. He frees it, and its twin, slow and
gentle so as not to wake her. He wants her body filled with pleasure before she does. He watches,
mesmerized as her dusty pink nipples begin to pucker in the cool air. Careful to hold his weight off
of her he leans over and traces one bud with the tip his tongue. It hardens further, just as his cock
does against her thigh. He keeps his touch light as whispers he licks and sucks the one while
reaching over to trace the pad of his finger around the other.

It doesn't take much before she breaths deep, a languid stretch running through her body, her hips
rising under the heavy furs. He stops his teasing, letting her settle into sleep again before throwing
the furs onto the floor and moving further down the bed. Thankfully it's big enough to allow him
room to lay below her. He must have really worn her out last night, because she doesn't stir at all
when he moves her leg to slip underneath it.

First, he kisses along her inner thighs, up one and down the other. Next, he uses his fingers,
ghosting them over her milky skin, then lightly through the silver curls that hide the center of her
pleasure. That's when she begins to wake.

The second her thighs spread enough he makes his move, sliding his tongue between her luscious
lips. He has to hold back a groan at the taste of her. She's honey and spice and heat. A combination
that makes his cock ache to be buried inside her. But her pleasure comes first.

Taking it slow, but not forgetting what made her cry out the loudest, he sets to work. It only takes a
few strokes before she begins to squirm and moan. When he seals his lips over her tight bundle of
nerves and begins to suckle her fingers grip his hair.

“Jon.” His name is a breathless sigh, filled with pleasure.

He’s never liked hearing it more. It's even more rewarding knowing, that even half asleep she
knows who her lover is.

He pulls away only long enough to greet her. “Good morning, my beautiful queen.”

She gasps in return, his tongue stealing her words.

Jon knows they don't have much time before duty will pull them from their private sanctuary, so he
wastes none, sliding two fingers through her slick folds, then slipping them inside her.

Dany moans, her hips rising again, while her velvet walls clench around his fingers as he slowly
moves them in and out. Refusing to leave her wanting long he leans forward and begin to torture
her with his tongue. Slow, feather-light licks at first, then gradually increasing the pressure and
speed, never stopping the movement of his fingers.

“Gods, what are you doing to me?” she gasps, tremors running through her with each flick of his
tongue, her fingers gripping and releasing where they're tangled in his hair.

Jon doesn’t answer, wrapping his lips around her sensitive nub instead. He begins to suck, keeping
it soft and easy, slowly letting her pleasure build. It only takes a few minutes before high-pitched
whimpers fill the room. Dany covers her mouth as her hips rise off the bed, her thighs tremble
against his head, her back arching. With several firm, quick pulls of his fingers, she shatters,
screaming his name, but Jon continues to stroke and lick until the last waves leave her boneless.

But when her eyes open, they are dark and heavy with lust, and she pulls at him with arms, hands,
and legs, silently ordering him to join her.

He doesn't hesitate, moving between her thighs and slowly entering her in one stroke, both of them
gasping in relief. Hard, hot, and stretching her perfectly, her throbbing walls pull him in. She tilts
her hips to take him even deeper, aftershocks rocking through her and spurring them to an intense
pace. She kisses him, her need as deep as his own. Her tongue sweeping into his mouth to dance
with his, her ragged breaths filling the spaces between their lips.

Jon takes everything she’s giving and returns it, letting her have a taste of what his mouth had
moments ago until she's gasping for air. But he doesn't want it to be over too soon, there's no telling
how long it'll be before they can be together again. Their lives are never certain and they're on a
ship full of people. He wants it slower, and even sweeter than the night before, yet no less
passionate.

Dany revels in Jon's pleasure, mixed with her own. She watches him above her as he slows down,
his strokes now smooth and fluid, letting them feel every wonderful inch of each other. The
morning sun is streaming across him, throwing light off his raven curls and pale glistening skin. It
catches all the shades of grey and brown in his eyes as he stares down at her. Like light dancing
through a shallow river. She could drown in them forever.

His muscles and tendons glide and strain in rhythm with his movements. He’s a work of art
begging to be touched. Begging her to feel every sculpted rise and fall under her hands. Of course,
she answers their plea.

He looks down through heavy lids and long lashes, pupils wide, hips speeding up, his sexy mouth
parted as he pants. He’s the picture of love, desire, and passion. She’s sure he's seeing the same in
her.

Soon her hands, her mouth, the grinding of her hips, her slick heat, all become too much for him.
He was mad to ever think he could be in control where she's concerned in the first place.
Thankfully, Dany is right there with him, both of them finding their release together.

Jon grins, he can't help it. Looking down into her flushed face, eyes dreamy pools of purple, and
pink lips stretched into a contented smile. All because of him. If he wouldn't sound like a bloody
fool he’d probably howl with pride. Instead he kisses her, then eases over onto his back, his every
muscle and bone has turned to liquid heat. She rolls towards him, resting her head against his
shoulder and slinging a leg between his.

His eyes close, while his fingers draw lazy strokes along her thigh. He's almost asleep when she
asks, still breathless, “Will you tell me about them one day?”

Jon looks over, brows drawn. “Who?”

“The other women who loved you.”

His brooding mask appears as he turns back to stare at the low ceiling above them, hiding the
sweetness she’s been privileged to see as of late. She curses her curiosity. “What makes you think
there were other women? Or that they loved me?”

Dany scoots closer, molding her body to his and reaches out to caress his cheek. She turns his face
towards hers, hiding nothing from him as she stares into his eyes. “How could they not when
you're you?”

The faintest of smiles tugs at his mouth. He takes her hand in his and kisses her fingers before
laying their entwined hands over his heart. “There was only one.”

“One?”

“Just one. Why do you look surprised?”

Dany scoffs. “Jon.”

“What?”

He can't possibly not know this. “You are… Well, it was never so… I didn't know...”

His eyes sparkle with mischief as pulls away to look at her better. “Are you blushing, my Queen?”

“Stop it.” She shoves against his side hard enough to make him laugh. When he calms down she
tucks her face into his chest to hide her warm cheeks. “You're very generous. Did she teach you
that?

“Teach me what?” he asks, trying and failing to act innocent.

This time she pinches him, on the soft skin just inside his hip bone. "You know what." He jerks
away, laughing harder than before.

He finally decides to have mercy, rolling over and kissing her. “No, no one taught me. I heard
things growing up. Being around the soldiers and such. I knew men liked women to kiss them
there. Figured it worked both ways.”

“You're a smart man, Jon Snow.”

He huffs, a bit of humor lighting his eyes, but then it fades and he goes quiet. “Not always,” he
says a few moments later, his tone heavy.

“Who was she? Did she love you?”

She doesn't like thinking of him with someone else, but the thought of that woman not loving him
is worse.

“She was a Wildling, and they don’t see things the way others do. I suppose she cared in her own
way, but not enough to keep her from putting three arrows in me.”

“What?”

Jon can't help but let out a dry laugh at Dany's furious expression. “It doesn't matter. I survived.
She didn’t.”

She’s pleased to hear it, thoughts of hunting down the woman were too tempting by far. “Did you
love her?” She shouldn't have asked, shouldn't care, but needs to know all the same.

His eyes search her face, softening with each second that passes. “I thought I did. I grieved her loss
for a long time, but what I felt for her...tis a shadow in comparison to what I feel for you. It's as you
said last night, love is too simple a word for what this is.” He kisses her, soft and sweet, slow and
lingering, just his lips against hers, yet Dany feels her heart swelling and pressing to be closer to
him. He lets her go much sooner than she wishes. “Anyway, she and I were doomed from the start.
I was young and stupid.”

“What happened?”

“Her and her people attacked the castle. They thought I betrayed them. She was ready to put
another arrow in me. Olly, the boy who stabbed me put one through her heart first. She died in my
arms.”

“I'm so sorry.” She wants to pull him close, to comfort him, but can already feel his walls going up.
She tries anyway, kissing the pale skin of his chest while running her hand in soothing strokes up
his side. “You and I seem to be very much alike.”

His voice rumbles under her ear, deep and rough as gravel, “How so?”

“Neither of us felt like we had a home, or a family that loved us, and now I learn we both lost our
first loves. Drogo died because of me, because I trusted that witch. I saved her from being raped
and she repaid me by leaving my husband a mindless shell and killing my child. I couldn't stand to
see him suffer so I smothered him with a pillow, then burned her alive.”

Jon’s arms wrap around her, his hands rubbing her back in soothing circles and gently holding her
head against his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to forehead. “Gods, Dany. I'm sorry.” She kisses
the scar over his heart, but stays quiet. “Did you love him?” he asks after sometime.

She no longer wants to talk about them, but it's only fair, she started it. “By the end, I think, maybe.
I'm not so sure anymore. For a long time he was cruel. I was a child, he was a grown man. He
raped me, more than once, and I wanted to die, more than once.” She doesn't have to look at Jon to
know he's angry, she can almost feel him vibrating with it. She rubs his side hoping to calm him.
“It’s as you said, it doesn't matter, he’s dead. I learned to accept it, to turn it in my favor, excused
him for not knowing any better. I did grieve, for him, our child, and many other things. I listened to
him, believed in him and that evil witch. They both failed me. That's when I began to believe only
in myself. No one else could hurt me then.”

He rolls them over, settling between her thighs, while brushing her hair behind her ear, his dark
eyes full of conviction. “I will never hurt you.”

Dany smiles, then kisses him, because how could she not? “I know you won't. You have too pure a
heart, but,” her eyes trail down to his scars.

“Dany?”

Her eyes flick up to his. “You can never leave me again, Jon. When I thought you died, I nearly
went mad. I can't lose you. I'll burn the whole world down if I do.”

“I have no plans to leave you.”

“I mean it. You’ve died once, nearly died again. No more being the brave hero who does stupid
things. I need you by my side.”

“I will do everything within my power to stay with you. There is no where else I want to be,” he
whispers against her temple, giving it a kiss, then looking down again, “but you know we're facin’
a war like no other.”

Her eyes spark, intent and determined. “I know, that's why when we get to Winterfell you’re going
to meet Rhaegal. If Drogon accepted you, I know he will. I’ll teach you how to speak to him, and
ride him. He’ll be yours.”

“Dany.”

“No, Jon. I will not have you fighting on the ground. You’ll be safer in the air with me.” It's no
longer Dany speaking, but The Dragon Queen.

“It pains me to say it, but we aren't going to be safe there either,” he warns.

She’s not deterred. “We'll make armor for them. Armor his spears cannot cut through. For all of
us.”

Jon doesn’t believe there's any metal save Valyrian that could deflect the Night King's spears, but
he cannot tell her that, for many reasons, the biggest being he hates to be the root of her upset. He’s
been that more times than he cares for already. Leaning over he kisses her forehead, attempting to
ease her fear and agitation. “That could work. We'll speak to the others about it, get their thoughts,
and with my smiths at Winterfell. We'll figure out somethin. We'll keep them safe.”

“We'll keep us safe.”

“I promise.”

He kisses her then, as if it's the first time and the last time, until her stomach protests its emptiness.

He laughs against her lips and she wants to cry. She wants to make him laugh for the rest of her
days, to feel his smile against her own. Please, gods.

“Shall I go fetch the queen her breakfast?” he asks, nuzzling into her neck with his nose.

She nearly whines at the thought of him leaving her, even for only a moment, but as he said, she is
a queen. She must act like one.

“Thank you, my king. That would be most kind of you.”

He peppers soft kisses on her nose, her cheek, her neck, and then her chest before rising from the
bed and beginning to cover his beautiful body with his dreary clothes. “What would you like me to
say if I encounter anyone?” he asks, tugging his pants over his pale, but perfect ass.

Such a pity.

“It's none of their business. What was it you said to me last night? I'm a queen and you're a king,
we can do as we wish. Tell them that if they have the gall to ask. But I don't think they will.”

Jon huffs. “Tyrion will. Davos too.”

She lets out an unladylike snort. “No doubt, but you can handle them. I believe in you.”

She's smiling mostly in jest, but there's more hidden in her eyes. Enough to cause his heart to
clench beneath his ribs.

I believe in you too.

He returns to her once more, unable to fight the need to feel her lips against his own again. Her
small hands cup his face, holding him hostage even longer. Finally she pulls back, breathless and
whispers, “Hurry back.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

---

Jon is more than a little surprised to find the dining cabin empty save for the steaming food set out.
Though it was barely sunrise when he woke. It’s early still. Maybe if he hurries he can get their
food and return before anyone sees him. He’s just grabbed a plate when a very discernable voice
fills the air.

“My, someone’s up early. Or perhaps never went to sleep in the first place.”

Seven hells.

Jon doesn't bother facing him, searching through the food for something he remembers Deanerys
eating. “I’m not havin this conversation, so don't bother tryin to start it.”

“I am her hand, you know I must.” His tone sounds tired and falsely bored as always.

Jon shakes his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply before turning around and piercing the
little lord with his dark gaze. “We all know more than likely none of us will still be alive within a
month. Let us have this. Both of us have done nothin but fight and suffer our whole lives. We
deserve some peace and whatever pleasure we can find for however long we can find it.”

Jon’s patience wears thin as he watches Tyrion shuffle to a chair and sit down, his ever present
goblet of wine in his hand. “I will not argue that, but this is about a lot more than finding a few
moments of pleasure. You love her, and she loves you,” he says, twisting the statement into an
accusation.

Their love being painted as a crime boils Jon’s blood as if Drogon’s fire was running through his
veins. He’s across the room and in Lord Tyrion's face before he can stop himself. “And that
changes things how?”

The imp tilts his head, eyebrows vanishing under his messy curls. “So you don't deny it?”

“No, I don't deny it! Answer the question.”

Tyrion sighs, seemingly unfazed by the Northern King’s anger. “You are a smart man, Jon Snow.
I'm certain you already know the answer.”

“Do you think I planned this? That she did?”

Tyrion shakes his head. “No,” he says, letting the word slowly leave his lips, then he takes another
drink from his cup, before setting it down gently on the table, “and if we weren't facing the end of
the world I’d be first in line to congratulate you both. You're a good match, probably the best
match. Young, beautiful, both extraordinary leaders in your own rights. Adored by your people.
You two could be the fairytale the minstrels sing about and no doubt could rule the seven kingdom
better than anyone I’m aware of.”

Jon straightens, the glare fading from his eyes as they leave the little lion’s to stare out the small
port window. He’s tried not to let himself image it, ruling by her side. Bastards didn't marry
Queens even if they had been titled King in the North. Not to mention he doesn't expect to survive
the great war.

“I want to be happy for you, truly,” Tyrion says, breaking him from his musing, “but unfortunately,
we are facing the end of the world. I need your heads clear, not full of love and devotion.”

Just like that Jon’s ire rises to the surface again. “You think we don't know that? We tried to ignore
it, to put it aside. Dany and I know what's at stake better than anyone. But there was no fightin it.”

“Dany now, is it?”

Jon’s face pinches in anger, mostly at himself. One night and he's already slipping. He walks away
with a sigh, trying to busy himself with getting the food he came for, but it's all a blur before his
eyes. “I'm learnin we don't get to choose who we love, or when we do.”

Tyrion sighs this time, shifting in his chair. “No, we do not.”

Jon turns, joining him at the table, suddenly exhausted. “Did you love my sister?”

“I cared for her deeply, still do, but no. Not in the way you do my Queen.”

“Our Queen.”

“Ah, yes. Mustn’t forget you bent the knee.” He pours more wine in his goblet, then pours one for
Jon as well, sliding it across the table to him. “Is she the first to steal your heart? She's stolen many
others, you know?”

“I have no doubt she has. But no, there was a Wildlin girl. I was all of sixteen and she was beautiful
and strong, and very determined.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows disappear under his messy curls again. “You broke your vows.”

“I did. I paid for it too,” he says, sliding his shirt over, revealing the scar above his heart. Now that
she knows, he’s no longer sure why he worked so hard to hide them.

The revelation sits the little Lord back in his chair. “A queen who can walk through fire and a king
who can cheat death. You two are quite the pair.”

“I didn't cheat it. It most definitely won. Just so happened there was a red woman around to bring
me back.”

“Melisandre?”

Jon nods.

Tyrion’s brows now gather over his golden eyes. “She was at Dragonstone. It was her idea for you
to meet our queen. She was very keen about a certain prophecy. Something about a Prince that was
promised. Maybe there is hope for us yet.”

“I'm clingin to that. Hope, not her and her prophecy.”

“As we all are.”

They sit in silence for some time, their discontent overridden by more important thoughts. Jon
eventually stands and fills a plate for Daenerys, then taking the wine Tyrion poured, he nods at the
lord.

Tyrion returns it, his eyes not quite as grave as they were when he arrived. “Love her if you have
no other choice, but promise me the two of you won't forget your duty. There are too many lives at
stake.”

Jon shakes his head. “I doubt either of us will be forgettin that any time soon.”

Of course, just as he starts down the hall, Davos appears at the other end.

Seven bloody hells, not again.

“Mornin, yer grace.”

Jon just gives him a tight smile.

“Breakfast in bed? Didn't know you enjoyed such luxuries.”

“I'm a King now, might as well act like one.”

“Aye, I reckon so. Just be mindful which king you be acting like.”

By all accounts, Davos should be dead where he stands if the look Jon’s giving him means
anything.

Davos steps back, hands up. “Beggin your pardon, yer grace. Enjoy yer morning.”

“Oh dear, was it that bad?” Dany asks as soon Jon walks in and she sees his face.

“Tomorrow morning, you're getting us breakfast,” Jon grumbles, settling beside her.

Dany's bell-like laughter is heard by everyone in the dining cabin. Jon’s soon joining it. They all
share reluctant smiles.

An alliance between the north and south may not be such a bad thing.
 I'd be home with you
Chapter Summary

Jon and Dany arrive at Winterfell.

Chapter Notes

So sorry this took so long! I'm actually in the process of publishing my third book and
it tends to take over my life. I wanted to say thanks for all the kudos and wonderful
comments! The love you've shown this little fic is amazing!! Hope you enjoy this
chapter too!
The journey home has been a long one. Over two moons had passed since he’d last been in
Winterfell, but to Jon it has passed all too quickly. He wants to be home, of course he does. To see
Arya again, Bran. He’s missed them so. There were too many nights he lay awake haunted by
thoughts of them alone and dying, feeling more helpless than any man should. Knowing how close
he is to looking upon their smiling faces again brings a lump to his throat that's difficult to swallow.

But he is not the man that left Winterfell months ago. Not anymore. Thanks to the tiny, yet fierce
woman riding at his side bundled under her furs. He could have stayed on the ship with her
forever.
They’ve come so far since that first fiery meeting, and even further since setting sail. Spending
nearly every hour of the day and night together does that. He’s never felt closer to another person
than Dany. He'd never had a relationship with anyone that wasn't difficult, with her it was
effortless. Each night they’ve spent laying in each other's arms has only brought them closer
together.

It's been the same every night, they lose themselves to the intense passion they feel, then spend
hours after talking. Telling stories, learning more and more. Dany was right that first night. He
knows it without a doubt now. They were meant to be. Whether that has to do with a prophecy or
not he doesn't care. She is his and he is hers. Til the end of their days.

Which unfortunately may not be far off considering.

Their traveling companions accepted their alliance without much fuss and fairly quickly. After the
first few days they gave up trying to be discreet. Tyrion of course gave them the most trouble. He
was worried, but it was his job to be so. With some encouragement from Varys and Davos he came
around. Now all they have to do was convince the Northern Lords and his family.

Jon knows that’s going to be easier said than done, but he’s determined to make them see that
while some things have changed, his goal to protect the North hasn't. He’s returning with an army
larger than any Northman has ever seen. Enough dragon glass so every man will be armed, fire
breathing dragons, and a queen whose heart is as tenacious as his own. They have to see reason.

Gods be good.

Dany’s breathless whisper pulls him from his thoughts. “Jon. It's beautiful.”

They have crested the last hill, his home finally coming into view, and it is beautiful. Covered in
snow, the sunlight making every inch of it glitter as if it's covered in diamonds. The Stark sigil
flies from every turret, proud and fierce atop its wintery home.

He smiles at Dany's shocked face. “What? Did you think I lived in a filthy pile of stone?”

She sputters, fearing she's insulted him. “Of course not, I just didn't think…”

“I'm teasin, love.” He winks at her, then turns, watching Winterfell grow larger before them. “It's
not the Red Keep, or Dragonstone, but it's not half bad either.”

Dany gazes at him, admiring him and all he is, all he stands for, and counts her blessings once
more that he is hers and she his. “It befits its king. Strong, worthy of its place, and full of promise.”

At her words, his dark eyes find hers, reflecting back all the love she feels.

---

“He’s here, Arya,” she calls down to her little sister, sparring in the practice yard.

She evades her opponent's sword with little effort, bringing her own sharp blade to his throat before
he even sees her move. “Told you there was nothing to worry about.”

Show off.
Sansa passes orders to their men before descending the stairs. The castle begins to buzz with
energy, even though they have been preparing for days to receive their King and the Dragon
Queen.

Arya meets her near the gates, looking serene and more put together than Sansa has ever seen her.
She's clean. Her new clothes not askew, ruffled or torn, fitting her perfectly instead. There's not a
hair out of place, nor a drop of sweat present despite her sparring for the last hour. Oh, how she's
changed.

Not for the first time, Sansa wonders what Jon will think of their little sister. If she'll scare him the
way she does her. Probably not, she was always his favorite. Remembering the vicious, bloody
picture he made as he nearly beat Ramsey to death she's sure he’ll be proud of who she's become.

“Is she with him?” Arya asks.

“Yes, they're riding side by side, leading her army.”

“How many?”

“More than you or I have ever seen.”

“He did it then.”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

“If we survive, does it make a difference?”

The gates swing open before Sansa can answer, and Arya gets her first glance at the arriving party.
Her heart soars within her chest. He looks just like father. She missed them all, but not like Jon.
Knowing she might one day see him again kept her going more often than not. Seeing the army
he’s leading, she hopes he’ll be as proud of her as she is of him.

The King in the North.

She always knew he was the best of them.

Sansa’s irritation flairs again, seeing the small silvered haired woman at his side clearer than
before. Even from this distance she can tell s beautiful just as Littlefinger said. “What if he’s
married her?”

“What?”

“He bent the bloody knee, Arya. You read it yourself. Our other brother went to war, fell for a
pretty face and then he died and we lost our home.”

She stares at her sister, but all she sees is Robb’s body strapped to a horse, Grey Wind’s head in
place of his own. “I know, I saw him, remember?”

Sansa closes her eyes for a moment then looks at her sister with regret. “I’m sorry, but do you
realize how many wars have started, how many people have died because of men falling for this
woman or that?”

“Let him at least get inside and speak for himself before you condemn him. And even if he did
marry her or plans to, that would secure our home not make us lose it, right? Do you really think
Cersi plans to let us keep it?”
No, of course she doesn't. But better an enemy you know, than one you don't.

“Just don't forget, Targaryens are not known for their reasonable minds. She may be madder than
Cersi.”

Arya lets out an unladylike snort. “Jon? Fall for a madwoman? Maybe you’re the one who's mad.”

“You don't know him anymore, Arya. He’s different.”

“You said he wasn’t,” her sister bites back.

Bran’s lifeless voice cuts through the air, heavy and cold between them. “Arya is right. You worry
for the wrong things, sister.”

Sansa cuts him a nervous look. Why in the seven hells did the gods see fit to bring back strangers in
her siblings bodies?

Then her attention is pulled elsewhere, the castle falling deathly silent as two great beasts cast their
shadows over Winterfell.

---

They’re waiting for them just as Jon knew they would be. His heart stops at the sight of his long
lost siblings, his mount doing the same, causing the whole procession to halt just outside the gates.
All that could be heard was the hush of falling snow. Even Drogon and Rhaegal were silent as the
grey sky they were gliding through.

Realizing he won't move unless pushed, Dany reaches over and places her hand upon his thigh,
rubbing it. The gesture does not go unnoticed by the Stark women who exchange curious glances
with each other. Her warm touch breaks Jon from his shock, his liquid brown eyes meeting hers.

“My apologies, your grace, let me help you down,” he murmurs, minding his manners in front of
the others and moving to dismount.

“You will not,” Dany says, her voice firm. He freezes, halfway off his horse, startled until he
meets her eyes and finds them staring back at him with nothing but love. His heart swells as it
always does when she looks at him so. He wonders if he'll ever believe this extraordinary woman
loves him. Then she smiles, that small secret smile that she reserves only for him. “Go to them.
We’ll wait.”

His eyes begin to burn, he closes them for a moment, willing himself to keep his composure then
gives his love a nod and his own secret smile, before dismounting.

Then he only has eyes for his little sister. Gods, she's changed. All her sweetness as faded. The
young girl she was has been replaced. Others may be fooled, but not Jon. Her solemn mask, her
stance, the weapons she carries, seen and unseen. He sees what she's hiding. She has grown into
everything she dreamed to be. A fighter, a warrior, a cold, deadly slayer of men.

Jon doesn't know whether to be happy for her, or weep. What she must have been through. It
doesn't matter, she's alive. He’ll take her anyway he can get her.
He only takes two steps towards her before they both cannot contain their happiness anymore, their
faces breaking into joy filled smiles. Arya launches herself at him and he catches her easily,
spinning her around as he did when she was little.

“Gods, I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispers into her hair, his voice gruff and full of
emotion even to his own ears. “I’ve missed you so, little sister.”

Arya pulls back to look at him, smiling. “I knew I’d see you again. My brother never breaks his
promises,” she says, and Jon once again hugs her fiercely.

“Tell me you're well. Please,” he begs, his pain and guilt welling up. He should have chosen love
over duty, he should have left his post and searched the ends of the earth for her. For all of them.

She squeezes him tighter, trying to assure him. “I'm well, I promise.”

He sets her down, taking her face in his hands and stares into her grey eyes willing them to give
him peace. She tries to smile, to give him what he needs, to hide it all, but she sees the same as he
surely does. Years of pain and suffering that cannot be erased.

Tears begin to fill his eyes and he lets out a choked whisper. “I'm so sorry.”

She cannot tolerate it anymore. She moves his hands away and hugs him again. “Don’t. It's alright.
We’re alive. We all had paths to take. They led us home again. That's all that matters.The pack
survived.”

Jon holds her tight, smiling once more as he places a kiss atop her head. “Aye, the pack survived.
Half of us at least.”

Dany has to look away from the pair, overwhelmed by her own mixture of emotions. She's elated
for Jon, to see his happiness at being back amongst his loving family, yet her heart is heavy. She
has made a family for herself–her dragons, Missandei, Greyworm, even Tyrion, but as much as she
cares for them she knows it isn't the same. Neither can she quell the hope that rises within her that
Jon and his siblings may soon be her family.

When she can bring herself to watch the reunion again, Jon and Arya are smiling and laughing over
a skinny sword, both looking beyond happy. Jon hands the sword back to Arya, who gives it such
an elegant flourish it appears as if she's dancing with it. Jon’s face is alight with pride as he
watches her sheath it again. Then they walk to their siblings, side by side, their arms tight around
the other, their smiles still firmly in place. They stop before Sansa, all three becoming more serious
as Jon speaks to her quietly before placing a lingering kiss to her forehead. She is a strikingly
beautiful girl with her fiery hair and crystal eyes. But it's her queenly composure that draws Dany's
attention the most. Her trust may be hard won.

The three turn their attention to their brother. While Jon’s smile is bright once more, Bran’s is quite
placid, almost as if his childhood injury affected his entire body instead of just his legs. Dany
easily picks up on Jon’s unease, even from this distance. He embraces his brother though, kissing
his dark hair and after a small exchange, sets his eyes upon another man, this one round and merry.

He must be Sam.

They throw themselves into a tight hug, laughing and smiling all the while. Then Sam pulls away,
proudly showing Jon the woman and child standing just behind them. More smiles and words are
exchanged before Jon runs his hand over the little boy's blonde head, then tickles him under the
chin. The sight is almost more than Dany can endure and still keep her mask in place.
Thankfully, Jon turns his attention back to her, striding towards her, his joy making him look
younger, and more beautiful than she's ever seen him. She cannot hold back her own joy at seeing
him so, though she tries not to let it show too much as he raises his arms to help her down from her
mount.

As soon as he has her on her feet, Missandei begins her usual announcement. Dany cuts her off
with a shake of her head, surprising her whole entourage. She sighs and rolls her eyes at them,
before looking up at Jon and taking his arm. “Jon can introduce me. There's no need to be so
formal, I'm not here to intimidate his family.”

He smiles down at her, his dark eyes holding the warmth she has grown so fond of and places his
other hand over hers before leading her carefully through the snow and mud to his family.
Stopping only a foot or two before them, he clears his throat and Dany has to hold back her
amusement feeling his hand trembling atop hers. His nervousness is so endearing.

“Your Grace–”

She nudges him with her elbow.

“Daenerys, I’d like you to meet my family. My sisters, Sansa and Arya. My brother, Bran. And this
is my friend, Sam and his family, Gilly and little Sam. Everyone, this is Queen Daenerys
Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

She releases his arm, moving to greet Sansa who immediately bows.

“Your Grace, welcome to Winterfell.”

Dany nods respectfully, keeping what she hopes is a friendly smile in place. “Thank you, Lady
Stark. I'm pleased to be here and to meet you all. Jon has told me many stories on our journey. I
feel as if I know you already and hope you can forgive me for keeping him from home for so
long.”

The stately red head nods, though her small smile could still be called pleasant. “We look forward
to getting to know you, Your Grace.”

Yes, this one will be hard won, indeed.

Arya, true to the picture Jon painted of her, steps forward thrusting out her hand for Dany to shake,
a mischievous smile quirking up the corners of her mouth. “Please to meet you, Your Grace.”

Only startled for a moment, Dany takes her hand shaking it firmly as she smiles in return. “And, I,
you, Lady Arya.”

“Oh, I’m no lady, Your Grace. Arya will do. You're dragons are amazing,” she says, raising her
eyes to the sky, watching them circle. “Do you ride them?”

Jon sniffs behind her, no doubt rolling his eyes and Dany knows that Arya will be her favorite, just
as she is his. Genuinely smiling at the young girl she gives her a nod. “Thank you. And, yes, I ride
the black one, Drogon.”

Arya’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “I can't wait to see that.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Dany murmurs looking to Jon. He sighs, a reluctant smile upon his
handsome face, but nods all the same.
Sansa and Arya exchange another look. Did the queen actually ask Jon’s permission? And his face.
Has he ever looked at anyone the way he looks at her?

Dany steps over to Bran then. He certainly can't bow, but he doesn't nod either, only pinning her
with a pair of familiar solemn, dark eyes, yet ones filled with much more mystery than his
brother's. “Your Grace, it is nice to finally meet you. There is much for us to discuss.”

Not sure what to make of him, Dany gives him a tight smile. “Of course. I'm looking forward to
it.”

She turns her eyes to Sam. He bows his rotund body, rising with a beaming smile. One that fills her
with guilt. Jon was not pleased when she confessed her judgement on Sam’s father and brother.
She's not looking forward to wiping away Sam’s smile when the time comes to confess to him.

“Please to meet you, Your Grace. I knew your uncle, Maester Aemon well. He’d be so pleased to
see you here with Jon,” he blurts out, then blushes brightly, shaking his head at himself while
laughing nervously.

“I’d love to hear all about him sometime,” Dany says, hoping to ease his embarrassment.

As Sam introduces her to Gilly, the rest of her entourage dismounts and makes their own
introductions. Lord Tyrion heading straight to his lady wife.

“It is good to see you well and where you rightfully belong, Lady Sansa,” he greets her, placing a
kiss on her hand.

Sansa’s hard edges soften for the first time meeting the man she once married again. She curtsies.
“I'm also pleased to see you well, my Lord. Welcome to our home.”

Tyrion makes sure everyone knows everyone, then Sansa begins giving orders to the staff to take
care of their guests. Dany does the same for her Unsullied and Dothraki. They’ll be stationed
outside the walls. The relief in Sansa’s demeanor at hearing they arrived with their own provision
isn't missed.

“I would never burden your people to provide for such large armies, my Lady,” Dany assures her.

Sansa’s smile is so tight and uncomfortable, Dany knows she's slightly offended, but doing her best
to hide it. “We would have done our best to provide, your Grace, but we thank you for coming
prepared,” she says, leading them into the castle.

“Where is everyone? I expected the Lords here.” Jon asks, his tone edged with worry.

“They'll be here tomorrow,” Sansa tells him. “I thought it best for all of you to have a good night's
sleep before having to deal with them. And it's probably best we have a plan before we do.” She
stares at her brother, eyes cold as the snow that covers the ground. Dany doesn't miss the muscles
bunching in Jon’s jaw as he clenches his teeth before giving her a firm nod.

He’d told her of all his siblings, his relationship with Sansa was the most fraught with tension.
She’d apologized for her unfair treatment of him when they were children, but still challenged him
on a regular basis. Just as she was now.

Jon stops, looking down at Dany. “Would you like to rest for a bit? Have a hot bath and something
to eat before getting started?” Then his eyes dart past her, his brows drawing together tightly.

She turns and sees Sam pushing Bran away from them. Why is he leaving? They haven't spoken in
years.

“He’s different now. He doesn't say much, mostly keeps to himself in the godswood, or to his
rooms,” Sansa tells them.

“He’ll find you soon, when he knows you aren't busy,” Arya adds.

Jon shakes off his disappointment, looking back towards Dany, eyebrows raised in question.

She's fine, she survived the red waste and countless days riding through the great grass sea. They
were much worse than the trip from White Harbor, but she knows Jon needs time with his family,
to explain things. “A hot bath sounds wonderful, thank you, Your Grace.”

Sansa calls over several maids who had been waiting in the shadows. “Please escort the Queen and
her party to their rooms. Draw baths and have food brought for them.”

“Thank you, Milady,” Dany tells her. She stares a moment too long at Jon, wanting nothing more
than to make him follow her so she can ease the tension she sees forming in him. The crease is still
in his brow and his jaw and shoulders are too tight. His eyes beg her to stay and go all at once.
Tonight, she decides, even though they discussed sleeping separately for awhile so as not to shock
the whole castle.

To hell with their opinions. If he needs her, she'll be there.

Giving them both a rigid smile, she turns to follow the maids, Missandei, Varys, and Tyrion
following close behind.

---

Jon is left in the great hall with his sisters. He’s fidgeting. He knows he needs to stop, but he can't
seem to help it. The looks they're giving him make him want to spill all his secrets.

Be the King, Jon.

“How are things here?” he asks them, before they can start in on him. “Is there anythin I need to
know that you didn't send with a raven?”

The sisters share a look. It's shifty, one that speaks volumes and reminds him of someone who
always makes his blood boil.

“Where is your shadow?” he asks Sansa. “It's kinda odd he wasn't around to preen in front of a new
Queen.”

Arya smiles, it's a tiny thing hiding in the corners of her mouth, just a quick spark in her eye. She
rocks on her feet, hands clasped behind her. “I slit his throat just over a fortnight ago.” She tilts her
head towards the front of the hall. “Right over there.”

That's when he notices it. A new stain upon the stones. A large one. For some reason he doesn't
feel as shocked as he should. He's more disappointed really, he would have liked to see that slimy
bastard meet his end, even at the hands of his sisters.

“Care to tell me what happened?”

Her serene mask firmly in place Sansa meets his eyes. “It was him all along. He betrayed our
family.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the reason we all left home. He had Jon Arryn poisoned. He tricked Aunt Lysa into doing it.
Had her send the message to mother. It set everything into motion. Robert choosing father. Father
accepting. Me and Arya leaving, you having to go to the wall. Then he betrayed father with the
Lannisters, which caused Robb to go to war. Bran and Rickon had to flee, mother and Robb died.
All of it was because of him.”

“He almost had her believing I had come to kill her,” Arya says, “That I wanted to take Winterfell
from her, and me believing she had turned against us. If it wasn't for Bran, you might be short two
sisters.”

Jon snarls, his eyes turning to slits as he paces the hall. “I should've kill him in the crypts like I
wanted to.” He turns back, looking at Sansa. “I'm sorry, I never should’ve left you alone with
him.”

Her fire kissed hair catches all the light as she shakes her head. “We took care of it. Protected our
pack and our home.”

Jon is filled with a churning mixture of pride and guilt. And something else. Do they really need
me? What good is a king who can't even protect his own siblings? Leaves them to the vultures?

Dany's child falling from the sky splits his memory open, his screams chilling his blood, the Night
King's eyes piercing his soul while the army of the dead close in.

You knew she could take care of herself, and your home. She did, they all did.

He nods to them both, hoping they can see how proud he is of them. “The pack survives.”

They smile softly, repeating his words. “The pack survives.”

“I’ll leave you to talk business, make sure things are handled outside,” Ayra says.

Jon steps towards her, something close to fear in his eyes. “You’ll come back? Bring Bran with
you? I need to know.”

His little sister just smiles and nods her head before leaving.

“She's as strange and annoying as ever,” Sansa grumbles.

Jon huffs, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he stares at the floor, fiddling with his gloves. “Has she
told you anythin? How she made it back?”

“Only a little. She doesn't seem to want to talk about it anymore than either of us do.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

“She'll probably tell you if you ask.”

“I'm not sure I want to know.”

Sansa sighs. “We should at least try to understand each other I suppose.”
“Does that mean you're going to listen to me about Daenerys?” Jon asks, hopeful.

It falls on deaf ears. “You bent the knee. I don't know what else I need to know.”

Jon huffs through gritted teeth, closing his eyes. Why must she always fight him? “How about why
I did?”

Sansa snorts. “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“Is it?”

“To me it is.” She turns away, hugging her arms around herself. “How could you? After what
happened with Robb? Did you learn nothing from his mistakes?”

“Aye, I did. And more besides. If you would calm down and listen–”

She spins on him, eyes burning. “Calm down? You’ve given up the North for a pretty face!”

“Do not,” Jon warns with a deathly calm. “You know nothing of her.”

“I know enough! I know her father burned–”

“Am I interrupting?” Dany asks, her voice as smooth as cream as she walks in.

Sansa's eyes still burn like blue flames, but she holds her tongue. Jon turns to face her, shame
coloring his cheeks, sending his eyes to the floor. The dragon inside Dany begins to wake seeing
him so. She will not have it.

She grips his clenched fist, giving it a squeeze, looking up into his downturned face. “Go find your
brother and sister, you’ve barely been able to see them. Lady Stark and I can get to know one
another.”

He shakes his head, brows furrowed over his worried dark eyes. “I don't think–”

She cuts him off with only a look.

Heaving a great sigh, his eyes close for a bit. But he nods when he opens them, then throws a
warning glare towards Sansa before leaving the room.

The fiery red head spins on her heals and stalks towards the fire, her anger overriding her usually
respectful persona. “You must tell me how you do it.”

“And that would be?”

“Make kings heal like dogs.”

It takes every ounce of strength Dany has not to cross the room and slap this silly child. She stays
her hand, but not her anger. Before she can unleash it, Sansa is spitting more venom, this time
having the courage to face her.

“How long did it take you to make a fool of him? A week? Or was it only a day? Did he fight at all
before kneeling at your pretty feet?”

Dany closes the space between them, her strides calm and purposeful, hands clasped at her waist.
Sansa Stark is about to meet her Queen. “Jon Snow has never kneeled before me, nor will he. I
would never allow it.”
Sansa's confusion is too much for her to hide. Her mouth opens, then closes again.

Dany does not soften. “And if you dare call him a fool once more I will have your tongue. You
will not disrespect him. He is your King, and he has earned that title better than any man I know.”

Sansa shakes her head, brows furrowed between her pretty blue eyes. “But he’s not my king
anymore. He said he bent the knee, pledged himself to you, publicly. In front of Cersi no less. He
gave up everything for you, his title, our home, our people.”

“He did no such thing. If you had let him speak you would know this. Yes, pledged himself to me,
to fight for me, with me, but he did it for you, your family, and your people. He hasn't given up
anything. We made an alliance so that we could save you all, together. And he does not know it
yet, but I plan on pledging myself to him, in front of his Lords to do the same.”

“What? Queens don't do that.”

“This Queen does.”

“Why?”

“For many reasons. I have seen with my own eyes what lies beyond The Wall, what is coming for
us all, what it's capable of taking. What your brother, your King, is trying to save us all from. And
I’ve seen him for what he is. Know him and his heart. There is no man better than him. He
deserves his title and my loyalty, everyone's loyalty. I didn't trust him at first and it caused the
death of my child. I will not make that mistake again, and I will not stand by and let anyone
disrespect him, sister or not. Do you understand?”

Speechless, Sansa can only nod.

“I am not here to take your home from you. I'm here to help you keep it. When this great war is
over, I want his home to still be standing. For his family to be safe and well inside it. And I know it
will be his wish for you be our Warden, but if you're not up for it, perhaps Arya will be.”

“What? You said he was still King, why would he, or you need a Warden?”

They haven't discussed marriage, and suddenly Dany wonders why, but it's not enough to stop the
words from spilling from her lips. “Because he will not only be King in the North, but in the other
six kingdoms as well. He’ll need someone he trusts here to watch over things when he can't be
here.”

Sansa can't stop herself. She laughs. “Jon? King of the Seven Kingdoms?” The fire in the Dragon
Queen’s eyes ends her laughter as quickly as it started. “You are going to marry? Make him your
King?”

He doesn't know it yet, but yes. Yes, I am.

She speaks the only truth she can for now. “In our hearts he is already my King, and I, his Queen.
When the wars are over, we'll make it official.”

“And he’s agreed to this? He didn't want to rule the North, I can't imagine he wants six more. And
he's a bas–”

“Do not call him that.”

Sansa is once again stuck speechless, this time by shame. Realization soon overrides it. She sits
down hard. “You truly love him, don't you?”

Dany swallows, her eyes darting around. She's never told anyone save Jon. It feels almost wrong to
say the words to someone else. “Yes, I do. So much so, I believe I would give up everything for
him, if he wished it. Thankfully, he doesn't.”

Sansa's eyes widen as she shakes her head and worries her lip. Her reaction sets Dany's teeth on
edge. “Do you not think him worthy of someone’s love? Is that it?’

“What? No, your Grace! Of course not! I love Jon, I do. He’s good. He always was.”

“He was the best of us. Still is,” Arya says startling them both with her sudden presence not two
feet away from them.

How did she? How long has she been there? She's definitely a tricky little thing.

Dany smiles at her as soon as her shock wears off. “He is the best man I know.”

Arya smiles too, there's no mischief hiding in it this time either. “He loves you. I’ve never seen him
look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

“No one has ever come close to looking at me the way he does.”

“Never hurt him, your Grace. I really like you, I’d hate to have to slit your throat.”

Sansa finds her feet. “ARYA!”

Dany only has eyes for her love’s sly little sister. Her queenly mask firmly in place she stares at her
with one eyebrow raised. Cold, grey eyes meet sparking violet, neither backing down.

Oh, yes. She's my favorite.

“Hurting him would be like taking a knife to my heart. I have no plans to do either.”

Arya’s smile returns. She nods at Dany then turns on her sister. “He’s our King. He’s brought us
the most powerful ally we could hope for. Armies thousands strong. Weapons. Dragons for bloody
sake. Stop being a brat and listen to them.” Her speech given, she turns on her heel and glides from
the room, not making a sound.

“I'm sorry, your Grace. It’s hard to trust anyone after all the betrayal. We’ve lost so much. Not just
our family, but our people…” Sansa says, finally dropping the last of her walls, and Dany sees only
a frightened girl who desperately wants to protect her family. This she wolf is not so different from
her it seems.

Dany closes the distance between them, taking the girl's hand in her own. “I know the sharp cut of
betrayal well, Milady. I swear to you, I’m here to make sure you don't lose anything, or anyone else
ever again.”
 My kin bold and boyful
Chapter Summary

The Stark siblings talk and Dany meets Ghost.

Chapter Notes

Got it in just under the wire :)

Since this is my spin on things I'm making a few minor changes. I wanted my
Starklings and Jon and Dany to have a few days of relative peace before the shit hit the
fan so I've decided Bran hasn't seen the Night King and Viserion take down the wall
yet. He does know Jon's a Targeryen though, but that bomb will be dropped next
chapter. For now it's just a few small ones.

Hope you enjoy. Can't wait to hear what you guys think!

Jon leaves the fiery women behind, hoping they can reach an understanding. He trusts Dany,
knows she loves him and she knows he loves his family. She has a good heart, she won't forget the
stories Jon has told her of his sister’s trials. She'll make it work.

Unfortunately it's time to learn of the trials his other siblings have faced. Not seeing Arya in the
courtyard, he heads to the godswood. Even if Bran isn't there, some time kneeling in prayer can't
hurt. Gods know they need all the help they can get.

It isn't Bran he finds first, but someone he’s just as happy to see.

Ghost comes slowly through the falling snow, red eyes bright. He isn't cautious as usual, instead
nuzzling and licking Jon just as he did as a pup. Several quiet whines even leave his throat. He
knows as well as Jon things are changing, that everything is balanced on the edge of a sword and
could fall either way. Every moment counts now.

Tears once again threatening to spill, Jon buries his hands in the wolf's thick fur giving him a good
hug. “I missed you too.” Ghost calms a bit, but doesn't back away. He sniffs his master from head
to toe, making Jon laugh at his close inspection. “I'm alright, Ghost.” The wolf centers in on Jon's
chest, bumping his nose repeatedly into the boiled leather covering his heart. Hard enough Jon
stumbles back several times, still laughing. “What's gotten into you, boy?”

“He knows you’ve opened your heart to her. He’s happy for you.”

Jon spins around, Bran’s mellow voice sending a surprising bolt of fear through him. He can only
stare. This strange man in front of him wears his brother's face, but the happy boy he once was isn't
to be found. Something tells Jon he never will be again.

“I had to become someone else just like you did.”

Those heavy words said in such a hollow tone do nothing to quiet Jon’s unease.

“What happen to you, Bran? Why'd you go beyond the wall? If you’d stayed with Sam he would've
kept you safe till I got back. At least two of us could've been together.”

“I couldn't. There were things I needed to do. I did see you though.”

“What? When?”

“At the windmill when you were with the Wildlings. Rickon was still with us then. And at Caster’s
Keep. You were fighting the men that captured us.”

Jon’s not able to hide the hurt he feels. He would've given anything to see him again, any of them.
To know Bran was that close, not once, or twice, but three times yet chose to leave without a word
hurts more than he cares to admit. He feels as small and hopeless as he did when he was a boy,
trembling under the hateful stare of Catelyn Stark's cold eyes. He had thought his little brother
cared for him more than that. There had to be a sound reasons, surely. And he needs to know them.

“Bran, if you were that close, why didn't you let me know? Why'd you leave three times without
seeing me?”

There’s no emotion on his brother's face. Nothing to show he senses Jon’s hurt. Or anything else
for that matter. “The wildlings would’ve killed us all if we had shown ourselves at the windmill
and you would've never let me go the other times. Correct?” he asks.

Jon doesn't answer, there's no need. He would've locked him in Castle Black and never let him out
of his sight again. Maybe he could've saved him from the emptiness that seems to have taken him.

He sighs and shakes his head. There's no point in focusing on the pain. “The men at Caster's took
you?”

Bran nods, looking through Jon, seeing something that's not there. “The day before. They hurt
Hodor, tied us up. They were about to hurt Meera when you and your men arrived.” His hazy eyes
meet Jon’s. “You saved us and you didn't even know it. We were able to get away because of you.
By the way, I killed one of your men. He was betraying you, and me.”

“Who? An how’d you manage that?”

“A sellsword named Locke. He was older than you. Pale, with a dark beard. I warged into Hodor
and broke his neck.”

Jon’s mouth falls open. It takes him a moment to find his words remembering the gruesome picture
of Locke’s body layin in the snow. “You're a warg? One that can control other people?” He didn’t
know such a thing was possible? He’s not sure if it scares him or not, quite honestly.

“Yes, and the Three Eyed Raven.”

“I don't know what that is, Bran. Like a greenseer?” he asks, trying to understand.

“More than that. I can see things from the past. Things that are happening now, and some of what
will happen. It all started once I woke up.”

“I'm sorry.”

Bran shows the first bit of emotion Jon has seen from him. Confusion. “Why would you be sorry?”
“I should’ve been here to protect you an Rickon. To bring our sister's back home. I should've kept
you all safe.”

“No, Jon. Your path was, and is too important for you to stray from, even for us.”

Now it's Jon's turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”

“I knew I’d find you here.”

He jumps as Arya appears beside him as silently as Ghost did. He can't help but smile. It's not even
been an hour since he saw her last, but she is such a sight for sore eyes. And maybe talking to her
won't be as cryptic and unsettling as conversations with Bran.

“Everyone is gathering in the hall. They'll be waiting for us,” she tells them.

“That didn't take long,” Jon sighs. He is so tired. What he wouldn't give to be back on that ship
with Dany, tucked away from everyone and everything, but there's nothing for it. He turns back to
Bran. “Would you like to join us?”

His brother shakes his head, staring through the ghostly trunk of the weirwood tree. “Maybe later.”

Jon looks to Arya for help, but she shrugs her shoulders then begins the trek back to the great hall.
He watches Bran for a moment longer, his heart aching for the loss of the happy boy he once was.
Ghost finally nudges him in the shoulder waking him from his melancholy. Leaving Bran behind,
they follow Arya's tracks through the snow.

---

All of them have sat down to eat. Jon and his sisters to his right, then Sam and Gilly. Daenerys sits
on his left, her council beside her. The hall is quiet save for the sounds of a dozen set of jaws
chewing. They’ve already discussed the journey from White Harbor, the mission beyond the wall,
and the meeting at the Dragon Pit. Sansa has filled them in on the murmurs from the lords they’ll
face come the morrow. They’re all relieved when she tells them she kept Jon's pledge to Daenerys
to herself and her siblings.

They all hope to keep that war for another day.

Tomorrow, Jon will hold the focus where it belongs–on the Night King and the war at their door.
His brother and sisters will stand staunchly behind him, as will Daenerys and her council. The lords
will either fight with them, or do their best to run and hide.

None of them have much of a choice anymore. Death is coming for them all. Fighting it is all they
can do.

Jon notices Dany hasn't really eaten, more or less picking at her food. He leans forward a bit
catching Missandei’s attention. They have a silent conversation with their eyes, glancing back and
forth between Dany, her plate, and each other.

It didn't take them long to become quiet allies, their love for their queen bonding them along with
similar reserved temperaments.
Missandei touches Dany's arm. “Is everything alright, your Grace?” she asks, her voice as soft as
silk, like always.

“Hmmm?” Dany pulls herself from her thoughts, looking at her friend with a weary smile. “I'm
fine. Just tired I think.”

Jon slips his hand under the table and over her thigh. “Would you prefer somethin else? You're
probably not use to our food. I can have them cook you anythin you'd like.”

Dany shakes her head. “No, I don't want anyone going to the trouble. I'm fine really. I do believe
I’ll turn in for the night though, if we’ve covered everything we need to,” she says, looking to him,
then each of her council.

No one seems to find anything else to discuss much to everyone's relief.

“Would you like me to escort you to your chambers?” Jon asks.

She finds his hand with her own and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you, but you're still eating and I'm
sure your family wants some more time with you and you them. Enjoy it, tomorrow will come too
soon.”

They trade a silent farewell with a lingering look, both intending on seeing the other soon, then
Dany and Missandei take their leave. It doesn't take long for the rest to follow suit.

---

It's finally just the four of them, along with Ghost. They’ve sat here in this library before, many
times, years ago doing their studies with Maester Luwin. The absence of him and their brothers is
thick within the silent air filling the room. His sisters stare, one at the floor boards, the other at her
hands. Their little brother sits across the room looking into dancing flames, as expressionless as a
corpse, Ghost laying at his side. The fire crackles and pops. Jon shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

It shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't be so hard.

For what seems like the hundredth time today, tears threaten to well in his eyes. He takes a deep
swallow of wine to hopefully hold them off.
He’s the oldest now, the head of their family. The Lord of Winterfell. The King in the North. He’s
never felt more ill equipped.

Say something, dammit.

He clears his throat. “Sansa, thank you,” he says, his voice thicker than he’d hoped. She looks up
at him, face expectant. He swallows another gulp of wine. “You did well preparin for our arrival,
an takin care of things while I was away. I knew you would, but thank you all the same. I don't
think I said so earlier.”

Her usually cold blue eyes warm as she smiles slightly. “You're welcome. I tried to do what I
thought you’d want. I missed you though, we all did.”

Bran is still a living statue by the fire, but Arya comes to life beside him, eyes winking with
mischief. “I was quite put out when I got here only to find out you were off flirting with a queen.”
Jon huffs, rubbing the back of his suddenly warm neck. “I did not flirt. Not even once,” he defends
himself.

Both of his sisters roll their eyes.

“I’ll have you know we hated each other at first.”

“Well, you sure don't now,” Arya gwaffs.

He laughs then, but it's quiet. “No, we don't.”

“You really love her,” Sansa says, her voice soft, thankfully holding no hostility. She could have
asked, but they all know there was no need.

“I'm that obvious?”

“Yes!” the girls both say at once.

“And so is she,” Arya adds. “Your eyes go all melty when you look at each other. It's sickening,”
she teases him.

Jon rolls his eyes at her this time.

Sansa reaches across the table and takes his hand. “I want to be happy for you, Jon. I do. But I'm
scared.”

She's been softer since her talk with Dany, he couldn't be more grateful. He needs her on their side.

He squeezes her fingers for a brief moment then lets go, running his hand down his face. “Trust
me, I know. It was the last thing I meant to happen. I still have a hard time believin it did.”

“I'm glad it did,” Arya confesses, looking at her sister. “At least one of us gets to be happy.” She
cuts her eyes back to Jon. “You deserve the best, and she’s obviously that. She has dragons! Is she
like all the stories we read? Like Visenya and Rhaenys?”

He smiles at her, seeing a glimpse of the girl he once knew. “She's unlike anyone I’ve ever known.
I wish I had time to tell you all the things she's done, been through, the people she's saved,” he tells
Arya, then turns to Sansa. “I swear to you I didn't fall at her feet the second I saw her. Yes, she's
beautiful, but it wasn't until she risked her life to save mine that I finally fell. And that was weeks
after we met.”

“When you went to get the wight?” Arya asks.

He nods. “Even then it wasn't just that. She's not some mad, insane ruler like her father, she's not
another Cersei either. She has a good heart an wants what's best for people. She doesn't care if
you’re highborn, a slave, or a bastard. She just wants a better world for all of us.”

Sansa eyes him, folding her hands over the table and leaning forward. “I’m beginning to see that,
but I have a feeling you left something out of that story earlier.”

Jon sighs, he’s done that too much today. “Some wights attacked me an we fell through the ice. I
thought I'd died. Again,” he confesses.

Arya grabs his arm, her brows gathered darkly over her grey eyes. “What you mean, again?”

“What DO you mean,” Sansa corrects her just like old times.
“Shut it!” Arya snaps, never taking her eyes or hand from Jon. “Tell me what you meant.”

His gaze flicks to Sansa. She shakes her head. “It wasn't my story to tell.”

He looks back at his little sister, wishing he didn't have to tell her, but knowing she won't leave it
till he does. He puts his hand over hers. “You know I left the Night’s Watch?” She nods. “You
know you can't do that until you die?” Her scowl darkens. He lets her go, then works the buckles
and straps of his armor loose, pulling it off, leaving him in just his tunic. He lifts it, bearing his
scars to them.

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa gasps. He looks over at her. Her hand covers her mouth and there's tears already
spilling from her eyes. She had hear the story, but hadn't seen the evidence.

But Arya, she's on her feet, rage coloring her face. “Tell me their names. All of them,” she orders.

Jon covers himself again, hoping to calm her. “It doesn't matter who it was.”

“It does matter,” she yells. “Tell me their names.”

“What do you need their names for?”

“For her list,” Sansa whispers.

He frowns. “What list?”

“Our little sister has a list of names. One of all the people she plans to kill. Or has already. Tell
him, Arya.”

“Not until he tells me their names.”

Jon takes her arm and pulls her back down. “You don't need their names, they're dead. I hung them
myself.”

Arya eyes him, sceptical. “All of them? You swear?”

“I swear.”

Just like that, she goes back the the serene girl that met him at the gates. “So you died? Who
brought you back? A priest from that Lord of Light?”

Jon feels like his head is spinning she’s changing so quickly. He shakes it off and tries to focus.
“How do you know about any of that?”

She shrugs, then starts picking at her nails. “About a year after, the Band of Brothers took me and
some of my friends. They had a priest that brought one of their men back seven times. I saw it once
with my own eyes. He’d been nearly cut in half.”

“Ser Beric?”

“Yeah, that's him.”

Why in the seven hells didn't Beric tell him he knew his sister? “Not until recently. He went with
me beyond the wall. His priest, Thoros died after a dead bear attacked us. It was a priestess that
brought me back.”

Arya’s brows knit back together. “What was her name?”

“Melisandre.”

Now she's glaring. “That bitch took Gendry. I have no doubt she murdered him too.”

“Wait? Gendry Waters? Robert's bas–”

Eyes wide as saucers, Arya slaps her hand down on the table making Sansa jump. “You know him
too? When did you see him last?”

“A few weeks ago. He should be on his way here. I actually thought he’d already be here.”

“He’s alive? He’s coming here? Why's he coming here?”

“He went with us too. Davos found him in King’s Landing an brought him back to Dragonstone.
He wanted to help, we needed it, so I let him. He save our asses by runnin back to get a raven to
Daenerys. How do you know him?”

She's smiling now, not much, but a little, looking through him, remembering. “He saved me, I
saved him. We took care of each other and Hot Pie for awhile. Till the Brotherhood and that witch
anyway. I thought he was dead.”

“He must have thought you were too, he didn't mention you. Probably thought I didn't want to talk
about my dead sister.”

“Probably.”

She's goes quiet for a bit, but Jon presses on. “So tell me about this list, little sister.”

“It’s a list of all the people that have hurt our family. I’ve marked off most of them. Killed them
one by one,” she says her voice as level as a sword. “I started it after father was killed. I was there,
like Sansa. I saw Robb too, what they did to him.”

Jon suddenly wishes he hadn't had so much wine. It's threatening to return to his cup, his stomach a
churning pit of fire. He doesn't believe he could've survived seeing their father and brother
murdered, but his sweet sisters... He grabs her, pulling her into a hug and holding her tightly. “I'm
sorry, I’m so sorry.”

She holds onto him just as tight. “Joffery died before I could get to him, but I killed the Frey’s.
Every last one of them,” she says, not a trace of regret in her muffled voice.

He pushes her back to see her face. “All of them? How?”

“Does it matter?”

“Just tell him, Arya. Or show him the faces. It's easier to believe that way,” Sansa mutters.

Jon looks between them, more confused than ever. “What's she talkin about?”

Arya pulls away, sitting up and grasping the hilt of Needle, rubbing it affectionately. “After I left
The Hound to die–”

“You killed him too?” Sansa asks, an edge of something to her voice. Pain, maybe?

“He’s not dead. He almost got all of us killed beyond the wall though,” Jon tells them.

Sansa's shoulders sag and Arya looks between them, mouth open, brows scrunched. “Have we been
with all the same people this whole time? Just never together.”

“Yes,” Bran says, making them all turn to look at him. They wait for him to say more, but he
doesn't.

Arya cuts her eyes at Sansa. “He said he saved you once in King’s Landing. Was he lying?”

Her sister shakes her head. “No. He did. Three men were going to rape me, then probably murder
me. He killed them instead. He offered to take me to Robb and mother. I should've went with him.
I was so stupid.”

“Well, he didn't offer me anything. He just took me,” Arya says. “He tried to get me to them, but
we were too late, they were already dead when we got there. He even tried to take me to Aunt
Lysa, but she died the day before we got to the Vale.”

“Wait, what? You were there? Why didn't you come to the castle? I was there then.”

“With her dead he knew he wouldn't get his money for me, so we left.”

“I can't believe we've all been so close to finding each other. Makes things seem all the crueler,”
Sansa whispers.

All three share a grieved look, then Jon flicks his hand at Arya. “Finish your story about the list.”

She sighs at him, but carries on. “I found a ship hoping it would take me to Eastwatch. I thought I
could get to you from there. But it wasn't going north. It was going to Braavos.”

“You went to Braavos?”

“Yes, to the House of Black and White.”

“The house of what?”

“Ever heard of the many faced god?” Jon shakes his head. “The faceless men?” Again, he shakes
his head. “We’re assassins. Killers who wear someone else's face.”

“What?”

“She's telling the truth,” Sansa says, causing Jon to jerk around and look at her. “I’ve seen them.
She has a bag of full of dead people's faces. Walter Frey’s is one of them.”

Jon feels the color drain from his own face, his stomach turning dangerously. He suspected, but
this? No, no stop. It doesn't matter, she's alive and home where she belongs. That's what's
important.

“Do you hate me, like she does?” she asks him, nodding towards Sansa.

Sansa huffs. “I don't hate you, Arya. You just scare me sometimes,” she tells her, then smirks, “but
you did when we were little too.”

Arya gives her a weak smile before looking to Jon again. “I never scared you.”

He shakes his head and smiles a bit. “No, you didn't.” He reaches up and runs his hand over her
hair, stopping to hold her cheek. “And I don't hate ya. I never will. Neither of ya. You're my sisters.
Bran's my brother. We’re family. We've all done things to survive that we probably never thought
we'd do. We've all taken our revenge on those that hurt us. You're no different than the rest of us.”
Arya’s eyebrows raise. “I have no doubt you’ve killed your fair share, but her?”

Jon looks at Sansa who shrugs, then back to his youngest sister. “Ask her to tell you about
Ramsey's hounds one day.”

“There wasn't much left for them after you were done with him,” Sansa says with an unladylike
snort.

Jon smiles, but it's grim. “Aye, I got my pound in.”

“More like pounding,” Sansa says, her smirk fading.

They exchange a long, solemn look before Jon nods his head. “I think that's enough for one night.
Today was long, tomorrow will be longer.” He stands, kissing each of them on the forehead, then
moves towards the door after grabbing his armour. “I'm glad we're all back home,” he tells them.

The girls smile and Bran actually nods and bids him goodnight. Ghost rises to feet and joins his
master as he leaves the room.

“Jon.” Sansa stops him before he’s gone. He turns back, eyebrows raised. “I let her have my rooms.
I took yours.”

“You little bitch,” Arya seethes, jumping to her feet and his defense. “He’s the king and you put
him beneath you in his own castle?”

Sansa rolls her eyes at her sister's anger. “No, you idiot. I thought he'd prefer to share the room
with her.”

Arya sits back down with a thump. “Oh. Well, alright then.”

Jon smiles, shaking his head. It's good to know somethings haven't changed.

---

He knocks at his door before opening it so as not to startle Dany, then sticks his head in the door.

She smiles at him from where she's bundled under the furs of his bed. “You can come in, silly.
There's nothing under here you haven't seen many times before.”

He looks at the floor, smiling too. “I’ve brought someone I want you to meet.”

“At this hour? I'm barely dressed,” she fusses, pulling the furs to her chin.

“I don't think he'll mind.” He opens the door all the way and steps inside. Ghost slips past him like
a whisper.

Dany sits up as if something's yanked her there. “Oh, Jon. He’s… he’s beautiful,” she breathes out
so softly he barely hears her.

“Dany, meet Ghost, my direwolf.” He leans down and whispers in Ghost's ear. “This is Dany.
She's our queen. I want you to protect her from now on. She comes first, alright? I love her.”
Red eyes meet ones of coal, understanding filling them. Ghost goes to his new charge who’s on her
feet now. Dany stands stone still as he begins sniffing her from top to bottom, her eyes wide and
full of wonder. Then she reaches out a tentative hand, running it over his snow white fur.

It fills Jon with something he doesn't quite have a name for seeing them together. Did she feel this
as he stood before Drogon? This affection. This bond he swore he’d never find with another.

Still petting Ghost as he nuzzles into her stomach, Dany turns to Jon, her face alighting with a
beaming smile. “He’s wonderful.”

“He’s not a dragon, but aye, he is.”

“Do you think we’ll ever stop finding these connec– Oofffhh!”

Ghost nudges her hard enough she falls back onto the bed, sitting down hard. His huge paws drape
across her lap, his nose buried in her stomach. Dany giggles despite being pinned down by a giant
wolf that could easily kill her if he wished.

“Ghost! Get off her,” Jon orders him, throwing his armour over the chest and heading around the
bed. He doesn't listen to him, whining now as he rubs his face against her stomach.

Dany cuts Jon a nervous smile. “Is he normally so affectionate?”

Jon’s frown is answer enough, but still he says, “No, never. He was a bit with me today though. I
think maybe he knows.”

“Knows what?” she whispers, looking down at Ghost, her voice shaking a bit.

Jon won't have her being afraid, so he grabs Ghost with both hands by the scruff of the neck and
pulls him off her. “Down Ghost. You're supposed to protect her, not scare her. Go lay down,” he
tells him, pointing to the fireplace.

Ghost whines, his eyes pleading as they gaze at Dany. He looks more like a puppy than the great
beast he is.

“Ghost. Go lay down,” Jon orders him again.

The wolf sways on his giant paws, torn between them. Dany’s mothering instincts kick in. She
reaches out and strokes his face, smiling at him. “I'm fine, Ghost. Jon will take care of me. Go
sleep now.” He licks her hand then does as he’s told, slinking across the room on silent paws and
lays down in front of the fire with a soft huff.

She looks up to see his surly master still scowling at him. She takes his hand in hers, rubbing her
thumb over his knuckles. “Did you come to wish me goodnight, or to stay?”

Jon shifts until he facing her. He smiles, the one she knows is only for her, his charcoal eyes
staring at her lovingly. He reaches out, brushing his fingers over her cheek, then tucking a strand of
hair behind her ear. “Well, I either sleep here with you, out in the tents with the men, or I suppose I
could find a table somewhere. Sansa took my rooms. These are usually hers.”

“With me then,” Dany laughs, pulling him down. He easily twists them so his full weight doesn't
crush her and they both fall onto the thick furs. They spend the next several minutes reacquainting,
lips dancing and hands tracing curves or buried in silky hair.

“Mmmm, I missed you, and this,” she hums, tucking herself into his chest.
He wraps his arms around her, breathing her in, letting her closeness ease his frayed nerves. “Aye.
I’ve ached to be back in our cabin on that boat all day,” he admits.

“Me too.”

He pulls back, brushing her hair from her beautiful face. “Thank you, for whatever you said to
Sansa.”

Smiling she turns her head and kisses his palm. “She's worried for her family and your people,
that's all. As she should be. But I think we found some common ground.”

“Aye, she'll soon see you, just as I do.”

She smirks up at him. “Well, maybe not quite as much as you do.”

He laughs quietly, his fingers running through her silver strands. “Arya loves you already. Once
she sees you ride Drogon, she'll worship the ground you walk on.”

“I like her too. She reminds me of myself not so long ago, threatening people who dare to threaten
those important to me.”

Jon pulls back, shocked and maybe a bit queasy. “She didn't.”

Dany laughs now. “She did. I believe she said she’d hate to slit my throat, but she would if I hurt
you.”

“Seven fuckin hells,” Jon groans, rolling over and covering his face with his hands. “I'm sorry. I
will have words with her. She'll never threaten you again.”

“There's no need. She loves you, just as I do. We understand each other.”

He sighs, closing his eyes and holding the hand she’s laid on his chest. “They’ve changed. So
much. I hardly know them now. Arya’s some kind of terrifyin assassin who wears dead people's
faces an Bran’s barely alive. I don't think he feels anythin anymore. Three times he could of come
to me. He saw me twice with his own eyes, then turned an ran. An Sansa's her mother all over
again.”

“You’ve all been through so much. Time and circumstances change us all. You’ll learn to love
them as they are, just as you did then,” she tries to soothe him.

Sighing, he rolls back over, stroking her cheek. “I'm sorry, I'm whinin. Are you feeling better?”

“I'm fine, my love. Just tired. You know we didn't get much rest on the road.” She runs her
fingertips through his beard and kisses his full lips.

“Alright. Time to rest then.” He stands up and goes across the room to add another log to the fire,
stoking it to a nice roar. Petting Ghost, he returns to the bed, pulling off his tunic, then his boots
and pants, leaving him in his small clothes.

Dany stays curled into the furs watching him until he reaches for her. “Those too,” she says,
flicking her fingers at his small clothes.

“You're tired, love. I can wait.”

She raises her eyebrows, sitting up. “I'm not that tired and I can't.”
Stripping completely, Jon crawls over her, his voice low and rough. “At your service, my queen.”
 After the raven has had his say
Chapter Summary

Tryion gets cranky, Jamie shows up. The Northern Lords have to be dealt with and
Bran drops a bomb.

Chapter Notes

So sorry this took me so long. Real life is to blame. I had this all written as the big
reveal, but then I realized there were several things that hadn't happened that should
have so it's probably different than you're expecting, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Be aware it ends in a cliffy, but it's not like you don't already know the big surprise :)

Jon wakes to a silent empty room, the bed cold beside him. She’s never been the one to rise first,
he always wakes before her. Even when they were sleeping in the tent along the Kingsroad.
Knowing something must be wrong, he’s on his feet and dressed in moments.

He finds her in the courtyard, speaking with Grey Worm. Arya's there too, and Davos. Ghost is
sitting at Dany's side. She looks like a little girl next to him. Especially dressed in the cloak she has
on. Jon recognizes it immediately. It's his old one and it's too big for her even though it looks like
Sansa must have shortened it before giving it to her.

The sight makes Jon smile, she looks every bit a Northern Queen, dressed in furs, snow falling in
her silver hair as she stands in her wintery castle with her direwolf proud at her feet. He likes seeing
her this way, probably more than he should.

His sister notices him first, raising an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Look who's finally awake. Never thought you'd be a lazy king.”

“It's not that late,” he mutters, bumping her with his elbow, “and I'm not lazy, just more tired than I
thought.”

Davos coughs, while Grey Worm gives him a look that says he knows everything and nothing at
once. Dany's smiling at him, that polite queenly one she uses when they aren't alone. Her violet
eyes are twinkling though, full of memories from the night before as she strokes Ghost’s head. The
direwolf’s eyes are heavy and filled with pleasure.

Jon would roll his if seeing them together didn't fill him with so much happiness.

“Trader,” he grunts at the wolf, then raises his eyes looking between Dany and Davos. “Everythin
alright this mornin?”

Davos answers first, after getting Dany’s approval. “Aye, Your Grace. All is well as can be,
considerin. We've spoken to the smiths. They're to start makin weapons of the dragon glass this
mornin.”
“An the armour we spoke of, for the queen and her dragons?”

“And for you too,” Dany reminds him.

Jon nods. “Of course.” He doesn't think it'll matter, but if him being armoured helps her focus and
keep herself safe, he’ll wear it.

“Aye, that too,” Davos confirms, “but it will take a bit longer. I spoke ta Sam last night, he thinks
now we have the dragons we might be able ta make Valyrian steel. Weapons, an armour.”

Gods be good. Valyrian steel armour. That would protect her and the dragons, even if the Night
King threw more spears at them. They would just shatter like glass he bets. A little bit of hope
trickles into his heart. She'll live. She'll be safe and so will her children. She won't have to grieve
for another.

Bless Sam, he doesn't know how he’d make it without him.

He looks to her, asking silently what he's already asked aloud.

Dany knows it was a loaded question, he’s worried about her on top of everything else that's
weighing on his shoulders. She'll fib this once, it's only their worries putting her stomach off. Men
never let such things keep them from food. “Everything is fine. The men are taking care of
themselves, and there's nothing new to report. So far it's all going according to plan. Sansa doesn't
expect the Lords till early afternoon so Arya and I were going to see about the dragons.”

When he glances at his sister, she's grinning ear to ear.

“Why don't you go break your fast then join us?” Dany suggests.

“You’ve already eaten?” he asks.

Both women nod.

“We can wait a bit longer,” Dany says, “Perhaps Arya will teach me a few things about how to
handle a dagger until you're done?”

Arya does a little bow. “I’d be honored, Your Grace.”

His conversation with Dany last night jumps to the forefront of Jon's mind. His smile melts away,
turning to a scowl as he looks down at his little sister, arms crossed over his chest.

Dany jerks her head slightly at Greyworm and Davos. Both take the hint and disappear.

Arya soon feels her brother's eyes boring into her. She turns, eyebrows raising at his obvious anger.
“What?” Jon stays silent, still glaring, his jaw clenching too. “What?” she asks again, her hands out
in surrender.

Dany lays a hand over his arm, hoping to cool his ire. “Jon. We’re fine. There's no need.”

It doesn't work. He ignores her, still drilling holes into his sister with his eyes. “You will not
threaten her ever again, do you understand me? She's your Queen. What you did yesterday was
treason. She could've burned you alive or had her men cut your head off and had every right.”

Arya puts her hands behind her back, her expression untroubled as she looks up a him. “I know
that.”
Her apathy only succeeds in inciting him further. “And what happens to me if you do it again? Or
follow through with your threat? Did ya think of that? How I’ll have to put my sword to my own
sister's neck? Then bury you both?”

Arya has the decency to look ashamed. She forgets she no longer needs just her thoughts of revenge
to keep her warm anymore. “I'm sorry.”

“Apologize to her, not me,” Jon says, his tone easing some, though his eyes are still dark and
stormy. She doesn't like him angry with her. At all. It hurts more than she’ll ever let on.

Dany shakes her head. “It's alright, Arya. You don't–”

“No, Your Grace, it isn't. Jon’s right. I can't threaten everyone that looks at my family, no matter
how much I want to. Especially queens. I apologise.”

Stepping closer, Dany holds her hand out to Arya who quickly takes it. “Friends, not enemies.
Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Dany doesn't let her go, leaning close and whispering in her ear, “I’ll gladly burn anyone who
dares hurt him. We’ll keep him safe, I promise.” Arya is smiling when Dany stands back up and
winks at her. “I'll wait for you by the armoury.” Looking at Jon she tilts her head. “Don't be long,
we don't have much time.”

With his nod she leaves them, Ghost sticking to her heels.

Jon engulfs Arya in a hug, nearly squeezing the air from her lungs. “I love you, little sister. Always
have, always will, but I love her too. Please don't ever make me have to choose between you.”

Breathing in the leather, smoke, and winter that's all her brother, and letting it comfort her, Arya
shakes her head. “I won't, I promise.”

---

“Good morning, Your Grace. Thought for a moment you had skipped out on us,” Tyrion greets him
as soon as Jon enters the great hall, his cup held high.

Apparently he hasn't been skipping on the wine.

Jon tilts his head. “No, just getting some well needed rest while I can.” He nods at Missandei
who’s wiping drops of wine from her face and an unamused Varys.

He joins them at the table and begins filling his plate. “Did she eat? She said she did,” he whispers
to Missandei.

Her smile is tight, but she nods. “A little, Your Grace. More than last night.”

“I don’t like it. If I ask the maester to look her over do you think she’d let him?”

“I doubt it. I love her, but she holds tightly to her pride and puts everyone before herself.”
Tyrion slams his cup down on the table. “What are you two whispering about over there? Care to
share? I love gossip.”

Varys rolls his eyes and removes the tankard of wine from the little lord's reach. “They are worried
for their queen,” he answers, moving Tyrion's cup next, much to his annoyance.

“What? Why? I haven't noticed anything. And I'm her hand, I noticed everything,” he declares.

Jon cuts him with his eyes, then turns away, muttering, “Apparently not.”

“Do forgive me, My Lord,” Tyrion drawls, “not all of us are as cosy with her as you are.”

Jon is on his feet, the table rattling at the upset, his eyes narrowed slits spitting fire. Varys whispers
furiously into Tyrion's ear, his overcoat fisted in the Spider's grip while Missandei lays a gentle
hand on Jon's arm against her better judgement. “Please, Your Grace. Ignore him. He’s been quite
the thorn lately.”

Jon closes his eyes, breathing deep through his nose. She's much relieved to see him back in control
once he opens them.

“If you have issue with me Lord Tyrion, speak it. I thought we were past this, but if not we need to
deal with it now. The Lords of the North do not need to see even a hint of weakness in us. So, tell
me, what has changed between last night and this mornin?”

“Nothing but wine,” Varys scoffs. “It is his weakness and makes a fool of him.”

Tyrion jerks away from Varys, getting up and crossing the small distance between Jon and himself.
“You'll fight, because that’s what both of you do best, and then you'll die. What happens to the rest
of us then? Hmmm? Where will we be?”

“This is a war, Lord Tyrion. Fighin is what happens in war. You can't expect us to sit back and let
our people die while we do nothin. She's our only hope. You think I want to watch the woman I
love risk her life? I can assure you, I do not. But I will, after I have done everythin in my power to
protect her as much as I can. She'll have armour, the dragons will have armour. She will live. If I
have to die to see it happen, she will live.”

“How very chivalrous of you, but have you thought what will be left of her if you die?”

“Of course I have. But Daenerys is strong. She'll mourn me, then she'll pick herself up and rule.
She's already lost a husband, a child, and one of her dragons. She'll survive. Just like she always
has."

“None of those things you mentioned were you though.”

“I am not her husband, or her child.”

“No, you're not. You're more than all of those combined. You're the love of her life.”

“Tyrion.”

“No. I'm right. If she loses you, we lose her. It's as simple as that.”

“I'm not doing this with you. You're drunk.” Jon’s eyes cut to Varys. “Sober him up before the
Lords arrive, or lock him up,” he orders, then stalks away leaving his breakfast barely touched.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Tyrion’s quiet words thrown at his back only make him falter for a moment before he’s out the
door.

---

Dany startles slightly when his hand touches her back. She scowls at him, concerned. “There's no
way you’ve eaten already.”

He watches his sister where she stands a few feet in front of them, staring in wonder at Drogon and
Rhaegal. “I lost my appetite.”

“Not because of Arya?” she asks, facing him, her voice quiet.

Jon shakes his head. “No. Your Hand is already deep in his cups this mornin. If he wasn't worried
for you I would've gladly pummeled him.”

“What did he–

Jon grabs Dany and seals his lips over hers in a desperate, heated kiss. He doesn't care they're
surrounded by her Unsullied and Dothraki. He doesn't care anyone standing on Winterfell’s wall
could see them, or that Arya's stifling giggles behind them. Fuck propriety. Dany’s cares fall away
with his, neither breaking the kiss until their lungs beg for air.

His breath no more than gasps, he presses his forehead to hers, holding her face in his hands.
“Promise me you'll go on no matter what happens to me. That you’ll take the throne and rule this
world. Make it worth livin in. Promise me, Dany.”

Her hands fist in his cloak, shaking him. “Stop it. You do not get to say such things.” Her voice
would probably sound demanding to most, but Jon hears the quiver hiding behind the order. ”You
are not going anywhere, do you hear me?”

“You know I don't want to, but I have to. Both of us have to accept the other might not be here
when it's all over. I'll do everythin in my power to stay with you, but you know it still may not be
enough. I need to know you will do this without me.”

“I can, but I will not have to. Because you are not going anywhere.” She's not just demanding now,
but angry. It’s the fear. Loving him has brought back the old familiar foe that used to dog her heels
as a child, and in the time before her dragons were born. It was herself she feared losing then, now
it's him.

They will not lose him. They cannot. While he believes she's what Westeros needs, Dany knows it
needs him just as much. Maybe more. He’s better than her in so many ways. He could rule every
bit as well as her.

Tyrion's fears filter through her mind then. At the time they argued there was no one to consider,
but staring back into Jon’s soulful, pain-filled eyes, knowing who he is, what he's willing to do, her
choice is easy. She won't tell him, of course. He’d never agree. Tyrion will see it done, and Varys.
They'll still be here when it's all over, they’ll help him as they have her.

She'll fight til her last breathe to keep him by her side though. Together is all she's willing to
accept. She's held tight to her belief in herself for years, now she's going to hold tight to the belief
in them. And help him do the same.

Reaching up, she strokes his cheek, his beard tickling her palm. “What, and who are we fighting
for, Jon?”

“The living.”

“That's right. And who have you pledged yourself to?”

“You.”

“I make impossible things happen, do I not?” He smiles despite himself. She’s always using his
words against him. “You’ll live, Jon Snow, because I ask it of you, as your Queen. And I, will live
for you, my King. We will be together, in all things. I believe in us, I have faith in us. Do you?”

“Aye.”

The blast of a horn cuts through the air drawing their attention across the moors and Dany's armies.
Soon six riders come into view, weaving their way through the Unsullied. They carry no banner.

Arya steps up beside her brother. “Can you tell who it is?”

With a pained expression he glances at Dany and takes her hand, starting for the castle. “Jaime
Lannister.”

---

“They’re not coming. She lied. To all of us.”

Jamie drops his head, unable to hold the disgusted and angry stares of his brother and the King and
Queen. He’s certain Daenerys Targaryen is about to erupt into flames her fury is so apparent.
Surprisingly, the King in the North doesn't look much calmer, his brooding facade cracking from
the fire dancing in his dark eyes. He is no longer the broken, yet willful bastard Jaime once met
within these walls. He’s certain one or both of them are about to shout, “Burn him!”

Tyrion has an all too familiar look on his face. Once again, his family has betrayed him. He no
longer has the ability to hide the pain. He shuffles over to the table and pours himself a cup of
wine, downing it in one swallow.

The King is the first to find his voice. “Then why are you here?” he asks, so close and with such
enmity Jaime winces.

He once teased this King. Years ago he could have easily killed him had they ever faced one
another in battle. Jaime knows that is no longer the case. Knows he may very well feel the cold
steel of Jon Snow’s sword against his neck soon. His eyes cut across the room to Bran Stark,
bundled in furs and trapped in his chair. He’d deserve it.

“To fight with you. To try and help save us all from the great war that is upon us. My sister lost her
honor, she'll never find it again. It took me too long to see that, but I’d like to die with mine intact.”
Pulling his sword free and laying it down, Jaime Lannister kneels at Jon’s feet, his head bowed. “I
offer my services to The King in the North, and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,
Daenerys Stormborn. For the Houses Stark and Targeryen, I will be a shield, offer counsel, and
give my life if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Sansa’s agitated presence draws Jon's attention. Her brows are heavy over her slitted, ice cold eyes
as she shakes her head. Not a sound leaves her lips when she tells him no. Once, she wanted
nothing more than to be a part of Jaime Lannister’s family, now he's quite certain she'd enjoy
watching Jon take his head.

He looks to Arya and Bran, both expressionless. Telling him it’s his decision, not theirs. They'll
support him regardless. But it isn't just his decision. The Lannisters have caused his family great
pain, but Dany is the rightful ruler and the one with more at stake. His eyes find hers and they
exchange a silent agreement.

“Arise, Ser Jaime. We accept your pledge,” she says, her tone leaving no doubt she is Queen. She
waits for him to do so, then approaches him. “But I warn you, betray us, and you will die. Either by
his sword, or my dragons.”

“Understood, Your Grace,” Jaime says, the tremble of relief and fear in his voice hidden for the
most part.

Dany turns on his companion, her eyes flaming within a mask of indifference. “Are you not the
man who put a bolt in my dragon?”

Bronn shifts uncomfortably. He had really hoped she’d been too far away to get a good look at
him. “Aye, Your Grace. That was me. Beggin your pardon. I was fightin for the other side that
day.”

Jon has moved to her right. Ghost the left. She swears they're both growling.

“And now you wish to fight for me?”

Bronn nods his head. “Aye, I would.”

“Do you normally join the cause of those you’ve tried to kill?” she asks him.

“I fight to stay alive, Your Grace. You and your dragon were roasting us like pigs for a feast. I was
just attempting to even the odds a little. And keep this idiot alive,” he says, nodding towards Jaime.
“He’s promised me a castle. He can't give it to me if he's dead. He also tells me there's quite a
large army of dead men that want to kill us all. I’d like to live, so I’ll fight with those that are fighin
to do the same.”

Again, Dany and Jon have a wordless conversation with their eyes, but this time it's Jon who
answers their new supporter. He holds his hand out towards Arya. Her Valyrian dagger is in his
grip a moment later, and at Bronn’s throat the next. Ghost gladly joins the threat, red eyes glowing,
his sharp teeth prominent in his snarl.

“If you even think of putting a scratch on her, or her dragons, I’ll know. First, I’ll let my little sister
play with you, then Ghost here can have a turn. If there's anythin left, I’ll take mine. Are we
understood?”

“Aye, Your Grace,” Bronn says. Pod had told him all about the King in the North while the fancy
folk talked in the Dragonpit. Apparently his stories weren't wrong.

“You will both stay with the Unsullied for now,” Dany tells them, as Jon lets the sellsword go and
returns Arya's dagger to her. “I doubt the Northern lords will take too kindly to seeing two
Lannisters at our table. Go. Bathe, eat, rest. We’ll speak again tomorrow. Grey Worm will escort
you.”

They leave, only the clinking and shuffle of metal and leather following them out.

As soon as the doors close behind them with a loud thud Sansa declares her opinion. “Forgive me,
but are you both certain you’ve made the right decision? Jaime is loyal to no one but Cersei. He is
here to spy on us. Don't you see that?”

“Of course we do,” Dany says, her voice soft. “That and the many other reasons he could be here.”
She crosses the room to stand before Tyrion. Raising an eyebrow she holds her hand out. The little
lord passes her his wine with palpable dejection. “We knew this was more than likely to happen. I
do not blame you.”

Tyrion's eyes say he certainly does.

“Yet you're letting him and his sellsword roam around Winterfell. Lock them up,” Sansa continues,
her storm still brewing.

Dany faces her again. “I assure you, Sansa, they could be in no other prison cell stronger than my
Unsullied. Grey Worm will not allow them to cause harm to anyone, not even themselves. They
will be watched day and night.”

Getting nowhere with Daenerys, Sansa turns on Jon. “You're fine with this?”

“Sansa, enough,” he sighs, his exasperation evident. “Can you not trust us?”

“He’s not here to cause harm, sister. They made the right choice,” Bran says, drawing everyone's
eyes to him.

“You’ve seen it? You know?” Sansa asks him.

Bran pulls his eyes from the flames of the fire, turning to look at his sister. “Yes.”

Everyone falls into quiet contemplation after that. Rearranging the pieces on the board, trying to
hold onto the hope that's doing its best to slip through their fingers.

When Jon's eyes meet Dany’s, full of resignation she goes to him, pulling him aside. He doesn't
give her a chance to speak, whispering the moment they're out of earshot, “I know you have to go
back. I don't want you to worry. We have the dragon glass, and I’ll get the lords to listen. We’ll be
fine.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Jon.”

“But Cersei—”

“Is nothing more than a tiny thorn compared to the Night King and his army. I swore we’d defeat
him together, and I meant it. I'm not leaving you,” she assures him.

“I don't want you to lose what you’ve already gained.”

“The North is more important. I see that now. I belong here. We’ll worry about her when the Night
King is defeated.”

“You look beautiful wearin my cloak, did you know that?”

Dany smiles at his sudden change of topic. “Hmmmm. I thought you might like it. I was pleased
when Sansa told me it was yours.”

Not caring about their lack of privacy, Jon leans in and kisses her. It's not urgent, or demanding, but
soft and sweet, and full of all he feels for her. “Thank you,” he whispers, once he lets her breathe
again.

She blinks up at him, slowly. “For what?”

“For being you.”

Dany lays her hand over his heart, rubbing her thumb over the leather covering it. “You don't have
to thank me for that.”

His deep, dark eyes nearly melt her. “I wanted to.”

“Well, alright. Why don’t you go be you and calm your sister down, and maybe Tyrion?”

Jon scowls. “He’s your Hand.”

“Yes, but whatever is wrong between the two of you needs to be fixed.” She smiles up at him. “For
my sake.”

Jon grins reluctantly. “You don't play fair,” he grumbles, then kisses her forehead before heading
across the room.

Daenerys catches Varys’ eye, then nods her head towards the hallway before walking away.

The Spider follows his Queen eager to be of assistance. It's been sometime since she's sought his
counsel alone.

As soon as they're away from prying eyes and ears, he asks, “How may I be of service, My
Queen?”

“Melisandre. You know where she is?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Make sure and bring her here. As soon as possible.”

“I can do that, but I must tell you, the King and his Hand–”

“I know. I do not care. I need her here. He is far too brave and reckless. He has already tried to give
his life for mine, I will not allow him to succeed a second time. She brought him back once, she
can do it again. I will not lose him.”

“I understand, Your Grace. It would be a terrible blow to lose such an ally.”

“He is no ally, he is My King,” she snaps, then lets out a harsh breath, pressing her lips tight
together and turning away as the leather of her gloves creak in protest at her fisted hands. She only
allows herself a moment, then her queenly composure is firmly in place again as she faces Varys.
“I expect reports. Keep her out of sight once she arrives and you will not speak of this to anyone.”

“Of course not, Your Grace.”

“Get Tyrion, and then find Jon’s friend, Sam. Bring them to my solar. There's something I need
taken care of, the sooner the better.”

The Spider nods, then watches as his Queen disappears down the dark hallway thinking perhaps
his dwarf friend was not so wrong this morning after all.

It doesn't take him long to gather Tyrion, then find Sam. The three join her not ten minutes after
she made the request. She gets straight to business.

“Sam, I have need of your skills for something important. Can you spare an hour or so?”

“Of course, Your Grace. Whatever you need. Umm, what exactly is it you need?”

Her eyes locked on Tyrion's, she tells them. “I need a scribe. I'm ready to name an heir.”

---

“My Lords, I thank you for holding the North while I was away, and I hope that you continue to
stand with us. I went to secure a powerful ally, and I have. Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House
Targaryen is here to fight with us, not against us. She allowed us to mine enough dragon glass that
no one will be without a weapon against our common enemy. She has brought her dragons and her
considerable armies to fight with us as well.”

“Aye! Because you bent the knee and gave away our lands! Just like your brother!”

“Robb never bent the knee to anyone.”

“He did to that bitch he married!”

“There’ll be no disrespect to my brother in this house. Or his ladywife,” Jon roars, shocking most
in the room. He won't have it. Not today, not ever again. These lords chose his brother and they
chose him. They're going to respect them. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he lowers his
voice. “Robb did the best he could. But I am not him. I have not allied myself with a common
woman. Daenerys Stormborn is a Queen. The rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Not because
of her name, or who her family was, but because she's earned it. Because she puts the good of the
people ahead of herself. She is not mad, she's not a spoiled brat like Joffery, and she's no Cersei
Lannister who cares nothin for anyone beneath her. She could've taken the Seven Kingdoms the
moment she landed in Westeros. You saw her considerable armies and her dragons. She could have
laid waste to King’s Landing and all the other kingdoms, includin us, but she didn't. She still hasn't
after months of bein here. She doesn't want to be a Queen of ashes. And more importantly, she
doesn't want to be Queen of the dead.”

Jon turns from his Lords and looks at Dany, and she knows what he's about to do. Again. She
doesn't try to stop him, instead encouraging him with the smallest of smiles.

“Did I bend the knee? Aye, I did.”

Outrage. Absolute outrage.

Jon stands his ground, not moving a muscle. All but Dany, seated behind him either sigh or close
their eyes. They should all know by now his honesty cannot be contained, but still, they had hoped.
Their King presses on, his voice commanding the room. “You all told me I was a fool to head
south, that she would burn me alive. Yet here I stand. She could've, probably should have. I asked
for more than any ruler had a right to while refusing to give anythin in return. I was barely in her
presence two minutes before I refused to bend the knee. She could've had her blood riders kill me
right then. She didn't. I asked her to believe in something she’d never even heard of. To turn away
from her own enemy to fight mine. To risk what she has fought most of her life to regain for a
scary fairytale as far as she was concerned. Instead of laughin in my face and orderin my death she
choose to consider my side. She didn't lock me up, or hold me prisoner like most queens or kings
would've. After some thought she allowed me to mine the dragon glass, again for nothin in return. I
still refused to bend the knee yet she gave me the men and supplies I needed to help save us. As
soon as I was able to show her a shred of truth to my story she pledged to fight for the North.
Again, I refused to do the same for her because of all of you. Even after that she allowed me, a
political opponent, still in open rebellion to leave her supervision. I had given her nothin. No
pledge to fight, no weapons, no armies. Nothin. And when my life was on the line, and my men
and I were facin certain death, she answered my plea. She didn't send her armies, or a single
dragon. She came herself. Just her and all three of her dragons. She risked her life and the three
things most precious to her for me. Then the Night King killed one of her dragons, yet she still
saved all those that came with us. And she waited for me. She thought I was dead, but she waited
anyway. Do you think, for one minute, Cersei Lannister would've done that? Would any of you
have? Or any other king or queen you’ve known?”

His questions are met with silence, the lords all looking between themselves. Some in disbelief,
others in suspicion. Jon turns away, his face a mixture of sorrow and frustration as he looks to his
family and counsel.

Sam comes to his rescue first, stepping out of the corner he’d hidden himself in, a nervous smile on
his face. “I know I’m not much, but I’ve known Jon for years now. I’d have died long ago if it
weren't for him. I’ve watched him step up and lead when no one else would. Seen him willingly
put his life on the line for his men time and again. He's the fairest man I’ve ever known and
whether it's his family, his men, or his kingdom, he puts them first. I was there when the men of
the Night's Watch chose him to be their Lord Commander. I wish I had been here to see you choose
him to be your King. You trusted him enough to let him rule you, now trust him enough to know
what's best. He hasn't been wrong yet and if he believes in and trusts Daenerys Targaryen, so
should you. Even if I hadn't heard all the amazing stories of her from Essos, Jon’s word alone
would be enough for me.”

There's some grumblings from the lords, but also a few nodding heads.

Davos takes the momentum and stands next. “You worry he’s being selfish, putting his heart
before his people. That's understandable, it's happened before with other kings. But Jon Snow
doesn't have a selfish bone in his body. He gave his life for the Night’s Watch, he risked it for the
North at the Battle of the Bastards, and he's risked it beyond the Wall more than once for the North
and all the other Kingdoms. He’ll do it again no doubt. If all he was thinking about was his heart,
he would have stayed on Dragonstone and left you lot to the Night King and the Army of the Dead.
Instead he’s here, with exactly what he promised you. The most powerful ally the North could ever
hope for. I’ve been with him since he left, I’ve come to know Queen Daenerys and her people. I’ve
also served under many rulers.” He pauses, turning to Daenerys. “Other than my King there's no
other I’d rather serve than her. She is fair and just, and has a heart for her people.”

Dany cannot help but smile at the Onion Knight as she nods her head, thankful for his support.

Davos turns to look over the lords again. “You’d do well to trust these two. If you don't, you’ll be
facin the dead on your own.”
Tyrion joins the fray next. Standing from his seat and slowly walking around to the front of the
table. “I know many of you, possibly all of you would like to see my head on a spike. I come from
a family I'm sure most of you don't care for. I can't say I blame you. I don't care for most of them
myself. She may be my sister, but Cersei she doesn't care about me, you, your people, or the
kingdoms. She's the mad queen you should fear, not Daenerys. She's the one who will burn your
castles to the ground killing your people without a second thought. Do you see her here? Her
armies? She knows what's beyond the Wall. Knows what's coming to kill us all. She swore her
armies to the cause lying all the while. She doesn't mean to help you, or anyone else but herself.
Daenerys Targaryen however is here, with her armies, and her dragons. She risked her own life and
those of her dragons to go beyond the wall to save your King. She lost one of those dragons there.
She pledged herself and her forces to his cause, your cause, before he pledged the North to hers.
This isn't about their hearts, it's about their people. It's about saving your ungrateful asses.”

Before the lords can become too incensed from Tyrion's speech, Sansa comes to her feet. The
rumbling quiets quickly. “The words of House Stark have never been more true. Winter has come.
Our brother. Our King, has fought the terrors it brings, and so has Daenerys Targaryen.” She waves
her hand towards Arya and Bran, then to Dany and Jon. “They have our trust, our respect, and our
support. You’d be fools not to give them the same.”

“You lot keep callin him our King. But he bent the knee. He is not a King anymore.”

Daenerys stands. The room goes deathly silent as she walks around the table to Jon’s side. Her
hands clasped at her waist, she surveys the Northern Lords. Some stare back in anger, others look
away when her violet eyes find theirs, fear filling them.

“Jon Snow is still your King. I do not wish to take his title from him, he deserves it more than any
man I’ve ever met. He did not give away your lands, or his title. He stood strong for you, for his
home and all his people. Not for his own pride, but for yours. I pledged, not once, but twice to
fight with him before he ever bent the knee. He should have your respect, just as he has mine.
Together we will defeat the Night King and his army. Together we will remove Cersei from the
Iron Throne. We will do both, with, or without you. That is your choice. But, if you choose to stand
with us and fight our enemies, when peace is won, the North can have it's independence if it so
wishes. Jon Snow can keep his title if he wishes. And if he, and the North ever need assistance,
they will have it from House Targaryen. I assure you, I am here to save the North, and all the
Seven Kingdoms, not defeat them. This, I promise you.”

---

Jon nibbles his way across her chest, from one nipple to the other. “You know I’m not keepin my
title, right?”

“Hmmm, we’ll see,” Dany hums, pushing her hips up into his. She loves when he teases her, but
she becoming impatient.

They still have the weight of the world on their shoulders, but having the lords on their side
certainly feels like reason enough to celebrate.

Suddenly Ghost comes alive, jumping to his feet with a growl just before a knock sounds against
their door.
Jon groans into her stomach, “Seven bloody hells.”

The knock comes again.

Dany rubs his back. “The sooner you answer it , the sooner we can get back to what we were
doing.”

Scrambling to his feet and wrapping his cloak around him he swears again. “If it's not an
emergency, I’m going to behead whoever it is.” He jerks the door open to find his best friend and
brother.

“Jon.”

“We’re a bit busy right now, Sam.”

“I’m sorry, it's important. We wouldn't be here if it wasn't.”

“What is it?”

“Can we come in?”

Jon glances over his shoulder, eyeing Dany who’s quickly dressing behind him. “Give us a
minute,” he grumbles, shutting the door in their faces.

“What do they want at this hour?” she asks, coming over and smoothing down his mess of raven
curls she had thoroughly mussed not minutes ago.

He sighs, the heavy shadows of their burdens falling over the sweet face she loves. “I don't know,
but Sam wouldn't bother us if it wasn't something we needed to hear.”

“Your brother? He’s seen something else?”

“Possibly.”

Desperate to ease the weight upon him if only for a moment, she cups his cheeks and pulls him in
for a kiss. “I love you,” she whispers against his full lips, even though they both know those words
are never enough for what they feel.

“And I, you,” he breathes into her, returning her kiss, the tangible presence of unwanted news
tearing them apart too soon.

“Best let them in,” she sighs.

Kissing her quickly once more, Jon finishes lacing his pants, then goes to the door, allowing their
guests in before shutting it behind them.

Dany and Jon stare expectantly at them both, waiting, impatient.

Sam looks sheepish, and worried. “Maybe you should both sit down.”

Jon’s stomach turns, but he hides his unease behind a harsh sigh then joins Dany on the end of the
bed. “Well, we’re sitting. Spit it out.”

Instead of Sam getting to the point, Bran does. “You are not a Stark.”

“That's what you interrupted us for? I've known that all my life, Bran, but thank you for the
reminder,” Jon bites out harshly.

Dany reaches over and takes his hand in hers, linking their fingers together. As always, her touch
melts the ice around his heart.

Sam lets out one of his nervous giggles. “What I believe he's trying to say is, you're not just a
Stark.”

“Well, obviously. There weren't many other Starks around for father to–”

“He wasn't your father,” Bran says.

“What?”

“He was your uncle.”

Jon shakes his head as if Bran’s words had literally punched him, the rest of his body feeling as if
it's being pulled through the floor.

He was my father. He wouldn't lie. He wouldn't.

“He lied to protect you. Your mother made him promise.”

“You know who my mother is?” Jon asks, unable to stop himself. There's no other question that
has ever haunted him more.

“His sister, Lyanna,” Sam says, softly.

The room begins to spin around him, dread filling his heart. No, no it cannot be. That would
mean… Not him, please not him.

Bran confirms his worst fears. “Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”
 All that I've been taught, and every word I've got, is foreign to me
Chapter Summary

Jon and Dany come to terms with his true heritage.

Chapter Notes

See! I didn't make you wait too long :) I'm actually early! I hope this eases all the
upset over that cliffy.

I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, I did my best to put a different spin on it
from what most other fics have. Please keep in mind this is my version of things. Some
of you have "corrected" me on certain details here and there. I don't mind, but I've
never claimed to be an expert on GoT or ASoIaF. I haven't even read the books yet,
though I do have them patiently waiting on my shelf. Either way, this is fanfic, it's
never going to be exact.

It will probably be after Thanksgiving before I get the next chapter posted. I've barely
started it, and I have lots of real life things coming up. I'll do my best for you though.

Thanks for hanging in there! Enjoy!

Jon clings tighter to Dany’s hand as she struggles to pull away. Knowing he’s about to lose
everything he holds dear, he lets her go, his heart going with her as she crosses the room to stare
out the window.

Jumping to his feet, he’s to the door a second later, jerking it open. “Get out, both of you. Get out.
Now.”

Sam hurries to turn Bran’s chair, only stopping just before they are through the door. His face
holds nothing but pain for his friend. “I’m sorry, Jon, but we thought–”

“You’re the rightful heir. You needed to know,” Bran says, his voice as emotionless as his face.

Jon has never wanted to hurt his family, but right now he wants nothing more than to throttle his
brother.

No, not your brother. Your cousin.

“You’ve never been a bastard. They were married. She went with him willingly. They loved one
another, and you.”

Not able to take another word he barks at them, his voice strained and thready, “Get out. Do not
speak of this to anyone, do you understand me? No one. I'll kill you myself if you do.”

Sam leaves, knowing Jon better than most. He is nothing if not a man of his word. Jon orders
Ghost out as well. Surprisingly, he listens to him this time.

To Jon’s own horror, as soon as he closes the door behind them he crumples under the weight of it
all, wishing for all the world that they had never come knocking on their door. He does his best to
muffle the roar of agony that rips from his throat. There's nothing he can do to stop the tears.

Dany's presence behind him is as fierce as Drogon when his mother has been threatened, her fire
filling the space around them, cutting through the chill in the room and causing him to sweat. He
can feel her pain and shock as if it were his own. His scars ache with it, but not as much as his
heart.

“I don't want it. You have to believe me,” he begs her, unable to rise and meet her eyes. “I swear I
didn't know. Even if I had–”

“I know you didn't,” she says, her voice quiet and weaker than he’s ever heard it, belying the anger
she feels.

Always a Queen.

But neither her words, nor her soft voice dampen the fear coursing through his veins. He must
convince her. He rises to go to her, but she's already there in front of him as soon as he turns
around, her beautiful face reflecting his pain, tears welling in her violet eyes.

His arms raise to hold her, but he pulls them back. What if his touch will no longer bring her
comfort? What if her love has turned to hate? He lets his fear take over, the words tumbling out
like rushing water, “No one has to know. No one. I meant what I said, I’ll kill em myself if they
utter a word. It's yours, no one will ever know.”

“Jon, stop it.”

“No. You're angry. I can feel it, see in your eyes. You have to listen to me!”

“Of course, I’m angry!” She yells back, fists clenched at her side, eyes hard as amethysts. “The
man I love has just had his world torn apart. Because...because some stupid, jealous man couldn't
handle the thought that a girl didn't love him. That my brother let himself get killed. That he wasn't
there to protect you.” She turns away, then right back again, stabbing her fingers into her chest.
“He wasn't there to protect me either. All we’ve lost, all the fighting we’ve done to find our place,
all we’ve suffered for it is their fault. It's them I’m furious with. Them I want to dig up and burn to
ashes.” She steps closer, taking his tortured face in her hands and wiping away the tears that
threaten to rip her heart from her ribs. “I’m not angry at you, Jon. Never you,” she whispers, her
fire barely embers now.

They fall together, letting their shock, turmoil, and grief pour out between them, finding solace in
the safe haven of each other's arms. Neither know how much time passes, nor do they care. Getting
through this is more important than anything that lies outside their door, or even the beyond the
castle walls.

“It's still yours,” Jon finally whispers from his hiding place in her warm neck. “It always has been
and it always will be. I won't take it from you. I would never.”

Dany kisses his cheek, slipping her fingers into his hair and gently pushing him away. “That
doesn't change the fact that it is yours. You're my brother's son. It belongs to you.”

Jon has always had a strong stomach, but he fears it may turn on him any second. He lets her go,
turning away and pacing the room, his fingers spearing his raven curls, as the bit of calm he had
gathered vanishes. To Dany he looks like a wolf cornered, frightened and desperate. It breaks her
heart all the more.

“I don't want it!” He spins around, pinning her with flashing obsidian eyes. “I’ve told you, none of
that matters to me. I never wanted to be King in the North, I sure as fuck don't want to rule them
all,” he insists, desperation lacing his voice. “I'm renouncin myself, right here and now.”

She runs to him, grabbing his arm, her eyes wide and frightened. “No. You won't.”

Her demand feels like another punch in the gut. “After all you’ve suffered, all you've fought
through to earn your rightful place, you expect me to take it from you? Just like that? You have no
idea how much I love you, do you?” he accuses harshly, pulling free of her grasp.

“I do know. That's why I want to do it together. Not just you, or me, but together.”

This time the softness of her voice fills him with hope instead of fear. Enough so the roaring in his
ears quiets to a faint whisper. “Together?”

Dany reaches for him again, her small, warm hand cupping his cheek. “Marry me, Jon.”

He’s stunned for a moment, hardly believing a thing he once swore he never wanted, one he
recently had been yearning for more than anything, is being offered freely by the remarkable
woman he loves more than life itself.

Finally, he stops his world from spinning enough to pull her close, his eyes taking in everything
about her angelic, but worried face. It's his job to ease her fears, so he does. “I think it's me that's
meant to do the askin.”

She smiles through her tears, filling his heart with a timid peace.

He searches her eyes, her face for any signs of doubt. He finds none. “You really want to marry
me.” It should have been a question, but there was no need.

Dany nods, only slightly. “Even before Bran and Sam. I think I already knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Who you were. Jon, what I feel for you, what you do to me… Every moment I’ve spent with you
fills another space in me I didn't know was empty.” She reaches up to brush an unruly curl back
into place behind his ear. “It feels as if you were missing all my life and finally you found me and
I’m whole for the first time. I’ve become who I’m meant to be with you by my side.”

It would sound crazy to most, but to Jon it is the simple truth. She has done the same for him. He
pulls her closer, holding her head against his shoulder and presses his lips into her hair. “I feel it
too.”

She pulls away, eyes sparkling as she looks at him full of hope. “I was beginning to think the Lord
of Light gave you an extra dose of magic, but it all makes sense now. So much of it makes sense.”
She laughs a bit, like she can't believe she missed something so obvious. “Even Drogon knew who
you were. I don't believe he would've ever let you near him otherwise. Don't you see? You're my
blood, Jon. You're in my blood as I am in yours.”

Yes. Maybe too much so?

“You’re my aunt. I’m your nephew.” His arms ease their hold on her, the truth sinking into every
part of him as he says the words aloud.

Knowing his fears and doubts are freezing him up again, Dany resists, increasing her hold. Always
his opposite, the fire to his ice. “You’re right, but what does that matter? I was meant to marry my
own brother until he sold me like a brood mare. It’s the way of all the houses, especially the
Targaryens.”

She’s right. He knows this. Even the Starks married this way. His mind filters through all the
scrolls and tomes he studied when he was young, remembering the marriages of cousins, uncles
and nieces, nephews and aunts, even brothers and sisters, all made to hold houses together. To
continue bloodlines.

If it's true, if he is her brother’s son… She's no longer the last of her family. He never planned to
let her be alone in this world again, but now, now neither of them are. Now they never have to go
another day feeling alone. And there could be... If the tales can be believed, if that evil bitch who
stole her hope was wrong... He’s never spoken it plainly, tried to quell the small, shaky promise
that’s refused to leave his heart, the one that suddenly feels as if it has wings.

Could he give her her fondest wish? Could they bring another Targaryen into this world?

She pulls him from his thoughts, her soft hand caressing his face. “Do you see now? Alone we
suffer, together we are great.”

Her words jolt another memory from the depths of his mind. It spills out on a whisper, “A
Targaryen alone in this world is a terrible thing.” Dany's beautiful face fills with shock. He quickly
explains. “It's somethin I overheard Ser Aemon say to Sam once. They were talkin about you, I
think.”

“Me?”

“He liked to know how you were doin’. It wasn't long before I was… Before my men…” His
eyebrows draw tightly over his eyes, his memories obviously haunting him. He closes his eyes and
shakes his head. When he looks at her again, his eyes are bright and hopeful. “He was right, wasn't
he?”

Dany pushes the thoughts of her, their uncle aside for another time. Jon needs her now. “Yes, he
was. We weren’t meant to face this world alone. It's why we have both been fighting since the day
we were born. We’ve suffered and we’ve lost even if we may have won a few of our battles along
the way. Targaryens were built to lose themselves in one another, to take away each other's fears,
to combine their strengths. To be together, as one…”

It all sounds wonderfully easy, but when has anything in his life been easy?

“Dany, bein a bastard is all I’ve ever known. I had found peace with it. I knew who I was, where I
belonged. I don't know how to be anythin else but what I am. A man like me doesn’t deserve to
rule one kingdom, let alone seven” he says, turning from her and sinking down onto the bed, defeat
making him wither before her eyes.

She follows, kneeling between his legs and taking his hands in hers, willing him to look at her. His
dark eyes hold such pain and confusion when they finally met hers that Dany's heart weeps within
her chest. Only the small glimmer of hope she finds within their shadows allows her to be the
strength he needs.”You're more a king than any I’ve ever known. You are a good man. The best
man. With a heart as pure as the snow outside, honor as straight and true as your sword, as loyal
and brave as all of my unsullied and bloodriders could ever hope to be, and we lest we forget,” she
murmurs, kissing his palm before smiling at him, “honest to a fault.” Her heart leaps with joy when
the corners of his mouth pull up at her well meant fun. “You deserve that throne as much as me.
As much as anyone. More than anyone.”

He sighs, looking away with the shake of his head. “But I don't know how to be a Targaryen. I
can't just change because I suddenly have new parents. How do I choose between what I was and
what I am now?”

Dany grasps his chin, pulling his face back to hers. “No one said you had to change or choose. You
already are a Targaryen, and a Stark. You are the best of both, Jon Snow.”

She curses herself when tears begin to well in his beautiful eyes.

“I don't even know my own name anymore,” he gasps, nearly choking on his words.

Dany's on her feet wrapping him in her arms in seconds. Her own tears fall as he clings to her, and
she vows he will always know her heart and life are his, that he’ll never have to doubt them. “You
will always be Jon to me.”

He wants to believe her, she can see it in his eyes, but she also sees the years of rejection and defeat
weighing him down like an iron suit of armor. He takes a deep shuddering breath, then seems to
steel himself. “I need to go somewhere. Come with me?”

“Of course.”

He stands, pulling her up with him. “You’ll need more clothes.”

Silently they pull their layers of leather and furs, boots and gloves on. Jon leads her out their door,
waving off the guards, then takes them through the maze of hallways and stairs until they reach the
courtyard. From there she follows him to a door she hadn't noticed before, one cut into the stone
archway that separates the two sides of the castle. Once they begin to descend a set of stairs it only
takes her a moment to realize they’re going down into the crypts of Winterfell.

The lower they go the heavier the air becomes. It’s thick with moisture, cold and unforgiving,
filling her lungs til they ache. The candles burning do little to lift the weight within the pressing
stone walls. The presence of those surrounding them, and their memories seem to swallow the
light, not letting it reach her. Dany shivers under her cloak. Burning the dead seems more freeing
than this, for those who have left, and those left behind. But she understands why they're here and
doesn't fault him for wanting to be near those he loved. Especially now.

Jon stands before the only father he ever knew, missing him more in this moment than he ever has.
Yet he's angry, furiously so. He trusted him, more than anyone, or anything. To know that trust
was all built on top of such a lie… It feels as if he's being murdered all over again, the cold steel of
truth piercing and slicing his guts and heart once more.

“Honor, honesty, loyalty. That's what everyone knew him as. What he instilled in us, day in and
day out. All I ever wanted was to be a Stark,” he says, his voice as rough and weak as it was when
he woke from falling through the ice. “To carry the honor of his name. To be called his trueborn
son and not his bastard. But I was only ever the livin breathin' embodiment of his shame. Now I
find out he was keepin the biggest secret, tellin the deepest lie. Makin me live—”

“And if he hadn't?” Dany asks, softly, before he can become too angered by his own thoughts.

Jon shakes his head, dropping it to stare at the soft dirt beneath their feet. “I’d be dead.”
Dany lifts her eyes to the stone face of Ned Stark. He’s not nearly as handsome as Jon, but she sees
the resemblance all the same. “I think I hated him as much as Robert. For not controlling him, for
allowing him to tear my family to pieces. I thought him just another Stag, or Lion, but he wasn't,
was he? He was a wolf, smart and cunning, doing whatever it took to protect his pack.” Dany laces
her fingers through Jon’s, looking up at his despondent expression. “He loved you, as much as
your mother. He protected you because the rest of your family wasn't here to do so. I’ll never be
anything but grateful to him again.”

He nods, his fingers squeezing hers, a silent thank you for the comfort she's doing her best to give
him. Turning, he leads her deeper into the crypts.

“I used to have nightmares about this place,” he murmurs, his tone grim and resigned. “I’d be
down here in the pitch black, but I could still see them. The Kings of Winter. Their hard granite
eyes would follow me, narrowing to slits as I passed. All of them said I didn't belong here. That I
wasn't a Stark, and I never would be.”

“But you are a Stark,” Dany gently, but quickly corrects him. “Varys, Tyrion, and even Jorah have
all said you are the most like Ned of any of his children.”

“But I'm not his child, am I?” The smile he gives her threatens to break her heart.

She pulls their joined hands up to her lips and presses them to his knuckles, taking a deep breath in
hopes of keeping her voice steady. “You may not be from his loins, but he raised you, and loved
you as if you were. Do you truly think he wouldn't be proud of you now? After all you've done, all
you've survived. You're King in the North. You took back your home, you're fighting to save the
seven kingdoms, and you've won the heart of a queen. All with honor and honesty.”

Jon stops and pulls her into his arms, letting her warmth seep into him as he looks back at Ned. He
can't help but wonder if he's somewhere looking down on them, happy that they’ve found one
another. He hopes so.

“They also told me of your mother,” she whispers into his neck. “They say she had the wolf’s
blood running strong within her veins. She must have, to follow her heart the way Sam and Bran
say she did. I never believed Rhaegar would stoop to kidnapping. All the other stories I heard of
him never made sense otherwise.” She pulls back and looks into his eyes. “Your mother was a
Stark, a proud one. And so are you. The wolf blood runs strong within you too.”

He stares at her with those soulful eyes of his, trying his best to smile and take comfort in her
words. Seeing the statue that could only be Lyanna, Dany leads him to her, never letting go of his
hand. She stays silent, giving him time to feel the riot of emotions that must be running through
him, but watches him closely. She has to turn away when his tears start to fall.

“I can't believe she was here this whole time,” he whispers, his voice rough as gravel, yet weak as
a babe's cry. “All those years I wondered, asked him about her, and she was right here.”

Dany doesn't know that there are words to ease that certain pain. She leans into him, rubbing his
chest and finds others that might distract him instead. “She was beautiful. She reminds me of Arya,
and you. Something tells me you both have her eyes.”

Jon huffs, the tiniest of tugs pulling at the corner of his lips. “Lady Catelyn hated I looked more
like a Stark than her own children. Except for Arya. One of the few times I heard him speak about
Lyan…” His head drops. He shakes it. “My mother... was him telling Arya how alike they were. I
remember he’d looked at me while Arya rattled off questions. His eyes were full of sadness. They
were more often than not when he looked at me.” He stares up at his mother, his fingers playing
anxiously with Dany's. “I always thought it was because he regretted me, what he'd done to bring
me into the world, or wishin he had left me behind and never brought me here. I guess seein me
still brought him pain, just a different kind than I thought.”

Dany hugs his arm, laying her head on his shoulder. “I'm sure every time he saw you he wanted to
tell you, to apologise for the pain. I bet he whispered to her how proud she’d be of you too.”

“The only thing I ever wanted more than to be a Stark was to know my mother loved me,” he
whispers.

She looks up at his downturned face. “Now you have both.”

“Aye.” His coal black eyes shine with tears as they stare into hers. “So why does it hurt so much?”

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she forces her own tears to stay put, reaching up and
stroking his cheek. “Because it wasn't fair for her to die. For you to never know her, and her love.
Or to grow up thinking you were nothing but a mistake.”

He takes Dany into his arms, knowing her words are for him, as well as herself. She has felt the
same pain he is now all her life. He buries his nose in her soft hair, breathing her in as he rubs her
back and kisses her head. “What a pair we are.”

“We have each other now.”

“Aye.”

Her arms hold him tighter. “Promise me. You’ll never—”

He pulls away and takes her face in his hands. “I swear it. Together. We’ll always be together.”

“I love you, Jon.”

“I love you,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head under his chin.

She hugs him back, letting out a small laugh. “Who would ever dare to love a dragon?”

“What?”

“I asked myself once, who could ever dare to love me, a dragon. Now I know.” She smiles up at
him. “Another dragon.”

He smiles, despite his heavy heart, leaning in to kiss her.

“Jon?”

Pulling apart, they both look towards the stairs where Sam stands, rocking on his feet.

“I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he says, as timid as a scolded child.

Dany smiles at him, her heart swelling knowing Jon has such a loyal friend.

Jon waves him over. “C’mere Sam.”

His friend descends the stairs, encouraged by the smile Jon is offering. When he holds his arms
out, Sam steps into them, hugging him tightly, his round face glowing.
“I'm sorry I yelled at ya,” Jon murmurs, his voice gruff with emotion.

Sam pulls away, still smiling. “Oh, it's all right. We probably could’ve done a better job of telling
ya.” Jon smirks, but it's not enough to ease his worry. “Are you really all right?”

“Aye, I think so.” He tilts his head, giving a wry smile as he looks at Sam through his dark lashes.
“I was murdered and brought back from the dead. This has actually been a bit less jarring.”

Sam winces. “I would imagine so.” His eyes dart between his friend and the queen. “Are you
two… With the heir thing an all?”

“We’re fine,” Dany assures him with a gentle smile. She almost jokes about not burning Jon alive,
but thankfully catches herself in time.

“Can you do us a favor?” Jon asks him.

“Sure. Anything.”

“Go wake my sisters and Davos and bring them down here. Dany's counsel too. They should
know. I think we’ve decided what to do but it won't hurt to get their thoughts first.”

“Of course! I'll be back,” he huffs, already halfway to the stairs.

“It might be a good idea to bring Bran too,” Jon calls after him.

“All right!”

---

Not quite half an hour later, the crypts of Winterfell have almost as many living beings tucked
inside as dead. Their family and friends are all gathered around them near his mother's resting
place, shifting nervously on their feet, though their eyes are still bleary from sleep.

“What's going on?” Sansa asks, obviously anxious after being awoken in the middle of the night
for a secret meeting. “Why are we all here?”

Dany looks at Jon, seeing clearly that he isn’t as ready as he thought he was. His head is hanging,
and he can’t stop fidgeting with his gloves. She’s more than willing to do this for him though. “Not
long after we turned in for the night, Bran and Sam paid us a visit. They had learned some very
interesting news through their reading and visions.”

“So interesting we all had to come down here in the middle of the night?” Arya asks. “Must be
something big. And how come you look happy and Jon looks just like he did whenever my mother
came round?” She takes a threatening steps forward. “What’d you do to him?”

Jon’s head jerks up and he’s already scowling. “She didn't do anythin. What they told us just has
me unsettled is all.”

“Well, what is it then?” Arya asks, worry replacing her anger.

Jon looks over to Sam, silently begging his friend for help.
Shuffling a little closer to everyone, Sam clears his throat. “Well, you see, when we were at the
Citidel, Gilly was reading through a High Septer's diary. I wasn't really listening at the time, but
what she told me was he annulled Rhaegar Targaryen’s marriage to Elia Martell then married him
to another woman in a secret ceremony. That woman was your Aunt Lyanna,” he says, pointing to
her statue behind them. “I didn’t think much of it, until I talked to Bran. Turns out he'd seen
something else even more important about them in one of his visions.”

Surprised looks are exchanged between those hearing this news for the first time. They grow into
eager ones when Sam fails to continue.

Bran decides to add his part of the tale. “Whether Robert lied, or just assumed, his rebellion against
the Targaryens wasn't because Rhaegar kidnapped and raped Aunt Lyanna. She went with him,
because she loved him. And he loved her.” After giving them a moment to absorb that revelation,
he continues. “Father found her at the Tower of Joy in Dorne, laying in a blood soaked bed, weak,
pale, and burning with a fever. She’d just given birth.” He turns and looks at Jon, ignoring
everyone else in the room. “As soon as she saw him she began pleading for him to help her son.
'His name is Aegon Targaryen. If Robert finds out, he'll kill him. You know he will. You have to
protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me.’”

Jon turns away, too overwhelmed to face the others. Dany goes to him, whispering in his ear and
rubbing his back. The others watch them, confused.

Bran draws their attention back to him, giving the pair the time they need. “Father kept his
promise. When he rode through the gates of Winterfell with the heir to the Iron Throne in his arms,
he told everyone the babe was his bastard son, Jon Snow.”

They're all as silent as the stones that surround them, eyes as wide as dinner plates, until Arya lets
out a delighted laugh, jumping on her feet and sending a resounding clap through the tunnels. She
runs around and throws herself at Jon. “A Targaryen! I always knew you were the best of us,
brother.”

He hugs her back, too choked up to respond for awhile, then finally whispers, “It's cousin now.”

Arya pushes away and slaps at his chest. “Shut it. You’re my brother, and you always will be. I’ll
kill anyone that says otherwise,” she says in no uncertain terms.

He smiles despite himself.

Everyone turns when a smothered cry comes from Sansa. She stands, shaking, her hand over her
mouth, while tears stream from her crystal blue eyes. Jon fears he may vomit until she begins to
speak.

“Why would he lie? He let her hate you,” she chokes out. “All those years she was so cruel to you.
Made me... Why would he do that? Why?”

“Better a bruised and battered heart, than a dead boy,” Tyrion says, his tone gentle and lacking its
usual witticism. “Your lady mother may have been able hold the secret behind her lips, but her
actions would have shouted it to the farthest reaches of Westeros. She would have loved him as her
own had Ned told her the truth. No one would have been fooled into believing a high born lady
like herself could ever love her husband's bastard like that.”

Sansa wipes at the tears that won't stop falling.

“Do you think for one moment any of you children could've kept your mouths closed?” Tyrion
asks her. “One slip in front of a servant and it would've all been over. That one would’ve told
another and then another, until one finally whispered in the Spider's ear,” he says, waving towards
Varys. “Jon wouldn't have made it to his second summer before Robert killed him. Your father
would have been next on his list, maybe your mother too.” He turns sympathetic eyes towards Jon.
“I'm certain the choice weighed heavy on his heart every day, but he chose right. You wouldn't be
standing here if he hadn't.”

Jon can only nod, wise enough to know Tyrion's words are true, despite the hurt they inflict.

Sansa comes to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. “I'm so sorry it had to be that way. I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right. None of it was your fault,” Jon tells her. He kisses her hair, squeezing her before
letting go. “Maybe it was for the best. If I’d known I might have turned out to be another Joffery,”
he says, trying to cheer them both.

Sansa smiles through her tears. ”Thank the gods you didn’t.” She sniffs, wiping her nose in a very
unlike Sansa manner. “Regardless, Arya’s right. You're still our brother. You're still half Stark, just
like the rest of us.” Her smile grows. “You certainly look more like them than I do anyway.”

Jon smiles back at her, it's small and unsteady, but it's there.

“It's a good thing you did take after your mother,” Sam pipes up. “Not sure how Ned would've
hidden you if you'd come out with purple eyes and silver hair,” he says with a chuckle.

The tension breaks, everyone looking around at one another then all laughing at once.

“I knew I liked him,” Varys says, once they've quieted. “I’ve always prided myself on knowing
everything there was to know about everyone, yet he kept you hidden right under our noses.” He
shakes his head, smiling. “Honest Ned. So truthful he brought his bastard home to his ladywife. He
may have been the smartest of us all,” he muses, then looks to Dany. “You know, just before
Robert died he saw the error of his ways where the Targaryens were concerned. He told Ned, and
the second he could, Ned came to me and ordered me to stop the assassins that were tasked to end
you. He had always staunchly opposed Robert’s wrath against your family. He even refused to be
his Hand if Robert went through with his plans to kill you. Now we know why.” He smiles at Jon.
“His beloved sister's baby boy was tucked away up here. A dragon being raised by wolves. He
loved a boy with Targaryen blood and didn't want you to be the last. There's no telling what Robert
would've done had he known. Killed you both I suppose. Maybe even with his own sword.”

Tyrion walks over to Dany and holds his hand out to her. She takes it and he places his other one
over it, smiling up at her with affection. “I'm so happy for you.” He looks to Jon. “For both of you.
You’ve been alone all your lives, now you don't have to be.” Looking back at Dany, he nods
towards Jon. “I told him once the two of you were the best match.” His smile brilliant, he says,
“Look how right I was?”

Dany huffs out a laugh, rolling her eyes, before smiling down genuinely at her Hand. “Thank you,
my friend.”

When he looks over to Jon though, he’s giving him his best brooding scowl. “Does this mean
there’ll be no more complaining about us?”

Tyrion has the decency to look sheepish. “You still love each other too much, but, you're family
now. That changes everything.” He raises his eyebrows at Dany. “Sam will need to change the
name on that paper we drew up today.”
Dany frowns down at him, shaking her head. Jon doesn't miss it.

“What's he talkin about?” he asks her.

She really wanted to save that particular news for later, he’s had to cope with so much already, but
considering what they know now…

Rising up on her toes, she whispers in his ear, “I made you my heir today.”

She watches as he works through his thoughts and feelings on the matter. He’s stunned to say the
least, maybe even upset for a fleeting moment, but he comes to terms with it rather quickly,
nodding his acceptance. “I’ll do the same for you.”

Dany gives him a smile, not caring they have an audience. “If you wish.”

“Of course I do,” he whispers, then kisses her, as unconcerned about their audience as she is.

Missandei clears her throat, breaking the couple apart. “Your Grace, forgive me. I mean no
disrespect to either of you, but what will you do? Will the Northern lords except His Grace as a
Targaryen and still be willing to fight for us? And what of the throne? Who will rule?”

“We will rule together,” Dany tells her. “When we have defeated the Night King, if there's a throne
left to take, we will do it together.”

“Ruling as Aunt and Nephew?” Davos asks, finally speaking up.

Dany’s shoulders square under the heavy furs she wears as she clasps her hands together at her
waist. Next to her, Jon stands straighter, shifting closer to her side and raising his chin. Not one
person present doesn't feel the subtle change in the air around them as if the pair of them are a sail
suddenly filled with a prevailing wind. There’ll be no fighting what they're about to say.

“As King and Queen, and husband and wife,” Dany says. “We wish to be married straight away.”

Wide eyes and raised brows are the only response to the Queen's announcement, her words as
strong as the stones surrounding them.

“Well, all right then. Sounds good to me,” Arya pipes up, finally breaking the silence, “except…”
She stares at Jon, her little face all twisted with distaste. “No disrespect to Aunt Lyanna or
anything, but I am not calling you Aegon.”

He gives her a stern, disapproving look, long enough it makes her shoulders wilt, before letting a
smile creep onto his face. Walking over to her he musses her hair before wrapping his arm around
her and leading her from the crypts. “What shall it be then, little sister? Jon Snow Targaryen? The
first of his name?”
 Come and save me from it
Chapter Summary

More aftermath from the reveal, Jon becomes a dragon rider, and Bran drops the
biggest bomb.

Chapter Notes

So sorry this took so long. Real life and all that shit. I was all over the place with this
one, hopefully it's worth reading.

Jon and Arya’s laughter echoes through the crypts as the others watch them leave.

“What of the Northern Lords? I don't believe they will accept this, Your Grace,” Missandei asks
again, still unsettled.

Dany sighs. “No, as much argument as they gave us today, I don't believe they will either. It's only
their fears keeping them on our side. From what I've seen and Jon's told me, they barely trust him
as it is. They certainly won't once they discover he’s Rhaegar’s son.” She rolls her eyes and shakes
her head. “They'll all believe it's some conspiracy we’ve been planning since birth.”

“Then we keep his true heritage within these walls, and between ourselves until the Great War is
over,” Tyrion cuts in. “Your marriage can be seen as a political alliance until then, just one with the
added gift of love.”

“They won't like that either,” Davos warns.

“They don't have to like it. He’s their King.”

“Only because they chose him. They can un-choose him. I wouldn't put it past them to do just that.
I'm surprised they didn't do it today.”

Sansa’s soft voice cuts through the heaviness left by the Onion Knight's words. “It shouldn’t have
to be this way. It's certainly not what I want. Jon deserves some happiness, you both do, but maybe
the wedding should wait until after they've seen at least some battles won, if not the war,” she
suggests. “None of them truly supported him until after we took back Winterfell. They need to see
to believe.”

Knowing she was once just as hard headed Dany scrambles for another way. “Why do they even
have to know about the wedding? There's not enough time, or food to have a huge feast. Not with
winter here.”

“She's right,” Varys says. “There's no rules they have to witness it, or even know about it. Let them
marry, then we'll tell the stubborn oafs after it's done. Once there's no reason for them to
complain.”
Tyrion looks to the rest of the group for approval. Missandei and Sansa both give demure nods,
Brad is a mask of indifference, and Sam is smiling as usual. Davos gives him a shrug. “If Jon’s
alright with it, so am I,” he says.

---

They’ve made their way under the furs of their bed again. He cannot deny half of his heart wishes
they had never been disturbed in the first place. After all he’s endured, and Dany too, it's still soul
shaking how quickly the world can shift under your feet forever changing your view of things.

No words have been spoken between them since she emerged from the crypts and took his hand in
hers and led them to their room. His family and their counsel had drifted away into the night,
leaving them to themselves.

It felt almost like their first night together all over again, only this time she took control, undressing
him slowly, then herself. She pressed kisses to his lips and the arch of his throat, carved promises
into his skin with her nails. She loved him. Prayed between his thighs as he was so fond of doing to
her. Then cradling his hips with hers, she took his pain and filled the hole in his heart with her fire,
igniting his own. He surrendered, with moans and grasping hands, his soul laid open by her
whispered, “Blood of my blood.”

Her delicate hand caresses his cheek now, as their breathing calms, fingertips gently running over
his beard, her lavender eyes full of love for him. He knows, no matter how dire their troubles, how
heavy the weights upon their shoulders, or how dark the night, having her heart for his own turns
them all to ash under his boots.

Knowing nothing else matters but that frightens and thrills him all at once. Gods, if they could only
be at peace and know nothing but each other for the rest of their days.

“What did I do to deserve you?” he asks, his voice rough from disuse and emotion.

“I could ask the same,” she whispers back.

He shakes his head, smiling softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve
everythin good in this world.”

Dany loves him all the more for saying so, even if she knows it isn't true. He believes it, that's what
matters. Her eyes flutter closed, lips curving up in a gentle smile. She nuzzles into the crook of his
shoulder, settling closer to him. “Well, you certainly fit that description,” She looks up, her eyes
dancing with mirth, “and if I didn't know you better I’d say you were fishing for compliments.”

“I would never,” he huffs, feigning offense.

Her giggle is soft and airy. “Of course not.”

Smiling, he turns and places a kiss on her forehead. She presses one to his chest. They go quiet,
both beginning to succumb to sleep, their bodies relaxed after their lovemaking. His fingers slowly
trail up and down her back, hers ghost over his scars. He doesn't mind anymore, she's touched
them so often he only finds comfort in it now.

“If you want to know why I love you, it may take a few days to list all the reasons,” she murmurs,
“but I meant what I said earlier tonight. You are the best man I’ve ever known. Your heart is only
for others, never yourself.”

He pulls her closer, his callused hands running over her possessively. “My heart is yours. I love
you with all that I am, no matter the chaos it's brought. I don't give a damn what anyone thinks
about it. Gods take em for all I care. If that's not selfish, I don't know what is.”

“You do care. You wouldn't have bothered coming back here if you didn't.”

He pops up, resting on his arm and dislodging her from her comfortable spot. “I came back to try
and save us from the dead, not to get anyone's approval on who I can love and who I can't. Fook
em all.”

Dany attempts to stifle a giggle, but fails. This righteous stubborn side of him boiled her blood
when they first met, she finds it nothing but endearing now. Especially how his accent thickens
along with it.

He rolls over her, pinning her with his hard body, and even harder stare. His eyes are black as soot
and more beautiful than they have any right to be. “Are you laughin at me?”

She shakes her head, biting into her plump lip to keep her grin from growing too large. It makes
him smile. “I would never, Jon Snow.”

The light fades from his eyes, but he still kisses her before falling over onto his back. The bed
shakes and creaks in protest beneath them. “Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen.” He sighs, rubbing his
hands over his face. “Why’d you think they named me that? He already had a son named Aegon.”

Dany curses herself for upsetting him again as she rubs his chest. She loves his name, it slips from
her tongue so easily and is as dear to her as he is. It will be a challenge to not to speak it. “I'm not
sure.”

“He set aside his wife and children for my mother. I can't decide how I feel about that either.”

She continues running her hand over his smooth, pale skin, down the rippling muscles of his
stomach, hoping to soothe him. His hands upon her always bring her ease. “Nor can I. I wish Ser
Barristan were still here. He enjoyed telling me stories of him. He loved and respected Rhaegar
very much. He told me once that he never liked killing even though he was very good at it.” She
props herself on her elbow and smooths his tangled curls from his forehead. “Someone else I know
feels the same.”

He meets her gaze, brows drawn in pain and confusion. “How can I be like someone I’ve never
known?”

She shrugs. “The same way I am, I suppose. We’re all blood of the dragon.” Jon takes that in in his
usual way, silent and thoughtful, turning the words over in his mind. When he continues to mutely
stare up at the ceiling she steers him in a different direction. “Before I had to marry Drogo, I would
lay in bed imagining other paths for my life. I remember thinking I would have married Aegon, had
he lived. He would have been more my age than Viserys. Now I will marry you, his second son,
and not out of duty, but for love.”

Jon rolls back over, this time laying against her chest, wrapping himself around her. “I don't think I
can take his name. It’ll be hard enough to not be a Snow anymore,” he mumbles. “Will it
disappoint you?”

Dany spears her fingers into his curls, tugging slightly until he cranes his head back to meet her
eyes. She cups his cheek, caressing it with her thumb. “Nothing you could ever do would
disappoint me, my love. No matter what your name is, I will love you always.”

His smile is slight, but it's there. He takes her fingers in his hand and kisses them, then snuggles
back into her. “Maybe when all the wars are over. When it's time for you to take the throne.”

Her hand stills its path through his hair. “Time for us, you mean.”

“Aye, maybe then. I admit Jon doesn't sound very kingly or Targaryen like.”

Her fingers resume their strokes. “Nonsense. I am the first of my name, you can be the first of
yours. We plan to do things differently anyway, correct?”

“We do.”

“Everyone thought it best to keep the wedding to ourselves until after the war. Will you be alright
with that?” she asks cautiously, after several quiet moments.

“It makes me angry we should have to, but it will save us some grief. We could do with a little less
of that.”

“We could. Tomorrow night then? In your Godswood?”

He raises onto his arm again, all the shadows from his eyes are gone, replaced with love and a
brightness far too rarely seen. “Tomorrow night.”

She cannot keep her hands from his precious face. “I love you, Jon.”

He kisses her with a painful tenderness. “And I you, Dany.”

---

Sleep evading him, Jon found himself in the war room well before dawn. For hours he has tried to
fill his mind with battle plans hoping to push the ghosts back into their hiding places, but he is
failing miserably. His mind is nothing but a nest of snakes, his heart weighed down with chains.

A hunger is growing inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. It shocks him. He once wanted to be
Lord of Winterfell with the same desperate need. He turned down Stannis' offer then, yet here he
is, King in the North. No more a bastard, but a trueborn Targaryen instead.

I am not a Stark.

All his life he’s repeated those words. They were a way to shield his heart, to remind himself of his
place in this world. Should he claim them now, embrace the truth? Can he be a dragon? Or is
Dany right? Can he be both?

By the gods he has never felt more lost.

So much has already been laid at his feet despite who everyone thought he was. But he wants more.
He wants it all. The queen, the children. And peace. But with those comes ruling seven kingdoms.
The more the idea sits within him, the more it grows on him. Which shocks him all the more. Has
he been a greedy bastard all his life? Power hungry and vicious without a care for others? Was the
lie coming to light all it took for the madness to take hold?

You are a good man. The best man.

Please let her be right.

His silent company isn't helping him answer any of his questions, or ease his troubled mind. Other
than a nod in greeting he hasn't made a sound since he entered the room five minutes ago.

“What are you starin' at?” Jon asks him, nearly growling.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Jamie apologizes with a wry smile. “Now that I know, I wonder how I
never saw it before. You are so much like them.”

Surprise fills him, he didn't think there was anyone still alive that had known either of them. “You
knew them well?” he asks, unable to bite back his curiosity.

“Well enough, especially your father.”

“Ned Stark was my father.” The words are out before he can stop them. He’s doubtful he’ll ever
see things differently. Right this moment he has no desire to.

Jamie smiles again, dropping his head. “He was. You are very much like him too. The three of
them were some of the best people I ever knew. It's easy to see how you turned out like you did,
despite being called a bastard all your life.”

Deciding he’s ready for this conversation to be done, Jon bites out, “Why are you here?”

“Tyrion thought it might do you some good to speak to someone that knew them. He’s worried your
mind might be elsewhere when it needs to be focused on the war. He thought maybe if I answered
some questions for you, it would ease your mind.”

“Tell Lord Tyrion I am not his King to manipulate.”

“I don't believe that's…” Jon’s dark stare causes Jamie pause. “Is there truly nothing you’d like to
know?” More staring. “You're angry, that's understandable,” he tries again.

Jon turns away, staring into the fire, arms crossed over his chest. “Bein lied to all your life has
that effect I’ve found.”

“Surely you see it was to keep you safe?”

“Of course I do!” he barks. He checks himself, taking a deep breath, clenching and unclenching
his fists to expel some energy, then turns back to the Kingslayer. “Daenerys and I… Their love
caused thousands to die. I do not want the same to be said of us.”

There it is, his fear laid bare. His parents followed their hearts and brought nothing but sorrow
and death. The thought that he is doing the same terrifies him.

Jamie takes a few cautious steps forward, feeling more empathy than he ever expected to for the
King in the North. “Thousands will die, but not because of your love. You're trying to save us from
an enemy much more sinister than Robert Baratheon or my sister. And you're doing it together.
You, brought her to this fight. There’d be no hope for any of us without you two.”

Jon huffs and shakes his head. “When everyone find out who I really am, do you think that will
matter to them?”
Jamie sighs, his face etched with guilt and regret. “For my sister? No. Finding out you're a
Targaryen will not please her, that you're Lyanna's son… That will make her more crazed than she
already is. She fancied Rhaegar. Father even told her she might marry him. Of course Aerys
wouldn't hear of it, but she held out hope even after he was wed to Elia. She knew he didn't love
her. Then he chose your mother and father forced her to marry Robert, who also chose your mother
over her. It wasn't just Robert Ned was protecting you from. Tyrion is correct in wanting to keep
the truth hidden. I dare say the rage she has for you and Daenerys would rival the Mad King’s if
she were to find out.”

A slow smile spreads across Jon’s face, but there is no humor found in it. It is as sharp and cutting
as a steel blade. “That's lovely to hear.”
He walks around the table, slowly, until he's toe to toe with the Lion. With each step closer he
seemed to grow before Jamie's eyes, harder, more formidable. Like a direwolf or a dragon. Icy
sparks glint within his dark eyes and Jamie decides it's both.

The Kingslayer shifts nervously. He knows a threat when he sees it. He counts himself lucky to be
alive as it is. The King in the North has every reason to take his head. He could do it too. Quiet
easily. Jamie is no match for him anymore. And he is certain it will only take one more offense for
the King’s mercy to come to an end.

He holds himself steady, but respectful as he returns the King’s gaze.

Finally he speaks, his voice hard and cold. “Then she will not. Will she?”

“She will not. No one will, not from me. I meant my vows. It’s you and Daenerys I protect now. You
have my word.”

Jon’s hard stare measures him for a few moments more. “And if it comes down to it, if we survive
the great war and face her… Could you take her life to protect ours?”

The thought is a jagged knife digging into Jamie's gut, but he finally knows her for what she is,
knows his love cannot save her, it never could. Her mind and heart are so twisted and dark, killing
her would be merciful. “I could, and will if ever faced with the choice.”

The ice fades from the King’s eyes, his whole demeanor softening, shrinking back into the mere
man. “For your sake, I hope it doesn't come to that.” He turns and walks back to the table, picking
up his gloves. “And the North? How do you think they'll feel to know their King is of the enemy's
blood?”

“They do seem hold tight to past offenses, Your Grace, but I believe with time they will see
reason.”

“One can hope.” Jon sighs, pulling on his gloves. “Your Lord brother is correct though. I do need
something to settle my mind. This, however is not it. Care to join me in the practice yard?”

“I’d be honored.” Jamie waves his golden hand towards the door. “Lead the way, Your Grace.”

---

Boiling nausea jars Dany from her sleep. She's bent over the chamber pot moments later, her
stomach intent on emptying its contents. Painful heaves rack her body in torturous waves all for
naught. She hasn't eaten anything of substance since early yesterday, there's nothing to expel.
Finally she's left gasping and weak, her head in danger of splitting open while tears spill from her
watery eyes. The bitter taste of bile filling her mouth threatens to start the whole process over
again.

She crawls to Jon's desk hoping there's enough wine left to rinse her mouth out with. Ghost whines
as he licks her shoulder, following her every movement closer than a shadow. Using him for
balance, she stands on shaky legs. As the other unpleasant sensations begin to fade the cold
overtakes her, the sweat covering her naked body chilling like ice against her skin in the crisp air.
Moving as quickly as her body will let her, she rinses her mouth then returns to their bed,
burrowing under the furs.

The bed creaks under Ghost’s heavy weight as he climbs up beside her. It's then her throbbing
brain realizes Jon is gone. His wolf lays close to her to share his heat she assumes, nuzzling at her
cheek like a worried mother until she pets him.

“I'll be better soon.”

She knows nothing else until Missandei wakes her sometime later, fussing over her worse than
Ghost. She scolds them both claiming there's no time to worry over a nervous stomach.

“Have you seen him this morning?” she asks her friend, knowing she’ll answer all the questions
her words held. He didn't sleep, the weight of his new knowledge heavy on his heart and mind.

“He is in the yard, Your Grace. Sparring with anyone who will face him. Greyworm praises his
King.”

“As well he should. Jon is known as a great swordsman.”

“Of course, Your Grace, but he is still surprised.”

“Why?”

“He says no man should be able to fight so well with that much...rage boiling within him.”

Dany spins around, pulling her braids free of Missandei’s nimble fingers. Violet eyes search
brown, then she is on her feet and out the door.

She finds him just where Missandei said she would, fighting like a man possessed against the
sellsword Bronn. She has seen him fight only once, beyond The Wall. That was no place to observe
his skills. Here, everyone’s stopped to watch their King. A crowd has gathered around the walls of
the yard, their tasks forgotten. Some faces are filled with pride, others in fear, still more switching
quickly between the two.

He is like no other she has ever scene despite her travels. His movements are as graceful as a
dance yet full of fury, every swing, spin, and strike meant to kill. Like the crowd gathered she
doesn't know what emotion to settle on. Watching him stirs so many things within her.

Ser Bronn must feel the same. One moment his face alights with glee, then Jon will let out a roar,
attacking the sellsword with such ferocity he must scramble back, ducking and spinning else his
King will remove his head or spill his guts.

She isn't sure whether she moves or her gasp somehow reached his ears through the ringing of
steel against steel, but his eyes find her with no searching at all.
Then Bronn of the Blackwater's sword is against his neck. “She is a sight to behold, Your Grace,
but one that will mean the death of ya if you let her distract you.”

Jon eyes narrow, his face twitching into a snarl as he pushes the sword from his throat. Without a
word he sheaths his and takes for the stairs that will lead him to his Queen.

Her heart threatening to pound its way through her ribs, Dany walks away from the prying eyes
below them as Jon tops the stairs. He follows, finding her pressed against the wall of a darkened
hallway. Her eyes closed, chest rising and falling in frantic breaths as her hands twitch at her
sides.

Her eyes fly open as soon as she senses his presence, fingers going to the faint redness blooming
on his throat as his reach up to caress her cheek. Their fears spill out at once, frantic words
tumbling over each other.

“Are you well?”

“Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” he assures her. “You're so pale. Is it your stomach again? It would ease my mind
greatly if you would let the Maester see to you.”

She ignores his concerns for more of her own. “You weren't there when I woke. You're fighting…
you looked so...angry.”

“It's important to keep my skills honed. I promise you, I’m alright. Are you?”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It's just…” She shakes her head, blowing out an exasperated breath.
“We cannot do this. We cannot be reduced to lovesick fools. There are too many lives at stake.”

“You're right. We shouldn't.” He kisses her then, hard and demanding, swallowing her moans. She
gives back as good as she gets, nearly climbing him in her need to be closer to him. It takes all his
power not to ravish her right there in the hallway. He pulls away before they go too far leaving
them both gasping. “Do you remember the day we met? The last thing I asked you?”

He hears her smile more then sees it, his brow resting against hers. When he lifts his head to look
in her eyes, he finds them sparkling. “You worried you were my prisoner.”

Dany expects him to return her mirth, but he doesn't, his face solemn and serious. “I am. I have
been since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Do I make you suffer?” She smirks at him, still unconvinced he isn't playing with her.

He wants to take that smirk from her lips with teeth and tongue and savor it like the sweetest
candy. Instead he leans in, running his nose along her jaw to her ear. “I’ve never known a pain so
sweet,” he whispers, his warm breath sending a shiver through her.

“Jon. Why must you say such things?” she asks, breathless.

“When you smile I forget all the times I was alone and afraid. When you're near the pain is gone. I
thought I knew what mattered before.” He pulls away from his torture of her neck, his lovely dark
eyes, heavy and liquid as they stare into hers. “Then I found you. I was a fool. I never will be
again. Not for anyone, or anything but you. You, I will be a fool for for the rest of my days.”

Others had whispered sweet words to her before, pledged themselves to the queen, promising to
love her as only she deserved. Their flattery always made her want to scoff and flick them away
like flies. But not Jon. His words go straight to her heart, sinking into her bones leaving her
floating in a happiness up until now she had only dreamed of knowing.

Him, she believes. Him, she loves back with all of her heart.

Fook em all as he says.

She grabs his face, forcing their lips together in another soul rending kiss. Then his hands are on
her ass, lifting her, holding her to him. He presses her up against the wall and she can feel, even
through the thick leather of his surcoat, his need for her, hard and wanting. Her own need floods
through her belly, low and deep, then rises to spark her every nerve. Being in his arms, having his
lips and tongue devouring hers, hands gripping and pulling as if he can never get her close enough
shatters all of her restraints. The composure she works so hard to maintain crumbles and she no
longer cares where they are, who could see, or what wars lay ahead. She wants him. Now.

Suddenly there's a third presence in the hallway, making himself well known. His great furry head
comes level to theirs, his raspy tongue lapping at their faces.

Dany shrieks as Jon's grip leaves her to catch herself as he pushes the wolf away. “Ghost! You
bloody beast! Off with you!”

Once she's steady on her feet laughter overtakes her at Jon’s dark and brooding face. But soon
he’s laughing with her and ruffling Ghost’s snow white fur in apology, knowing he probably saved
them from being caught in a very embarrassing situation.

“Go hunt, you big oaf. We manage without a babysitter for now,” he orders him.

Ghost eyes them suspiciously then trots off, apparently satisfied they’ll behave.

“You will be the death of me woman,” Jon grumbles, his eyes still full of delicious heat as he tries
to adjust his hardened length to a more comfortable and less noticeable place within his leathers.

For a moment she fears she’s lost this battle and will drag him to their chambers to ravish and be
ravished. But somehow, probably due to the bone chilling cold seeping in through her furs her
senses come back. She smooths back her hair, smirking at him. “Yes, and you, me. Now let's go.”
She takes his hand and pulls him forward. “We were interrupted yesterday. It's time you and
Rhaegal got acquainted.”

---

He looks quite uneasy, his brows drawn and lips pressed into a thin line as they approach her sons.
“Pettin a dragon is one thing. I’ve been thrown from a horse once or twice, I would imagine it's
much worse to be thrown from a dragon.”

Dany can't help but smile at his nervousness. “If he throws you, Drogon and I will catch you.” His
steps falter and his eyes go wide. She laughs,then has mercy on him, remembering the day the
Harpies attacked. “You must feel him.” She stops them and lays her hand upon his chest. “Here.
Feel the fire in your blood. Believe in it. You are no less dragon than you are wolf.” At his solemn
nod she steps back, letting him go.
Jon does his best to take her words to heart, approaching Rhaegal as he would Ghost. He’s always
felt his wolf was a part of him since the moment he stared into his shining red eyes. He cannot
explain it, but feels it all the same. This time he stares into great eyes of green. They watch him
closely, yet curiously.

His hand does not shake as it did when he reached for Drogon. “Hello, Rhaegal.”

The dragon accepts his touch for a time, seeming almost to enjoy it if the chattering from his
throat could be taken for a hint. But then he raises up his huge head and snorts a blast of hot air
straight at Jon knocking him onto his ass.
He sits there stunned for bit as Dany’s bell-like laughter fills the air. She helps him to his feet, and
he smiles despite himself. He brushes the snow off as best he can while Dany reprimands Rhaegal
in a curt string of Valyrian.

The beast lays his head back down, his spines quivering, a deep purr shaking the ground under
Jon’s feet.

“You’ll have to teach me some of that.”

“I’m afraid that would take more time than we have. There's only one word you’ll need for now,
but we best wait till you're ready. Come try again, he’ll behave now.”

Jon huffs, but approaches Rhaegal for a second time. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Now I need
you to help me,” he whispers to him, keeping his voice calm and deep as he rubs the shiny scales of
his cheek. “Your mother won't hear of staying behind where it's safe. I need to be with her. I can't
do that without you. Will you help me?”

Rhaegal’s eye closes, then slowly opens again. He drops his enormous shoulder. Jon doesn't
hesitate, climbing up and seating himself as best he knows how. Once he feels secure he glances
down at Dany.

She's smiling up at him proudly. “Take ahold of his spines, tightly.”

He does as instructed, willing his entire body not to shake. It's just like ridin a horse. A very, very,
large horse.

“Ready?” she calls up.

Jon nods, worried if he speaks she’ll hear the waver that's sure to be in his voice. He doesn't know
if he's ever been such a tight ball of excited nerves before.

Then a soft smooth word leaves her lips, “Sōvēs.”

Muscles bunch beneath him as Rhaegal lifts his immense body from the ground. With three
lumbering steps and one mighty beat of his wings they rise into the air. Jon holds on for dear life,
his own muscles trembling with the effort as the giant under him continues to beat its wings with a
sound like rolling thunder.

Fighting off dizziness, Jon squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. Determined to not be a
scared babe he leans deeper into Rhaegal, and opens his eyes. He focuses on the glistening green
scales of the dragon’s neck until his stomach settles back into its rightful place instead of fighting
for space beside his hammering heart.

Only then does he dare to look below them. He’s stood upon The Wall many a time awed by the
seemingly endless land and its beauty stretched out on either side. Not once could it have ever
compared to this. He’s not sure anything could compare to this. Lying under the furs becoming one
with Dany perhaps. His heart certainly feels near to bursting just as it does then. But seeing the
world slip by like rushing water, the biting wind in his face, the weightlessness of his body...

An ecstatic shout escapes him of its own accord, his blood tingling in his veins, the heat of Rhaegal
hard beneath his thighs. His great green wings rise and fall through the air carrying them higher
and higher. Jon has never felt such euphoria.

Dany’s laughter breaks through the wind rushing past his ears. He turns to see her and Drogon
quickly rising just to his left. Her smile is more brilliant than the sun. He imagines his must be only
slightly dimmer.

They soar through the skies like giant eagles, throwing shadows over the snowy land below them
for what feels like hours, but mustn't be considering the sun is still high above them. Eventually
they arrive back at Winterfell, slowly descending in every shrinking circles. Jon doesn't miss the
dozens of spectators standing in awe, their heads thrown back to watch the marvel.

He has no doubt there will be rumblings among his people and Bannerman. Some will not be
impressed their King is now a dragon rider.

Fook em, they'll get over it. Even if this wasn't needed for the war ahead, he wouldn't let their
prejudices keep him from flying.

Drogon lands first with a resounding thud, the snow around him stirring to a blizzard as he flaps
his wings. Rhaegal follows suit, descending much more gracefully than Jon expected.

He peels his fingers loose from his spines, they snap and crack, stiff from the effort of holding on
and the bitter cold. He rubs his hands along Rhaegal's neck in gratitude and to thaw them a bit
with his heat. “Thank you, my friend. I hope I was a decent enough rider to suit you.”

The dragon shivers and chatters beneath him, turning his head to watch him as he climbs down.
The second his legs feel as if they’ll hold him he runs to Dany, picking her up and twirling her
around. Both of them laugh like children free of any cares.

He squeezes her tight then sets her back on her feet, his hands now grasping her face. “That was…
I do not have words for it. How have you not just flown off and choose to stay in the skies for the
rest of your days?”

She beams at his giddiness, thrilled she could help him know such happiness after his dark and
troubled past. “It is certainly a temptation I must fight more often than not.”

He pulls her close, pressing their freezing lips together in a kiss. His eyes are once again dark and
serious when he opens them. “Thank you. For trusting me with him, for allowing me to know such
freedom.”

Dany wonders if he will ever fail to make her heart ache. Reaching up, she brushes back a curl that
has escaped its tie. “You deserved it, and so did he. He has missed Viserion terribly. I haven’t seen
him that carefree in too long. He is yours now. You have his loyalty and love just as you do
Ghost’s. And mine.”

“I will cherish him just as I do you. I swear it.”

“I know,” she whispers, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss him again. He deepens it, his arms
wrapping around her and pulling her close.
“Jon! Jon!”

They startle apart to see a plump figure running towards them.

Jon recognizes him immediately. “Sam?”

“It's Bran, come quickly!”

Throwing a worried glance at Dany, Jon runs after him, soon overtaking his bent over and panting
form. “Where?” he yells back, not slowing down or paying attention to painfully frozen muscles
and joints.

“Godswood,” Sam gasps, sucking in strangled gulps of air.

He finds Bran by the weirwood tree, seemingly whole and unharmed. Expecting him to be injured
or at least as shaken as he is, Jon is almost angry to find his brother as placid as the pool beside
him. “What's happened?” he barks, his heart still threatening to break through his ribs, the frigid
cold still burning through his lungs and joints.

Jon can hear others drawing closer, the snow crunching under their booted feet as they run.

“He’s coming. They're all coming.”

“Who?” He hopes against hope his brother will dispel the dread now churning in his gut.

“The dead. They're flowing through The Wall like a river.”

“Where? How?”

Dany, his sisters, Davos and the rest slide to a stop beside him. Bran’s dull, dark stare moves to
gaze into wide, violet eyes. Jon spins around, blood rushing in his ears, drowning out his brother's
words. He doesn't need to hear them. He knows. He’s seen it happen with his own eyes. And even if
he hadn't, the horror on Dany's face confirms the sickening fear that threatens to drown him where
he stands.

Viserion has been raised from his icy grave.

The gasps, cries, and shocked faces fade away as he pulls her into his arms. Neither say a word.
There aren't any to ease this turmoil.
But soon the other’s shouts of panic become too much. “Leave! All of you!” he roars at them.

“But, Jon! We have to—”

“Now, Arya!”

Dany pushes away from him, her face a stone mask, eyes lifeless and dull. “She's right. We must
decide what to do.”

He’s never heard her sound so weak and it shatters his heart. He steps closer, gently running his
hand up her arm. “Dany, please. Give yourself a moment at least.”

She trembles beneath his touch. Cutting her eyes to his, she begs him to leave her be. One more
touch, kind word, or soft look and she will crumble in front of them all.

Mercifully he retreats, casting his eyes to the ground. “How long do we have?” he asks Bran.
“A week. Maybe.”

Dany pulls on all her strength, gathering all she can, yet still her voice trembles like that of a
heartbroken child’s. “Drogon and Rhaegal. Can they bring him down?”

“I do not know. I’ve never seen such fire as he breathes.”

“It's our only option.” She turns to leave, intent on ending her son’s torture and finding solace
with her other children.

“Dany, you cannot,” Jon begs, grabbing her arm.

Her fire rises within her and she jerks out of his grasp. “A dragon is not a slave! He has taken my
son. I am the mother of dragons. I am the breaker of chains and I will free him. Even if death is his
only hope.”

Pain washes over her then, a wave so strong even her fire cannot withstand it. Great sobs rack her
body and Jon has her in his arms an instant later. She wants to fight him, but there's no strength left
within her.

He doesn't have to tell the others to leave this time. With only a few looks he knows they will alert
Dany’s counsel and begin to plan. And they know the king and queen will join them later.

He takes her to the glass garden to get them out of the cold. They're both shivering hard enough to
break bones from their ride, or perhaps it's just dread setting in. The garden is blessedly empty.
Locking the door behind him to keep it that way he then finds the bench hidden beneath the lemon
trees. Her bone deep sobs haven't stopped and each one feels as if it's ripping through his heart.
He doesn't attempt to stop her though.

Instead he holds her close, rocking her, running soothing hands over her back and hair. He isn't
sure if it's to comfort her or himself. Once again the earth has shifted under their feet, this time
tilting far enough to throw them off the edge completely he fears.

Every time a flash of hope appears they grasp onto it desperately only to have it ripped away and
replaced with darker and darker harbingers of death.

They are caught in a storm that shows no signs of ending and he's not sure how much more either
of them can take. He can feel himself drowning underneath it all and now she is too.

He needs her strength to shore up his own. He needs her to be fire. Like she usually is, standing her
ground, hot, fiery, and strong. Not this ash that's slipping through his fingers now, floating along
the wind and disappearing before his eyes. He cannot bear her like this. She needs to fight and
once again be his fiery queen.

But he must meet her there too. He did not come back from the dead to save his home, see his
family again, and find the other half of his heart to cower like a beaten dog and have it all taken
away.

He’s not sure how much time passes before her sobs fade to only wavering breaths. Enough the
cold has left his bones, leaving a layer of sweat between him and his leathers.

“Where are we?” she asks, her voice still edged with pain as she wipes at her face.

Taking his cloak in hand, Jon helps her dry her tears. “The glass gardens.”
“It's so warm. I’d almost swear I was back in Essos.”

“It's the hot springs. They run underneath and through the floors.”

She notices the lemon trees then. A wistful smile tugs at the corner of her lips and she rises from
his lap. Reaching up she takes one in hand bringing it to her nose and breathing in its bright scent.
“Mmmm, I love the smell of lemons. It's been so long.”

“So long?” he asks, when she goes quiet again, rising to stand with her.

“Since I’ve smelled them. We lived in a little house in Braavos when I was a child. It had a red
door. There was a lemon tree outside my window. It was the only place I had ever felt safe. It's
silly, but every time I smell lemons I feel safe again.”

Jon moves behind her, wrapping his arms around her and places a kiss just below her ear. “You’ll
be safe again, my love. I promise.”

She stiffens against him, “I love you for saying so, but how? How can we hope to defeat him now?
He has Viserion. We have to free him, Jon, we have to!”

He turns her around in his arms and pulls her closer. “I know, I know. And we will, I swear to you.
I don't know how yet, but I swear to you I will not stop until he is free and the Night King is no
more.”

She spins out of his arms, pacing across the cobbled floor. He watches as her fire begins to burn
again, her walls going up, the queenly mask falling back into place. “Drogon and Rhaegal can
bring him down. They have to. There's no other way. I doubt an ice spear would do him any
damage, even if we had one.” She stops to face him, her expression so hopeful it breaks his heart.
“Do you?”

He scrambles to think of anything that might help her hang onto it. “No, but one of dragonglass
might. Getting close enough to use it will be the challenge.”

“Do you remember me saying Bronn shot a bolt at Drogon?” He nods. “He used a huge wooden
machine to launch it into the air. That is what we need. And bolts made of dragonglass.”

“We have more than enough dragonglass. Jamie, Bronn, or both may know how to make the
machine. Let's hope we have time to build it.”

Dany worries her bottom lip with her teeth, her fists clenching and unclenching. “A week Bran
said. Riding Viserion he could be here by night fall. What's to stop him?”

Feeling the defeat as well as her Jon shakes his head. “Nothing, I’m afriad.”

Her arms wrap around herself, a different type of chill seeping into her bones. “Death is marching
towards us and there's nothing we can do to stop it.”

Death. Death. Only death.

Only death.

Only death can pay for life!

The memory of those words hit her like a steel bolt to the heart. Suddenly Dany knows what she's
been dismissing for weeks now. Her breath catches, her hands covering her stomach. She starts to
fall her knees go so weak.

Jon catches her, fear filling his eyes. “Dany!”

She grips the straps of his cloak, her eyes glistening with tears. “Only death can pay for life.”

“What?”

She laughs, but mixed with her pain it sounds hysterical, her emotions running so rampant she
can't control them. “Jon! Only death can pay for life. My sweet Viserion. What he's given us!
Jon!”

He scoops her up, heading towards the door, his heart in his throat. It's has to be a fever. He
waited too long. He knew she was sick. Now it's taken her. You bloody fool! “We’re going to the
Maester. Now!”

Dany buries her face in his neck, holding him tight, then whispers words she never dreamed to
speak again. “I'm not sick, I’m pregnant.”

He takes two more steps before he freezes.

She pulls away from her hiding place. Jon is staring down at her, his expression showing a
whirlwind of emotions.

“What did you say?” he asks, his voice so quiet she barely heard it.

She cups his cheek, tears falling again. This time they're happy ones. “I should have trusted you.
You were right again. Our family hasn't seen it's end.”

Jon lets out a strangled gasp, then hugs her tight enough to take the air from her lungs. “Gods,
Dany. A babe of our own. Of my blood and yours.”

“We cannot give up now, Jon. We have to fight, we have to defeat him.”

He presses his lips to her forehead then leans his own against it. “We will, I swear we will.”
 Can't you hear me howling, babe?
Chapter Summary

Jon and Dany absorb the baby news.

Chapter Notes

Merry Christmas!!!

Real life finally cooperated long enough for me to get this to you in a decent amount of
time. Yay!

This one is pretty emotional, so prepare for that. I actually cut it almost in half. The
words just kept coming. It's been so long since that's happened to me, you have no idea
how happy I am about it, lol. Hopefully that means I can possibly get the next chapter
out just as quick.

Most of you probably already know about this, but in case you don't, NoOrdinaryLines
has put together a Jonerys fanfic awards for us. It's a great way to let your favorite
authors know how much they mean to you. Nominations close on Dec 31st so dig
through those bookmarks for your favs and show some wonderful authors how much
you love them :)

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSegqfcNBpP3He_WwR1ULadcEWl8M5eb2DmKRO17DBM

Hope everyone has a wonderful and safe holiday! Comments are an author's favorite
gift ;)

The cold would've taken his breath the moment he stepped out of the glass gardens, if there had
been any in his lungs to begin with.

He’s forgotten how to breathe.

A babe.

By all the gods he would've never believed it, no matter the hope that had been flickering like a
starving flame within his heart. Certainly not now, with all the seven hells bearing down upon them
and more.

Each new day that has dawned since the Dragon Queen summoned him has been fraught with
either gutting darkness or stunning light. They cannot seem to find stable ground for more than a
few moments at a time. He aches for just one day of peace. Just one would do. Enough for them to
catch their breath.

“Where are we going?” Dany asks, her voice muffled from where her face is buried in the furs of
his cloak. She begged him to let her walk, but he wouldn't hear of it.
“To our chambers. You need to rest and you're going to let Sam look you over.”

He can't help but smile at her irritated huff.

“We need to meet with the others, Sam looking me over can wait.”

He grunts. “How long do you think? Our babe is already weeks old. He’s waited long enough.”

Expecting a fight, he’s surprised to feel her lips turn up into a smile against his neck. “He, is it?”

Jon sucks in a shaky breath between his teeth before blowing it out. “Gods be good, I don't think
my heart can handle another violet eyed girl.”

Dany’s laugh is warm honey sliding straight to his heart. Her hand grips around his neck, cold
fingers slipping into his hair. “You’d love her more than life itself,” she whispers.

“Aye, I would. Or will.” His voice comes out hoarse, rough as gravel, his eyes hot and stinging. He
can already see her. Silver curls bouncing, fathomless violet eyes full of innocent happiness. A
smile bright enough to light the world.

A stuttered gasp catches in Dany’s throat, her grip tightening. “You're a miracle, Jon. My miracle.”

“Just as you are mine.”

The thickness of their emotions keep anymore words from escaping their throats until he has them
behind locked doors and her safe and warm under the furs of their bed.

He’s knelt beside her, his hand resting over her stomach, hers over his, as they stare at each other
with wavering smiles, eyes full and bright.

“I feel like the victim of a dream,” she whispers.

“I know, I still can't believe it,” he agrees, quiet as a sigh. As if the babe were already there
sleeping between them and he dare not wake it.

Dany’s smile grows painfully more tender. “Nonsense. You never had a doubt.” She runs the back
of her fingers over his cheek. “You believed and so it is. Apparently I’m not the only one of us who
can make impossible things happen.”

She's rewarded with one of those rare smiles where his eyes squint and sparkle before his lips ever
have a chance to tug upwards. He catches her fingers and presses a lingering kiss to them. “I should
go get Sam.”

“Just a little longer?” she pleads. “Lay down with me.”

At his worried expression she rolls her eyes playfully. “I'll not break just because we know. I’ve
survived quite a few vigorous nights with—”

“Alright, alright,” he huffs, cheeks stained pink, “but for just a moment. I'm ready to put my mind
at ease about one thing at least.” He climbs up beside her so carefully it's painful to watch.

She bites back a smile, her heart so full it feels as if it may burst and snuggles into his side as soon
as he’s settled. It would be so much better if all their layers of clothes were gone, to feel his hard
body hot against the softness of her own, but there's no time for that. “I want to keep it between us
for just a few more minutes. Our secret.”
He agrees, his whispered, “Aye,” softly breaking into her ear. Strong arms pull her closer, palms
running soothing trails over her back while he nuzzles into her hair.

Letting the rise and fall of his breath calm her, she wishes they could rest within the blessed hush
of each other forever. How happy they could be if the world would just fall away and leave them to
be what they are. Young, blissfully in love, awaiting the child that love made with anxious joy.

Jon’s heart and mind though are tumbling about, overwhelmed by it all. He knows only one truth;
love can wreck a man quicker than any blade. She’s the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs and
beat of his heart. How quickly she's become everything never fails to seize his every fiber with
awe. He would be nothing without her.

And the child. The surge of emotions that have overtaken him knowing their babe is cradled safely
in her womb…

He sucks in a rush of air, squeezing his eyes shut as he struggles to keep it together. Having her so
close, the warmth of her seeping into his bones slowly begins to work its magic on his frayed
nerves. He continues to breathe in her sweet scent allowing it to pull him deeper into her calming
presence.

“How do you think…?” he whispers after several minutes of silence between them.

“Our blood I suppose,” she answers, knowing exactly what he asked. She tilts her head back to gaze
up at him, sliding her fingers across his jaw then into the loose curls at the back of his neck.
“You're the only one who could give me this gift. You and Viserion. I believe his death paid for
our child’s life.”

“That's what you meant?”

“Yes. The witch told me only death could pay for life. My first child paid for my dragon’s lives,
now one of my dragons has paid for our child’s.” Seeing his brows drawn so tightly together, her
tongue peeks out to lick her lips before they press into a firm line. “You don't believe it?”

Jon sighs, leaning down to kiss to her forehead. “I didn't really believe it before,” he whispers
against her skin, “but it's not that. I just...if it is true...I don't want it to be. It would mean you would
have to lose Drogon and Rhaegal, or possibly someone else we care deeply for for us to have more
children.” He pulls away, staring at her with eyes of liquid obsidian while his hand cups her cheek,
his thumb rubbing across her bottom lip. “That’s too high a price to pay. I don't want you to have to
go through that. I don't want to go through that.”

“Maybe neither of us will have to. If the babe and I live—”

“You will. Both of you,” he cuts in, his words hard and insistent, as is the hand gripping her chin.

She pulls it away, knowing he meant no harm and kisses his palm. The loss of their mothers will
hang heavy between them in the months to come, adding weight to the already burdensome list of
troubles nipping at their heels. To ease both their minds she murmurs the only hope she has,
“Perhaps the curse will be broken after our child comes into the world.”

“Aye, I like that much better.”

They go quiet again, neither wanting to stir their troubled thoughts further.

Jon turns towards her, fingers finding their way to the silver strands of her hair. He watches it
shimmer and shine in the weak sunlight coming through the window. “We’re supposed to marry
tonight.”

Dany has lost herself in the way his dark lashes brush against his cheeks and how such a small
thing can cause the feeling of warmth that grows within her chest. Her voice comes from
somewhere far away. “With everything that's happened, we can wait if you’d like.”

“Would you be alright if we didn't?”

Her heart nearly stops having only heard his last few words. “Didn’t wait?” she asks, hopes that's
what he meant. He nods and the air rushes out of her. “Of course I would. Why would you think
—”

“It’s barely midday and it's been more difficult than most for you. I'd understand if you needed
time.”

There's more. Dany can feel it hovering just behind his lips, see it fall like a shadow across his
eyes. This man she loves so dearly holds his thoughts hostage, not to protect himself, but others.
She would gladly spend all of her forevers unraveling each and every one that fills his heart and
mind. All he needs is a little patience on her part, a tender touch, or an encouraging look and the
walls slip, letting his heart through.

This time it only takes is a few quiet moments and a fingertip tracing his brow.

“If we wait, and something happens to me… I don't want…” He stops, breathing deeply, his eyes
closing. His whole body seems to shudder when he Iets it go. “I swore I’d never father a bastard. I
won't leave you or our child to live with that shame.”

Heart aching, Dany grasps his chin, forcing his eyes up. “Jon. We would never feel shame because
of you. Never.”

“I know you wouldn't, but everyone else would judge you both. I don't ever want you to have to
deal with that. To have to explain to our child. For them to have to hear it.” He pulls his chin away,
tucking his head, hiding from her. “I remember the day they told me, fath...Lord Stark, and
Maester Luwin. I was only four. It feels like yesterday.”

She wants to stop him. To tell him there's no need to open such deep scars, but she doesn't. She
knows sometimes it helps to open them. All the nights they spent secreted away on the ship
together are proof enough. The hurt they spilled into each other's ears knowing they were truly
being understood for the first time in their lives was healing for both of them in ways neither had
ever imagined. So she listens to his voice, uneven and hollow, as she slips her fingers between his.

“I had asked Robb, in front of some of the lords no less, what I could do to make our mother love
me like she did him and our sister. I didn't understand why she never smiled at me, held me in her
lap and told me a story, or tucked me into bed.”

Bottom lip held fiercely between her teeth, Dany holds her breath to contain her cries of anger and
anguish, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces for the little boy he once was.

“She heard me ask and she was furious. She lost her composure, screaming at me that I wasn’t her
son and I never would be. He actually held me that day while I tried not to cry. Even then he didn't
tell me. A boy crying for his mother and he couldn't bring himself to at least tell me she had loved
me.”

Holding him close, Dany wonders about their childhoods and the unfairness of it all. Running as
she and Viserys always did she never was privy to the relationships between mothers and their
children. She knew there was something missing from her life, a hole that should not have been
there, but poor Jon. To see a mother's love heaped upon your own brothers and sisters, day in and
day out, and have it denied you. Only thoughts of burning Lady Stark to ashes soothe her.

“Lady Catelyn barely ever looked at me, and only once in the sixteen years I was under her roof
did she call me by my name and that was to tell me I should've fell from the tower instead of Bran.”
He clears his throat and sniffs quietly. “If I die, you’ll need to marry again, have more children. I
can't leave this world knowing my son or daughter may suffer the same way I did.”

She pulls him from his hiding place once more, this time with a gentle hand to his cheek, though
her words are fierce. “Our children will never suffer what we did. Never. We'll make sure of it.
Regardless, you're not going to die and we are going to marry. Tonight.”

His smile is so sweet it hurts all the way down to her bones. “Thank you.”

Dany shakes her head, swallowing down her tears. “There is nothing to thank me for, Jon.” She
pulls him closer, leaving his lips a breath from hers. “I love you. I wish you knew how much.”

“I do. Same as I love you.”

He kisses her then. One so sweet and soft she swears nothing has ever been so tender. Yet she
burns. She always burns. His lips cannot touch her, his tongue cannot dance with hers, his hands
cannot roam her body without her burning for him. Without her aching to be filled by him in every
way possible.

He burns for her just the same. His kiss turns more desperate, hands gripping the fabric of her
dress.

Just when she thinks he’ll give them both what they want, he stops, his breath hot and panting
across her cheek. She whines like a spoilt child.

“I know,” he groans, “Later. I promise.” She gets one more small kiss from his full lips. “Once
you're my wife.”

Dany smiles, smoothing back a few of his raven curls her fingers loosened. She doesn't want to
spoil their small scrap of peace, but there's other things they must talk about and she’d rather do it
just the two of them.

“What will we do about Viserion?”

His brow furrows, his whole body rising then falling with a heavy sigh. “I hate it, but your other
sons may be our only hope. I’ll have my smiths begin making the armor today. It shouldn't take
them as long as I feared.”

“Why?”

“Well,” he hesitates, his fingers playing with a lock of her hair, “you don't need armor anymore, so
that will save them some time.”

She shoves against his chest, pushing him back. “And why not?”

Jon scowls, his usual brooding mask firmly in place. “You're not going.”

Sparks fly from the violet depths of her eyes. “Nothing has changed, Jon. I will go.”
Something primal boils up within him, dark and unyielding. He rises from the bed, nowhere near as
gently as he laid upon it and turns on her. “You will not.” His voice was as cold and harsh as the
frozen land he calls home.

Dany lies rooted to the bed for several heartbeats, shocked by the force of his anger. It doesn't last
long, she scrambles from under the covers, spitting fire like the dragon she is. “You dare tell me
what I will and will not do? I will save my son, Jon Snow. I do not have a choice.”

He does not cower from her wrath, his own fiery blood fueling him. “You do have a choice! You
stay here and I go.”

It hits her then, pushing her back onto the bed. Just a flicker in his eyes, the crease between them.
The twitch of his fingers, the tortured edge his words held. Fear has him in its deathly grip. He only
wishes to keep her and their babe safe.

Her heart breaks for him. He has been tossed in this riotous storm for far too long. So many of the
pillars he clung to for strength have been brought down around his feet, nothing more than
crumbled stone. Or stolen from him altogether. She will help him rebuild them anew, help him
remember who and what he is no matter how painful it may be for them both. She will be his
strength when he has none.

He shifts on his feet, the weight of what’s filling her eyes pushing him off balance and sending a
rock of dread dropping into the pit of his stomach. “Do not, Daenerys. Do not look at me that way
with those eyes. You cannot ask this of me.”

“I'm not asking,” she whispers, her tone kind, knowing how much the words will hurt him.

Jon fears this constant spin between love and terror will drive him mad. He shakes his head, jaw
clenching as he begins to pace the room, his steps heavy and clipped. A beast locked in a cage
knowing he has no hope of release.

“You promised me,” she charges softly, hoping her words find him amongst the turmoil, “and I
you. Remember? Would you go back on your word, or ask the same of me?”

Her strength is a sword and it cuts him off at the knees. Still he does not give, even as he feels the
fight begin to drain from him like blood from a wound. She must see reason. He goes to her, fist
clenched at his chest, pounding with each word. “That was before. You cannot. Not now. Not with
our babe.”

She stands resolute, ever a queen. “I must, you know I must. There is no other way.”

Fear licks at him like flames, sending a terrible panic to fill his heart. She will not bend, not for
him, not for anything. The knowledge strikes another spark of anger, a last feeble attempt at
resistance. “You would risk the life of one child to end the suffering of another?” he accuses
harshly.

Dany shakes her head, saddened to see him grasping at such straws. “Jon. It is the suffering of our
people I must end, not just my son's. You know this.”

“And what of mine?” he roars, face flushed, his whole body trembling.

Her heart in danger of ripping apart, she takes his tortured face in hers hands, attempting to smooth
the tension from his brow. “The sufferings of kings and queens must come after those of their
people, no matter how sharp their edge, or deep their cut.”
He feels himself break at her gently given words, a cord snapping in half as easily as a twig under
his boot. His head falls against hers. “Dany, please.” Never have his own ears heard his voice
sound so wretched. “I cannot lose you. I cannot lose you both.”

A gentle hand runs through his curls, another caresses his cheek. “You will not lose either of us,
and we will not lose you. You must have faith, my love. We will defeat our enemies. And we will
rule. Together we will birth a dynasty the likes of which the world has never known.” Her words
flow from her sweet lips as soft as silk, yet with the hardness of steel. He lifts his head to find her
eyes as dark as a thundercloud despite the love they hold. Lovely and lethal.

The sight of her this way tears a memory loose from the corners of his mind. A warrior princess.
That's what he had decided he wanted. That is most assuredly what he has and he knows without a
doubt he has lost this battle as well as he is lost to her; irrevocably.

He grasps onto the only firm ground he has. “You're not going alone.”

“I never thought I would.”

His shoulders fall, curving in, drawing him closer, while his fingers gather her dress in their grip. “I
don't think you realize how easily you could end me. You will be my death,” he breathes against
her cheek. “Maybe not today, but one day. When you leave this world, I will follow you.”

Her throat works hard to swallow down the lump that formed from his words. “I know,” she
whispers, voice cracking. She bites at her trembling lip, cursing it. “Just as I will you.” She runs
her hand up his chest, settling it over his heart, letting the strong, steady beat ground her. “We’re
two halves of the same whole. There's no hope of ever separating us again now that we're
together.”

He catches her face in his hands and her lips with his. With his mouth on hers he feels her blazing
hope burn through him, turning his fears to ash in its wake. He isn't sure how long it will last, but
he’ll cling to it as long as he has strength.

Breaking away before the tide can turn on him again, he presses his forehead to hers. “I’ll be back
with Sam shortly. Stay here. Promise me.”

His urgent tone catches her heart. She squeezes his fingers. “I promise, my love.”

He nods and lets her go. She watches the door close behind him, fingers running through the soft
fur of his forgotten cloak beside her.

---

He finds them cloistered in the war room, the tension thick enough to slice his sword through. All
of them freeze their nervous pacing or fidgeting at the sight of him expect for Sansa and
Missandei. Both hurry towards him as soon as the door clicks closed.

“Is she well?”

“How is she?”

He gives them what he hopes is a comforting smile even if it is small, their concern lifting him a
bit. “She’s stronger than ten of me put together, but I insisted that she rest for a while, much to her
annoyance.”

A wave of relief flows through the room, everyone relaxing a fraction, but only a fraction.

“Please tell me you weren't foolish enough to leave her alone,” Tyrion charges, “She's sure to be on
Drogon's back and halfway to the Wall by now.”

Davos takes a threatening step towards him. “You should watch your tongue, dwarf, the King is no
fool.”

Jon waves him off, his tone and expression somber. “It's alright. We're all a bit on edge and less
likely to hold our tongues,” he says, staring down at Tyrion. “Two of my guards stand outside the
door. I left Ghost there as well. He won't let her leave, I assure you.” Her Hand doesn't look too
comforted, but Jon wastes no more time worrying about it, turning to Missandei, his countenance
softening. “If you would, I’m sure she’d like to have you with her.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” She slips from the room, as Missandei always does, soft as a breeze on
quick and silent feet.

He eyes Sam next. “I’d feel better if you’d look her over as well.”

Sam’s eyebrows disappear under his shaggy hair. “Me? Wouldn't the maester be better?”

“She trusts you because I do. If it's anythin beyond your skills, I’ve no doubt you’ll consult him,”
Jon says, turning back to open the door.

“Well, of course,” Sam sputters, hurrying to follow him.

“You're not leaving?” Sansa asks, desperation lacing her voice.

“I need to know she's well. Without her we’re lost. We’ll all be back soon.”

“We need to be making plans, Jon,” Arya demands.

“I know. Work together. Discuss our options. You know what we have and what we don't. The
Queen and I trust you all for a reason.” He opens the door, then shuts it again, bringing Sam to an
abrupt halt to keep his nose from being cut off. “One thing you can start on is trenches. I want a
ring of dragon fire around us as soon as possible.”

Similar looks of concentration fall over all their faces, some nodding to themselves or each other.
Davos is the only one to acknowledge his words though. “We can do that. But hurry back. We all
know trenches won't be enough.”

---

“She's pregnant,” he blurts out the second they're out of earshot.

Sam spins round, eyes bulging. “What now?”

“Daenerys. She's pregnant. I'm going to be a father.”

His friend's whole face lights up just before he's engulfed in a hug. “Jon! Oh, Jon, that's wonderful
news.”

He hugs him back, giving him a few hardy pats. “Thank you, Sam. I'm scared shitless.”

They pull apart at Sam's chuckle. “Well, yeah. I can certainly understand that. Not the best time to
be havin babies, is it?”

Whatever happiness had seized him leaves like a gust of wind. He catches Sam’s wince as he drops
his head and continues across the yard. “We want to keep it between us, you, and Missandei for
now which is why I asked you to look her over. Can you handle it?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Sam huffs, struggling to keep up with Jon’s hurried pace. “Would it be alright
to have Gilly help too? She has had a baby, you know. Havin a woman's perspective in times like
these is wise I think.”

Jon nods, grinning despite himself. “Of course, that's not a bad idea. Just remember. Only between
us. Not even my sisters or Bran.”

“Oh, I don't think it'll matter if I tell Bran or not. He’ll know soon if he doesn't already.”

One of his guards runs towards them, cheeks and nose stained red from the cold. “Your Grace.
Beggin your pardon. Can I have a word?”

Jon stops, letting out a weary sigh, more than a little reluctant. He turns to Sam. “Go on up. Tell
her I’ll be there shortly.” His friend nods and hurries off, Jon looks to the guard. “Make it
quick…?”

The man smiles. “Harald, your Grace.”

“Harald.”

“You’ve been so busy I hated to bother you, but the boy won't hush,” he tells him, moving towards
the other side of the yard.

Jon follows him, grudgingly. “What boy?”

“He arrived a week ago, Your Grace. A bastard. Been spoutin off about goin beyond the Wall ever
since. Said he’d sent a raven, but we never got one about him.”

He grabs the guard by his cloak, jerking him to a halt. “My height, short brown hair, and blue
eyes?”

“Aye, Your Grace. Th..that's the one.”

“Where is he?”

“In the cells, your Grace.”

He shoves him away then stalks across the yard. Harald hurries along behind him, puffing out
apologies his King completely ignores.

“Gendry?” he calls into the dank and dim as soon as he enters. The air is colder here, wet, the
putrid stench of waste turning his stomach. Knowing his friend has been locked up in such a place
for a week turns it all the more.
A scuffle of feet on packed earth reaches his ears, then a hand appears, waving from the third cell
down.

Jon stands before him a moment later, taking in his haggard appearance, glaring at the state he’s in.
He's filthy. Bright blue eyes stare out of a gaunt face and meet his, widening with worry.

A tight lipped grin pulls at Jon’s lips. “I was beginning to fear you were dead.”

A burst of air leaves Gendry, a relieved smile shining bright from underneath all the grime.
“Thought for sure you were. Never been happier to know I was wrong.”

“Aye, me either.” Jon’s smile lasts only a moment before he’s barking at the guard. “Well, open
the fookin gate.”

Harald nearly wets himself, scrambling to grasp the keys and bring them to the lock. “Of course,
Your Grace. So sorry, Your Grace.”

Just before Jon decides to slam the fool’s head into the steel bars and do it himself he gets it open.
Gendry hurries out, still smiling. “Appreciate that.”

Jon grabs him up in a fierce hug. “I'm so sorry about this, if I had known you were here...”

Gendry’s shock only lasts a moment before he returns it. ”It's alright. I promise I’ve stayed in much
worse over the years.” He pulls away, his movements quick and jerky not used to affection. “I was
dry, had a place to lay down, and they fed me once a day.” He laughs it off. “It was kind of relaxin
not havin any work to do.”

Jon sighs, shaking his head and slaps him on the shoulder. Then he turns his other palm up towards
the guard. “The keys.” Harald lays them in his outstretched hand, his own shaking like a leaf. “Get
in the cell.” Confusion blooms across the guard’s face freezing him to his spot. Jon’s eyebrows
raise. “Are you refusing your king’s orders?” Harald’s head immediately starts shaking as if he's
having a seizure and he practically runs into the cell. Jon closes it, the clang of metal ringing harsh
in their ears. “Enjoy your stay, Harald. I’ll try to remember to tell someone you're here.”

With that he slings an arm around a grinning Gendry leading him out. “How does a hot bath and
warm food sound? Perhaps some clean clothes as well,” he suggests, putting some space between
them, his nose curled. The poor bastard smells worse than horse piss and pig shit run together.

Gendry looks for all the world as if Jon just offered him a crown. “That’d be right nice, Your
Grace. Thank you.”

With a hand to his chest, Jon stops him, face somber and earnest. “It’s just Jon.” His eyes drop and
he takes a deep breath. “What I asked of you. Sending you back, alone, with no weapons, in that
place.” He meets Gendry's eyes once more. “I don't know that shame has ever haunted me like it
did as I sat up there freezin for two days. You saved our asses. We’d all be dead if it weren't for
you. A man I owe my life to gets to bloody well call me by my name.”

A bright red blush rises up Gendry's neck and across his cheeks. He hangs his head for a moment,
unable to meet Jon’s eyes. “It was an honor, truly.” He straightens then, standing as tall as his
stocky body allows. “I’d do it again tomorrow if you needed me to.”

Jon gives him a small smile, grateful for another loyal friend. “I’ve no plans to ever go back there
and I shouldn't ask after what you’ve already done, but I do need you.”

“Anythin.”
“We need armor, and lots of it. For me, the queen, and her dragons.”

Gendry stumbles back, as if Jon’s words shoved him, mouth agape, eyebrows nearly to his hairline.
“For...for the dragons?”

“I know it's a lot, but I promised her I’d do everythin I could to keep her sons alive. We cannot
allow the other two to fall into his hands. One undead dragon is already more than enough.”

He watches as Gendry swallows hard. “Undead?” he asks, his voice wavering.

Jon nods, suddenly feeling the weight of it all bearing down on him again. He stares at the muddy
snow under his boots. “We found out just an hour ago. He belongs to the Night King now. The
Wall has fallen. They'll be here in a week, maybe less.”

“Seven fuckin hells,” Gendry breathes out, staring into nothing. He turns to Jon, determination now
etched into his face. “There’s no time for a bath or food. Show me to the forge.”

Jon manages a smile and slaps him on the shoulder once more. “You're a right proper friend,
Gendry, but I wouldn't be if I let you keep walking around hungry and smellin like you do. Besides,
I have a feeling my sister might want to hug ya when she sees ya. You’d both probably prefer you
be clean for that.”

Shock once again clouds Gendry's features. “Si...sister?”

“Arya. She said you two traveled together for a time.”

Gendry nods, dumbstruck, his voice sounding if it’s coming through a strainer. “I thought she was
dead.”

“So did I, but I should've known better. They don't make any tougher than her.”

With a shake of his head, a smile lights Gendry's face. “No, they do not. She still got that little
sword of hers?”

“Aye, she sure does.”

“Won’t be long she'll be pokin me full of holes with it. I'm real good at pisses her off,” he laughs.

Jon looks at him, all humor gone. “If I were you, I’d try hard not to be doin that anymore. Trust me
on that one.”

Gendry’s eyes nearly fall out of his head as he shakes it. “Your Grace, you know I’d never—”

He cuts off his needless worry. “It's not my wrath you’d have to fear, my friend. By the time she
was done with you there’d be nothing left for me. She's an assassin.” He shudders. “A very
creative one.”

Ever so slowly a smile begins to stretch Gendry's face, pride filling his eyes.

Seven bloody hells.

Where’s Tyrion and his wine when you need them?

 Eyes always seeking
Chapter Summary

More baby aftermath and Dany meets Lyanna Mormont :) Also some battle plans.

Chapter Notes

This took longer than I wanted it to. Everytime I thought I had it finished, my muse
decided I wasn't. Next chapter should be all fluff and smut though, so yay! Hope you
enjoy it, always fun to hear what you think :)

Dany had never been happier to see her friend come through her door. Her queenly mask fell at
once and she found herself sobbing in Missandei’s arms. She thought there were no more tears to
cry after pouring out her grief all over Jon while he held her in the gardens. She was wrong.

But it wasn't just grief. It was also a terrifying hope, as fragile and thin as the bones of a bird, yet it
fluttered within her chest strong and determined.

“I'm sorry.” She breathes, the air coming and leaving her in in short, shaky bursts. “Learning the
worse and best all within an hour has made a mess of me.”

Missandei’s hands still against her back. “The worst and best? I don't understand, your Grace.”

Dani pulls away, moving back to sit on the bed. “Jon Snow has once again proven me wrong. I'm
with child,” she whispers to her dearest friend, a soft smile lighting her face.

Missandei’s shock is clear, golden brown eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Dany giggles, unable to
hold down the bubbling excitement that refuses to be ignored.

Her friend's shock turns to joy, her own smile wide now, eyes glistening. “Your Grace. Truly?” she
asks, sitting beside her and covering Dany’s hands with her own.

She nods her head, lips tucked between her teeth to keep more tears at bay and her smile somewhat
contained.

Missandei wraps her in another hug, squeezing tighter than she ever has. “I'm so happy for you.
For both of you. Is he pleased?”

A short laugh escapes Dany. “He couldn't be happier.” She sits back again, wiping at her eyes with
trembling fingers as she shakes her head. “How a heart that's been broken so many times can hold
so much love…”

Missandei’s head tilts, a soft knowing smile on her lips. “The same as yours. I feared you were
destined to walk this world alone, that no man would ever be your equal. He is truly worthy of you,
Your Grace.”
“But am I worthy of him?” Dany asks, her voice cracking, eyes closed and fresh tears flowing.

“Of course you are. Why would you say such a thing?”

Dany’s breath catches. “He is so afraid, Missandei. We fought and I hated every moment of it,” she
whispers.

“What happened?”

“He wants to take Rhaegal and Drogon and fight that demon all on his own. He wants me to stay
here to keep our child and I safe.”

“Your Grace, surely you do not blame him for wanting such?”

Dany shakes her head. “No, of course not,” she sighs. “I want the same for him. But neither of us
can have what we want. We must fight, both of us, together. It's the only way.”

“You’ve never failed before, you will not this time.”

“I’ve never faced an enemy such as this. The Night King is not just some man who thinks himself
better than the rest. And now he has my Viserion too. My sons and I must kill their brother,” she
gasps, traitorous tears falling again. “And Jon is boiling with worry that he’ll die before we’re
married and our child will be a bastard in the eyes of Westeros. Even with everything that's
happened today, we will marry tonight. I need to give him whatever peace I can.”

Missandei pulls her queen close again, letting her rest against her shoulder while she rubs her arm.
There’s no comfort she can give her concerning Viserion, no matter how much she wishes there
were, so she focuses on the rest instead. “Such a horrible thing to punish a child for their parents
choices. As if they choose who creates them. You should banish that idea as soon as you take the
throne.”

Dany huffs, sitting up with a smile. “We will. Along with many other foolish notions.”

A tentative knock sounds on the door.

“Enter,” Dany calls.

The merry, but nervous face of Samwell Tarly peeks inside, his meek and constant shadow, Gilly
hovers behind him.

“Come in, both of you, please,” Dany greets them with a wave and a small smile of
encouragement.

They shuffle in, shutting the door behind them. “Jon asked for me to check on you,” Sam starts,
bouncing on his feet and worrying his hands together, “if you're alright with it. He’ll be here soon.
One of the guards needed him for a moment.”

“Of course I am,” Dany assures him. “He told you why?”

“Oh yes! We’re so happy for you, Your Grace. For both of you. That baby will be the luckiest in
all of Westeros havin you and Jon for parents.”

Gilly’s smile lights her pretty face as she nods enthusiastically behind him.

“Shall we get the uncomfortable bits over with then?” he asks.

Missandei stands up moving to the head of the bed while Dany lays down. “We shall,” she says,
smiling in hopes it will ease all their nerves. “Should I remove my cloth—”

“Oh no, no, no, Your Grace!” Sam exclaims, eyes nearly falling out of his bright red face. “It's too
early for that yet.”

The women all exchange glances, eyes twinkling. But Dany’s mirth vanishes as she looks at Sam
again, a wave of guilt threatening to drown her.

He’s a good man, Jon’s best friend, and she and she alone burned his father and brother alive.

She sits up, worrying her lips with her teeth. “Before we start… Sam, I need to speak with you
alone.”

Gilly and Missandei move to leave the room as she watches a flurry of emotions dance across
Sam’s full face. Then his eyes widen, and she knows he knows. His still rosy cheeks jiggle as he
shakes his head and holds his hands out to Gilly and Missandei. They both freeze. “It's alright,
there's no need for this, Yer Grace.”

Dany eyes him, tilting her head. “Jon?”

“A raven, from my mother,” he answers quietly.

She winces. Not only did she leave a son with a father and brother, but a woman without a husband
and child. It takes her a few breaths to reign in her emotions, to put her mask on, but a queen must
face the consequences of her actions, good or bad.

She meets his unsettled expression head on, but keeps the authoritative tone from her words.
“Regardless, I would have you understand. I would apologize.”

“Please don't, Yer Grace,” he begs. “I know you have been without family most of your life, and
I’ve no wish to make light of that, but…” His chubby fingers dance and twitch at the end of his
meaty hands, his eyes trained on the wood beams that cross the ceiling. The sight makes her heart
ache. “Well, sometimes...havin family is worse than not,” he rushes out, the words tumbling like
stones into a bucket. “My father had a black heart. The world is a better place without him in it. I'm
not sure what he did to offend you, but if you’d left him alive I’ve no doubt you would've come to
regret it.”

“He's speakin true, Yer Grace,” Gilly pipes up. “His father was a hateful man. He’d rather Sam be
dead than be his son.”

Dany’s brows crease, Missandei’s too.

“He never liked me, let alone loved me,” Sam admits. “He told me I could take the black or he’d
take me into the woods. He never said it, but I knew that meant he’d kill me. I wasn't good enough
to be his heir.”

She’d regretted killing Lord Tarly from the moment she learned his son was Jon’s closest friend.
Not anymore. Having this go much different than she expected, Dany is at a loss for words for a
moment, but she finally finds them. “I gave them a choice, kneel or die. Even after several urgings
from myself and my Lord Hand, they refused. I could not waver, if they would not. For whatever
pain that caused you and your mother I am truly sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Don't be. I felt nothing hearing about my father's end and only a little at my
brother's. He did not have our father’s black heart, but he never protected me from it either, or my
mother or sister.” He crosses his arms over his wide girth and rocks on his feet. “Even if I had felt
anythin against you, Yer Grace, it’d be gone now that I know you. Yer every bit has good and
honorable as Jon, and he loves you. That alone is enough for me,” he declares with a small smile.

She nods, smiling in return. “I’m still not sure I deserve your kindness, but I'm grateful for it, and
any friend of Jon’s is a friend of mine.”

That brings a bright glow to his cheeks as he studies the floorboards under his feet, suddenly
finding them very interesting.

Hoping to move them onto better things she lays down again. “Shall we get back to it. Jon won't be
happy with me if I don't let you do this.”

They all share a chuckle and Sam wrestles his embarrassment into submission, stepping forward to
get to work. Gilly comes and sits at the end of the bed, asking questions about how Dany has been
feeling and any changes she's noticed to keep them relaxed and occupied while Sam hovers beside
her checking what he can; her temperature, pulse, breathing, and then gently palpitating her
stomach. Missandei keeps watch at the head of the bed.

“You an the little one both seem to be doing well, Your Grace,” Sam tells her, smile wide. “I’m
thinking yer two months along. Hopefully the sickness will leave you soon. I’d like you to eat a bit
more though and rest more too. Whenever you can. I know things aren't ideal for that right now,
but it's important,” he stresses.

Dany scoffs. “If it were up to Jon I’d be locked in this room for the next seven months,” she says,
good naturedly, rolling her eyes.

The others laugh, knowing she's not far from the truth.

Then she clutches at Sam's sleeve, eyebrows knitted with worry and fear, eyes welling with more
tears. “My mother, Lyanna, they died bringing us into this world. And my first babe...the witch...he
did not live.”

Missandei’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder, while Gilly rubs her leg. Sam also places a
comforting hand over hers, patting it. “Well now, I can understand your fears, but there's no
witches round here, are there? And even if there were, Jon wouldn't let em within a hundred miles
of you. And yer not your mother, or Lyanna. We’re all going to take the best of care of you. It's all
gonna be alright, Yer Grace.”

“I want to have such faith as yours, Sam. I do, but—”

Then Jon is in the room, the hopeful expression he walks in with growing quite fierce seeing her
red, puffy eyes leaking tears down her already wet cheeks. She can no more control the gasp that
leaves her at the sight of him, or the hand that reaches for him than the beat her own heart. She’d
done her best to push it aside, but when he'd left her earlier it was as if he’d torn her in half.

“What’d you do to her?” he barks at them, rushing around the bed and going to her side, fretful
hands hovering about her.

She soothes her own down his face. “Shhhh, my love. They did nothing wrong. It's just a silly
woman’s fears.”

He scoops her into his arms, holding her close as he rises then sets them on the bed, her in his lap.
She suddenly feels as if she can breathe again. He doesn't seem to care their friends are watching.
With a gentle hand he holds her head to his chest, his cheek pressed against her hair. “What did I
tell you, love?” he whispers. “You will both live. Our babe will be healthy and strong just like their
mother. If I must have faith, so must you.”

She tilts her face up into his warm neck, breathing in his scent letting it ground her. She squeezes
him tighter. “I know, I'm sorry. It's so hard to keep the fears at bay.”

“Aye, it is.” He kisses the top of her head, his hand running soothing circles over her back. “But
we'll be brave. Father said there was no shame in fear, what matters is how we face it. And the
only time a person can be brave is when they're afraid. So we'll be very, very brave.”

A small and pitiful noise leaves Dany as she burrows into him further. After a moment she answers
him with a strained whisper, “Yes, we will.”

Jon wraps his hand around Sam’s arm when he moves to leave. “I'm sorry, again. I have not been
the friend you deserve lately. Thank you for being here, for helping, despite that. All of you,” he
adds, eyeing Missandei and Gilly.

They all smile softly at him, Sam blushing and hanging his head. “It's alright. We know it's not us
you're cross with and considering what you're facin, you need all the help you can get,” he says.

“Aye, we do.”

“Sam,” Daenerys says, not bothering to move an inch from her peaceful place on Jon’s lap. “We’ll
be needing you to write up some more scrolls.”

His smile grows. “I’ve already started, Your Grace. Stayed up most the night. I redid the one
claiming him heir, started one for your marriage,” He looks to Jon. “and one to legitimize you. I
just need to know what you want your name to be and for you both to sign them.”

All eyes are suddenly on him and Jon squirms under the pressure. “I don't know,” he sighs,
burdened, his face twisted with distress. “Bran said my mother named me Aegon. I don't
understand it, but besides my life it's all she gave me. I feel like I should keep it somehow. Honor
her. But Lord Stark, father….Jon’s the only one I’ve ever known. I want to honor him too. But it's
simple and plain. Like me.”

Dany sits up, grasping his chin with a gentle hand, forcing his eyes to hers. “Do not sell yourself
short, Jon. Not anymore. You are trueborn. The blood in your veins runs rich with two of the
greatest houses Westeros has ever known. There is nothing wrong with your name. It's strong and
steadfast.”

He smiles, it’s small yet full of love as he leans his forehead against hers. For a moment they forget
they're not alone, soaking up the nearness of each other, eyes closed, breathing slow and deep.

Missandei clears her throat, in her discreet and delicate way. They reluctantly separate, but only a
bit.

Jon still only has eyes for her, her opinion meaning more to him than anyone else's. “You're Dany
to me, Daenerys to the rest of the world. How about I be Jon to you, my family and friends, and
maybe put the two of them together for Westeros? Jaegon? Jon with Aeg in the middle. Stark, with
a little Targaryen thrown in. What d’you think?”

When she smiles it's like watching a rose bloom. “I think you are very clever.”

“Yeah?” he whispers.
Instead of voicing her agreement she hums it, her lips pressed to his in a kiss.

“King Jaegon Targaryen,” Sam says, weighing the name on his lips. “I like it.”

“A name fit for a king, Your Grace,” Missandei agrees.

Gilly just smiles, nodding happily.

Jon grasps Sam’s arm again. “Will you marry us? Tonight?”

Sam sputters, eyes wide and mouth gaping like a fish. “I...I’d be honored, but are you sure you
wouldn't rather the maester do it? I don't know that it’d be official if I did it.”

“You’re official,” Jon says, looking to Dany. They smile at each other, both nodding before turning
their smiles on Sam again. “The king and queen say so. We’ll have a royal wedding after the war is
won if someone takes issue with it.”

“Well, alright, if you're sure. Should I do old gods, the new, both?” he asks, then looks to Dany.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, I’m not sure what gods you follow.”

“I’ve never followed any gods, though our family held to the faith of the Seven before the end. I'm
fine with whatever Jon is comfortable with,” she says. She gazes at her future husband, eyes bright
and brimming with love. “As long as I’m his wife at the end.”

Once again they forget themselves as Jon kisses her, as chastely has he can yet holding her to him
as if she's the most precious gift his hands have ever held. To him she is.

The others wait patiently, letting them have their moment, their hearts full to bursting seeing their
friends so happy. They know of no others who deserve it more.

Just a short minute later Jon lets her go, but keeps a hand to her cheek, his thumb smoothing over
her soft skin. “I was raised with the old gods like all the Starks before me, so if you're alright with
it, I’d love to marry you before the heart tree in the godswood.”

Dany takes his hand in hers and places a kiss to his palm, her eyes never leaving his. “I’d love that
too.”

---

After assuring Jon his soon to be wife and their child were both healthy then shoring up a few more
details for the wedding the group finally make their way to join the others. Planning their next
steps can no longer wait. Someone seems to have been too impatient to wait on them however.

Dany leans closer to Jon. “Who’s this?” she whispers, as the lady in question stops, letting the king
and queen come to her not far outside the great hall.

Another stubborn, hard headed northern to win over apparently.

Jon’s confused for a moment, having been concentrating on their troubles and not really focusing
on his surroundings. He could walk every inch of his home blindfolded and never misstep. He
looks up, falters, then grins and keeps walking. “That, is the Lady Mormont. And she is every bit
as fierce as you are, my love. Maybe more so.”

Dany’s raised eyebrow says she doesn't believe him. His grin only gets bigger.

They reach her quickly, Jon and Dany stopping, while Sam, Gilly, and Missandei skirt around
them.

“Lady Mormont, tis good to see you again,” Jon greets her pondering for the first time if the
woman she's named after was as strong as she is. Something tells him she was. The thought causes
a warmth to fill his heart.

The little lady nods, mouth pinched and brows dropped. Dany has to bite back a smirk wondering if
all Northerners brood like their King.

Jon turns to her, smiling pleasantly, keeping his manners up. “Your Grace, this is Lyanna
Mormont, Lady of Bear Island, and cousin to your Commander.”

Lyanna. Dany's eyes widen at that, she hopes not enough to be noticed. Somehow she stays focused
on their guest, not looking towards Jon as she wishes. Inclining her head, her smile open, she greets
her. “I'm pleased to meet you M’lady.”

Lyanna’s dark eyes narrow slightly, but she does manage a nod.

“We missed you yesterday,” Jon remarks, hoping to keep any tension from building between the
formidable ladies.

“As you know, winter is here, Your Grace,” Lyanna returns, her voice as hard as her stare. “Travel
isn't easy these days. I apologize.”

He shakes his head, smile slighter now. “No need for apologies, M’lady. Just glad you and your
men arrived safely.”

“I’ve heard you bent the knee.”

Neither Dany or Jon are surprised at her words or biting tone, but still must work to suppress their
reactions. Dany her ire and Jon his disappointment.

He drops his eyes for only a moment, then meets her glinting ones head on. “I did. With good
reason.”

Lyanna doesn't look like she would agree with his good reason no matter what it was. Her eyes cut
to Daenerys, her face still stony and resolute. “You saved his life, and lost one of your dragons.”

“I did,” Dany replies calmly, allowing one of the knots in Jon’s chest loosens a bit.

“Why? Why risk yourself and all your dragons for him?”

Dany returns the lady's stare, lacing her fingers together under her breast. Jon holds his breath.
“Because I know his worth. The North and all of Westeros would be lost without him.”

Both women's gazes move to Jon as he shifts nervously on his feet beside them, head downcast as
he fidgets with his gloves, ever humble. Neither seem to miss how the other softens at the sight he
makes.

Lyanna pins her dark eyes on Dany once more. “And what about you? Would you be lost without
him too?”

Jon and Dany exchange a look, weighing their options carefully. Dany decides to follow in Jon’s
honorable footsteps. She's tired of denying it, he deserves better.

“I would.”
“So it wasn't just him that fell for a pretty face?”

Lyanna’s condescending tone brings the King quickly to the surface. “M’lady, I respect you,” he
says, his voice low, careful, “but you forget yourself and whom you're speaking to.”

The young lady isn't cowed by her king in the least. “I haven't forgotten anything. Tell me all of
this,” she waves towards the dragons circling above them, then to Dany's armies lining the walls
and camped outside them, “isn't about love making you give up our home. Tell me you both are
back here, together, to defeat our enemies.”

“That's the only reason we're here,” Jon says, voice tight and just on the verge of fury. If it wasn't
for the war he has no doubt he would've never let them leave the haven of Dragonstone.

“You need to make the others believe it then,” Lyanna charges. “Their tempers are boiling in your
hall after seeing you ride her dragon. They think she's here to burn them all and you're going to
help.”

“Bloody fookin fools,” Jon curses, head thrown back and eyes closed.

It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg.

He doesn't wait for them to follow him, storming towards the great hall. His guards are too startled
by his sudden appearance, and his obvious ill humor, to get the door open for him. He flings them
open himself. They bounce off the stone walls with a resounding thud, shocking all those inside.

The rumbling discord he walks into dies a quick death.

“Are we here again, my lords?” he roars, eyes like black ice, cutting into each one as he looks
about the silent room. “Are you lettin the deeds of men long since dead rule your minds over
what's comin for us?”

Not even a murmur can be heard as Dany and their counsel she hurried to gather enter the room
taking their seats at the head table. The lords and their men all sit or stand as still as statues staring
wide eyed and wary of their King, none having ever been subjected to his wrath.

Their silence only seems to bring Jon's ire to an even sharper edge. He brings his fist down upon
the closest table with a resounding crack, horns of ale and plates clattering. “You call me traitor
behind my back! Whisper hate filled words into each other's ears about a queen who’s come to
save your miserable hides!”

Jon’s rage is barely contained as he prowls the room, face red, eyes no more than slits, fists flexing
on open air itching to beat the first idiot that opens their mouth. Instead he waits, a wolf enjoying
the sight of his prey trembling in fear. “I, don't have to be here. She, doesn't have to be here.
Neither of us had to risk our lives for any of you.” He spits his disgust at Glover's feet holding the
lord’s defiant stare for a heavy tension fraught moment before turning on the others. “But we did.
For the North, the South, for all of Westeros.” He pauses again, looking over them all, letting the
truth sink through thick simpleton skulls. “You don't want me as your king?” he suddenly shouts, a
hand flying into the air. Half the room jumps and jerks. “Choose another. I never wanted it
anyway. I'll take my family, she'll take her armies, and we’ll go. You can defeat the dead on your
own. You can find another king and queen to fight for you. You can find more armies, more
weapons, and more dragons. Whatever it is you think you want, decide it now. I’m tired of fightin
for fools too blinded by prejudice to see the true enemy standin at their gates.”

Most now cower in their seats, guilt weighing heavy on their shoulders. The rest sit in shock,
frightened children waiting to hear their punishment. No one says a word. Jon turns, shoulders
back and chin high, to face his Queen and their counsel. Dany’s eyes could not hold more pride as
she nods at him. Arya too, a ghost of a smile on her lips. Sansa sits frozen in stunned wonder while
Davos and Tyrion share looks of earnest respect. A rush of air leaves him. The fear he’d gone too
far vanishing.

“Marry her,” a small, but demanding voice calls from behind him.

Shock runs through his every nerve, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears and his pulse dancing
against the fabric at his throat. Dany’s eyes meet his, no more than thin rings of dusky violet filled
by large pools of black. He hopes no one else notices either of their reactions.

He turns, rounding slowly on Lyanna Mormont. “I beg your pardon, M’lady?”

“Marry her,” she says. “Join your houses. Ease their minds. The wife of a king is much less likely
to destroy her husband's lands and people than a lone foreign queen.”

“Forgive me, but how many times must I say it?” he asks with a dark scowl, sick to death of having
to tread these waters. “The queen is not here to destroy anythin but the Night King and his army.
She wants to save the North.”

“Aye, I know that as well as you. But this lot isn’t as smart as us.” Jon has to bite back a grin,
shaking his head at her boldness. “They need more than words. Marry her, yer Grace. Make her
home yours, and yours hers.”

Not wanting a soul to see the truth he sighs, head down and eyes closed, feigning disinterest and
irritation. Best to let them believe this is all their idea. “We don't have time for this. There's no time
to plan a royal wedding, no time for a feast. Fook, there's not enough food for a feast. We should be
making battle plans.”

Lyanna pushes on, undeterred. “They'll not stop till their fears are put to rest. Have a royal wedding
after the war. Any fool with eyes can see the two of you get on. I doubt either of you would see
marriage between you as a hardship.”

Jon sighs again, making a show by looking around the room, searching faces. “Is that what you all
want? Is that what you need to put to rest all this nonsense?” he asks them.

The response is immediate, loud cries filling the room, feet stomping, fists pounding.

“Aye! Wed her!”

“Make her heel!”

“Better a Stark on the throne than a Targaryen!”

“Wed! Get her with child then all the future King's of Westeros will have the blood of the North
running through their veins.”

Jon can feel Dany’s tightly contained fury without even looking. No doubt she sees these lords for
what they are; nothing but a flock of sheep driven mad by their fears, blindly following the loudest
voice to supposed safety.

Yet, those sheep are offering him exactly what he wants. What she wants. Do they accept or play
the fool for a bit longer?
He faces her. She’s playing the part well, wearing a mask of queenly petulance, but her eyes tell
him a different story. Don't give in too easily.

He rounds back on his lords. “Enough!” he shouts over their continued fracas. “I know I am your
king and she a queen. Our lives are not our own, but we will have some say in this. I’ll not marry
someone just to ease your fears. My word should be enough for you. But the queen and I, and our
counsel will discuss it further. Later. There are much more important matters to discuss.” He stops,
waiting for them to quiet. It takes them far too long. “The wall has fallen,” he roars knowing it will
shut them up. It does. “Death is comin for us much sooner than we thought and it rides upon an ice
dragon.”

Fear has swept through the room, their northern blood running colder than ever. Widened eyes
stare from pale faces, all of them frozen in terror.

Jon jumps on their rapt attention. “We have a week, probably less before the dead will march on
our walls. So make your choice now, weddin or not. Fight for the livin, or let the dead take you as
you whine like spoiled children.”

A quiet burdened voice calls to his back as he heads to his seat. “Forgive us, Your Grace.” Others
quickly join in, raising a wavering murmur of apologies and gratitude.

He stops them with a hand and a grim shake of his head. “We do not need your words. Your actions
will be proof enough. I want every abled bodied man, woman, and child who’s old enough either
digging trenches, making weapons and armor, or keeping those who are with food and water.
Those of your houses who are sick, too young or too old need to packed up and taken south, as far
as you can get them, as soon as you can.”

Daenerys stands, drawing everyone's attention. “My ships are docked in White Harbor. Send those
who cannot help there. My captains will get them to the safety of Dragonstone.”

“We’ll convene again tomorrow morning,” Jon tells them. Expecting them to jump to their feet, his
anger flames at seeing nothing but blank faces looking back at him. “Now, you fools!”

The hall clears within moments, all of them scurrying away like rodents.

He wilts into his chair when the door finally closes behind them, running weary hands over his
face as he lets out a ragged sigh. “Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king?”

Dany takes his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. “Those who wield power best are the
ones who never wanted it, though I’ve heard the head that wears the crown is often heavy.”

He looks over at her through his lashes a grin slowly forming on his full lips. “I'm not wearin a
crown.”

She eyes his head, smirking while she pats her hand atop her own. “Mmm, neither am I.”

Their counsel looks on in chagrin as the two fall into a fit of laughter, heads together and hands
clasped.

Tyrion pours himself a glass of wine, downing it in one go, then stares at their king and queen, his
disgust evident. “How lovely. They’ve both gone mad.”

“Let them be. Gods know they deserve it,” Davos grumbles at him.

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Tyrion reluctantly agrees.

Surprisingly, their moment is just that, a happy, but fleeting span of time that's over too soon. Grey
Worm enters the hall, with Jorah, Bronn, Jamie, Lady Brienne, Pod, the Hound, and two of
Daenerys bloodriders right behind him.

Arya stands and makes her way to the Hound. No one moves or speaks as they eye one another,
feet spread, hands behind their backs.

“Well, little wolf,” he growls, “if you're planning on finishing me off, get on with it.”

Arya smirks up at him. A shiver runs through Sansa. Her little sister wore the same smirk when
she slit Littlefinger’s throat.

“I marked you off my list when I left you that day,” Arya says, her voice as sweet and soft as fine
sugar. “Might as well leave you that way. You helped my sister, and my brother after all.”

Sandor snarls, rolling his eyes. “I wasn't much fookin help to either of them.” He looks up, first to
Sansa, then Jon, something like regret marring his face along with his scars. Both give him a small
smiles and nods.

Arya brings his attention back to her. “You’ll have to tell me how you made it.”

“If we survive that ice cunt and his fookin army, you can tell me the same.”

Her smirk growing into a genuine smile, Ayra nods, then turns to Jon letting him get on with it.

He rises, bracing his hands on the table, the sigh that escapes him leaving no doubt to the weight
upon his shoulders. “We all know what's coming. Any ideas you have, I’d be more than happy to
hear them.”

“The trenches are a good start on defending us,” Sansa gets out first. “I’ve sent orders for pitch and
oil to fill them. Anything to keep them burning, but digging them won't be easy, even with the
numbers we have. The ground is frozen.”

“The dragons and I can help with that,” Daenerys offers. “We’ll burn the ground first, melting the
snow and the ice underneath. I’ll get them started as soon as we're finished here.”

Jon’s eyes have been on her from the moment she opened her mouth. He swallows against the fear
wrapped tight around his throat. It doesn't matter that she flew safely this morning, no harm
brought to her or their child, the thought of her on Drogon terrifies him now. He knows he can't
stop her, but he may be able to cut the time she's in the air in half.

“I’ll help. I need all the practice I can get.”

Her smile is sly, she knows his game, but she nods anyway letting him play it. Together. That's the
only way this will work.

“Practice for what?” Arya asks.

Bracing for the fresh hell he knows is about to be unleashed upon them, he takes a deep breath and
lets it go, his eyes focused on the grain of the wood table under his hands. “Daenerys and I will
take her dragons to bring down their brother and the Night King.”

Before he's even finished speaking chairs are scraping against stone, fists pounding into wood, and
voices rising in outrage.
“NO!”

“You are both mad!”

“You can't be serious?!?”

“Absolutely not!”

“You're too important!”

Watching Jon’s eyes close, his head hanging from the onslaught, Dany stands, the calm amidst the
storm. Jon rises to his full height beside her and they wait for everyone to cease they're arguing.
The grave expressions of their king and queen thankfully bring it to an end, however reluctant.

“Do any of you have a better idea?” Dany asks, her voice hard and carrying throughout the hall. No
one answers, or even looks at her, every set of eyes dropping in defeat as reality truly sets in. “This
is not a decision we made lightly,” she says, softer now. “It wasn't a decision we wanted to make at
all. If there was another way, I assure you we would take it, but we all know there isn't. What we
need now is not your objections, but your help to ensure we’re successful.”

Jamie takes a step forward, appearing more concerned than either would have thought him capable
of. Whether it's for himself or them is yet to be seen. “Do you at least know how you're going to
kill him?”

Jon and Dany exchange a glance, one laden with uncertainty. Jon’s head drops again, fingers
tapping against the table. “We have some ideas, none of which are guaranteed to work. We won't
know until we try.”

“Well, what are they?” Arya barks.

“If we're lucky, two live dragons will be stronger than one dead one. It's very possible they'll be
able to overpower him,” he says.

“And if they're not?” Sansa accuses.

“We plan to take weapons with us, and build ones on the ground to lure him towards.”

“The weapon you used to shoot my son, Ser Bronn. Any chance you know how to build one?”
Dany asks.

“No, Yer Grace, I’m afraid not,” Bronn answers, shaking his head. “Not on my own at least.” He
turns to Jamie. “Think we could figure it out?”

Jamie rubs his face. “I don't know. I'm a fighter, not a builder, but maybe we can with some help
from any carpenters and smiths available.”

“If they do figure it out, what type of bolt would you use? Regular steel will have little effect on a
dead dragon I’m guessing,” Tyrion presses, clearly against the idea.

“You're right, it wouldn't,” Jon admits. “I’m not certain dragonglass will either. His scales may still
be tough enough to shatter it.”

“Then that leaves what?” the little lord snarks. “Valyrian steel? We may have four swords and a
daggers worth, but we can't spare them to make bolts.”

Throwing Tyrion a withering glare, Jon turns to Sam. “Davos told me you found something in one
of your books?”

“I did,” Sam answers, the only person smiling in the entire room. “We have all we need. Steel,
dragon fire, dragonglass, and the blood of Old Valyria.” He nods at Dany. “A few good smiths and
we'll have plenty of Valyrian steel.”

Jon scowls. “How much blood?”

“Oh. Only a few drops,” his friend assures him.

Jon gives him a brilliant smile. “It's good to be king with friends such as you.” Sam turns as red as a
beet, not able to keep the smile from his face.

“Let Daenerys know what you need from her, then get with Davos. He can help you with the
smiths. We need to start today. Speaking of smiths. Arya, Gendry's here.”

“What? Here? In Winterfell?” She's already heading towards the doors, throwing her questions at
him over her shoulder.

Gods be good, it's worse than he thought.

“I sent him to get a hot bath and some food in his belly. Check the kitchens. Bring him back as
soon as he's done,” he calls to her just as she slips out.

The distinct sound of leather slapping wood draws his eyes to Sansa. Her hand’s spread flat against
the table, mouth agape and eyes wide. “First you and now her?”

He shrugs. If his sister can find a happiness here at the end of the world, it won't be him that tries
to stand in her way. “He’s a good lad and we have more important things to worry about.”

They spend another hour arguing, strategizing, assigning tasks, and writing scrolls for dozen of
ravens, before finally separating to begin their chosen preparations. None leave the hall feeling
anymore hopeful than when they had walked in.
 Honey, pick a blossom
Chapter Summary

Our King and Queen tie the knot.

Chapter Notes

Hey peeps! Here's the fluff half of that fluff and smut I promised. The fluff got out of
hand, then the smut did and next thing I know I'm pushing 10k words for one chapter.
I decided it was best to cut it into two. Sorry NoOrdinaryLines! The smut half is
almost done though, I may even get it posted for you tomorrow.

The first real scene of this chapter came out of nowhere, I am not responsible! Lol. It's
what the characters wanted, so if it seems OOC you'll have to take it up with them. As
for the wedding, that's on me. I fluffed it quite a bit. Northern weddings are so dull. ;)

Enjoy and let me know what you think! <3

The people of the North learned dragons weren't just for death and destruction before the day was
done. As Drogon and Rhaegal rose into the air, the queen and king upon their great horned backs
most stood frozen in awe and not a small amount of fear. When the streams of scorching fire left
their gaping mouths they fled in terror. Until their morbid curiosity got the best of them. Peeking
through windows, from behind castle walls, and around shoulders they realized the dragons may
very well be their salvation, not their death.

The ring of fire surrounding them melted away the frigid cold, thawing their stiff extremities. Once
it had died down, the warm, wet mud they were left to dig did the same. The fierce Dothraki and
stoic Unsullied worked alongside them none uttering a single complaint. The trenches would be
dug in days instead of weeks.

At the end of the day the queen even had her big black beast heat water for baths to soak their sore
muscles in and wash away the layers of mud. A dozen forges were also lit with dragonfire.
Valyrian steel was to be made to kill the dead for good. Some whispered the queen even meant to
spill her own blood to help create the precious metal.

Everyone knew winter had come, but hope for spring began to bloom inside stubborn northern
hearts.

---

He looks up from his task, hearing the door of the gardens open then click closed again. He waits
for her to approach before greeting her. “Thank you for joining me. I know it's growing late.”

“Did you summon me here for a scolding?” she asks, nose slightly snarled.

Jon laughs and shakes his head as he seems to do often in her presence. “No, I did not.” Her snarl
disappears, relieved he supposes, her face once again a stoic facade. Turning back to what he was
doing, he cuts a stem then weaves it in amongst the others.

“I didn't know my king fancied flowers.”

He smiles, holding up the next bud, twirling it slowly between his fingers. It's sweet soft fragrance
fills his nose. “I didn't either til tonight.” He offers the bloom to her. “Do you have these on your
island?”

She takes it, smells it, then hands it right back. “We do.”

“I guess you know the story behind this too?” He points to the half made crown lying on the table.

She rolls her eyes a bit and crosses her arms over her chest. “I am named after her.”

He’s struck then, by how very young she still is. The child having peeked out from behind her
fierce lady mask. Thirteen, if he remembers right. His mother wasn't much older when she had
him. Dany was of the same age when she was sold to her horselord.

A sharp stab of pain in his thumb wakes him from his dark thoughts.

Damn thorns.

He sticks the offended digit into his mouth sucking on the small puncture wound, the metallic taste
of blood swirling on his tongue. He decides then and there, no daughter of his will ever marry so
young, or at all if she doesn't want to.

“Roses have thorns, you know?”

He smirks around his thumb, then pulls it out wiping it on his pant’s leg. “I know bears have
claws.”

She grins. “And wolves, teeth.”

Her humor fades as their dark eyes meet. Then she looks away, and Jon’s stomach falls seeing the
slight blush that paints her cheeks.

Seven bloody hells. Surely she doesn't think? No. Please no. Oh gods, could he be a bigger fool?
Of course that's what she thinks.

The playful–though definitely innocent on his part–banter they just had could easily have been
taken for flirting. Her actions today were probably a test and he didn't give into the request as far as
she knows. And now he's brought her here, they're alone in a lovely place, and he’s making a
crown of roses like the bloody love sick fool he is. If the poor girl is smitten with him she’d
naturally hope it was for her.

Sweat suddenly breaking out across his brow, he wipes at it with his sleeve, scrambling to think of
a way to fix this fuck up. He should've insisted Davos stay after he brought her. But never in a
hundred years would he have thought she would think of him that way. The age difference
alone...he would never. Unfortunately it's a common practice to wed girls to men.
How to fix it, how to fix it? Perhaps he should just play the fool, pretend he didn't notice. Probably
not the best route, but he doesn't have time to think of another.

He clears his throat and busies himself cutting off more thorns. “After your help this afternoon, I…
We, the queen and I, felt it right to take you into our confidence.”

“Is she hiding in the plants somewhere?”

This girl. Whoever manages to become worthy of her is sure to have a life full of fire and laughter.
He turns to her again, hoping, praying this doesn't hurt her as he fears it could. “She’s... getting
ready for our wedding. As am I,” he says gently, waving his hand at the roses.

Her thin eyebrows crease, her usual frown finding its way back to her mouth. She’s suddenly
become very interested in the potted plant sitting beside her. “A wise choice,” is all she says.

His feet shift noisily on the gravel underneath them. He hasn't been so uncomfortable since the day
he met Daenerys. But that turned out well, eventually. Hopefully this will too. “The decision had
already been made before today,” he admits, his voice still kind. “You were correct in saying it
wouldn't be a hardship for us.” He stops, not really wanting to say anymore, but there's nothing for
it. He's already gone too far, best get it all out. “We love each other.”

Lyanna huffs, still studying the plant. “I knew that already.”

“Neither of us meant for it to happen, but...it did. Our hearts made the choice for us.”

“Aye.”

He waits for her to say more, she only pins him with a look, one eyebrow lifted.

“We assumed the lords wouldn't approve,” he explains. “They probably wouldn't have without
your cunning mind.”

“Not without it being painted as their idea. They're a bunch of fools, you know that.”

“Aye, they are blinded by the past. But, Daenerys and I, we appreciate what you did for us. None
besides my family has ever stood by me save you. I won't forget it.” She perks up a bit under his
praise. The frown leaves her young face anyway. “Speaking of the past... There's something else.
Something I hope, believe I can trust you with, as a friend as well as a liege lady of the North.”

“Something besides a wedding had in secret?”

“Aye. Something much bigger than that.”

“I'm listening.”

Adding another rose to the crown Jon gives himself one more chance to back out, but his gut says
he shouldn't, so he doesn't. “What would you say if I told you Rhaegar Targaryen never kidnapped
Lyanna? That they loved each other instead.”

Her expression could only be described as incredulous. “There was a bloody war that says
otherwise.”

He reaches over and picks up the musty old tome that holds the truth of his legitimacy. Opening it
to the page Sam had marked for him he lays it on the table and points to the correct entry. Lyanna
gives him a skeptical glare, but begins to read. It only takes her a moment to finish, her face now a
mask of confusion.

“Just because he married her, doesn't mean they loved each other. Most marriages aren't for love.”

“True, but I doubt a High Septon would've annulled his first marriage, then remarried him to
Lyanna if she were kickin and screamin, claimin he’d stolen her away an raped her. An you know
she would've been.”

That brings her up short, she takes a moment to think on it, then shrugs. “Alright, say they were,
that it was all a lie. Why does it matter now? What does that change for us? A better claim to the
throne for your Queen?”

“Not for her, for me.”

If her hair wasn't pulled back from her face her eyebrows would've disappeared underneath it they
rise so high. “Forgive me, yer Grace, but I think you may be going mad.”

Jon laughs. Sometimes he feels exactly that. He’s certain she’ll know the feeling soon. “Rhaegar
didn't murder Lyanna. She died giving birth...to me.”

“No, you're Ned Stark's son,” she declares as adamantly as he once did.

He shakes his head. “A lie he told to keep me safe. Which he swore to his sister he’d do.”

“Ned Stark? A liar?”

“It was hard for me to believe it too, trust me. But Bran saw it all in his visions. Their weddin, my
mother layin in a blood soaked bed beggin her brother to keep me safe. If he’d come home with
Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, Lyanna's son, what d’you think Robert Baratheon woulda done?”

She doesn't seem to have a reply to that, instead, she closes the book that's almost as big as she is
and turns away from it. Her thumb goes to her mouth, brows drawn together tightly as she walks
off down the gravel path. Jon doesn't interrupt her or call her back. Knowing she needs time to
think he continues working on Dany's crown of roses.

Several minutes later he hears her small footfalls drawing closer again. They sound as tenacious as
her. She stops right where she started, her dark eyes blazing with their usual fierce determination.
“You can't tell them.”

“You believe me then?”

“I do. I doubt her beasts would let ya anywhere near em if you didn't have dragon blood. Let alone
ride them.”

“Thank you,” he breathes out, a tension he didn't know he’d been holding melting away from his
neck and shoulders. Her belief is almost as relieving as hearing Dany pledge to fight for them all
had been.

“You can't tell them,” she repeats, stern as ever.

“I know,” he sighs. “It's a festerin wound to my honor that I cannot. That's one of my biggest
reason for tellin you. I needed at least one of you to know. Probably makes me a selfish bastard
though. I shouldn’t have put this burden on you.”

“You're my king, it's my duty to hold your counsel.”

Jon can't help but stare at her. He’s still not quite used to having allies. Until Dany it was as if the
whole world was against him. Looking at the young Lady of Bear Island just now, and how much
she reminds him of Dany and Arya– two of his staunchest supporters–he wonders if it was the
women of Westeros he should’ve been pleading his case to all these years.

He gives her a smile. “The North would be a better place if every house had a lady such as you to
rule them.”

“Aye, it would,” she agrees with a smirk, then asks, “After the war, will you claim your right?
Take the throne from Cersei?”

He wipes his forehead of more sweat, not used to the warmth of the gardens, then adds another
rose to the crown. Two more should do it. “Whether my true birth comes out or not, we haven't
really decided. I know a book and some visions aren't proof enough for most. I don't really care
about being heir to that bloody throne. Knowin I’m not a bastard is enough. Knowing she's my
mother. Those bring me peace. Daenerys and I will rule together because she wants me by her side
and I can't imagine being anywhere else, but it wouldn't be about any crown or throne for me.”

“Well, whatever you decide, you have my support,” she declares.

“Thank you, truly. In the meantime, I’d be honored to have you stand in witness of our marriage.”
He could’ve posed it as a question, but hoped it wasn't necessary.

Lyanna smiles, a small one, but still a smile. “The honor is mine, Yer Grace.”

---

The castle sleeps save for a few guards and their closest companions. They move about like Ghost,
silent and as light as the soft snow that falls from the black sky above. All in preparation for a
secret wedding.

Jon left her in Missandei’s capable hands over an hour ago with a lingering, but urgent kiss that
made her head spin and knees weak. He’s stolen her breath at least a dozen times today. Whether it
was with his perfectly full lips against hers, their tongues hungry, or his deep, dark, depthless eyes
invading her soul with every glance, the message has been the same; he loves her beyond reason,
beyond any shadow of a doubt and he can't wait to be her husband.

Soon, my love. Soon.

Sansa came by not long after he left, bearing gifts. Missandei had just finished her hair, leaving
most of it down in soft waves the rest pulled back and knotted in a single braid just below the
crown of her head.

“You look beautiful, Your Grace,” Sansa tells her. “You always do but… I can't wait to see Jon's
face when he sees you.”

“Thank you, M’lady. He just best not make me cry, I’m barely hanging on as it is,” Dany laughs.

“You're about to become my sister, Sansa will do, your Grace.”

“Well then, you must call me Daenerys.”

Sansa’s eyes drop to her skirts as she smooths away nonexistent wrinkles, a blush coloring her
beautiful milky skin. “I’m not sure that would be proper.”

Dany steps closer, taking her hands in her own, imploring Sansa to meet her eyes. She does with a
pensive smile. “When it's just us, or amongst friends and family, I insist. I longed for a sister
growing up, I’m honored you would see me as such.”

“Well, now you have two of us, not that Arya is much of a sister,” Sansa snorts.

Dany, surprised by such an unladylike noise from the austere girl laughs freely. “She's wonderful
in her own way. I envy her sometimes. She refuses to hide who she is. Too often I must put on this
mask or that to appease bigoted, arrogant men. She just flat doesn't care. It's refreshing.”

Sansa’s eyebrows raise, her lips pinched. “Oh, she has masks too, but not the kind you’d ever want
to wear.” Before Dany can ask what she could possibly mean, Sansa picks up the package she had
brought in with her, holding it out to Dany. “I’ve made you something.”

Smiling, Dany takes it from her. “Thank you, Sansa, gifts weren't necessary. You're so sweet.” She
unwraps the linen gasping at the sight held within it. One of the most beautiful dresses she has ever
seen lies within a gorgeous white and silver cloak of fur and velvety soft suede.

“Sansa, they're exquisite. How did you ever?”

Her smile filled with pride, Sansa bites her lip, clasping her hands in front of her. “Sewing is my
escape. With fabric, thread, and needle in my hands the rest of the world falls away. I can stitch for
hours on end and never grow tired. I started on the cloak as soon as I received Jon's raven.
Something told me this night would not be far off. When you arrived and I saw the two of you
together there was no doubt.” The three ladies share a knowing smile, only Sansa blushes. “I asked
for Missandei's help then. She let me borrow some of your dresses so I would know your sizes. I'm
afraid I took two of them to help make the one, but I’ll gladly make you more.”

With tears in her eyes, Dany runs her hands over the fine stitches, beautiful fabric, and soft fur of
the dress. She recognizes pieces of the coat she wore beyond the Wall to save her love. It makes up
most of the sleeves, shoulders, and split top skirt. Shimmering velvet and the pale silk of one of her
Meereen dresses, now stitched through with glinting silver thread reminiscent of dragon scale and
snowflakes form the bodice and underskirt. The edges of it all lined in lush white fur to help keep
her warm.

“I'm most proud of the sigil,” Sansa says, gently separating the cloak from the dress and turning it
around.

Dany chokes back a sob seeing the Targaryen dragons embroidered across the back in the same
sparkling silver thread she used in the dress. She wraps Sansa in a fierce hug, full on crying now,
shocking the stoic redhead. “Thank you. No one has ever given me such a gift. I don't know how
I’ll ever repay you.”

Sansa hugs Dany back, her eyes squeezed tight against the sting of tears. “Just take care of Jon,”
she whispers, “and yourself. I'm fairly certain he can no longer live without you and our family
cannot live without him.”

Taking Sansa's hands in hers again, Dany does all she can to allay her fears. “I swear to you I will
do everything in my power to keep him safe, and myself. I also promise to love him with all my
heart until my dying day.”
"Thank you, that's all we could ever ask for.” With a squeeze to Dany’s fingers, Sansa retreats
quickly in a swish of skirts and cloak, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

“We don't have much time, your Grace. Let's get you changed,” Missandei says, her fingers already
at the laces of her dress.

---

Twenty minutes later she and Missandei slip out the door. Though the Unsullied still guard the
halls, Jon had the torches snuffed out to make their comings and goings less visible. It's black as
pitch.

Dany nearly shrieks when a warm wet nose comes out of the darkness to nuzzle her hand. Ghost.
Of course Jon left him to be their escort. No doubt he can see in the dark just fine. He leaves her
hand to rub his face against her stomach, small quiet whines filling the quiet.

She strokes the soft smooth fur between his ears, then scratches behind one. “Yes, you brilliant
beautiful boy, you knew all along didn't you? We’ll pay better attention from now on, I promise.
Let's go find our Jon, hmmm?”

Ghost leading the way they soon reach the entrance of the godswood. Tyrion awaits, in his crisp
black coat, breeches, and boots, the pin on his shoulder glinting in the dim touch light. He holds
what looks to be a small wreath in his hands.

His green eyes sparkle, as they stop in front of him, the first true smile Dany as seen grace his face
in too long pulling at his lips and cheeks. “My Queen, you are a vision. I am truly happy for you.”

She returns his smile. “Thank you, my friend. Tis good to see you smile again. Do you have
something for me?”

“A gift from the king to his bride. His Queen of love and beauty.” His expression grows tender as
he holds the gift up to the light.

Her breath catches, her heart skipping. It's a crown of blue winter roses. Lyanna, Rhaegar. Oh, her
sweet, Jon. Her fingers reach out, trembling as she caresses the soft petals, her eyes welling with
heavy tears.

“From a symbol that started a great war to what he hopes is one that will end a greater war,” Tyrion
says, passing on Jon’s message. “If you could bend down–”

“Allow me,” a deep voice comes from the shadows.

Dany gasps. “Ser Jorah. I was afraid you wouldn't come.”

He goes to her, taking her hand in his and lifting it to his lips placing a reverent kiss to her
knuckles. “I would see you happy, Khaleesi, and he makes you happier than I have ever known
you to be. You chose well. He is a good man.” His soft smile reaches his bright blue eyes and
Dany knows he meant every word. Her sweet, devoted old bear, always by her side.

Wiping away a few tears, she waits as he takes the roses from Tyrion then places them gently atop
her head. “A beautiful crown for a beautiful bride.”
“Thank you, my friend. I'm so glad you're here, it wouldn't have been right without you.”

“It's my honor,” he declares, bowing to her as he has so many times before.

Tyrion raises his hand for hers. “Shall we?”

---

Jon cannot make himself stand still. If he manages to stop his feet from shifting then his fingers
begin to fidget, his excitement determined to find an outlet. His sisters, Gilly, and Gendry eye him
from a few feet away, all of them smirking. Little Lyanna too, though at least she has the decency
to keep her eyes straight ahead. Sam is doing his own nervous dance behind him, adding to his
anxiousness. He’s only thrown one withering look his way. At least Bran, Greyworm, Varys, and
Ohono are all a picture of stoic resolve. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, bracing his feet
apart and clamping one hand over the other.

He’s a king for gods sake, time he acted like it.

Davos’ Fleabottom burr fills his left ear, “Nothin fooks you harder than love, does it?”

An amused huff escapes him as he looks over his shoulder at his Hand and friend, feeling relaxed
for the first time in hours. “I thought that was time.”

Davos grins, giving his shoulder a few firm pats. “Aye, perhaps it's both.”

Ghost comes padding up the path then, sending Jon’s heart into his throat and nearly swelling it
closed as it pounds away. She's almost here. Eyes searching through the trees he strains to see past
the torch light. He doesn't have to wait long, soon enough the group breaks through the shadows
and there she is.

His queen. His Dany.

Her beauty is the potent rush. She's a vision of silver and white from head to toe save for her violet
eyes, rosy cheeks and lips that glow within her pale loveliness, making the sight of her beyond
exquisite. And the roses crowning her head... Never has the sight of her affected him so. He is
nothing against it, as weak as a dying man’s last breath and he never wants to come back up for air.
He has to stop himself from going to her, wanting nothing more than to have her in his arms, those
soft pink lips pressed to his.

The torches around them add to her ethereal radiance, washing her in warm light and making the
snow glistens at her feet; white, blue, red, and orange. It’s as if she's walking through sparkling
flames. His queen of ice and fire.

“Who comes before the gods this night?” Sam’s voice calls out, breaking him from his love filled
haze.

“Daenerys, of the House Targaryen, comes to be wed,” Tyrion replies. “Trueborn and noble, she
begs the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Thank those gods his voice doesn't fail him. “Jon, of the Houses Stark and Targaryen,” He looks
down, swallowing deeply, then lifts his eyes to hers, “trueborn and noble.” Her smile is brilliant
and full of pride. It fills his chest full to bursting. “Who gives her?”

“Tyrion, of the House Lannister. Hand of the Queen.”

They’re close now, only a few steps away. His heart beats like a war drum against his ribs, his
blood a surging river in his ears.

“Milady, do you take this man?” Sam asks.

Dany steps forward then, reaching, hands out, palms up, eyes only for him. “I take this man,” she
whispers, her voice breathless and breaking from between her smiling lips.

He takes her hands in his, small and warm, fighting the urge to pull her into his aching arms.

Not much longer.

Sam pulls a ribbon neither of them had noticed from the crook of his arm. It's silk, dyed black at
one end, fading to grey at the other. Their sigils beautifully embroidered at each respective end.
Sansa. He wraps it around their hands, once, then again, and again.

“In the sight of the old gods I hereby seal your two souls together, binding them as one for eternity
in a union of love and trust. Repeat your vows.”

Their hands clasped tight, hearts fluttering like birds in a cage, they make their promise and pledge
together as one. “All I have, all that I am, my heart, my body, my soul belong to no other but you. I
am yours and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days.”

Sam then stands aside and waves them towards the weirwood tree.

Jon helps Dany over the gnarled roots sticking up through the snow finding them a smooth enough
spot to kneel. Neither release their grip on the other as they lower to the ground then reach out
pressing their hands against the smooth, bone white bark of the tree.

Both startle slightly as a pulsating energy of some sort begins to hum through them. Jon accepts it
first, always knowing from a young age there was much more to the tree than just its strange
coloring and crying carved face. The air is different beneath the blood red boughs, quieter, thick
and warm. Sometimes unsettling, others comforting. But whatever it is, it's stronger with her here
beside him. If there was any doubt left in him they were meant to be, it's gone now.

Dany’s eyes are wide as they stare back into his, but it only takes a squeeze to her fingers and a
reassuring smile and she too trusts this new sign of their union.

Closing their eyes, they do not feel the cold, wet snow beneath their knees. Heads bowed,
foreheads touching, all they know is each other and the thrum of peace and love flowing through
and around them. It's so palpable surely their family and friends must see and feel it too.

Sam rests a hand on each of their shoulders and after a small tremor he too seems certain of what's
happening, his voice strong and clear as it flows through the godswood. “May the gods bless your
union, help you honor and respect one another, and seek to never break that honor. May they
remind you to share each other’s pain and seek to ease it. May they grace you with open hearts in
sorrow as well as joy allowing absolute trust between you. May they favor the fire within your
blood so you may share it with one another in even the darkest of times. May they keep you
together from this day until the end of your days. And may this marriage not only be a blessing to
you both, but to your kingdoms as well.”
Sam taps their shoulders, but they stay there a few moments longer, reluctant to let go. Knowing
one more thing must happen before they're joined forever, they finally rise to their feet.

Both can see Sam’s smiling face beside them, their own smiles growing as they wait for the last
words.

“You may seal your pledge with a kiss.”

They do and the world falls away as their lips meet, his warm hand holding her face, hers finding
the curls at the nape of his neck. A fire burns bright within them, bursting from their hearts and
flooding through their veins, their souls seeming to die then be reborn again as snow falls softly
around them.
 There's no better love that has ever loved me
Chapter Summary

The smut that was promised, with a fair dose of fluff ;)

Chapter Notes

Alright peeps, here's the smutty wedding night. I agonized over this chapter. You
wouldn't believe the number of times I took it apart and rewrote it. I wanted #boatsex
all over again, but even better. Maybe I managed, probably not. Hopefully it'll make at
least one of you swoon. If it's awful, please don't tell me, lol.

I don't have anything done for the next chapter as of yet, not even sure what comes
next, so don't be looking for an update for at least a couple of weeks. Sorry, I'm a
pantser, outlines just don't work for me. Fingers crossed these guys keep talking to my
muse.

Enjoy and please let me know what you think. Comments keep us writers writing!

PS: Be sure to remember to vote in the Jonerys fanfic awards. You've got until the end
of the month to vote :)

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeT08SkDKcO1Td2CPL9hLRHZzX61jZNus1ZlhonC5VUh

PSS: If anyone knows how I can get my damn italics to show up I would be so
appreciative!

They were able to get away after quite a few hugs and whispered words of congratulations.
Everyone then slipped into the night, finding their way back to their own rooms, the brief time of
levity over for them. But not for their king and queen.

Whether from nerves or stealth, the pair haven't spoken a word since leaving the godswood, much
like the night they left the crypts, the truth bare between them. Jon carries her, not wanting her
anywhere else. Dany is more than content to let him have his way, her face nuzzled into his warm
fragrant neck, their troubles banished by his strong arms holding her close.

It only takes a few minutes and they're tucked warm and safe behind the closed door of their
bedroom, Ghost standing guard on the other side.

They’ve done this before, many times. It shouldn't feel new or half as exciting, but it does thanks to
the strange energy still thrumming through them from the heart tree, and more besides.

For Jon, the number of times he's studied her still not believing she's real are countless. Wondering
how she could love him, thinking surely she must be a dream. Or maybe that he never came back
from the dead and she's his own personal goddess sent to give him ease in the space after death.
And now they're here, a husband and wife on the cusp of their wedding night.

He gently places her on her feet in front of him and stares in wonder for the longest time. His
fingers running lightly over her silver hair as his eyes follow the path they take, then to her face,
moving ever so slowly and softly across the milky skin of her cheek.

Having her standing before him in her lovely dress appearing like something far beyond his
imagination has stolen his words. She's more than a dream. She's everything. And she's real, more
real than anyone ever has been. And she's his. Her fire and fury can certainly burn, but to him
she’ll always be the warm peaceful sleep that overtakes him after surviving a battle. The balm to
his battered heart, the other half of his soul.

Like a moth to a flame he’s drawn to her and always will be.

“I'm the luckiest bastard alive,” he says, his voice sounding rough and pained to her ears.

Smiling despite herself, she snarls at him, eyes squinting and narrow. “You were ordered never to
say that word again, remember?”

“Because my wife is the most beautiful woman there's ever been,” he finishes, ignoring her
quarreling.

With the way he is staring at her one would think he had never laid eyes on her before. It reminds
Dany of the first time he saw her at Dragonstone, or their visit to the cave, the sight of her seeming
to strike him deaf and dumb. It was rather humorous then, now the awe, wonder, and intense love
flowing from his eyes is enough to steal her breath. Seeing him stare at her this way, Dany feels
more beautiful than she ever has.

“My wife. You’re my wife,” he whispers, his watery eyes locked on hers.

“I am,” she whispers back, smiling up at him running her own fingers down his cheek and along
his strong jaw, the tickle of his beard delightful. “Just as you are my husband.”

His smile at hearing that is more precious than she’s ever seen it. The sight making her heart
threaten to burst.

He cups her face gently in his hands, bringing her forehead to his. “I thought I had an idea what
this would mean to me before, but now? Now I…I cannot even find the words to describe what I
feel. I love you just isn't enough.”

He’s so blindingly honest. There's not an ounce of guile to be found within him. Not in his words,
choices, or actions. Even his looks and touches only hold unadorned candor.

The reserved, stoic king that just about drove her mad is still there, but now it's him that hides
more often than not, while the dark, needy, wild man that was hidden underneath, the one she
adores, gifts her with his presence.

Dany takes one of his hands in hers and lays it over her heart, shaking her head and giving him a
sweet smile. “No, but I love you too. And you do not need words, my love. I can feel it here in my
heart and see it in your eyes.”

“Aye.”

The longer he considers her, the tighter her insides become. He is a force untamable, invading her
every pore with his entire being. Her blood rises like the tides, pulled by his every move. He draws
her out of herself so effortlessly. Undoing her with those soul searing, depthless eyes. It hurts to
look at him, but it would hurt even more to look away.

But as his fathomless black pools measure her she suddenly fears she may come up short. Not in
any physical way, but… He’s never questioned her about the horrible things she's done as a queen.
Perhaps he didn't want to know. What will happen when he's brought face to face with that side of
her?

A heavy frown forms on his brow as his hands come up to cup hers again. “Hey, what's this?
What's wrong?”

She dips her head, hiding from him, watching her fingers trace over the lines of his doublet. “I’m
yours now, forever. What happens when you finally see me for what I really am?”

He gently lifts her head, a rough thumb stroking along her cheekbone. “I already see you for what
you are.”

“No, Jon. You’ve never seen me burn men alive. You’ve never truly seen the dragon I can be.”

He lets go of her only to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close. His other hand brushes
a long strand of hair over her shoulder, his fingers then running through it. “Maybe not, but
you’ve never seen that side of me either. You have your dragons to end lives for you, I take them
with my own hands.”

“I know. I don’t care.”

Her chin in his grasp, his midnight orbs become impossibly darker, frustration and adoration
burning in equal parts as they peer at her. “And you think I should feel any different about you? If
I had wanted, I could've had my pick of the Northern lord’s daughters,” he declares, words quick
and harsh. She scowls after them, earning a cheeky grin. He enjoys her jealousy. He eases it
quickly though. “I never gave them a second thought, not even a first. I’ve never wanted a simperin
lady, up in her tower brushin her hair all day and faintin at the first sight a blood. I wanted a
warrior princess.” His hand returns to her face, palming her cheek tenderly. “Who I got is even
better than that. I have a queen for a wife. A warrior, a fighter, a conqueror. One with a good
heart, full of love for her people and her husband. For our child.”

Just like that her worries are wiped away and she feels like silly girl. “And that is why I love you,
Jon Snow,” she whispers, leaning into his touch, resting against his palm. “You love me as I am,
for all that I am.”

“I do,” he answers, resting his forehead against hers.

His heart burns within his chest, seeming to tremble and swell. Whatever it is, this feeling, it flows
into his every nerve and vein lighting him on fire. She does this to him, Daenerys, Dany. His wife.
She lights an inferno inside him making him brave and bold, making him feel invincible.

He runs a finger along the neckline of her dress. “This is gorgeous on you and I’ll never forget you
wearin it, but I want it off you. Now,” he orders, voice rough and strained with need.

Leaning close, his warm breath flows over her as he marks a path along her jaw and up to her ear
with his nose. Dany shivers, his beard leaving delicious, tantalizing scratches over her sensitive
skin, his lips and tongue, warm, soft kisses.

Before he can get too carried away she lifts the crown of roses from her head, not wanting them to
become victims of their passion. When she gazes at him the fire in his eyes has banked to
smoldering embers. They warm her from head to toe.

“Thank you for my gift. It’s so lovely. I wish they could stay this way forever,” she whispers,
fingering the delicate petals. Their color reminds her of moonlight glowing on snow covered
ground. “Did you have Sansa make it?”

“I made it.”

“You did?”

A shy grin pulling at the corner of his full mouth, he holds up his thumb showing her the damage;
an angry red puncture wound.

Heart threatening to crack apart, she smiles, first kissing his injured thumb, then reaching up and
tracing the handsome scar cut into his temple. He’s yet to tell her how that one came to be. “Your
precious heart will be the death of me one day, Jon Snow.”

“By order of the King–not until you're old and grey.”

Rising up on her toes she places a soft kiss to his cheek. “I will do my very best to obey, your
Grace.” She walks to the table beside their bed, laying down the winter roses. He’s yet to move
from his spot since setting her on her feet though he’s tracked her every step, so she goes back to
him, turning around and lifting her hair out of the way.

Jon’s fingers make deft work of the ribbons running up her back and soon she's gloriously naked
before him. Not wanting to be alone in that state, Dany helps him shed his own clothes, their
fingers fumbling and eager at buckles and laces.

Then they're standing bare as their name days, drinking each other in as if it's the first time. He
needn't utter a word, his face tells her everything she should know.

He’s grinning, more of a half-smirk really. It’s wolf like, sharp at the edges, his pearly white teeth
shining from between his curved lips. His eyes are hungry, watching her like prey. Her pulse
quickens. She’ll gladly be his prey in any way he wants her. Her blood grows fiery, burning with
wicked, delicious thoughts. She wouldn’t be surprised if he smelled smoke.

She wants to be devoured and devour him in return. To feel him under her hands, his skin against
her own. To feel his hands on her while his hard, thick length is buried deep inside her.

The yearning hollows her like a dreadful hunger, in her bones, her veins, her blood. It aches, the
pressure building low and deep, spreading out and down between her legs, almost painfully. She
never wants it to stop.

“Look at ya.”

Startled, she glances down at herself, running her hands over her body, attempting to discern what
he meant. “What? Is something wrong?”

Jon shakes his head. “I shoulda known. You're different.”

He steps closer, his calloused, but gentle hands cupping her breasts, weighing them in his palms.
“They're bigger already, and the color.” A thumb ghosts over one nipple. “They’re darker, pinker
than they were. And here,” He moves to her hips, rubbing down, then up, “just a touch wider.” He
drops to his knees, sitting back on his heels, his hands now spreading over her stomach. “Gods,
Dany,” he whispers, breathless. He takes her hand placing it on her stomach and covering it with
his own, running both side to side. “Do you feel it? That's our babe.”

She does, just the faintest of knots, small and firm under her palm. She can't speak, she can barely
look at him. The moment so tender and sweet, it's enough to rend her heart in two.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the small swell where their babe rests, then leans his
forehead against her. “Hello, my little one. I'm your da.”

Tears burning her eyes, Dany sucks her lips between her teeth, biting hard, keep her sob contained.
And even though his hands are holding her up, her own wrap around his head, fingers buried in his
hair, to keep her steady.

“Can you hear me in there?” he whispers. “I hope so. Your mum and I are so happy you're coming
to be with us. I can't wait see you. We've not even known you were there a full day yet, but we
already love ya. I promise when you get here things’ll be better. You're gonna grow up in the
spring where there's sunshine and blue skies above ya and green grass between your little toes. Me
and mum will give you brothers and sisters to play with and maybe you'll even have a dragon to
ride or a wolf to run with you. Maybe both. Would you like that?”

Dany breaks then, her sobs no longer willing to be held back.

Jon’s on his feet in an instant, hands at her face, smoothing away her tears. “No, love. Please
don't cry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—

She kisses him then, calling a halt to the suffering of her heart. Banishing the pain and fears,
refusing to let them ruin this night for either of them. Her tongue sweeps between his teeth to dance
with his, ragged breaths filling the spaces between their lips. Jon takes everything she’s giving and
returns it two-fold, suddenly as unhinged as she is, until they're both gasping for air.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I'm fine. Please, Jon. Just love me.”

“Aye, I promise.”

He skims his hands down her back to her ass, gripping it firmly and picking her up. Dany continues
her assault, her plump lips and scalding tongue teasing his neck and collarbone, while she presses
her greedy center over his rock hard cock, squirming against his grip, her legs locked around his
waist.

Groaning, the sensations approaching painful, Jon moves them to the bed and lays her down,
prying himself loose to avoid taking her then and there. He means for tonight to last as long as
possible. Standing over her, he gazes at her gorgeous body, from the top of her silver head to her
tiny feet and only has one thought.

Mine.

Before he can act on it, or feel an ounce of guilt, Dany grabs his arm and pulls him down over her,
fed up with his stalling. Their lips and bodies crash together and she kisses him like some starving
animal. Like she’ll die if she doesn't. Like his mouth can keep her living and breathing forever.

He knows he can’t, but for tonight he can. Giving her all the passion he possesses, hoping it will
satisfy her.

She does the same, with her every touch, moan, and heartbeat. He can feel it through her skin
pounding into his like thunderous waves crashing against a cliff, determined to keep them going,
never ending as the tides.

“I need you Jon. Now,” she gasps, his teeth nipping at her neck, hands everywhere at once.

“Not yet,” he breathes, just as needy, but somehow able to restrain himself.

She seethes, her grip tightening in his hair. “You’ve done nothing but tempt me all day. Enough.”

His eyes sparkle as he pulls free from her grasp, undeterred by her fierce demand. Enblazened by it
instead he kisses a trail down her chest, then further, hovering just above a nipple. “Let me make it
up to you,” he whispers, his warm breath blowing over the stiff peak.

Seeing the promise in his gaze, Dany whimpers in anticipation. He’s never left her anything but
thoroughly sated and her nipples are red and hot and throbbing the way she imagines scalded flesh
must feel. Pain will mix with pleasure and she has no doubt it will be worth it.

He bites, so gently, then drags his teeth up and off the tender bud, sending a sharp but luscious
tingle through her before moving over and doing the same to the other.

Humming with satisfaction, Dany runs her hands up his arms and over the warm, pale skin of his
shoulders and into his silky curls. “I might let you. But you’re going to have to be more convincing
than that,” she provokes him.

He winks, giving a devious grin. “I think I can manage.”

He’s so beautiful her heart flips and a flurry of butterflies dance in her stomach. It happens all the
time. He’ll tilt his head a certain way, or he’ll smile just so, his eyes shiny black pools filled with
his heart and crinkled at the corners. It’s as if the ground under her disappears. She's always
tumbling head over heels around him and doesn’t think he’ll ever stop having that effect on her.
She doesn't want him to.

She caresses his face with her fingers, a stupid smile plastered across her own. His eyes soften in
response. Dany doesn’t have to say anything. He knows. He always knows. There’s no hope of
hiding it, and more importantly, no reason to.

“I love you too,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss her. Then his hands grasp a breast in each and his
searing tongue is circling and licking one nipple while his expert fingers roll and pinch the other.

Her hips rise up against his hard, rippled stomach, moans soon joining the crackling of the fire.

He wraps his mouth around one and sucks greedily for several beats before pinching it tight
between his lips and pulling away, releasing it with a slight pop. “I may not let you out of this
room for days,” he groans, going right back to work licking and sucking, pinching and twisting.

She's too lost in the sensations he's creating to respond, very nearly bringing herself to climax
grinding against him. But he suddenly sits back, fingers raking up her thighs. Dany whines like a
petulant child making him laugh. She can see his straining cock desperate for attention, the plump,
thick head already glistening, but before she can reach for it to even things out between them he
drops to the floor and manhandles her until her ass is at the side of the bed.

Any protest she may have had disappears as he spreads her thighs and pushes her knees back,
holding them hostage in his strong grip. Her heart quickens as his sweet face lowers between her
legs, his expression filled with craving as he gazes at her flooded, swollen core.
She know what’s coming.

Complete and utter intoxication.

Jon begins placing feather light kisses over her thighs, his full lips, heated tongue, and coarse
beard divine punishment as they work closer and closer to her starving center, but never close
enough. Then his hands are kneading her breasts, fingers rolling her nipples between them, pulling
and tugging. They're so sensitive the barest of touches set her ablaze.

He teases her for what seems like forever, her hips rocking up and down, all but franic for more
than the tiny kisses he’s giving. His warm breath heats her already burning skin. Every inch of her
is tingling. She knows what he’s waiting on, so she gives in and begs.

“Jon, please.”

He answers her request, his hot tongue sliding through her folds in one, long, slow sweep. The furs
are fisted tight in her hands, her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to keep a cry from escaping.

His thumb immediately pulls it free. “None of that,” he demands, his voice leaving a rough
burning trail through her like rich, red wine. “No one's around. I want to hear you.”

She doesn't have a chance to speak. His tongue steals her breath as he drags it up the right side of
her flushed core, then circles her bundle of nerves with just the tip. He moves to the left, repeating
the same, then up the middle again, pulling her swollen nub into his mouth as soon as he reaches
it, sucking gently, before letting go to flick it a few times.

Over and over–slowly, so slowly–drag, circle, suck, flick. All the while her nipples never lose the
joy of his fingers. It's agonizing, exquisite torment and she never wants it to end.

Jon savors her. Her essence sweeter than any wine that's ever crossed his tongue. He could drink
from her for hours, but the divine taste of her makes his cock ache to be buried within her slippery
heat. It twitches and throbs pressed against the furs of the bed. It's a near thing keeping his hands
busy. He wants to wrap one around it and work himself till he spills all over her pale skin. One
night soon, but not tonight.

When her walls begin to clench and quiver, he stops, blowing cool air over her heated skin and
releases her tender nipples. He means to torture his comely bride into a frenzy.

Dany whines and squirms in protest, her sweat sheened body craving more. She won’t ask though,
he knows. Not yet. She’s not in any hurry to rush him, knowing he loves it as much as she does.
Maybe more. He also knows he won’t be stopping until she begs him too.

He slides his hands up the back of her wriggling thighs and grasps her around the knees,
spreading her wider. “Be still.”

“You know I can’t help...fuck!”

His tongue is sultry, wet velvet being brushed across her fevered flesh. So lightly she barely feels it,
yet it sends shocks of ecstasy through her with each pass. Her legs tremble and hips jerk, but
constant and unceasing, Jon doesn’t waver until she’s crying for relief.

“Oh gods! Please, Jon. I can’t!”

He stops, his fingers taking over, running through her slick juices. Pressing against her aching
lips. “So wet for me,” he growls, “So gorgeous.”
She's mewling now, her control long gone.

“Are you ready to cum, wife?”

“Gods, yes. Please, Jon!”

“Pinch your nipples for me. Don’t you dare stop til you’re cummin.”

She whimpers, reaching up and doing as he asked. The second she tugs against them he slides two
fingers inside her eager, soaked core and seals his mouth around her swollen bud working both
slowly.

“Yes, Jon. More, more.”

He does as she bids, gradually building up speed, the delicious ache within her getting stronger
and stronger. Dany doesn’t recognize the noises coming from her. Then he’s curling his fingers,
pulling hard and fast against the spot inside her only he seems to know, his tongue exquisite agony
against her clit.

She shatters, exploding into thousands of luscious splinters, wave after wave of bliss engulfing her.

Then he’s over her and seconds later inside her, buried to the hilt. Dany screams out, loving it
when he first enters her, filling, stretching her so completely. And that deep satisfying groan that
always leaves him is pure ravenous want. But this time Jon stops, pinning her to the bed.

His every muscle shakes as he attempts to stay still and let her adjust. Her tight walls quivering as
they clasp his cock, already trying to milk him dry. She’s luscious as velvet, so hot and so fucking
wet wrapped around him. He's only hanging onto his control by a thread.

“Dany? Did I hurt you? Either of you?” he gasps, barely recognizing his own voice it’s so manic
with lust.

“Gods, Jon, no. Please don’t stop. Fuck me,” she pants, writhing under his pressing restraint,
nails clawing at his back.

“How d’you know?”

The worry in his voice is a dash of cold water to her lust. She stills, going soft beneath him. He
loves her so, and their babe, he only wants them protected even of it's from him. She holds him
close, running her hands over his head and a foot over the crisp hair covering his leg. “It feels too
good to have hurt me,” she assures him, kissing his temple. “and I had Gilly make some inquiries
for us.”

His head pops up. “What?”

She fingers a curl away from his face. “I sent her to the midwife in Wintertown. Adara, I believe
her name is. She told her sex was perfectly safe, good even, as long as there was no bleeding.”

“You promise? I couldn't take it if I hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt us, my love. If I even think for a moment it will, I'll tell you. I promise.”

Sliding her hand around his shoulder, she pulls him closer. Instead of going for his mouth as he
expects she grabs his hand, raising it towards her lips then slowly sucks the two fingers he just had
inside her into her mouth. Jon’s eyes roll back in his head as she licks them clean, sliding her
tongue up, then around, taking in her salty juices still clinging to his skin.

He groans and shudders, his hips forcing his cock deeper. “Fook, woman. Are you tryin to kill
me?”

“Only a little,” she whispers against his lips, then sucks his bottom one between her own.

His mouth attacks hers in a fervent kiss and they both lose their senses until they have to have air.
He braces himself on his hands above her, his hips continuing their slow, deep rhythm, while he
groans with each thrust.

She's learned his body and wants so well she knows with just a few squeezes and the right tilt of
her hips she could bring him to release, but she doesn’t. Instead, she revels in his pleasure and her
own, watching his gorgeous body work above her, thick muscles bunching and sliding beneath
pale skin, the tendons of his beautiful neck cording and stretching, while his strokes stay smooth
and fluid, allowing them to feel every wonderful inch of each other.

Unable to stay passive she kisses across his chest, lightly biting and licking at his nipples while
grabbing a handful of his flawless ass.

His pretty face contorts with lust, a predatory growl escaping his throat as he tilts his head back
and thrusts forward, his sexy mouth parted as he pants, “Again.”

He has a thing about her playing with them and nothing brings him to the edge or pushes him over
as quickly. She delights in the control it gives her. He keeps such a tight rein upon himself in all
things, it's addicting to force his surrender. Most of the time.

“No,” she denies, choking on a sudden sob. “I don't want it to be over.”

His eyes lock with hers, pupils wide and full of so many emotions she can't keep up with them, but
she sees the recognition, knows he understood her words meant more than they said. He covers
her, wraps her tightly to him with his entire body and whispers in her ear,
“No one will ever pry me away from you, not even the seven hells and all their demons.”

Just like that she’s ready to fall apart again, his heart breaking her will. Jon's here with her, loving
her and it's heaven despite the horrors the morning will bring nipping at their heels.

He drives forward making her gasp and her eyes roll back in her head from the intensity. Her
thighs grip his sides tighter, fingers biting into his arms as he slams into her again and again, his
angle perfect, grinding on her clit with each exquisite thrust of his hips. Dany feels him swelling,
hardening even more. It pulls her closer to the peak she's struggling not to tumble over.

"Open your eyes, Dany. Look at me."

The tremor in his voice pulls at her heart, her eyes flying open with worry. His breath is rushing
out in gusts from between his plump, bruised lips, cheeks flushed, eyes red around flaming black. "I
need to see, I need to…" he pants, never slowing his pace.

"I'm here, right here," she gasps, fighting not to let go before he does. "I love you, Jon, I love you."

His eyes squeezing shut, a single tear sliding down his cheek. It triggers her own to quickly swell
and spill over. She holds him, hands grasping, as his back arches and his hips curl tighter and
deeper into hers. He's pushing her further, begging her with his body to fall. She holds on just a
little longer, threading her fingers through his thick locks, pulling lightly, hoping to open his eyes.
She wants to see him too. It works and she's gifted with his precious heart spilling all its love for
her from his wonderful eyes.

His thrusts speed up, becoming deeper and more insistent, erratic. Dany pursues them with fervor,
tilting her hips until he’s bottoming out against her womb, squeezing him, letting her walls
massage him in time with his strokes. His grip tightens in her hair, he takes a sharp breath. "I love
you.” Then he's gone–gone beyond where she can reach him, but still she follows, diving into the
glorious abyss after him, chasing her own pleasure.

They come back to themselves sometime later, still breathing heavily and both damp with sweat. He
places gentle kisses over her cheeks while his fingers brush her hair away from her face. She finds
his lips with her own, kissing them softly. They make a silent pact to keep the fear away a little
longer, to rest in each other all they can, while they can.

Before sleep can claim them he rolls off the bed, landing on his feet. Picking her up before she has
time to protest too much, he heads for the door connected to their solar.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“I got you all dirty, time to clean you up.”

“What?”

Jon stays quiet, knowing she'll figure it out.

Sure enough she does as soon as she sees the copper tub sitting before the fire. “Was that here
before?”

“Yeah. I meant for us to have a soak when got here. Figured you'd be cold, but I got a bit ahead of
myself,” he admits with a sly grin.

“Mmmm, you managed to warm me up quite nicely all by yourself,” she coos as he sets her on her
feet, then gathers her hair in his hands.

Dany stills, enjoying the feel of his fingers as they braid the long strands together. Cherishing it for
the sweet moment it is. “It's not as well done as Missandei woulda done it, but it should do for
now,” he murmurs, pinning the long braid at the crown of her head, then kissing her shoulder.

She places a hand to his cheek then kisses the other. “Thank you.”

He smiles sweetly. “Check the water, I’ve got some over there if it's not hot enough for you,” he
says pointing to the large pot hanging just above the fire.

She trails her fingers through water. “A bit more please,” she requests, then steps back when he
carefully empties the steaming pot into the tub.

Climbing in, she lets out a satisfying moan as the hot water envelopes her. Jon does the same,
sliding in behind her then pulling her back against his chest.

Dany stretches out, loving the feel of him hard and sturdy behind her. She runs her hands down his
thighs while he settles his over her stomach. “This is wonderful, husband. We should do this more
often.”

“We should, wife,” he hums, contented. “I feel like a bee drownin in honey. I’ve never been
happier. The world is coming down around us, we could be dead in a few days, but these last few
months, today, tonight…” He presses his cheek to the side of her head, placing a kiss to her temple.
“I’ve never known happiness like this. Everythin I’ve suffered has all been worth it, because I’ve
had you to love in my last days.”

“These are not our last days.”

His hands cover hers, prying them loose from his legs. He laces their fingers together before
wrapping her in his arms. “You know what I mean.”

She relents, sinking into his embrace with a sigh. “I do.”

They sit silent, just holding one another, then Jon reaches for the chunk of soap and scrap of linen.
He bathes her, slowly, reverently. She reciprocates, cleaning every inch of his muscled form with
loving hands. Peace finds them for a time, their bodies and minds thoroughly sated and relaxed
until Jon suddenly groans.

“Gods.”

She glances up, finding he’s got a hand over his face, his mouth turned down in its usual brooding
frown. He’s been free and unburdened most of the night, it hurts to see him so. “What is it, my
love?”

“I think I may have broken Lyanna Mormont's heart.”

That’s so unexpected she laughs. “What now? She was there, smiling even. Your talk must have
went well, surely.”

He runs his thumb and forefinger slowly across his eyebrows, sighing. “Aye, most of it. But when
she first got there...I may have given her the wrong impression.” Her brows draw together,
twisting comically. “Not on purpose,” he rushes out.

Dany snorts. “Jon. I know that. Tell me what happened and maybe I can ease your mind,” she
encourages him, rubbing his knee where it peeks above the water.

His fingers begin to idly play over her shoulder as he stares into the fire. “I had Davos bring her to
the gardens. That was my first mistake. I should've met her somewhere else. I was makin your
crown, we talked and needled each other a bit about our tempers. Then she blushed.” He throws
his head back again, groaning, “Gods, Dany, I felt sick.”

Her light airy laughter floats around the room as she turns to pet his chest then lays against it.
“Oh, my poor, sweet love. Of course she has feelings for you.”

His head jerks upright. “Of course?” he huffs, exasperated. “Why, of course? I'm nearly ten years
older than her.” The thought obviously disturbs him.

Dany, only smiling now stretches up and kisses his succulent pout. “True, but you're also
everything a girl could dream of.”

He huffs again, rolling his eyes, unimpressed with her reasoning.

She tries a different approach. “You're a king, my love. An honorable one. Fair and just. You love
your people, you fight for them. You're the greatest swordsman there is, and the most handsome
man alive.”

“Am not,” he grunts, his pout growing impossibly more adorable.

Dany has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Once she trusts herself not to, she bops him on the
nose. “Are too,” she retorts. “I doubt there's a woman or girl alive who's ever laid eyes on you,
besides your sisters, that doesn't wish you were theirs.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It is. Even as vexed as I was after our first meeting, I wished for you. You are quite a man, Jon
Snow,” she hums, soft and slow.

His smile returns, dripping pure sex.

Dany sits up, then slips over his thighs to settle on his lap. The fire has him bathed in golden light,
each clinging drop of water a tiny flame seeming to dance over him. He’s so beautiful she can
hardly bear it. Not his pale skin flushed with warmth, not his inky eyes shining from under sleepy
lids holding more love than she has any right to receive, not the inviting curve of those sublime
lips, not his raven hair, damp and heavy against his neck, nor the scars he hates so much, that in
her eyes only add to his perfection.

She had intended for them to take their sleep, but not now. Now she will let herself be utterly lost in
him for a few more hours, and him in her, taking their slice of peace with greedy hands. The
morning will come soon enough and with it their looming terrors.

Pushing the grim thoughts aside, she thinks of more pleasant things. “You were magnificent today,
did you know that?” she asks, sliding her fingers through his wet curls, her nails scraping lightly
against his scalp. She’s rewarded with a low rumble from his chest and the pleasing stretch of his
neck as he drops his head back, eyes closing. Taking advantage she presses closer, leaving no
space between them from her lips trailing kissing across his collarbone to further down where their
bodies are only a tilt of the hips away from being one. “My wolf. My dragon. My ice and fire,” she
whispers, causing chillbumps to prickle his skin. “I wanted to take you and be taken by you right
there in the middle of all your lords,” she purrs, the tip of her tongue now tasting the shell of his
ear. “I’ve been burning for you ever since.”

His groan is deep and slow, one of pure want as his hands begin to map her dewy skin, his
hardened cock rocking against her. “You just had me.”

“And I’d have you again.”

He growls then, his lips a breath from hers. “As you wish, my queen. My wife. My fire and blood.”
 It's bloody and raw, but I swear it is sweet
Chapter Summary

Jon and Dany's first day as husband and wife has a few bumps and a surprise visitor.

Chapter Notes

Hello lovelies!

I did not expect to get this done quiet this quick, I had no clue what came next, but
with the help of my wonderful Discerning Tarts, urging and encouraging me, my muse
got in gear.

Some of you may think Jon's a bit cranky, blame him, he does what he wants, I have
no control over him anymore. Blame Meisie for the smuttiness (go, no, RUN to read
her fic if you haven't already). Thank Ashleyfanfic for the last scene, she set a plot fire
under my muse. And thank Sparkles59 for making it all nice and clean.

To those fabulous ladies and to the rest of my awesome Tarts–Frostbitepanda, jaqtkd,

and NoOrdinaryLines– I love you all bunches!! You never fail to make my days
brighter!!

She's barely rolled over, snuggling into Jon's warmth, when their babe makes itself known again.
This time though she isn't alone. His gentle hands gather her hair and hold it back. Once the awful
retching passes, he cleans her face with a cool rag, and has water ready for her to rinse with. He
carries her back to bed, wrapping her up to ease the chill that's taken her.

His face is pained, his dark eyes clouded with worry as he looks down at her, brushing back her
sweaty hair. “I'm sorry. I did this to you.”

Dany shakes her head. “Don't you dare. I would suffer a thousand mornings, noons, and nights if
that's what it took to hold our child in my arms,” she assures him, bringing his hand to her lips and
kissing his fingers.

“Aye, I just wish I could take on some of it for you. It's not right you have to suffer alone.”

She rubs a hand over his warm, hard thigh, the crisp hairs under her palm teasing them both.
“You're sweet, but it's not really all that bad. Having you here with me is more than enough, and
both of us feeling wretched would not make us very effective rulers, now would it?” she asks,
smiling and cutting her eyes at him, while tickling him with her nails in hopes of lifting his spirits.

It doesn't work. He stops her, moving her hand from him and back on the bed, his brooding mask
firmly in place. “No, it wouldn't.” The sigh he lets out is harsh and holds the weight of a hundred
millstones within it.
She can almost feel his discontent rising to the surface, see the worry and fear etching themselves
between his brows and darkening his eyes. She attempts to stop them before they can build up and
boil over. “Please. Don't,” she whispers, gripping his hand, her tone gentle. “I don’t want to start
our first day as husband and wife fighting.”

He doesn't respond, instead letting her go with a worn smile to run a hand over her hair. Then he
stands and begins gathering up his clothes. Once his leathers and undershirt are on he goes to the
window, looking out at the falling snow while he buttons his doublet. The flakes look heavy and
thick this morning.

“Stay and rest a bit longer,” he tells her.

“You could too, you know?” she suggests, her words soft and careful.

Still avoiding her gaze, he puts his jerkin on next, buckling it at his sides. “You know I want to, but
there's too much to do.”

“I know.” She did her best to keep the hurt from her voice. He does want to stay, but he also wants
to go. Either way he's right, there's no more time for losing themselves in one another.

“I’ll send Missandei in with some food. Maybe bread and eggs?” he asks, coming to sit by her
again to pull on his boots.

Dany groans, covering her mouth with her hand, the thought of runny yolks causing her stomach to
twist. “Gods no, no eggs.”

Jon chuckles despite her discomfort, rubbing a warm, callused hand over her back. Both ease much
more than just her stomach.

“Alright, something else then.”

“The bread’s fine, maybe some fruit if there's any to be had.”

He leans over and snatches his leather hair tie from the floor where she discarded it the night
before, then starts combing his curls back with his fingers. “I’ll see what we can find and I’ll ask
Sam if he knows of a tea that might settle your stomach,” he mumbles around the tie clenched in
his teeth.

“Thank you. Here, let me help.” She sits up and pulls the tie from his mouth. It only takes her a
minute and she has him looking like the fierce Northern king he is.

He smiles at her over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

She fits herself against his back, nowhere near ready to lose him for the day, wrapping her arms
around him, nose and lips pressed to the smooth patch of skin just under his ear that's always
hidden by his curls. He’s firm and solid, all muscle, beautiful and strong within her grasp. The
leather of his jerkin is hard and cold against her bare skin. The rich, earthy and slightly sweet smell
of it mixes with his warm musky scent, both permeating her senses. He weakens her, as always,
making all of her soften and melt down and out from between her thighs.

His rough hands find her, grasping flesh, as his head falls back against her shoulder. A deep rasping
groan works its way from his throat. “You tempt me, woman, far too much.”

“You do the same to me,” she whispers in his ear. “Stay, husband.”
He turns, rubbing his scratchy beard against her cheek before kissing away the sting. “My wicked
wife, one of us must keep our senses as much as I hate it. It's already late.” He pats the side of her
ass, then untangles himself from her arms before standing up.

She catches his fingers before he goes too far, holding him hostage a moment longer as she lays
back down. He turns, his smile so vulnerable it does nothing to hide the press and strain of their
troubles from his lovely eyes. The sight of it nearly breaks her, to know she cannot ease his fears,
that no amount of loving distractions will lift the burdens. It leaves her heart feeling like a raw
nerve, sharp and aching. She gives him the only peace she can. “I love you, Jon.”

He comes back to her side, standing over her, silent and unwavering in his affection. Then he leans
down, bracing his weight on one hand beside her head while the other cups her cheek. He stares for
a moment longer, drinking her in, eyes grateful and apologetic all at once. “I love you,” he
whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, then resting his against it. “I’ll see you in a bit
and I may even let you have your way with me tonight.”

She smiles after his wink. “I may let you do the same.”

Turning over once he leaves, she clutches his pillow to her chest, burying her face into the cool
linen to breathe in his scent. She doesn't let the tears come until his boot steps have faded away
outside their door.

---

Jon finds Missandei and Sam in the great hall, asking both to check on his wife and her disgruntled
stomach. With understanding smiles they hurry to do his bidding. He breaks his fast, concentrating
on his food for the most part, other than going over things with Davos, Sansa, and Tyrion.

Thank the gods there's no news, disturbing or otherwise, and all their people are busy doing their
parts with little to no grumbling. He leaves the three of them to meet with the lords. They aren't on
board with his decision until he tells them his wish not to stand before them until Dany is there
with him so they can announce their marriage and deal with the backlash together.

With the morning meal done, another day of preparations begins in earnest. The castle, camps, and
Wintertown are a swarm of activity even with the heavy snows falling and the stinging cold.
Trebuchets are being built to fling fireballs at the wights. Ser Jamie and Bronn, with Sam and
Tyrion’s books are helping begin construction on the scorpions.

Dozensof others sit under awnings and passageways, out of the snowfall, shaping dragonglass
blades and arrow tips. The Hound and Brienne have taken it upon themselves to train the
townsfolk. They fill the practice yard with the wacks and thunks of wooden swords clashing
together.

All the forges are sending pillars of black smoke into the white sky, like giant chard trees rising
from the snow. Seeing them gives Jon hope, no matter the nagging voice that tells him to keep that
hope reserved. They should have most of the metal melted down by the end of the day and once
Dany’s blood is added to it they'll soon have Valyrian blades.

With Dany still resting, Jon goes to Rhaegal. The ground and trenches are once again covered in
snow and ice that must be cleared away for work to continue. Being their first line of defense, they
cannot wait. Drogon is not pleased with his mother's absence, but with some gentle words from
Jon, he follows them into the air. They make quick work of it, then melt as much of the snow as
they can around the camps to help warm the wet white air surrounding them. Soon he’s sending
the dragons off to hunt hoping they understood he wants them to stay close and return home soon.
Checking with Grey Worm and then Ohono to see how their people are faring in the horrible
weather is next on his list. Guilt nearly smothers him seeing the ones taken by sickness huddled
around fires, their grey gaunt faces staring out at him from snow covered furs. They may have
followed Daenerys here, but he's just as responsible, it's his home they're staying in. More has to be
done for them. He promises both commanders he’ll send the Maester and whatever healers can be
found to do what they can. They agree to keep them all fed, as warm as possible, and isolated as
well until then.

He heads straight to the Maester’s tower, intent on the two of them coming up with something they
can do to remedy the problem. If he has to throw the bull headed northern lords out of the castle
and into the snow to make room for them he will. Winter runs through their veins, they're much
more likely to handle the bitter cold than Daenerys’ warm blooded armies.

His mind is so focused on problem, he forgets to knock, striding right in. The three occupants
inside startle at his sudden presence, then freeze, wide-eyed and mouths gaping as they stare back
at him.

Maester Wolkan he expected, Sam was also a possibility, but his tiny wife, laid out on a table and
covered with a sheet except for one pale arm sticking out with a tube of some sort stuck in it, he
did not. Jon manages to keep his calm until his eyes follow the tube and find it spilling Dany's
bright red blood into a glass jar sitting on the floor.

Whether it's the wolf, the dragon, or some other beast that lives inside him, the sight unleashes it.
The door slams closed with a resounding thud behind him as he stalks towards them.

“Jon,” Dany calls, keeping her tone soothing.

“Get whatever the fook that is out of her arm. Now,” he snarls at Wolken, ignoring her completely.

The maester jumps into action, hands fluttering. “Right away, your Grace.”

“Jon, she's alright,” Sam tries, voice quivering, his smile tight. “We would never hurt her. It's for
the steel, remember?”

The attempt to placate him only incites Jon further. “Aye. A few drops you said. Just a few,” he
sneers, quiet and lethal. Then the tether holding his fury in snaps. “You call that a few fookin
drops?!” he roars, sounding every bit as vicious as Ghost when he senses a threat.

Dany calls him again, louder this time, but gently still, the way she’d speak to a bristling Drogon.
“Jon.”

She still doesn't reach him, his focus solely on Maester Wolkan as he removes the sharpened reed
from her arm and staunches the small gush of blood with some clean linen.

“A few drops per batch is what I meant,” Sam squeaks. “We've got a dozen forges and there's
several melting pots for each.”

“I don’t fookin care how many bloody forges we’ve got. She's pregnant. Did they tell you that,
Maester Wolkan?” Jon asks, his voice holding more than a bit of cheekiness. “Did they? Did they
tell you she barely fookin eats anymore and what she does gets hurled back up every mornin? Did
they–”

“Jon Snow!”

He spins on her then, eyes black and sharp as a sword edge. “WHAT?” The question comes out as
more of a grunted growl than an actual word, his northern burr mixing heavily with his anger.

Dany controls her own, staying calm and collected enough for the two of them. “I'm fine. And yes,
Maester Wolkan knows everything and has ensured me we’ll both be more than alright. I wouldn't
have risked this otherwise.” She raises a queenly eyebrow at him as Wolken wraps more linen
around her arm to keep pressure against the small wound. “I'm a bit insulted you would think so
poorly of your own wife.”

That finally does it, her words as effective as a bucket of ice water being dumped on him. He sulls
up, his perfect pout and brooding eyebrows making their appearance, while a flush blooms across
his cheeks.

Dany drops her head to hide her smirk as she sits up, holding the sheet to her chest maintain her
modesty. “Help me with my dress?” she asks him sweetly.

One glare from their king and Sam and Wolkan turn around as he moves behind her and helps her
slips her arms into the sleeves, then back around to fasten it for her. He scoops her up the moment
he’s finished. She holds in a sigh and swallows down her protest knowing he needs to be in control
for the moment.

“Thank you both for taking care of me. Give us an hour Sam and we'll meet at Gendry's forge,
alright?” Dany tells him.

“Of course, yer Grace.” He holds out two oranges in his shaky hands. “Eat these, both if you can.
The sugar will help you feel better.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

Wolkan takes a tentative step forward then, slipping a small vial of milky liquid into Dany’s hand.
“And for your stomach, your Grace. Remember, only a little in your tea each morning.”

“Of course, Maester Wolkan. Thank you.”

When Jon stays stubbornly silent Dany smacks him on the back of the head. His lips pinch and his
eyes narrow, but he quits his brooding long enough to speak. “Thank you for takin care of her. If
you would, I’d appreciate you both and whoever else is learned enough in healing to visit the
Queen's armies as soon as possible. They and their families are not farin well with this cold. Too
many are fallin ill. They need better shelter, more furs, food, and medicine. If we have to use the
great hall as a sick ward, so be it. Or if you feel enough of them could make the journey, send them
south to White Harbor.”
Sam and Wolken agree to go straight away so Jon spins around and takes them out the door. He
ignores the sudden silence from the courtyard below and the countless sets of eyes staring up at
them, following their every step.

“Perhaps you should put me down, Jon. We’re drawing a lot of attention,” she whispers.

“Do I look like I fookin care?” he grunts, never slowing his pace.

Dany snorts, amused with her husband's grumpiness. She should be furious with him, but his worry
is too endearing. “No, as a matter of fact, you don't, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't.” The first
moment they're out of sight she places a quick kiss on his flushed cheek. “Thank you for looking
after my people. It means a lot to me.”

He pulls a face, blowing out a quick breath through his nose and keeps walking, intent on their
destination. Once they make to their chambers she’s thankful one of her Unsullied stands guard so
there's no odd looks to pretend not to see. He opens the door for them and closes it quietly behind
them.

Jon takes her straight to the bed, laying her down with care, covering her with furs. Still silent, he
takes the oranges from her and walks across the room. She watches as he stokes the fire first then
begins peeling an orange, throwing the peels into flames making them sizzle and throw colorful
sparks up the flue. He keeps his back to her, head down. She only catches glimpses of the side of
his face when he tosses in another peel. His jaw is clenched, the muscle jumping, lips pressed
together tight while his nostril flares.

His worry is getting the best of him, but she's partly to blame. If she had let him know...

He spins around, walking towards her. He’s finished with the first orange, bringing it to over, eyes
still avoiding. “Eat, please.”

She takes it, her movements ginger and smooth, voice even more so. “Thank you.”

He just grunts and heads back to the fire.

“What can I do to make you feel better?” she whispers after swallowing down her second piece.

He rounds on her, scowl fierce. “You know what would make me feel better? Takin you over my
knee and blistering that pretty arse of yours until it was red as roses. That's what. An if you weren't
heavin up your stomach every few hours and hadn't just drained yourself of half your blood believe
me I would.”

Dany gasps. “You’d dare lay a hand on me?” The thought is as outrageous as it is enticing.

“Aye, I would,” he barks. “You deserve it for scaring me half to death.”

He’s not altogether wrong.

She points to his fist that's strangling her innocent piece of fruit, while trying not to smirk too
obviously. “You’re draining my orange of all it's juice.”

His hand jerks up, face a disgruntled snarl at seeing what he's done. He lets out a heavy sigh.
“Seven bloody hells.”

She's just finished chewing her last piece when he crosses the room again to join her, after peeling
the rest of the mangled fruit then washing his hands. He sits down at her hip, orange held out like
an olive branch. “I'm sorry.”

Dany plucks the fruit from his grasp, then laces the fingers of her free hand with his, meeting his
sorrowful eyes. “I know. I am too. I should've found you and taken you with me, but I thought we
could have it done and over with and you wouldn't have to be worried.”

He takes a deep breath, squeezing her hand. “Next time, just so you know, I’d much rather be
worried for an hour than gutted by fear for a few minutes. Alright?”

Dany sits up and strokes his cheek, then runs a thumb over his pouty lip, shaken to the core for the
thousandth time that this precious man has given himself to her heart and soul. “Alright.”

Suddenly he has her caught by the back of the neck, his lips crashing into hers. It's a desperate,
almost violent kiss, all clashing teeth and tongues as if he wants to devour and absorb her so she'll
always be a part of him.
When he finally lets her go she's wrecked, a jumble of emotions, wants, and needs. The wants win
out. “Would you really spank me?” she whispers, still panting from lack of air.

He growls a bit, tilting her head back to open it up for his greedy mouth. “You say that like you
want me to.”

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth then lets it slide free as she rolls her eyes towards the
ceiling and lays back down with a sigh, pulling him with her. “It's something we haven't tried.”

“No, we haven't,” he agrees, voice delightfully raspy. “Maybe we should.” The gleam in his inky
pools sends a lovely shiver down her spine. He’s caged her in with his arms, staring down at her as
he licks those perfect lips of his. Her own tongue darts out to wet hers on reflex. Jon smirks. “Do
you think you’d like to be over my knee and held down while I ruck up your skirts and rip off your
small clothes?” She hums, stretching like a cat in the sun beneath him. “Would you like to feel my
rough hand rubbin over your soft skin before givin that plump arse a stingin slap?”

Dany swallows deeply, warmth pooling low in her belly at the thought. “I think I would.”

His smirk grows. “Hmmm, I thought so. Would you like me to spank it to a nice rosy glow? Till
you're squirmin and pantin, beggin me to stop and keep goin all in one breath.”

“Yes.”

He leans closer, his nose rubbing against hers light as a feather, but he pulls away every time her
lips search for his. “I bet once I did I’d be able to slide my fingers down between those red, raw
cheeks and find that pretty cunt of yours all swollen and dripping wet, wouldn't I?”

Dany's answer is only a strangled noise of agreement. Her eyes have squeezed shut, the vision he’s
painting with his words dancing behind her eyelids, her eager cunt aching to have the picture come
to life.

“Your cunt would be so wet I bet I could easily slide two or three fingers inside you. How long do
you think it’d take for you to cum on my fingers Dany if I was spankin that beautiful arse while I
fooked you with them?” He hums, the rough and gravely sound rolling through her, making her
hips rise. His lips are at her ear now, his warm breath blowing against her skin. “Is that what you
want, Dany?”

She arches up into him, breathless. “Yes.” Such a soft simple word for such a ravenous feeling.

“No.”

His short, sharp denial causes her eyes to fly open only to find his own, sly and twinkling down at
her, a wolfish grin tugging at his lips as he hovers above her.

Her fire flames to life in a completely different way. “Jon Snow! You did not just… Arrrrrrrgh, you
evil man! I hate you!” she shrieks, slapping at his chest.

Jon sits up, his head thrown back as he roars with laughter. “No you don't. You love me.”

“I do, damn you to all seven hells,” she grumbles, shoving him nearly off the bed before crossing
her arms over her chest in defiance.

Still laughing, Jon picks up her sticky, discarded orange from the furs and holds it out to her.
“Admit it, you deserved that.”
Dany snatches it out of his hand and rips off a wedge, cramming it into her mouth. “I will do no
such thing,” she mumbles around it. “What you did was just cruel. I was only thinking of your
feelings.”

He considers her for a moment then reaches over and pulls her into his lap, curling himself around
her. “I’m sorry.” He presses his lips to the top of her head. “I shouldn't have teased you so. I used to
be able to control myself better, control my fears, keep my anger in, but ever since I came back…”

The low, distant tone of his voice pulls Dany away, only far enough she can see him. She cups a
hand around his neck, rubbing her thumb against the edge of his beard. It gives him the
encouragement he needs.

“I've been different since then, and now there's you.” One of his hands slides over her stomach.
“And our little one.” He shakes his head, closing his eyes as he lets out a trembling breath. “I'm so
afraid none of us will survive, but my biggest fear, the one that terrifies me, is that only one of us
will.”

His expression is serious, but also how it always is when focused on her, softened at the edges, his
pupils blown wide as a northern night sky. And his words have caught on her heartstrings, pulling
and tugging them, filling her chest with a ruinous, liquid ache that spreads under her skin like a
poison.

“I'm scared too,” she whispers, weak and splintered, arms clutching him to her.

His head comes to rest against hers. “I know, love.”

---

As planned, the pair met Sam at Gendry's forge an hour later. Ten drops of Dany's precious blood
was added to each melting pot as she read a verse of High Valyrian Sam had found with the recipe.
The molten steel hissed and smoked, seeming to come alive, swirling within the pots with no help
from Gendry, turning from a glowing red to a deep purple, almost blue.

While the other smiths would concentrate on forging swords, Gendry vowed to spend night and
day crafting armor for his king and queen and their dragons. He measured them both, then
provided a long length of knotted rope they could measure Drogon and Rhaegal with. He thought it
best to stay with his forge much to their amusement. Arya though was more than happy to help,
writing down the measurements as they called them out to her.

The sun was setting as they finished and after most of the castle had gone quiet they shut
themselves away with the two men they hoped could help them find the key they so desperately
needed to save them all.

Bran sat in front of the fire, Sam on his bed, and Jon and Dany, sat at his table. All knowing what
they were there for and the hour late, Jon wasted no time.

“Bran, Sam’s told me you’ve seen him the most,” he starts. “We need to put our knowledge
together and figure out a way to end him. It won’t matter what else we do if we can’t kill him. He’s
the answer. End him and we end them all. If we can't, we die.”

His brother's eyes don't leave the fire. “I saw them make him, the Children of the Forest.”

“They made him?” Dany sputters. “Why would they do that?”

“The First Men were destroying their lands. They needed an army,” Bran explains. “Old Nan told
us he was a Stark. Do you remember, Jon?” Jon pulls a face, shaking his head, to loosen a memory,
or to deny. Bran doesn't notice either way. “They tied him to a tree and embedded a shard of
dragonglass into his heart. They created The Song of Ice. But the magic became too strong, they
couldn't control it so they turned to the First Men for help.”

“They defeated them together,” Jon says.

Bran and Sam look up, surprised at the surety of Jon’s words.

“He found drawings in the caves at Dragonstone,” Dany tells them. “I may never have believed his
tales had I not seen them.”

“They didn’t defeat them though, they only contained them, banished them to the Land of Always
Winter,” Bran says, his emotionless tone sounding more ominous than usual. “The two of you will
defeat them. Together you are The Song of Ice and Fire. The magic we need.”

Jon sighs, shaking his head again as he shifts in his seat, making it creak and groan. “Bran, I don't
have any magic. Her yes, me, no.”

“You do,” his brother argues. “It's in your blood. Ice from your mother, fire from your father. The
ice is less now since the Lord of Light brought you back, but it's still there.”

All three stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to agree. He drops his eyes to his lap, a nervous
hand rubbing at his beard. “I don't... I feel...nothing.”

“Yes you do. You’ve felt it for years with Ghost, and now Rhaegal,” Bran argues again. “They feel
you, just as you do them. And Daenerys. Have you ever been drawn to another person the way you
are her?” he asks.

Jon huffs, sitting back in his chair now, crossing his arms over his chest. “I love her, of course I'm
drawn to her.”

“You were drawn to her before you fell in love. You loved the Wildling girl, but it wasn't the same,
was it?” Bran challenges. “It's more than love, it's the magic you both carry. It brought you
together.”

“Together,” Dany repeats, taking Jon’s hand and squeezing it, her violet gaze begging him not to
forget their pact.

He relaxes, lacing his fingers with hers, a small smile easing the worry from his face.

“Don't you see, Jon?” Bran presses on. “The paths you’ve both led from your births, they were
always meant to bring you here. You had to grow up a bastard so you would find your place at The
Wall and find the threat to us all. She had to be exiled to birth her dragons and build her armies to
fight that threat.”

“Alright. I know. I do,” Jon admits, rubbing his face. “But none of that tells us how to kill him.” He
stares them all down, one at a time, his vexation plain.

Sam clears his throat, drawing their attention. He looks to Jon warily. “You’ve heard of the
prophecy about Azor Ahai?”

Jon’s sigh is harsh. He drops his head into his hand, fingers and thumb kneading his temples.
“Aye. The prince or princess who was promised.”
“Reborn again to remake the world,” Bran murmurs.

“Yes,” Sam chuckles nervously, rocking in place. “According to prophecy, the champion will be
reborn to wake dragons from stone.”

Never having heard the actual wording, Jon straightens in surprise, looking at his wife, then Sam.
“That's Dany.”

“Yes,” Bran agrees, once again staring into the fire.

Dany lets go of Jon and slides to the edge of her chair, resting her arms on the tabletop, hands
clasped. “Read the rest, please, Samwell.”

Sam takes the book from beside him and holds it up close to his face. “The great sword
Lightbringer that defeated the darkness those thousands of years ago will be reforged. There will
come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and–”

“There was a comet,” Dany gasps, cutting him off and turning to look at Jon over her shoulder.
“The night Drogo died. As soon as I saw it I knew.”

“Knew what?” Jon asks, not entirely sure he wants to know. He doesn't really want them to be this
prince or princess.

“That it was time to birth my dragons.”

Awe and dread wash through Jon in equal measure at her quiet, fateful words. He swallows
thickly, then nods for Sam to continue.

“When the stars bleed and cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a
warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red
Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee
before him."

Jon’s up and out of his chair before Sam’s said the last word, pacing about the small room, hands
fisted together one moment then rubbing the tension free from his palms the next. “I’ve only ever
seen one sword that burns and it wasn't Longclaw. It was Beric Dondarrion’s and the Night King
didn't flee from him, neither did his army. I don't even know that Beric still lives. We left him at
Eastwatch.”

“What if we can make Longclaw burn?” Sam suggests.

Jon’s eyes leave the floor and look to Sam, his face twisted with skepticism. “How?”

Sam shrinks a bit under his scrutiny. “Well, you're not gonna like it, but it might work and it
wouldn't be as drastic as what had to be done it make Lightbringer.”

“What had to be done?” Dany asks.

Sam suddenly finds the furs he’s sitting on very interesting. “Azor Ahai had to plunge it into his
wife's heart,” he mumbles, barely loud enough to be heard.

Jon, however caught every word. “If you're fookin suggesting I do the same,” he seethes.

“No, listen!” Sam pleads, shaking his head vigorously. “I said not as drastic. I know you’d never
and I wouldn't want you to. None of us would. But she's already given blood for forging.”
A deep growl rumbles from Jon’s chest as he stares Sam down, teeth clenched. “Aye, I won't be
forgettin how much anytime soon.”

“I’m sure you won't,” Sam bites back, causing Dany to smirk. “Still. What if we reforge Longclaw
and add her blood?”

Running his hands over his hair, Jon forces his anger into its cage. Sam doesn't deserve it, he’s
only trying to help. “What is it you think that'll do?” he asks, his tone collected now.

“Make a new Lightbringer,” Dany guesses.

Sam nods, his cheeks jiggling and pink as he smiles at her, then Jon.

“You’ll need to forge it,” his brother says from behind him.

“Bran, I’m not a smith,” Jon shoots back over his shoulder, then shifts to face him. “And we don't
have time for me to learn either.”

“We do,” he tells him, “He’s not coming here.”

Jon startles at that, hope filling him. “What? You’ve seen him again?”

“Where’s he going?” Dany asks over him.

“The Isle of Faces in the God's Eye,” Bran says. The words have barely left his lips when his eyes
suddenly roll to white. Jon and Dany glance at Sam warily.

“He's usually not gone long. Best to just wait,” Sam assures them.

Several minutes pass before Bran comes back to himself and without any explanation he sets his
eyes on the door. “Sam, would you allow our guests in, please?”

Sam quickly shuffles to his feet and then to the door, opening it as requested. A hooded figure and
a young woman with dark eyes and curls, dressed in furs stand waiting just outside.

Not recognizing either and quite unsettled by their sudden appearance, at night and without a
guard, Jon’s hand grips the hilt of Longclaw as he walks towards them, blocking Dany from their
view.

The pair enter the room, undeterred by Jon's defensive posture, the girl shutting the door behind
them.

“Meera. You came back,” Bran says, his voice holding the most emotion Jon has heard from him
since returning home.

It eases Jon's nerves a bit. He stops, waiting for one of them to say more.

The girl nods to Bran, pain flashing across her face, then she turns to Jon, the hooded figure with
her as well. Both are of the same height, no taller than Dany, and appear slender even with their
bulky clothes. Jon isn't sure if the girl's companion is a man or woman.

Slowly, hands peel back the hood revealing a man, perhaps twice Jon's age, maybe more, maybe
less, with pale, almost grey skin, and a set of sunken dark green eyes. His scraggly hair and beard
remind Jon of the color of dead leaves that litter a forest floor.

“My father, your Graces. Howland Reed,” Meera introduces him.

His father's friend? That Howland Reed?

“Your Graces,” Lord Reed says, his tone reverent, as he and Meera both drop to a knee in front of
Jon, their heads bowed.

Jon tries to stop them, waving his hands. “Please, that's not–”

"To the rightful King and Queen we pledge the faith of Greywater Watch. Hearth and harvest we
yield up to you, your Graces. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant
mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. We swear it
by earth and water. We swear it by bronze and iron. We swear it by ice and fire."

Their oath sworn, the pair rise.

Jon is speechless, not only by the oath, but their presence at all. Dany now stands beside him,
questioning him with her wide eyes. Sam looks just as confused. Bran though, actually has a small
smile on his face.

Before Jon can think of a response, Lord Reed steps forward. “Forgive us, your Grace,” he asks
Jon. “I can see your concern at our unexpected and unannounced visit. If you'll allow us to explain
you’ll soon understand the need for secrecy.”

“Ah...of course. Well met, my lord, my lady. Please, have a seat,” Jon manages to get out,
somewhat gracefully, while waving towards the table.

They wait for Dany to sit and for Jon too as he pours them both a cup of wine. They gratefully
accept and drink eagerly, while Sam moves Bran closer, then takes a seat himself at Jon's nod. His
needs the comfort of his friend to his help his frayed nerves.

Emptying his cup, Howland wipes a hand over his mouth and beard, then sets his pitchy gaze on
Jon, a wide smile lightening his haggard face. “You look so much like her. She would've been
proud of that. Proud of the man you’ve become.”

“My mother? You knew her?” Jon sputters, eyes wide.

“I did. Met her and your uncles at the Tourney of Harrenhal. Surely Ned or Benjen told you the
story.”

Jon shakes his head. “They never spoke of her.”

“Ah, well. I suppose I understand why,” Howland sighs. His gaze drifts, seeing things far gone,
until Meera lays a hand over his arm. He smiles softly at her then turns to Jon again. “What do you
know?”

“Very little. Only that Bran says he saw her after my birth begging Ned to protect me and that her
and Rhaegar were married and seemed to love one another.”

Howland gives a sharp nod. “All true. I was there, for both.”

Jon can only stare. It's not that he didn't believe Bran, or even Dany and their connection, but
hearing it from someone else... Dany's hand slips over his thigh under the table. He grasps it tightly
with his own.

“I'm the reason they met,” Howland continues. “It was my duty to bring them together so you
could be born.”
Jon flinches back, head tilted and brows twisted in confusion. “Your duty? I don't understand.”

Lord Reed leans closer, pressing himself into the table, his erie green gaze focused on Jon. “You're
going to save us all, your Grace. You and your wife.”

How does he know–

“I know many things,” he murmurs, answering Jon’s question before he's even finished thinking it.
“It's why I haven't left Greywater Watch for over two decades. It was too much of a risk.”

“And now it's not?” Dany asks.

“It still is, but it was time for us to meet, for me to tell you all I can. For you to know,” Howland
tells her, his pointed finger waving between them.

Jon and Dany share an anxious glance then look back at their strange guest. “Know what?” they
ask together.

“Everything.”
 Oh, but she burns
Chapter Summary

More from Howland, some much needed stress relief before bed, and a trip to the Isle
of Faces.

Chapter Notes

I am soooooo sorry this took me so long to get to you! The flu struck just after I posted
the last chapter and I'm still sick a month later. I have a chronic illness so anytime I get
regular sick on top of that it nearly does me in. And this chapter is pivotal to the story
and I really wanted to do it justice. I'm still not sure I have, but I always feel I could do
more no matter what I do, it's the perfectionist in me I suppose. I truly hope you all
enjoy it. Please, please, please let me know what you think!! Comments are like candy
to us writers, we love hearing from you!!

A HUGE thank you to Ashleyfanfic and Sparkles59. You wouldn't be getting this
chapter without them. They both beta-ed for me and also helped me whip the plot and
emotions into shape. I love you tarts!! Frost, Meisie, Jaq, and AC certainly did their
part too, keeping me encouraged and laughing! I honestly don't know how I made it
before you ladies fell into my life. <3<3<3 Love you all!!

And last but not least, CHECK OUT THAT GORGEOUS MOOD BOARD
Ashleyfanfic made for me!!! Loves it and her!!!
“Everything.”

A foreboding and unpleasant heavy sensation sits in Jon's heart at Howland's single solemn
utterance. Others have told him destiny was coming for him, now here it is, sat across from him.
He knows there's no denying it anymore and it feels as if his soul is wavering, shaking like some
wind-swept leaf. He wants to run, he never wanted this. It's like some sick, twisted game; give him
everything he could have ever hope to want then force him to fight for his life, and the lives of
every living being if he wants to keep it. Did the gods or whoever decided this just expect him to
give in with no questions, no qualms?

“Please, my lord,” Dany encourages, no doubt sensing his unease through his sweaty, shaking
hand. “Any help will be most appreciated.”

Howland smiles at her, seeming to have finally noticed her presence. “You are your brother's sister,
your Grace, though more beautiful, and, if you’ll forgive me, wiser.”

That sits Dany back, slow and solemn, though she keeps her polite smile in place. “Thank you.”

“You said it was your duty,” Jon cuts in, too impatient for idle words. “Was it you who charged
yourself with the task or someone else?”

“It was not me,” Howland tells him, fingertips tapping on the tabletop. “I'm sure you know our
people are different than all the others in Westeros. We keep to ourselves, live on what the land
gives us. Know things others do not. We’ve always lived that way, from the beginning. From the
time of the Children and First Men. We are not from one or the other, but both.”

“So it is true,” Sam pipes up from the end of the table, eyes wide, mouth turned up into an excited
smile. “You’ve the blood of the Children running through your veins.”

Howland nods, returning his smile. “Aye, we do.And not just their blood, but their magic too. Even
as a young boy I knew I was different, just as my son Jojen was, and your brother,” he says, eyes
now on Jon as he tilts his head towards Bran. “They had their green dreams, I could speak to the
trees, hear them speak back. The winter before Harrenhall they called me to the Isle of Faces.”

“Who did?” Jon asks, nearly snapping at the man. Dany rubs his hand between hers, kneading at
his tense joints and bones. He squeezes her fingers, eyes downcast, shamed at his own behavior
and envious of her ability to remain so calm and unruffled.

Not bothered by Jon’s harsh tone, Howland shrugs. “The trees, the Children, the Green Men… I
wasn't sure who it was, only that I needed to go. So I did. I don't know how long I was there. Some
say the whole winter. At times it feels it was only a day, others an age.”

He drifts again, lost in the past. “What did they want with you?” Dany asks, bringing him back to
the present.

“They chose me to help them right the wrongs that were set in motion thousands of years ago.” He
gives them all a moment to digest that bit, running a hand over his scraggly beard, before shaking a
finger at them. “The maesters may try to teach that there was never magic in the world, or that it is
long gone. Their words are false. It has always been. Her and her dragons are proof of it, the others
too, and you, Jaegon Targaryen.”

Another cold wind shakes Jon to his core. Hopefully none but Dany notice the gooseflesh it left
across his skin.

Howland continues, oblivious to Jon’s distress, or dismissing it. “The Night King and his army are
the Children's Song of Ice, their ice magic. Created to prevent the First Men from destroying their
lands. When it grew too strong the first long night came to Westeros. Once The Wall was built,
Valyria rose to power not long after. Their Song of Fire grew great and mighty, but it too became
too strong and had to be banished. The others have been stirring ever since, their power growing
again. The Children and the Men knew something had to be done and that's when they called me.
Ice and Fire had to be brought together.”

Daenerys’ fingers tighten their grip on Jon's, they exchange a concerned glance.

“They told me of a dragon and a wolf who together would create the same. They only need set eyes
on one another. That was my duty,” Howland says, answering Jon's question at last. “The day the
tourney began I was there. Through very little work of my own I met your mother. Fierce she was,
but with a tender heart. She saved me from the beating I was receiving from three squires I had put
myself in the way of. After running them off with their tails tucked, she took me to your uncles,
cleaned me up, and took care of my wounds. From that moment forward the bond between Houses
Stark and Reed grew unbreakable.

“They tried to talk me into riding against the squires in the tourney. I declined, not only because I
would never have won, but because I knew she'd take my place. Her fierce heart would demand it.
I helped her piece together some armor, enough to protect and hide her. Benjen helped too.”
Howland laughs, shaking his head. “He could never tell her no. None of us could. She inspired
loyalty like a sponge draws water.”
“Jon’s like that,” Sam chuckles, smile wide and proud.

Rolling bitter eyes, his friend huffs. “Aye, my men were so loyal they stabbed me to death.”

Dany winces, not only at Jon's acrid words, but at Sam's crestfallen face as well, but like the sun he
rises again. “Well, maybe not the bad seeds, but if there's any goodness in them, they flock to you.”

“He’s not wrong,” Dany whispers, turning to Jon and ignoring propriety, a soft hand running over
his scruffy jaw. He captures it with his own, pressing a kiss to her palm, letting everything else
disappear for a moment.

“Your mother rode, and she won,” Howland says, breaking through their short reprieve.

The smile that pulls at Jon’s lips is conflicted, sad. Lonely. “The Knight of the Laughing Tree and
Rhaegar's Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“Aye. That she was.”

“Tell us he wasn't a selfish bastard.”

With a shake of his head, Howland sighs. “Not so much selfish, as….” He rubs his brow,shaking
his head again. “Your father had goodness in him, you need to know that, but he was different,
detached. He was lost in his books and scrolls, obsessed with the prophecy to the point he let his
responsibilities fall to the side. He believed he was doing the right thing, he truly did, and that
blinded him to all the rest.”

“And Elia, the children. Why?” Dany asks, voicing what Jon can't.

Another sigh leaves Howland, this one heavier. “After the tourney Elia begged him to let her and
their children go. She wanted to go home to Dorne. She knew what their fate would be with his
eyes elsewhere, and Areys.... She tried to keep it from happening, but he left her on Dragonstone,
dismissing her fears, assured the three of them would be safe there. After finding your mother
again, he knew he'd never go back to Elia and the children. He truly loved Lyanna and needed any
of her future children to be true born. So he granted Elia’s wish.” He wipes a hand down his
grizzled face. “He was too late. Aerys had already ordered them back to King’s Landing, his
madness coming to its peak. You know the rest.”

Jon’s on his feet again, pacing the room as its walls seem to grow smaller and smaller, trapping
him in, and all his riotous emotions with him. Dany sits, tiny and alone, eyes unseeing, fingers
clasped, knuckles white.

“Please, don't let his decisions cast a shadow over you,” Howland pleads. “Neither of you are him.
Though I believe what goodness he did have, he passed to you, Jon. And there is much of your
mothers in both of you too.”

“My mother destroyed a marriage,” Jon bites back, fists balled at his side, eyes burning coal.”Then
all seven Kingdoms, at his urging.” The wound the truth flayed him open with still fresh, raw, and
oozing.

Has it really only been days? It feels a lifetime.

“She was young and headstrong, being forced to marry a sorry excuse of a man,” Howland tries to
soothe him. “You wouldn't be here, Jon, without their choices. And you had to be here, in exactly
the way it happened.”
Closing his eyes, Jon breathes deep, forcing down the bitterness. He cannot change the past, only
their future. Eyes now focused on that future, he makes his way back to her side, waving a hand at
their guest. “Continue, please.”

“There’s not much left to tell that you don’t already know. Your parents married then went to
Dorne, leaving the rest of us to Aerys and Robert’s madness. I went to your uncle's side and stayed
there until the day he left me in the Neck and continued onto Winterfell with you in his arms.”

“Did he know? My father...Ned. Before he found her? Did you tell him?”

Dany passes Sam Jon’s cup, who quickly fills it with more wine and hands it back. Jon doesn't
miss the exchange, despite keeping his eyes on Howland, waiting for an answer as Dany sits the
cup in front of him.

“No. That was not my place.”

The chair beneath Jon groans as if in pain, seeming to absorb its occupant’s anger, unable to keep
his secret. “You let him think the entire time she’d been kidnapped?”

Howland’s grey and boney hand rises weakly, a flash of vexation ghosting across his weathered
face, then gone again as quickly as it appeared. “He never thought that. He knew his sister well
enough to know she’d never go anywhere she didn't want. They all knew it, even Brandon I
imagine, though he was too hot headed to allow her honor to be smudged without a fight,” he
defends himself.

Jon deflates a bit, sinking back into his chair before grabbing his cup and draining it.

Howland waits until the wine cools the embers in the young king’s eyes before continuing. “Robert
is another story. His unwieldy pride couldn't take the scorn. He lied to add fuel to the fires, to
cover his hubris. Ned was too busy fighting in revenge for your grandfather and uncle's murders to
deny it until it was already set to stone in so many minds. Once we found her, he knew Robert's lie
had to become his own and then some.”

“You didn't try to save any of them?”

“The only time I was allowed to interfere was to save Ned at the Tower of Joy. You needed him.
But I assure you, it was like taking a knife to my own heart not to save her,” he admits, brittle and
bent like a bow. “And Rhaegar too. But their fates were out of my hands. Their absence made you
the man you are today. You were wanted and loved. I know that isn't much consolation, but it is
the truth.”

Jon sits shapeless as a sack of wool, the life faded from his eyes, leaving them cold as a winter sky
after the sunset. His weariness is dragging upon his spirits like leaden weights. Silent and still
beside him, Dany worries if she moves or touches him he will drop to the floor like a broken
branch.

“I need to take you to the Isle of Faces.” Howland’s soft croaking accent startles the pair.”They're
waiting for you, have been for sometime.”

“What else do they want from us?” Dany asks, voice crisp and cold, belying her distress.

“To give you all you need to defeat death.”

Dark eyebrows arch over murky violet orbs. “And you know what that is?”
He shakes his head. “No, but we must leave tonight.”

Jon is having none of it, up and out of his chair again. “No. We’re needed here. We can't leave
these people to fight on their own.”

“With her big black dragon we’ll be back well before any fighting takes place.”

Fists braced on the table, Jon leans towards his father's old friend. Like a blood stain on linen his
distrust still clings. “You expect us just to leave with you? Trust you? Everything, I believe is what
you said. You’ve not kept your word.”

Again, Howland does not baulk under the king's displeasure. “I'm meant to get you there and come
back with you. What happens in between isn’t for me. Only the two of you. I’ve told you
everything I know.”

“You’re certain we'll come back?” Dany asks. Jon cuts her a look, chafe and stinging. She presses
on. “You swear no harm will come to the our people while we're gone? And none will come to us
either?”

“I swear it, your Grace.”

“You must take me with you.” Bran’s request startles them, all eyes turning his way, questions
caught in their throats.

Jon’s the only one to find his voice. “What? With us? Why?”

“The Three-eyed Raven that came before me, he lived with the Children in a weirwood beyond
The Wall. My powers will be stronger on the Isle. The Green Men and the Children will protect
me. The trees will strengthen me. I'm not helping you enough here.”

“You cannot help us if you're so far away,” Jon argues.

“I’ll be able to see better, maybe warg into the dead, or even the dragon.”

Sharp talons ripping at his face flash into Jon's memory. If an eagle can be wielded as a weapon of
the mind, what damage could an ice dragon be ordered to do?

“You really think you could do that?” he asks, hating himself for the twinge of hope he feels that
could only come at his brother's expense.

“If I were stronger, possibly.”

“Would it hurt you? If you could do it, would you be safe?”

Bran shrugs, his face a blank canvas. “If it brings the Night King's end, what does my pain
matter?”

Jon is halfway to him before he even realizes he’s moved. “Bran. I’ll not sacrifice you–”

“My path is my own Jon, just as yours is. Paths we must follow to the end.”

His brother's words hit him like an icy wave, swift and tragic, shifting Jon nearly off his feet. The
whole truth, naked, cold, and fatal as a traitor's blade sinks into his bones. There's no escaping it
anymore, no more denying. The only way out is to see it through.

“I should be able to keep him in touch with you through the tree in your godswood,” Howland
offers a small bit of solace. “And Meera can stay with him. She could send ravens if needed.”

“You would be alright with that, Meera?” Dany asks her, never one to allow a man to make a
woman's choice for her, father or no.

Wide forest eyes meet Dany’s in appreciation before turning to Bran’s. The two stare at one
another, past memories seeming to hang like a fog between them, thick and heavy. But soon it lifts,
silent apologies and forgiveness given.

Meera faces her queen again and nods. “I swore an oath. My place is with Bran.”

Jon leans an arm against the mantel, staring into the fire. His sigh of resignation runs through all of
them the weight of it is so great. “If you're sure there’s no other way, Bran, but we're not leaving
tonight. Dawn is soon enough. Daenerys needs a few hours rest at least.”

“Jon, I’m fine,” she protests, gently.

He turns to her, a king, not a husband. “We're going to keep it that way. Your body is growing
another. Sam said you needed as much rest as possible, I mean for you to get it. If we're the
promised ones then the rest of the world can fookin wait on us. It's waited twenty three years, it
can wait a few fookin hours more.”

“He’s right, yer Grace,” Sam agrees, smiling in hopes of easing the bristle of Jon’s demand.
“You’ve been up all day, rest a bit.”

Dany nods, helpless against the pleading only she can see in her husband's eyes. She'll bend so he
doesn't break.

---

They undress, both silent, lost in their thoughts. Once Jon has the fire stoked and a few more logs
added he wanders over and helps her finish undoing her braids. It's quickly becoming one of Dany's
favorite times with him.

Drogo, nor Daario would have bothered themselves with helping her, the task beneath them. But
not Jon. He cherishes every moment he has with her, would rather take care of her himself just to
be closer. To be with her in sweet, quiet, sacred, seclusion.

He loosens the last braid then slides his fingers into her hair, rubbing away the achiness from her
scalp, making her moan. Her head falls back against his firm stomach, eyes closed.

“No sleeping just yet,” he murmurs, straightening her up, then fashioning her hair into one, long
loose braid for sleeping.

Dany stands as soon as he's done, walking into his arms, her own wrapping around his trim waist,
as he hugs her back. “I love you, Jon,” she whispers, placing a few kisses across his chest, letting
the last linger over the top edge of his scar.

His calloused hands run up and down her back, before taking her face between them. He presses
his lips to her forehead. “And I, you, my love.”
Once they're tucked under the furs, Jon pulls their bodies flush against each other, back to chest,
his arm over her waist, her full breast resting in his palm, then nuzzles into the nape of her neck
with a sigh.

“Are you alright, my love?” she asks, covering his hand with hers and lacing their fingers together.

“Aye, I think so,” he whispers, his warm lips kissing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “I needed
you here, safe a little longer. Just us and the quiet for a bit.”

“And the rest?” she asks, soft and careful.

He doesn't answer straight away, breathing deep, letting to out slowly. Reluctant. “I'll do whatever
it takes to save us, and the world with us, prophecy or no.”

The world.

Her world has narrowed considerably these last months. What she once wanted, faded and trival.
Now it consists of only three small letters. Of eyes so deep and dark, so assailing there's no hope,
nor want of escape. Of a precious heart that was cruelly stopped, but blessedly beats again. She
will keep her world safe, and the tiny life he helped her create, as they risk everything for everyone
else.

He kisses her neck again, once, then twice more. “We’ll get our answers in the morning. Rest now,
love.”

Knowing he’s been pushed far enough, Dany slips her hand between them, intent on settling his
nerves another way. She easily finds her prize, warm and half aroused. “Not yet.”

“You need to sleep,” he rasps, hips tucking tighter against her, hand squeezing her breast, his body
in complete opposition to his words.

“We sleep better once we’ve had each other, you know that,” she argues, grasping him in hand and
placing him between her thighs.

Neither can help their bodies response then, his hardening length, her slick cunt causing both to
rock their hips against the other.

“Gods Dany, you're so wet,” he breathes into her ear, fingers plucking a tender nipple as he slides
through her swollen lips. “How long has that greedy cunt been achin?”

“You know very well how long.”

His grunt holds an edge of laughter, hips surging forward, teeth biting into her neck. “Maybe I
should threaten to spank you more often,” he muses, now kissing at her bruised skin.

“Maybe you should do more than threaten,” she challenges, reaching down between her thighs and
pressing his cock tighter against her cunt, grinding her aching clit over him, desperate for more
friction.

Her answer and actions too much for him, Jon grabs her by the wrist, pinning it down beside her
head as he rolls them over, his delicious weight covering her from head to toe, trapping her
between him and the bed. His cock, now rigid and weeping probes at her entrance, splitting her
open in two pumps of his hips, driving in to the hilt.

Dany cries out at the sudden invasion, gripping his fingers tightly in hers, the others tangled in
raven curls. She should be scared, at the very least uncomfortable. In all their hours together she's
managed to keep them face to face until now. Memories should be swirling in her mind, making
fear flood her veins, but none of those things are happening. Instead her cry was one of pure
pleasure. She knows she's safe here with him. He would never force her and would take a knife to
his own heart before hurting her. And gods! He’s never felt better buried within her.

Whether it's her raging need for him, the new position, or the precipice their lives hang from, he
seems to be hitting every hidden vulnerable spot she has, building her to an intense and insatiable
hunger quicker than ever before.

Jon seems just as affected, his grip on her like steel bars, hands and arms caging her in, his grunting
breath heavy against her neck, curls tickling her cheek, the course hairs of his beard scraping her
raw. “Fook. So tight,” he pants, forcing her further into the bed with each slow rut of his hips.

She pushes back against him, lifting her arse as much as his weight allows, to bring him deeper,
clasping and pulling at his cock with her quaking walls. His thrusts grow quicker, groans louder.
It's her only recourse, being held down and so thoroughly taken, completely at his mercy. It's only
fair he should feel as unmoored as she does.

Much faster than she wants, the sensations begin to consume her. The smooth hard glide of his
cock, nearly leaving her, only to split her open again despite the desperate clench to keep him
seated and still. The delicious, tingling burn spreading from her center through her arse cheeks and
thighs as his hot skin slaps against them, over and over. Not the spanking she craves, but close. The
rough hair of his thighs, the sculpted muscles of his torso writhing over her back, his breathy
moans and pants filling her ears.

It's all too much and not enough, wrenching sounds from her she's never heard, never knew she
was capable of making, as she shudders and shivers, her body no longer her own.

His heat and weight lift away, breath hitching. “You alright?”

Panicked his worry will end this, she rips a hand free and slaps it against his arse, urging him
forward with a handful of flesh gripped fiercely, nails no doubt leaving deep, pink crescents in his
pale skin. “Don't stop, Jon. Please don't stop.”

He drives forward, ripping another cry from her throat when he bottoms out against her womb. His
angle changes, low and pressing, each outward stroke torturing bliss, each inward, divine torment.
The pace he keeps has her hovering like a flake of snow or fluttering leaf in a soft wind. It's
maddening and euphoric, to be held a over the cliff's edge, xhilaration and fear swirling to terrible
heights, threatening to burst through every pore and leave one in tatters. It's a secret sweeter than
any sea or sky could whisper and she never wants it to end.

Then his arm is under her, lifting her up, face grasped in his hand, gentle, yet firm, as he twists her
around for a reckless kiss. “Touch yourself. I want ya to feel how wet you are.” His demand is no
more than a feral growl against her mouth, making her every nerve quiver and shake.

She mewls, high-pitched and keening, knowing they'll both be flung into the abyss as soon as she
does his bidding, yet unable to refuse him. Slowly, as if her hand was made of lead, she reaches
beneath her. The mess she finds is nearly obscene; her fingers slipping across her slick skin so
easily they go too far, splitting around his girth. She gasps. He groans. Then she’s pressing against
herself, and him, feeling each thrust and drag of his hard length push and pull at her, experiencing
him stretch her in a whole new way. It's all so indecent and lewd, and it couldn't thrill her more.

“Dany,” he gasps, tension and strain dripping thick as honey from his tone and pouring into her
ear, the slap of his hips against her arse erratic now. He’s close, desperate for her to fall first.

Her fingers follow his silent command finding her swollen nub, rubbing it in hard, quick circles.
That familiar, but ever wanted flame licks high and bright through the center of her until she
shatters like so much glass, her wail muffled by the mattress and pillows she buries her face in. His
yell is nearly a howl, given free and loud and unrestrained for all and sundry to hear as he empties
his seed into her in three rough jerks of his hips.

The fall back to earth then, delightfully wrecked and utterly spent.

“Seven fookin hells. What was that?” he pants, boneless and fallen at her side, covered in a sheen
of sweat.

“A dragon taming a wolf?” she giggles, her high not quite burned away.

“A dragon wolf taming a dragon I think you mean.” He laughs, then lands a stinging slap against
her arse. “Go to sleep my wicked wife.”

She does sometime later, knowing her job is complete as she watches his eyes flutter closed, the
slow rise and fall of his chest, and brow smooth and unworried just as it should be.

---

In the dark winter dawn, the five of them made their way outside the safety of Winterfell's walls
and climbed upon Drogon's back. They left Sam behind, along with a letter to explain their absence
to their advisors, and a perturbed and pouty Rhaegal.

It took both Jon and Dany to appease him. His mother to soothe his worries, and Jon to assure him
he was needed, tasking him with the protection of their people. As they flew off, Jon was pleased
to see his giant green friend, melting the snow and ice from the trenches just as they had the last
several mornings.

He leans forward, placing his lips near Dany’s ear. “You're sure he'll behave while we're gone?”

She puts a hand over Jon’s where it rests against her stomach, squeezing. He kisses her hair, taking
her hand and putting it back around Drogon's spike. “Don't let go.”

Dany smiles softly, kisses his cheek, then turns back to focus on Drogon.

They fly for hours, seeing virtually nothing but snow covered land, smatterings of trees, and black
rivers cutting through both. Staying just east of the King’s road and high into the grey mist keeps
them mostly hidden from any eyes that may be daring the freezing morning. Winter has reached its
icy hand far below the North now. Drogon's heat beneath them is surely the only thing keeping the
five of them from freezing. Jon lost feeling in his face before they’d made it past Castle Cerwyn.
Dany’s body heat is the only reason he can still feel his fingers.

But he forgets the frigid cold as the ominous, charred and melted ruins of Harrenhall come into
view ahead of them, the Gods Eye, a still and murky expanse laying just beyond. Instead of
continuing their course, Drogon suddenly banks right, circling the blacken rubble of the once
enormous castle.
Dread fills Jon, thoughts of Winterfell and Viserion forcing the intolerable to swim about his brain.
He shakes the images free as he would a nightmare and manages to tear his eyes away from the
disturbing sight only for them to come to rest on his stricken wife. As terrible a picture as the castle
makes, it's nothing to seeing her wrestle with the truth it tells. Her skin has faded to an ashy green,
face slack, eyes wide and watery. He could blame their babe, but he knows that's not it.

Desperate to free her from her own enforced nightmare he squeezes her close, pulling her attention
away from the destruction. “We won't ever do something like this. We’ll be better.”

She closes her eyes, leaning back into him and draws in a deep breath. He whispers what he hopes
is soothing nonsense in her ear until he feels the tension finally leave her. Drogon swings left then,
taking them over the glassy waters of the Gods Eye, his mother back on course again.

A hand grabs at Jon's furs, shaking him, nearly making him jump out of his skin. “A stern gloom
hangs in the air around the Isle, it pervades all who draw near. Tell her to keep going. It will lift for
us,” Howland’s craggy voice reaches his ear on the ripping wind.

He’s not wrong. Just as Jon relays the message to Dany an icy, firm grip settles around him as if
death has his heart in his grasp. Drogon shifts beneath them, faltering, agitated, letting out a
trembling roar. Daenerys soothes him as best she can with a gentle hand and silent plea, urging him
onward.

There in the middle of the polished waters stands a tower of thick fog as large as the Red Keep. Jon
waits for the oppressive strain to lift, shivering, stomach ripe with nausea. Dany is tense as a bow
string against his front, Bran’s fingers digging into his ribs, arms like steal bands around him, both
feeling the effects just as deeply as him apparently.

Then it's gone, the gloom and fog, like a flash of lightning, leaving the air blessedly breathable,
crisp and clean. The Isle of Faces lies below them, a green and red jewel laying on a bed of grey
silk.

They circle round, once, then again, searching for a place to land. The whole Isle is covered in
trees, the ring of shore not nearly wide enough for a dragon, let alone one Drogon's size. They've
no choice though. Dany picks a spot and urges him down.

A quick shiver of wind from his wings ruffles the stillness of the water before turning it to white
capped waves has he hovers to land on the too small scrap of open earth.

Hurrying down from their perch as best they can, Howland and Meera helping Jon get Bran
situated on his back, Dany keeps Drogon calm, then slips down herself. They brace against each
other as he lifts back into the air, the beat of his wings fierce.

Jon sees nothing but a seemingly impenetrable screen of foliage standing before them, dense and
dark. Then a warm, sweet breeze creeps through the trees, little more than a whisper, brushing
against his face and lifting his spirits. Howland doesn't tarry, or give them time to question, leading
the way into the thick wood on a path the rest of them would never have found.

They’re quickly swallowed up by the forest, brush, and bramble. From one step to the next it's as if
they moved from day to dusk, the light dimming to a moldy green. The sun only reaches them
through small waving holes in the canopy high above giving the effect they've been submerged
into murky pond water. Rich earthy scents invade Jon’s nose with decay and growth in equal
measure. Everything around them, the timber, the bushes, the ground, are all embrowned and
mossed with age, as if the earth is slowly devouring all that it touches. They’ve entered another
world.
The trees are most shocking. There’s alder, ash, and oak, none of them small, reaching heights Jon
never knew a tree could and their trunks would take half a dozen men, fingertip to fingertip, to
span, maybe more. It leaves one feeling like an ant crawling amongst giants. He’s certain he's
never been in a place so ancient.

Not surprising is the life living within it. Bronze-green beetles tumble over stones, and rotten
trunks, lying helpless on their backs, their desperate attempts to right themselves halting at the sight
of humans. Ravens flutter and flap their wings above them, swooping from branch to branch,
watching their progress with beady black eyes, all eerily silent. Glimpses of rusty fur can be caught
if quick enough, the squirrels and deer hiding from curious visitors.

Drogon circles the woods above them, much like the ravens, blocking out what little light they
have on each pass, his mother's caution keeping him close.

Soon the green and brown begin to fade, being taken over by others. The weirwoods. Blood red
and bone white, they bend together as though murmuring secrets. Their roots arched up like
skeletal wasted hands reaching through the loamy earth. Faces stare out of each, watching their
progress with sunken, bleeding eyes. Jon’s never seen more than one at a time, here there are
dozens and dozens.

He worries he shouldn't trust it, but cannot deny the sense of infinite peace that fills this place.
Until Bran pats his chest, disturbing that fragile peace. “Set me down, Jon.” He’s more than a little
reluctant to let his brother go, gripping his legs tighter. “Please,” Bran adds.

Howland and Meera, again step in to help, easing Bran to the ground, then pulling him to rest
against the trunk of the nearest weirwood. Jon watches as his little brother's eyes close, a slight
smile tugging at his lips as he takes a deep breath. It expands his meager girth before shrinking him
as it's expelled. He seems at rest, happy even, but Jon still isn't certain he can leave him behind, the
thought abhorrent.

Dany's hand runs up his back, offering her support much as he did for her over Harrenhall.

“I’ll be alright, Jon. You must go,” Bran urges, voice stronger than Jon’s heard it in days. “I
promise to still be here when you return.”

It's the last bit of assurance Jon needs. He turns to Howland as he takes Dany’s hand in his. “Where
are they?”

“Through there,” Howland says, pointing at a ring of weirwoods ahead of them.

Jon takes a few steps forward, Dany following, before he stops, turning to her. “Are we really
doing this?”

“Yes. Are you alright?” she asks, rubbing his hand between hers, her eyes, glimmering star-like in
her pale face.

He wants to kiss her, so he does, long and deep, letting himself get lost in her; her beautiful face
held in his hands, fingers buried in her silky hair, her sweet lips and scorching tongue pulling at his
soul, and all his nerves fade away just as he knew they would. Nothing strengthens him more than
Dany. Reluctantly, he lets her go, resting his forehead against hers. “I am now,” he sighs, “Are
you?”

She releases a shuddering breath, her soft hand stroking his face, as she hums. “Mmm, hmm.”

They walk into the small glade at the center of the weirwoods Howland directed them to, and are
soon not alone. Only one comes forward to meet them, though they sense many others hidden from
view.

Short and wiry, he’s dressed head to toe in rough, dark linen, most held in place by leather
strapping. He's not green as their name suggests, there are no horns protruding from his head, nor
leaves for hair as Old Nan had told in her stories. Though he isn't like any other man they have
ever seen either. Skin colored like a bruise three days past, mottled a swarthy purple, green, and
blue. Even with his odd coloring, he appears young at first glance, skin tight and full, no lines or
wrinkles aging him. But you only need look in his eyes to see the ages he’s lived. Wide set and
pale gold within narrow lids they hold a depth of wisdom unknown.

“Thank you for coming. I am Elric,” he introduces himself, accent queer and thick. He holds out an
arm to Jon.

Accepting, Jon grips his forearm as warriors are want to do. Neither tarries, stepping back again to
their respective places. Elric bows his head towards Daenerys, who graciously returns it.

“We have many questions,” Jon starts, too anxious to be patient, but Elric raises a hand.

“A large part of you must have believed Howland, else you wouldn't be here.”

“Mayhaps, but we still need answers,” Jon bites back. “We’re not your puppets, no matter what
you might think.”

Dany watches as their glances meet like crossed swords, bright and harsh. She shifts slightly, the
tension palpable. This is not starting well.

“Why us? Who decided we were the ones to be burdened with this?” she asks, hoping to give Jon
time to cool off and get an answer to one of their many questions.

“The gods decided.”

Jon tilts his head, his eyes darting around to the carved faces surrounding them. “The old gods?”

Elric spreads his hands. “All the gods. And you were chosen because there were no others whose
hearts were true enough.”

“What do you mean, true enough?” Dany asks.

“There is a goodness in both of you not found in many, but you also possess the ability to dole out
death. You are kind, yet fierce. Giving when needed, ruthless when necessary. And most
importantly, more than anything, you want to live. Alone, but especially together you are the
balance the world needs. A balance we must have if we are to survive.”

You want to live…

If Jon knows nothing else, he knows that. He wants to live, with Dany at his side and their child,
lying safe within her womb. Nothing else matters save that.

He straightens, his presence having grown quiet and powerful in the wake of his acceptance.
“What does he want? The Night King?”

“Death only hungers for one thing. More death.”

Like the freezing winds beyond The Wall his words cut through their flesh straight to bone. The
feeling like a blade sent swiftly and suredly home to its scabbard. They both knew, but hearing it is
different.

Death and doom and destiny. The story of their lives. Nothing should surprise them anymore.

“And you, all of you, believe we can defeat death,” Jon says, his words a statement, not a question.

Elric smiles, his odd golden eyes glowing. “One day when you are both old and grey you will greet
it as a friend, but this death you will defeat.”

“How?”

“With the dragons, and this.” From his back Elric unsheathes a sword, the pommel of which Jon
has been eyeing since the moment he joined them.

He holds it out for both to see. The sharp steel gleams a deep grey. Valyrian. The length is shorter
than Longclaw, but the blade is wider, tapered, curved, then tapering again to a lethal point. The
hilt is clean and unadorned, the pommel though is fitted with a cluster of sparkling, ice-blue
diamonds that seem to gather all the light surrounding them.

Jon reaches for it, a grim and shuddering fascination overcoming him, knowing without a doubt the
fabled Lightbringer is being offered to him. But his heart jolts painfully, warning him away. Fist
clenched, he pulls it back to his side. “I will not sacrifice her for this,” he says, voice and eyes
tempered as steel they look upon.

“Of course not,” Elric says, his tone kind as he shakes his head. “Your sacrifice has already been
paid. Many have died so that you could live. Including yourself. You have been reborn from the
fire, just as your queen has.” He looks to Dany. “The lives of those you loved were sacrificed to
bring your children into the world. They are your Lightbringer.” He once again offers Jon the
sword. “And this is yours. Reforged and made new. But it will not burn without blood freely given
from you both.”

Jon balks. “You just said–”

“Not enough to hurt either of you.”

“She's already given more th–”

Elric cuts him off once more. “It will not hurt her, or the child.”

“What about him?” Daenerys asks, gripping Jon's arm, a sudden knot lodging in her throat.

“No more than you.” Elric pulls a dagger from his side and offers it to her, hilt first. “His palm,
then yours. Cup your hands, I will slip the sword through.”

“That's it?” Jon asks, disbelieving.

He nods. “That is all.”

Dany’s eyes narrow, no more trusting than Jon.

“You, and Howland, said there must always be a balance.”

“There must. Life sits on the edge of a blade. If unbalanced, all is lost.”

“If we end the song of ice what happens to the song of fire?” she asks, the sudden and treacherous
throb of her voice squeezing Jon’s heart.
Elric bows his head, a small, sad smile upon his strange face. “You are wise dragon queen.”

Jon sways, taken by a swift grip of anger and helplessness. “No,” he snaps, moving a menacing
step towards Elric. “No. There must be another way. She’s lost two sons already. She must end the
second again. You will not take the others from her. It’s too much.”

Dany grasps at Jon's tunic, her knees nearly buckling at the gut wrenching pain of knowledge
fighting with his outrage in her defense. The strength of both washing through her like a storm
swept wave, lifting her up and crashing her against a rocky shore.

Jon spins, grabbing her up in his arms, protecting her in the only way he can. “We won't do it. I
won't let them take them from you.”

“I never said they would be taken from her,” Elric corrects, voice strong, to break through their
turmoil. “She will still have her sons, they will only be different.”

A huge breath rushes from Dany, then his words settle in her mind, leaving her weaker still. She
twists her head from its hiding place in Jon's chest. “Different? You would take their fire?” The
idea is certainly better than losing them, but still unimaginable.

“Not I, your Grace. I'm afraid balance demands it. You know the destruction fire can wield if not
held in check. Your family's history is proof enough.”

Jon holds her tight, the feel of his hand cupping her head, the other spread across her shoulder
blades, keeping her steady. “Will all magic be gone?” he whispers, uncertainty lacing his words.

“Not all, but what is left will be much less than it was. We can never allow any to become too
strong again.”

Dany pulls away just enough to look into Jon's beautiful eyes. They stare at one another, no words
spoken, hearts already settled. He is her shield, her, his flame in the dark, and neither are willing to
give the other up. They will fight for what they have, until they can fight no more.

All of their uncertainties dropped away like cast-off cloaks, Dany grasps the dagger from Elric,
bright violet eyes still set on her husband. At Jon's nod, they lace their fingers together.

Elric raises Lightbringer, readying it to slip it through. “Repeat these words,” he tells them.
“Together we shall end the darkness and in the dawn remake the world. We swear it by ice and
fire.”

Pressing the dagger on edge between their palms, they repeat the vow. “Together we shall end the
darkness and in the dawn remake the world. We swear it by ice and fire.”

Dany pulls, swiftly; the steel bites, slicing through their palms. She lets out a small gasp at the
sting as Jon winces, though both expected it. Elric hesitates, eyes darting between them, the fabled
blade trembling in his shaking hands. He closes his eyes briefly at the wonder of it all then slips
the blade between their palms, before raising it again, slicked with blood, in one graceful and fluid
motion. None of them breathe as he passes the blade reverently to Jon.

His bloody hand forgotten, Jon grips the hilt, shocked by the feel of it in his hands, like slipping on
an old glove. It begins to glow, red, then orange, then erupts into brilliant blue flames. Jon looks
past the fiery sword, watching the light dance in his wife's eyes as she smiles.
 But still my heart is heavy
Chapter Summary

More time spent at the Isle of Faces, returning home to many questions, a lovely
reprieve from all the stress, then those pesky Northern Lords are dealt with once more.

Chapter Notes

Hi! Made it back in a more timely manner this go around :) I want to thank all of you
for your sweet words and taking the time to read and comment on the last chapter, and
all the others too. I've enjoyed the hell out of writing this fic, but it does come with its
fair share of nerves every time I post. While I have had a few not be so happy with me,
only once have I received any hate, and considering the past week, I'm exceedingly
grateful for that. So for you good guys out there who leave us writers love and
encouragement, and not hate, THANK YOU! It truly does mean the world to us!

HUGE shout out to my queen, Meisiesmut! She beta-ed this for me and also provides
tons of love, laughs, and support to me on a daily basis. I love you, M!! As do my
other precious Tarts- Sparkles, Frostbitepanda, Jaqtkd, Ashleyfanfic, and
Noordinarylines. I love you ladies to the moon and back!!! If you have perchance been
living under a rock somewhere and haven't read their fics, please do crawl from your
hole and get to it. You won't find any better Jonerys fics out there, and make sure you
leave them some love too! Makes em write more :)

Jon sheaths Lightbringer, the flames dying the moment the blade hits leather. “How do we kill
him? Better yet, where do we find him to kill him?”

Elric clasps his hands at his back, slowly shaking his head, eyes downcast. “That we do not know.”

“Which, do you not know?” Dany questions, while Jon wraps her hand in a scrap of linen Elric
provided for their wounds.

“Either one, I’m afraid,” he admits.

Jon’s frustration is palpable, jaw clenched, the muscles twitching, his eyes narrowed as they scan
the trees. But his touch never shows his anger, his fingers gentle as they tie off the ends of the
cloth and slowly let Dany's hand slip free. “You say you know it's us, and give us this sword, but
you don't know anythin’ else?” he asks, tone cutting.

“Perhaps your brother, Your Grace,” Elric offers.

Impatient and incensed, Jon barely manages to stand still under the strain as Dany wraps his own
cut, his body vibrating much like a rope drawn out too fast. He goes straight to Bran the moment
she's done, squatting down in front of him, as eager to see his brother as he was a week ago.
Bran looks back at him, sunken eyes studying intently. “You're different.”

Jon’s grin is fleeting, more of a grimace really,as he drops his head, ever humble. “I don't feel
different.”

“You are.”

Practiced as he is, Jon pushes it aside, leaving it to wait with all the other things that must. “You
won't come home?” He already knows the answer but cannot stop himself from asking, his need to
have them all under his watchful eye too strong.

Bran looks up at Dany, his spindly hands rubbing at the weirwood’s roots, almost caressing them.
“It's not home anymore.” His eyes fall back to Jon. “For either of us.”

Jon draws in a shuddering breath, running a hand over his face. “Sansa, Arya. They're going to kill
me when I come back without you.” He focuses on the moss under his brother's feet, flustered, his
voice having come out ruined and strained, as if the thorns and brambles of the surrounding forest
had invaded his throat.

“They'll understand. We all have our parts to play and this is mine.” No pain could be heard in
Bran’s words, his tone apathetic at best.

It makes the weight on Jon's heart all the harder to bear. He sinks to his knees, the wet loamy earth
soaking through his leathers, as he grabs onto Bran’s withered leg. “When it's over. I'm coming
back for you.” His brother’s smile is like a death knell ringing through his head. This is goodbye
and now they both know it. “I'm not ready, Bran, not again,” he whispers, shaking his head, willing
it not to be.

“We don't have a choice,” Bran’s answer comes, simple and cold, a shock of icy water to a parched
tongue.

Anger and fear grips Jon, he struggles against them as a doomed creature does in an eagle's talons.
“We do,” he grits out through clenched teeth, “We always have a choice.”

While Dany’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder, Bran is indifferent to the storm ripping through
him, face ever a mask, voice like the dead. “You know who you are, Jon. Just as Daenerys and I
know who we are. The choice is no choice at all. It just is.”

Jon’s laugh is grievous even to his own ears and he wonders how many more knives will pierce his
heart before it truly gives up, never to beat again. Gathering his strength, drawing from his wife's
and brother's–both, and so many more counting on him–he takes another deep breath then fixes his
eyes on Bran. “Is there anything you can tell me? Are the trees helping?”

“I feel stronger, but I haven't tried to see him yet. Lord Reed and I have been working on talking to
each other.”

Jon twists around, looking over at Howland standing behind him.

“I can feel him, but I cannot make out words. We believe his feelings will be enough though,” he
says, answering Jon's silent question.

He looks back at his little brother, eyebrows lifted. “If you can't actually speak to him, how will
this possibly help us? Some feelings aren't enough to keep you here Bran.”

“The longer I’m here the stronger I’ll become. What I can't get through to him, Meera can send
with a raven.”

Knowing his arguing is useless, Jon grasps Bran’s arm, eyes threatening to spill the tears he’s been
forcing back. He swallows hard, desperate for the knot in his throat to go away.

“I saw the last time you told me goodbye,” Bran murmurs, his returning grip weak. “I'm sorry
Mother was so hateful and that I couldn't answer you. I wanted to.”

Jon gathers him into a hug, careful not to crush him. Even bundled in furs, he feels brittle and
breakable, much like his own heart does. “I love you, Bran. I will see you again. I promise. This
isn't goodbye,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“I love you too, Jon.”

He lets him go quickly, standing and turning towards Elric, focusing all his attention on the strange
man lest he crumble. “You’ll watch over him and Meera.” It isn't a request, but an order from the
King, Hero of the Dawn. Whoever in the seven fooking hells he is now.

“It will be our honor, your grace,” Elric assures him.

While Jon continues to speak with Elric, Dany squats down, taking Bran’s hand in hers. “Thank
you for helping us. I hope we'll see you soon.”

“Take care of him. And the children.”

“Children?” she wonders.

“Three, I believe. Two girls and boy. All healthy and happy and beautiful.”

A soothing and quieting touch is gently laid upon Dany’s soul and she must weep a little. “Thank
you,” she whispers, squeezing his fingers tightly, wiping away the sudden tears with her other hand
lest Jon see.

“Tell him soon,” Bran asks. “He needs the hope.”

“I will, I promise,” she swears, with a small smile and squeeze of his fingers.

She stands, finding Jon shaking Meera’s hand. He mumbles something to her she cannot hear, then
walks away, stopping and leaning against a tree just down the path. It takes all her will power not
to go to him, but steadfast she waits, giving him time to muster his strength and for Howland to say
his goodbyes to his daughter before she does the same.

Dany hugs the brave woman, unwilling to ignore the kindred connection she feels towards her.
“Thank you for your loyalty, Meera. We will not forget it. Don't hesitate to send for us if there's a
need. If we can't come ourselves, we’ll send someone.”

“Of course, Your Grace. And thank you. I think we'll be fine here. Much safer than we were
beyond the Wall.”

With a firm nod to Elric, and another smile for Bran and Meera, Dany leaves.

Despondency clings to her husband like a wet tunic. The sight of his hanging head and pinched
brow making Dany's heart feel heavy as a stone within her chest. She laces her fingers with his,
giving a gentle squeeze. He looks up, only for a moment, his smile, brief and aching, then follows
Howland into the forest again. This is a pain she cannot ease with words, so she stays silent, not
letting him go until they climb upon Drogon's back once more.

His arms never leave her waist, hands splayed across her stomach, nor does his head lift from hers
all the way back to Winterfell.

---

Sam’s waiting in the Wolf's Wood for them when they return, the thin light of a late winter’s day
reaching through the trees like long pointing fingers, leaving everything shaded in greys.

“He stayed then?” he asks, as soon as they're all standing on their feet again. Jon only nods, still too
tormented to acknowledge his brother’s absence out loud. Sam pats his shoulder awkwardly. “He’ll
be alright. He survived years beyond the Wall, don't forget.”

“I know,” Jon sighs.

Then Sam’s eyes brighten in his round face, his fingers worrying each other as he does a little
dance, looking very much like an excited fat squirrel. “Did you meet them? What’d they look like?
What’d they want with you?”

A smile creeps upon Jon, unbidden, Sam’s excitement contagious. He loosens his sword belt,
freeing Lightbringer from beside Longclaw then unwrapping it for Sam to see. He pulls it only a
few inches from its scabbard, the red glow impossible for his friend to miss.

By the height of his gasp, one would think Jon punched him. “Gods be good, Jon, is that...”

“Yeah.”

Sam's wide eyes dart to Dany behind them where she's soothing Rhaegal. “She's all right? You
didn't have to–”

Jon holds out his wrapped palm, the blood stain bright against the creamy linen. “Just a bit from
both of us. I wouldn't have taken it otherwise.”

“O’course not.” Swaying now, Sam’s smile softens. “I'm happy for you.”

“Not sure it's anythin’ to be happy about,” Jon says with a wry huff.

Sam winces. “Proud then?”

With a shake of his head, Jon hugs him. “Thank you, Sam. For everythin’.”

“I haven't done that much,” Sam titters, hugging him back.

“You have. For me, for all of us. You findin’ the Valyrian recipe may save us all.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam skirts around the praise.“Nah, you're gonna do that.”

“What if I can't?”

“Jon, you can't possibly think that after everything.”

Sighing, he shakes his head again. “I’ll do my best. Anythin’ happen while we were gone?” he
questions, moving on to less uncomfortable things.

“No, just the same as yesterday. Preparations.”

Dany joins them then, and Howland. The four make their way to the North gate, Jon wishing to
keep their arrival as quiet as possible. “I need you to bring my sisters, and everyone else to us, Sam.
We have to talk. None of the lords or ladies yet, except maybe Lyanna, if you can find her.” He
watches as Lord Reed heads for the godswood, gratefulness easing his strain a bit. “Show Howland
to Bran’s rooms when he's ready.”

“All right. Bring them to your solar?”

“Aye, that'll work. But don't rush. Give us a bit to thaw out and catch our breath.”

With a nod they go their separate ways. Jon and Dany slip up the backstairs of the armory and
across the bridge to their chambers, as away from prying eyes as possible.

As soon as the door shuts behind them Jon sinks against it, yanking at the furs he's confined in.
Dany goes to their bedroom, tugging at her own clothes, feet dragging. After dropping his clothes
on the floor and placing his swords in the corner, Jon joins her where she stands in front of the fire,
now stripped down to only his tunic, leathers, and stocking feet, her in the simple wool dress she
wore under her coat. He walks into her arms when she reaches for him and they stay there, just
holding one another, letting the fire seep the cold from their bones so long she nearly falls asleep
standing up.

“You're so tired,” he frets, rubbing her back and peppering kisses across her hair. She shakes her
head, though her eyes never open. He heaves a great sigh. “Dany, I’m exhausted. If I am, I know
you are.”

She drags her head from his chest giving him a weak smile. “I am, but I'll be alright.”

He nods towards the bed, hands patting her hips. “Go lay down and have a nap. I can handle
everyone.”

Dany rubs her face, willing herself to push through her exhaustion. “No. I won't have you doing it
alone. I’ll be fine.”

His pretty eyes narrow at her. “You are so stubborn.”

She smiles, stroking his cheek, still reddened from the cold. His beard needs trimming she notes.
Her fingernails now disappearing into the crisp, black hair. She maneuvers him back onto the trunk
at the end of their bed then sits on his lap. His arms encircle her, a deep shuddering breath leaving
him as he rests his head against her chest. She pulls at the leather strap still holding some of his
curls hostage despite the whipping wind it fought against for hours, freeing them for her fingers to
tame, then kisses his dark, furrowed brow. “You are too good for this world, Jon Snow.”

He sighs again, the hand resting on her thigh reaching up to give her arse a half-hearted smack.
“Don't.”

“I will,” she insists, lifting his sullen eyes to hers with gentle hand to his chin. “I married the best
man this world of ours has to offer, and I will shout it to the rooftops for the rest of my days.”

He lets out a gruff snort, eyes rolling before letting them falling closed. He’s so tired. “How’d you
know I’m the best. There's thousands you’ve never met. Anyone of them could be better than me.”
“They couldn't be.” He looks up with a scowl and she lays a finger over his lips when they open to
protest. “I know because there isn't one thing about you I can think of to improve upon.”

To her relief, a meager smile tugs at the corners of his alluring mouth. “Not even how much I
brood?”

She laughs. “No one broods as beautifully as you do, but I also know how to make you stop
brooding,” she whispers, nuzzling into his neck, lips nipping at his cool skin.

His hands slide up her back and side, pulling her closer. “Aye, you're quite good at that.” Then his
lips find hers, capturing them in a kiss that quickly turns heated, their emotions still churning just
below the surface from a week of turmoil.

“Dany,” he mumbles into her mouth.

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Someone’s knocking.”

“Damn them,” she hisses, pulling away. “Can a wife not have a moment with her husband?”

Jon runs a soothing hand across her cheek, then over her braids. “The joys of being king and queen
I’m afraid.”

Her eyes turn mischievous. “Let’s make them wait.”

That pulls a smirk from him, but he doesn't concede. “I’d rather have it over with so I can have ya
for the rest of the night.”

She nods, understanding. “Are you ready for this?”

“No,” he admits.

She smiles a smile like pale wintry sunshine. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “I couldn't do this without you. You do know that?”

“Yes, you could.”

He pulls away, his precious face breaking her heart. “Maybe before.”

She kisses his nose, no longer so red or cold. “You have me there.”

“Let's get this over with.” He lifts her from his lap then stands himself, leading them into their
solar.

When he opens the door a wall of faces greets them–his sisters, Tyrion, Davos, Varys, Missandei,
Grey Worm, and Jorah. Sam stands behind them all, a pained apology twisting his features.

Jon stands back and waves his hand dramatically. “Come in, everyone.”

“What is the point in having any of us if you two are going to keep running off half cocked to gods
know where without telling anyone?” Tyrion grumbles as he shuffles in first.

Sansa is hot on his heels, just as irritable. “You could have told us you were leaving, Jon. It might
have helped me deal with the lords better.”
Davos clasps Jon’s shoulder with a fatherly hand as he enters. “Glad you're both back safe.”

“Thank you. At least someone is,” Jon replys, eyes rolling, causing Davos to chuckle.

The rest file in, thankfully holding their tongues and the room seems to shrink around them, now
filled to the brim.

Ignoring all the expectant stares, Jon gives Dany a pointed look, eyes darting from her to an empty
seat by the fire. With a small placating smile she sits. He follows, standing behind her, arms braced
across the back of the chair.

“Well? Where have you been all day?” Sansa asks, impatient as usual with her brother's sullen
silences. “Your note told us nothing. What's happened?”

“Yes, please,” Tyrion adds. “We’re all quite curious.”

“This wasn't something we planned, or were given much time to think on,” Dany censures him, too
tired to suffer his bruised pride at being left in the dark.

“Howland Reed arrived late last night…” Jon says, bringing all eyes to him and actually enjoying
their shocked expressions.

Together, he and Dany tell them of Howland's visit and where it lead them that day, leaving most
in the room in confused silence.

Except for Sansa. “Where’s Bran?” she asks, voice wavering.

Jon takes a deep breath, steeling himself, eyes sliding to the floor. “He’s alright.”

As he knew it wouldn't be, that's not nearly enough for her. “Jon. Where is Bran?”

“He stayed behind,” he answers, his voice creaking like a door held warily ajar.

“WHAT?” she screeches. “You left him there, alone? We just got him back. How could you?”

“I didn't...”

Dany stands and Jon’s words fall away. She walks over to Sansa and takes her hands. “He isn't
alone. He’s safe and will be well cared for. I know it may not seem like it, but Bran is a man
grown. It was his choice to stay. Not Jon’s. The last thing he wanted to do was leave him.”

“Then he should have brought him back fighting and screaming,” she accuses, her icy eyes staring
daggers at Jon.

His misery getting the best of him, Jon cuts her right back, face a twisted sneer. “The way you
fought for Rickon?“

“Stop it. Both of you,” Arya snaps at them.

Shamed, the siblings turn away from each other. Only some hesitant shuffling and the crackling of
the fire filling the silence as the others give them time to compose themselves.

“But, why?” Sansa finally begs, summoning tears to torment Jon further. “Why would he want to
stay there when he could be here, with us?”

Knowing her pain all too well, he goes to her, pulling her into his arms. She wilts into him, unable
to deny the comfort. “This isn’t about what we want anymore, it's about what we have to do to
live,” he tells her. “He needs the trees. The Isle is covered in weirwoods. They help him see things,
make him stronger. He needs both to help us. And I had to let him.”

“Who’s with him?” she whispers.

“Meera Reed and…the Green Men,” he answers, letting her go.

“Green Men?” Arya asks. “They're real? You saw them?”

“They're real,” Jon assures her. “They gifted me with something too.”

He walks into the bedroom and comes back with the sword, pulling it free from its scabbard and
giving it a twirling flourish.

They all stand moon-eyed and speechless as the red glow turns to blue flames dancing up the
blade.

Davos shakes his head, chuckling, “One day, I’ll stop being surprised by you.”

“I need wine. Why is there no bloody wine in here?” Tyrion asks, green eyes darting about the
small room in search of his liquid courage, a sort of stunned incredulity having overtaken his face.
Missandei disappears into their bed chamber and right back out again, a full cup in her hand,
passing it to a grateful Tyrion. He downs it in one gulp, much to her annoyance.

Arya creeps closer to her brother, grey eyes wide with awe. “Is that what I think it is?”

Jon smirks, giving a short nod, able to relish in his pride of owning such a weapon with his little
sister.

“They had it, all this time?”

“Aye.”

Her wonder filled expression soon changes to one of mischief. “Well, are you done now?” she
asks. “First a king, then a Targaryen and heir to the bloody throne, and now Hero of the Dawn?
One would think you’re trying to prove something.”

Only from her could he take such teasing and laugh about it.

“What does this mean?” Varys asks, eyes on Jon. “You, are this prince who was promised?”

Jon shakes his head. “Not just me. Both of us,” he says, meeting Dany’s eyes, then does his best to
explain what they were told by Elric, again leaving the room in silence.

Tyrion soon breaks it. “Some are born into greatness, some achieve greatness, others have
greatness thrust upon them. Our King and Queen seem to have managed all three.”

Jorah gives a wry smile. “And he isn't even drunk.”

“Our odds are gettin’ better, I’d say.” Davos adds.

“We still don't know where he is or exactly how to kill him,” Jon warns them. “We’re counting on
Bran and Howland for that.”

“We need to inform the lords,” Sansa says.

“Not today. Dany needs food and rest. We’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

---

Jon makes his way into their bedroom as bare as his name day, only a linen towel hiding the
interesting parts of him from her eyes as he continues to dry off, having washed away the day's
stresses and travel while she rested and ate after her own bath.

A shiver of anticipation crisps her skin at the sight of him in all his naked glory. His own skin,
milk-white and sumptuously pale, gives him the appearance of a statue hewn from alabaster, cut
through with scattered veins of dark pink scars. The inky mass of his hair flows round him like the
sea as he shakes it free of water, his eyes black as the foam-swept rocks upon its shore as they stare
back at her own nakedness. She’s never believed in any gods, but looking at her husband, she's of a
mind to. How anyone could gaze at the sight before her and not see him as a divine gift is beyond
comprehension. He is a work of art and all hers to admire at her leisure.

Finally joining her in bed, he settles against the massive headboard, legs stretched out, ankles
crossed. He wiggles a bit to give his stones and firming cock some room before moving the tray of
food from between them over to his other side, no doubt as famished as she was. Dany takes
advantage, scooting closer and pressing herself along the length of his legs, laying her head at the
top of his warm, thick thigh before he can cover himself with the furs.

Quirking an eyebrow at her, he smirks, but leaves her be, his hunger diverting his attention back to
the cheese, sausage, and bread Missandei brought them. Already having her fill, Dany busies
herself with running her nails through the still damp, but crisp black hairs covering his muscular
legs. He moans a bit, either from her attentions or in gratefulness of finally having food in his
mouth.

She doesn't bother to discern, still engrossed in her enjoyment of his beautiful body, letting time
untie them with slow, gentle hands. He's so very different from her. While she’s fair all over,
darkness blends with his light, the fine covering of dusky hair allowing his opalescent skin to shine
all the brighter. Hard where she is soft. Rough to her smooth.

One of his hands finds its way into her hair, fingers threading into the freshly brushed strands,
lifting, then letting them slowly fall before doing it all again. Her eyes flutter closed.

“I love a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair,” he murmurs above her, with that
voice of his. The one that opens her as easy as any book. It's like the furs upon their bed, so soft
and deep as it caresses her skin she wants to wrap herself in it and never come out.

“Where did you hear that?” she asks, tilting her head back and looking up at him, the dips and
planes of his torso providing a lovely landscape. Her tongue darts out, instinctive, her eyes catching
on his cock now lying heavy and full against his stomach.

He shrugs, popping a piece of white cheese into his mouth, chewing it, then washing it down with
a sip of wine. “Some wedding or another I went to growin’ up. Always got stuck with the men.
That was one of the less vulgar songs they’d sing.”

“How does the rest of it go?” she asks, running her hand over his smooth hip and up the rippled
muscles of his side, purposely gliding the silky skin of her forearm against his cock.
His fingers brush her hair away from her neck, sending pleasing shivers down her spine. “Don’t
remember, but that part fits you. Us.”

Gods, this man, and what he means to her.

Before her traitorous emotions can get the best of her she grasps at the fanciful. “I should make a
verse for you then. Hmmmm.” She taps her fingers over the crease of skin at his hip. “How to
describe you…. Mmmm, I know. I love a man a pale as snow, with midnight in his hair,” she sing-
songs.

He laughs, eyes twinkling. “Get up here.”

“Why? I’m comfortable where I am,” she retorts, fingers skimming across his stomach now.

Jon grabs her hand before it reaches her intended target. “Because. You're my wife, my queen. You
deserve better than my throbbing cock in your face.”

Dany can’t help but laugh at his thinly veiled distress. “Such a noble husband I have. I quite like
your throbbing cock,” she purrs, pulling her hand free to pet him, fingers trailing softly from tip to
root, causing it to jump.

“Aye, where it belongs, between those pretty thighs of yours.” He reaches for her, intending to pull
her up and over him, but she easily evades his grasp, rolling away and onto all fours, a wicked
smile tugging at her full lips.

He’s struck by her, as he always seems to be. Charm upon charm is held within his wife, like
jewels in an intricate box. The sight of her naked and playful only expands the want already boiling
in his blood–the need to lose himself in her, to forget about the shit world they're living in if only
for an hour.

She crawls back towards him, as slow and slinky as a cat. “Oh, I adore you buried inside me, but I
think tonight I shall have you elsewhere. I want to please you as you please me. It's only fair.”

“I am as far from displeased as possible, Dany,” he scoffs, reaching for her again. “Come here and
let me prove it.”

She sits back just out of his reach, head tilted and eyebrow raised, her glorious silver hair falling
over her naked skin like a waterfall. “Jon Snow. Are you refusing your wife her desires?”

Enticement seems to cling around her like some subtle vapor. The way she said his name–rolling it
about her tongue like a sweet morsel, while her eyes glint at him like star light. He wonders
sometimes if she's a goddess or witch sent to test and torture him.

Dany watches as he licks his lips, lush black lashes fanning across his reddened cheeks as he sighs,
slumping back and shaking his head. “No. I'm tryin to treat her better than a common whore.”

“Jon.”

When he looks up at her firm tone, he’s surprised to find her smiling at him, lips a breath away
from his cock. He’s too stunned by the beautiful sight to wonder how she got there so fast and
without his knowledge.

“Gods, you wicked minx. What am I to do with you?”

Her amethyst eyes gleam and glitter. “Let me have my way. You’re no prudish maid. You’ve
feasted on my cunt nearly every night since the first. There's no place for reserve between us
anymore,” she proclaims, the consummate queen she is.

He nods, swallowing deep, letting out a slow breath, as if pained. "All right then, have it. I’ll not
tell you no.”

Triumphant, she leans in, running her tongue slowly up his length, then around the plump head.
Jon sucks in a gasp of air, eyes dilating to fat black pools, hips rising up searching for more.

Still smiling, Dany circles the head of his cock again. Once, twice, three times, loving the silky
smooth texture and heat and taste of him against her tongue almost as much as his response. All of
it making her cunt clench. While his pleasure is paramount, she knows her reward is certain to be
two fold. Watching his beautiful form and face bunch and twist, feeling him come undone within
her mouth, will only lead to more pleasure. His, then hers, then theirs. The anticipation spurring her
on, she wraps a hand around the root of him, pumping the stiff shaft while blowing cool air over
his moist tip before swirling her tongue around it again.

She may have wanted this to last a while, but can tell by how hard he is he isn't going to hold out
for more than a few minutes. She takes it slow despite that, keeping her strokes long and gentle,
lips and tongue soft. His resulting moans are music to her ears and the last of his resistance melts
away like snow in sunlight as he watches her lips wrap over him before sucking him into her
mouth.

"Seven hells.” The curse snags in his throat, fists gripping the sheet beneath him, keeping them
from taking handfuls of her silver tresses.

Jon’s barely caught his breath when her hands wrap around him, slowly sliding up, then down as
her head does the same. He groans when she pulls off with a pop, but her hands keep going–
stroking, twisting, and squeezing from base to tip and back again. Her touch perfect, firm, yet
careful. One hand drops, now massaging his stones, pushing him further to the edge. Then she
threatens to throw him over it, switching back to her scorching wet mouth.

No wine nor ale has ever made him so drunk.

Dany smiles around his tip as those sooty orbs of his disappear behind heavy lids and his head falls
back with a thunk.

"Are you going to come for me, Jon?" she purrs.

"Fook yes," he breathes out, trying to open his eyes but he just can't with the way her tongue is
running over that sensitive line of skin at the head of his cock.

Suddenly, he's back in her sensuous mouth, sliding all the way to her throat. His hands hit the bed
with a slap as he lets out a strained shout.

She pulls off again, wrapping a thumb and finger around him, pumping three quick strokes, careful
to avoid his swollen head. And just as she hoped, his body stiffens, hips rising, his control nearing
its breaking point.

"Dany.”

Her name a whispered moan, she plants a hand over one of his thighs to hold him still and sinks
back down again. Once there she starts to bob, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat
over and over again. His hips jerk erratically, the noises coming from him nothing but deep
guttural pleas.
Three more times she repeats his torture, keeping him trapped in the heat of her mouth a bit longer
each time. He's desperate by the third and she isn't sure she's ever felt him so hard.

"Dany, please. I can't.... Please," he begs, his voice hanging on the verge of suffering.

Not wanting his pleasure to become pain, she gives in and takes him all the way, swallowing when
he hits the back of her throat.

Jon’s stomach and stones tighten with blissful torment, his hands now gripping her head of their
own accord as his whole body begins to shudder. "Fook, Dany, I'm gonna come," he grunts in
warning.

Humming in answer, she pulls away only enough to drop again, swallowing him down once more.
Blood rushing like a torrent in his ears, stars burst behind Jon's clenched eyelids, his world
exploding from the inside out as he spills down her throat.

Dany presses down over him a little more, taking everything he gives her until he's a spent and
shuddering mass of limbs.

She slowly releases him, lightly sucking up his length and gently letting him slide from her mouth.
Sitting back as she licks her lips, she rubs his thighs, giving him a moment to recover. "Are you
well, my king?" she asks, once his breathing has settled to a more manageable level.

Jon only manages to grunt in response.

She giggles softly, leaning forward and cupping his face in her hands, kissing him with a shameless
smirk. "You're welcome.”

When Jon feels her start to pull away he grabs her. "That was….. Seven fooking hells, Dany. I’ll
never deny your pleasure again.”

She laughs outright then, burying her face into his sweat-sheened neck. “You never have.”
He pushes her away only to pull her back and kiss her hard. Then he deftly spins her around pulling
her back against his chest, arranging her between his spread thighs.

“What are you doing?” she asks, shocked he’s able to move so quickly after she wrung him as limp
as a scrap of wet silk.

“Not denying you,” he answers in her ear, breath harsh, hands gathering her breasts in his palms,
weighing them gently.

It's her turn to hiss and squirm, her want at an already taxing level from experiencing his pleasure.

His soft touch leaves her nipples hardened, tight and aching, straining, as if they're trying to get his
attention, begging him for more. She feels his lips pull up into the slightest smirk against her neck,
his eyes no doubt seeing her body’s reaction. Two fingers reach out and slowly circle each taut bud,
wide at first, then drawing in closer and closer, but not close enough. Mesmerised and panting, she
can't look away.

His cheek presses to hers, lips brushing against her skin. “I love how you respond to my touch.”

She watches as he takes her nipples between his fingers, then pinches, gasping at the bolt of
pleasure that runs through the center of her. The dull throb that has been pulsing within her since
he walked in naked and divine becomes all consuming, not only in her nipples, now being rolled
between his fingers and thumbs, but deep within her, her cunt growing hot and full and wet.
Jon lets go, leaving her panting, only to slide his hands down her sides to her hips, then up her
thighs and to her knees. He grips them, spreading her wide, her cunt left open and pink and
glistening as a dew soaked rose for both to admire. “Leave those open,” he orders, fingertips now
trailing up the inside of her thighs.
She trembles under his touch, stirring Jon's blood again. Nothing save coming gives him more
pleasure than indulging her needs. He cups her breasts, thumbs rubbing over pebbled nipples,
squeezing and kneading gently to further weaken her. “I want to feast on these. Tease them till you
beg,” he whispers, lips sliding up her neck to her ear, placing wet, sucking kisses to sensitive spot
just beneath it, the spot he knows stirs her fires to torrid heights. Fingers twisting and pulling at her
nipples, he relishes in each gasp and squirm and whimper she makes.

Dany is quickly losing herself beneath his calculated touch, falling further when his hands glide
down her stomach, and lower still, where she wants them most. Her breath hitches as his fingers
slip through curls to slick folds, her hips rocking up to meet them.

“You’re fooking soaked. You loved sucking my cock, didn’t you?” he asks, fingers sliding over her
swollen lips, then up to her hardened nub.

“Yes,” she answers, her breathing becoming erratic. Her head falls back against his shoulder, the
sight of his hands on her body too much.

Jon is having none of it. “Open your eyes, Dany. I want you to watch me.”

Shuddering, she forces herself to do as he asks, even though he’s making her hazy with lust, turning
her muscles and bones to liquid, her head spinning. He continues to nuzzle into her neck, placing
slow, gentle kisses along her heated skin. A noise Dany isn’t sure she could describe leaves her
throat. It makes him chuckle into her ear as one of his hands goes back to her breast, fingers
pinching and plucking the nipple while the other continues its sweet torment of her clit.

With slow, feather-light strokes, he circles it, around and around and around. Her legs begin to
tremble, the ache between them almost unbearable–a stifling sensation of near pain and ravished
suspense. Then he changes, moving over it, up, then down and back again, over and over, flicking
on every upstroke until she can do nothing but whimper and struggle in his arms.

“Keep those eyes open. Don't stop watching,” his voice rumbles, breath hot in her ear, his beard
tickling, sending fresh shivers down her spine.

He curls around her, stretching his arm further until he's able to slide two of his fingers inside her.
Dany cries out with pleasure, the deep ache easing and growing all at once. He slips them in and
out, slowly stretching her, twisting till they're knuckle deep, only to pull them out and rub her
juices over her swollen lips and clit. “See how fooking wet you are? That tight little cunt is so
greedy,” he growls into her neck, burying his fingers within her folds again.

Constant and unceasing, he fucks her with them, keeping them inside her a little longer each time,
then back out again to torture her clit. Dany believes he may be killing her and she's never been
more willing to die. It only takes a minute or two and he’s pushed her nearly to the edge of no
return.

Jon continues his torture until he feels her walls begin to convulse around his fingers then pulls
them out, her juices clinging to them slick and shiny. “Not until I say.”

Dany whimpers in frustration, nails digging into his thighs, slamming her own closed, twisting and
turning them in a frantic attempt to hold on.
“Please, Jon,” she begs.
He only gives her a moment’s reprieve. “Open em.”

She does, finding it harder than she expected, her body fighting for control. Then his fingers are
back and there’s no mercy in them this time. His arm wraps around her chest, breast in his grasp,
nipple caught between his fingers as he grips her cunt, fucking it furiously, his fingers buried deep.

A keening wail leaves Dany's throat, eyes rolling back in her head as every inch of her seems to
shatter into millions of blissful sparks.

Jon cups her with his whole hand, gently rubbing against the movement of her writhing hips. She
feels herself pulsing against his palm as she falls from her high, the pleasure drawn out with each
subtle movement he makes.

She floats on a wave, knowing nothing but Jon.His nakedness and hers, the way he holds her,
keeping her close. The feel of his hands, rough and greedy and devout, bringing her so much
pleasure. His fingers now slick with her juices lifted to his mouth, that perfect mouth. Then he lays
them both down, face to face, kissing her, a snarling hunger from his lush lips and tongue, melting
her as easy as butter. Hers against them–soft and supple–never tasting enough.

There's nothing better than the merciless way their love digs deep, burning them from the inside
out, letting them lose themselves in each other again, slow and reverent, almost devastating in its
affection.

In one smooth motion he’s pulled her leg over his and slid inside her, filling her in one stroke.
Her back arches, hips curling to take him even deeper. "Jon." His name a prayer, her head thrown
back, eyes rolling from the pleasure.

"Open your eyes, My Queen. Look at me," he demands, as their hips continue to thrust against one
another.

She has no choice but to obey, meeting blazing eyes as deeply dark as the desert skies she once
slept under. They sear his love onto her heart making it swell and beat harder against its bony cage,
begging to be closer to him. This isn't about chasing their release, this is about the love between
them. Dany feels his devotion washing over her, threatening to drown her, but she only wants more.
Everything inside of her wants to know him more, wants him deeper, closer. She tears herself open
and takes in all he has to give while pouring out all she is into his loving heart and eyes and tender
hands.

Together their need builds slowly in waves of writhing, tangled limbs, warm, moist skin,
shuddering breaths, and pounding hearts until both shatter in each other's arms.

---

Morning finds them with a courtyard full of wagging tongues. Leaving Dany and their counsel to
follow, Jon works his way through the throng, most clearing a path for him. “Is there a problem,
my lords?”

He’s answered with several 'Your Grace’s’ and cleared throats, but no true answers.

“Is there a problem?” he asks again, dark eyes roaming around, prowling for dissenters. No others
seem willing to meet them. “No? Somehow, I doubt that. Join me in the hall if you would.”
The lords follow him like a pack of dutifully trained hounds while Tyrion and Davos look to their
queen, eyebrows stitched with worry.

She raises her own at them. “It is all his to tell, whenever he sees fit. And we will all support him,
completely. Understood?”

“Of course, Your Grace. After you,” Tyrion agrees, waving her ahead.

Jon is placid and peaceful leaned against the high table waiting for everyone to join him, as if
they’re gathering to go over nothing more than food stores or when the next hunt should be. But
Dany doesn't miss the way his cloak is carefully concealing his new weapon as he beckons her to
him with twitch of his fingers.

He wastes no time getting to the point as she reaches his side. “Many of you may have noticed the
queen and I were absent most of yesterday. While we're in no way obligated to give you a running
tally of our days, there are some things you should know that have come to light recently. The first
should please you, I think. If not, I really couldn't care.”

Dany bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at his impertinence, thrilled to see him
shrug off some of his shackles.

He stands, turning to her and takes her hand in his, drawing it up to his beautiful mouth and
pressing a kiss to the back of it. His loving eyes and smile full of subtle charm and only for her.
“Three nights ago, Queen Daenerys gave me the honor of becoming my wife.”

A raucous chorus goes up, filling the hall to the rafters with bawdy yells, banging goblets, and
stomping feet. Then someone hollers above the noise about witnesses and little Lady Mormont
takes to her feet. “I stood witness. A proper Northern wedding it was. A love match.”

Her last words did not have the desired effect, the fracas dropping to a murmur rather quickly.

Jon doesn't allow time for anyone to question them. “A feast will be had when the war is won.
We’ll not waste precious food or time for frivolities or formality,” he informs them, escorting Dany
to her seat, but not taking his own, choosing to stay standing. “And I’m sure some of you are
chomping at the bit to ask about our intentions for ruling, but that too, will be dealt with after we
have defeated the Night King.”

“Be assured, whatever we decide, we will do it together, as equals,” Dany adds with a gentle smile.

“And if our king dies in battle?” someone asks.

Jon’s jaw bunches, lips pinched into a hard line, his eyes narrowing. Dany runs a hand up the back
of his thigh in gentle warning despite her own rankling. His bandaged hand flexes as his voice rings
out, collected and deathly calm. “She is now your Queen and my heir, as I am hers. I will hear no
more about it. Both decisions are final, witnessed, and sealed.”

His words met with the silence they demanded, Jon looks to Howland, nodding his head. All eyes
shift to the stranger as he rises. “Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch,” Jon introduces him to
a rumbling of dismay and disbelief. “Lord Reed came to us night before last to help me put to rest
questions that have haunted me all my life. Those of my birth.”

The rumbling grows, then abruptly stops as the king's grim scowl sweeps over them.

Jon can feel the tension from those closest to him, their concern and worry piled so thick upon his
shoulders the flaming sword at his hip would even have trouble cutting through it. Their creaking
chairs and shifting feet echo through his head as ominous as war drums. But he's made his choice.
No more will he suffer the title of bastard. Standing tall, he faces those who have judged him all
his life. “He’s here now to stand witness of my true parentage.”

“Ned Stark was your father, that's all we need to know,” Lord Glover braves, his tone kept
conciliatory.

Jon shakes his head, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Lady Mormont’s eyes catch his, she
nods, giving him the last nudge he needs. “While it still pains me to say it, Lord Stark was not my
father. He was my uncle, sworn to protect me from those who would wish my death, by his sister,
Lyanna Stark. My mother.”

The hall erupts into chaos.

“My Lords and Ladies!” Jon shouts over them, walking into the fray, filling Dany with anxiety.
She rises, ignoring Tyrion and Missandei’s panicked stares. “If anyone understands your shock and
confusion it is me,” Jon continues, “but if you would listen to Lord Reed, you will be assured of
the truth. Let him speak.”

Howland steps forward, grasping onto the moment of respite Jon provided. “Your king speaks true.
I was there the day Lyanna brought him into the world. Saw her drawing her last breaths on that
blood soaked bed, him only hours old. She begged Eddard to protect him, swore him to keep her
secret so her son would live. He promised her and he kept that promise till his dying day. Even
from Jon. And until two nights ago, so did I.”

“You’re a bloody Targaryen!”

“Aye, it's not hard to figure out who my father was,” Jon yells, “but he didn't kidnap her, or rape
her as we’ve all been told. She loved him, went with him willingly and according to Bran’s visions,
and this septon’s diary,” He points to the book Sam had the wherewithal to place on the table. “She
married him after he had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled. Making me Rhaegar Targaryen's
trueborn son.”

“Our King, a bloody Targaryen! And married to his aunt!”

Somewhere outside and not so far above the keep, dragons roar, the erie howl of a wolf answering
amidst the rumble. The humans held within fall silent as the sheeted dead.

Jon steps forward and sweeps his cloak aside.The diamonds glitter as he grasps the hilt of his
sword, the dark blade lighting with its sudden blue flame as he draws it from its sheath, the gesture
all strength and will, like the stretching of Drogon's wings. His voice rings out, as mellow and deep
as a mummer’s song. “I am Jaegon Targaryen. The blood of Ice and Fire runs through my veins
and for that I was chosen, along with my wife, to be a shield to guard the realm of men. This is
Lightbringer, the sword in the darkness, the fire that burns against the cold, the light that will bring
the dawn, lost and now found and reforged again.” Dany has found her way to his side, he takes
her hand in his. “In a few days, Daenerys and I, her children, and her armies go to meet the Night
King, you may join us on the field of battle, or face us upon our return. The choice is yours.”

To Jon’s shock and Dany’s pride, every man, woman and child within the hall rise to their feet,
then drop to a knee, heads bowed. A knowing smile stretches across her face.

No longer shall slander's venomous spite crawl across her husband's name like a snake.
 For reasons wretched and divine
Chapter Summary

News from Bran, a visit to Gendry's forge, and Jon makes good on a certain promise

Chapter Notes

Hello again! Sorry this took so long, real life, stubborn muse, and all that shit. I'm
really sorry I didn't get around to replying to everyone's comments last chapter, please
know I appreciate each and every one of them!

Big hugs to Meisiesmut for being my beta and an endless source of inspiration. This
smutty chapter is all for her. <3 Love and hugs for all my other tarts too! I love you
ladies!!!

Hope you enjoy, this is probably the last of the smut for awhile. Time to go to war :(

No one has sat idle the past four days unless passed out from exhaustion; forlorn figures of wool
and fur propped against post and stone, gathering snow. Every available wagon has been packed
full to bursting. Crude swords and daggers given to any and all that can possibly wield them, while
the clang and peal of hammer on steel continues to fill the freezing air with shrill and brutal music.

Not a single set of wagging lips has dared murmur a dark word against the King, or his Queen,
since his noble birth was laid bare before them. All enmity seemingly banished with a single swing
from a flaming sword. Whether loyalty has truly been won though, is yet to be seen. Only battle
will prove them true or not, Jon suspects.

He has spent his days like most others recently, overseeing preparations, clearing the ever falling
snow and ice with Rhaegal, listening to their advisors drone on and on about staying safe, and
stealing moments with his wife whenever possible. The latter being painfully scarce as of late with
most of his free time spent with Howland attempting to discern his brother's instructions.

Caution has been Bran’s loudest message. Wait. Not yet. Keep preparing. It's not time.

Until now.

The godswood is soft and silent save for Sam’s heavy breathing, the crunch of snow under Ghost’s
paws as he paces, and the creaking of Jon’s leather gloves. He cannot keep his hands still, fists
tightening and fingers twitching, the only outlet he’ll allow his frayed nerves as he waits for Lord
Reed.

His boney grey hands are pressed to the heart tree, head bowed and eyes closed as he listens.

Or feels. Whatever it is he does to hear Bran.

“He’s headed for the Dreadfort. Saw them through the Karhold ravens. Last Hearth is gone. Head
for Hornwood.”

Expecting more of the usual messages, Jon’s heart begins to race a rabbit quick beat within his
chest. It's time.

“No. Wait,” Howland starts again. “Further south. Towards White Harbor.”

White Harbor. Seven hells.

“Sam, get ravens out now,” he orders, hating the quiver of tension in his voice.

His friend doesn’t worry with hiding his anxiety, fretting on shifting feet. “Where do I tell em to
go?”

“Fooked if I know,” Jon sighs harshly, pacing around and running a hand over his head, then down
to knead the back of his neck. He turns on Howland. “Is he certain he’s not coming here.
Winterfell’s safe?”

“Nothing’s changed as far as Winterfell, Your Grace. Bran still feels his target is the Isle.
Especially now that he's there.”

Pushing aside the sickening knot of guilt Bran’s choice always brings to his gut, Jon focuses on
what he can do, eyeing Sam again. “If there's anyone left at Hornwood they need to either head
straight to us, or get to a ship at Ramsgate or White Harbor. Tell Manderly, he’ll know what to do
with his people.”

After Sam runs to do his bidding he turns back to Howland again. He looks weary and weak, sunk
down onto the log lying at the weirwood’s base, his head resting against the wide white trunk as if
it's a pillow of down. “Have you eaten today?” he asks. Howland shakes his head, even that small
movement feeble. “I’ll have someone bring you something then, if you won't come inside?”

He’s all but slept out here since arriving. Jon’s grateful, but it only adds more weight to his
shoulders. There's too many risking too much and not a damn thing he can do about any of it.

“I best stay here,” Howland declines, “but the food would be appreciated. Thank you, Your
Grace.”

He sighs, as he always seems to be doing lately. “Thank you, Lord Reed.”

---

After sending a servant after food for Howland he spots Arya leaning against the doorway to
Gendry's forge and decides to kill two birds with one stone. They both need to know and whatever
armor is made will have to be enough.

She spins around before he even gets close to her, always ever aware of her surroundings. While
he's thankful she has the skill, he’ll never get used to it. “Brother,” she greets, smirking.

He smiles back. “Little sister.” Wanting a few more minutes of unspoilt time with her before he has
to ruin it he wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close as he glances inside the forge.
Gendry is in naught but an apron and pants, his sweaty skin shining in the light of the fires. He
pulls back, cutting his eyes at her, grinning now. “Enjoying the view?”

“Oh, shut it,” she fusses, slapping at his stomach, then pushes away from his hold, a redness to her
cheeks that's not from the biting winter air. “Like you don't enjoy Daenerys’ view all the time.”

Still smiling, Jon doesn't deny it. He never will again. “Do you love him?” he asks.

She shrugs, scrubbing the toe of her boot into the muddy snow. “I don't know.”

Jon snorts. “Yes you do.” When she catches his eye, he nods towards Gendry. “I know he does.”

“Does what?” she laughs. “Love himself?”

Jon shakes his head, growing somber, her flash of happiness squeezing his heart painfully. “You're
not fooling anyone. You two are as bad at it as me and Dany were… are.”

His little sister and her smile vanish, the assassin taking their place. “What of it? We’re likely to be
dead in a week,” she says matter of fact, eyes vacant.

“All the more reason, Arya.” He takes her chin with a gentle hand when she continues to stare
ahead, urging her to meet his eyes. She finally does. “I’ve just come from the godswood. We leave
tomorrow.” He doesn’t need to explain anymore than that. She’s straightened at his grave words
and pleading expression, alert as a wolf when it senses prey. “Take what happiness you can find
before it's too late. Don't waste it. You're smarter than that.”

With a stoic nod and a fleeting glance towards Gendry, she hugs him fiercely, then walks off
without a word.

Heart heavy as lead Jon enters the forge, quickly wishing he was as stripped down as Gendry when
the wall of suffocating heat and fumes swallow him.

Gendry's head jerks up, eyes going wide at Jon's coughing. He drops what he's doing and steps
forward, giving a nod. “Yer Grace. You alright?”

Clearing his throat, Jon waves him off. “I’m fine, though I have no idea how you stand this day in
and day out. And remember, it’s Jon to you.”

Gendry drops his head, a grin tugging at his blackened face. “Things are coming along,” he says,
ignoring Jon’s gentle reminder, as always. “Working on Rhaegal’s armor now.”

“You’ve finished Daenerys’?”

“Oh yeah, finished it a couple days ago. You’ve both been so busy… I didn't want to bother ya.”

“It's alright. Haven't needed it yet. Are you gettin’ any rest? Not to be an arse, but,” Jon smirks.
“You look like shit.”

“Can't say you look much better,” Gendry baits him right back, laughing. Both of them enjoy the
much needed laugh, however short.

“I'd like to see it,” Jon asks. “Dany's armor.”

“Sure, it's right over here.” Gendry heads moves towards the two sheeted forms standing in the
corner.

“Will she be able to move and not be off balance?”

“O’course. Take a look.” Gendry pulls a sheet off the smaller form.

Jon’s sure he must look an idiot, eyes wide, mouth agape as he stares at what could only be
described as his wife's body made of metal. It’s almost as if Gendry poured her a second skin of
steel and she's slipped out of it like some wraith. It gleams with the luster of a black pearl, shining
silver, then blue and green, and even the violet of her eyes as the firelight flickers over it. It's
exquisite.

The gorget holds their sigil, set perfectly centered, the deepest of ruby reds, dark as fresh spilt
blood. He steps closer, fingering the fine details etched into the iridescent surface. The pauldrons
are covered in raised leaping flames while dragon scales cover the brassarts and run down the
cuirass from beneath the breasts, a set he’d recognize blindfolded.

He isn't so sure how he feels about every man within and without Winterfell seeing his wife's body
so expertly formed, nor how the young smith managed to replicate it.

“How’d you do that?” He knows he needn't specify, Gendry is blushing to the roots of his hair
underneath all the smut.

“Missandei,” he squeaks. “She ah, she gave me the Queen's measurements. Arya helped too.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Did she now?”

Both of them startle when a throat clears. Ser Jaime has joined them. With a nod of
acknowledgement to both he wanders over to Jon’s side inspecting the unusual suit of armor.

His green eyes look it over in rapt appreciation until they meet the King's. Jon's stare is more of a
dare really. Jaime’s sure with one inappropriate word from his lips he'll be skewered with that
flaming sword at the King’s hip. He decides to be smart and not test him.

“This is some of the finest work I’ve ever seen,” he says, turning to Gendry. “Did you do this?”

“I did. I learned from some of the finest in King’s Landing, Ser.”

“I can see that. Perhaps the student even became better than the teacher,” Jaime praises him with a
rough pat to the shoulder.

Jon narrows his eyes at the Kingslayer. “I trust he’s one of the best at what he does,” he says
nodding towards Gendry, “but armor isn't my strong suit. Is this enough to keep her alive?”

Jaime looks shocked for a moment, hardly believing the king would trust his judgement on
anything, let alone the safety of his wife. “In this, on top of that great beast of hers...Doubt she
could be anymore protected, unless of course you locked her up somewhere. You're a brave man,
Your Grace, but I don't think even you're brave enough to try that.”

The heavy stone of fear that's been sitting in Jon’s gut over the last few days loses some of its
weight. He has the urge to grab Gendry and give him a hearty rib crushing hug. He controls
himself and smiles at him instead. “Thank you. I might actually be able to breathe again now I
know she’ll be better protected.”

Gendry shrugs, biting back a smile. “You just found ‘er, I wouldn't be much of a friend or smith if I
didn't help you keep ‘er round, now would I?”

Not wanting to make him any more uncomfortable, Jon turns to the hidden form behind him.
“How's mine coming?” he asks reaching for the sheet and pulling it off.
Once again he's speechless and unbelieving. If Daenerys’ was exquisite, his is a work of art.

“We put leather over yours,” Gendry blurts a bit too loudly after Jon’s long silence. “Might of went
a bit overboard on the decoration.”

“Nonsense,” Jaime counters, as Jon runs his fingers over the swirling blood red dragon crawling
over the black scales of the cuirass. Two more cover the pauldrons, both snarling, and more still on
the bracers. “He’s the Dragon King, he should look like it. And he will in this.”

Dragon King. He’s been called many things, but never that.

“You two are going to make quite the sight atop your dragons wearing those,” Jaime murmurs
behind him. “Any sane man will bow before you both.”

With the sudden pain of a dislocated joint slipping back into place, a thousand unspeakable fears
come crashing down upon Jon. He nearly pins Lannister to the wall in a blind rage, until Gendry
lays a foolish hand on his shoulder. Jon shrugs him off, but it's enough to rein in the worst of his
fury despite the fact he's a breath away from Jamie now. “The Night King isn't sane and neither is
his army,” he seethes, words dripping with contempt. “You're a fookin fool if you think any of this
makes a damn bit of difference to them.”

Smile vanishing like a coward at the savage fire in Jon's eyes, Jaime steps back, knocking tools off
the table behind him. “Of course not. Forgive me, Your Grace.”

With a few deep breaths, Jon restrains his temper and turns to Gendry. “We couldn't have asked for
better. Thank you. Have someone send them up to our solar before dawn. We leave tomorrow.”

Gendry's eyes widen, he swallows hard. “Tomorrow?”

“Aye. It’s time.” Jon nods, as grim as a storm at sea.

“My men are ready,” Jaime offers, eager to make up for his recent blunder.

Jon gives him another cutting glance before walking away. “You only think they are.”

---

“If you keep watching for him, you're gonna get gutted,” Arya warns, the point of Needle pressing
under Dany’s breasts. “He can take care of himself.”

Dany sucks in a breath of air and grits her teeth,swatting Needle away to pick her own sword from
the mud. “I know that.”

“You best not be this way when it counts. Him either. You’ll get each other killed, then we’ll all be
lost.”

“We know, Arya,” she snaps, lunging again, and missing as always. Arya is just too fast. Knows her
every move before she's even thought it. Dany refuses to quit trying though. The blood of warrior
queens runs through her veins, it's not in her to accept defeat.

Jon watches them from a secluded spot across the yard, unknown to Dany, and possibly even Arya.
He needed to see her after his fit of temper in the forge, to let the sight of her ease the ache in his
bones, to drown out the terrors haunting his heart and mind.

She’s mesmerizing even if she is a terrible with that sword. Her cheeks are flushed, her plump
bottom lip speared by delicate teeth, while her chest heaves and eyes sparkle. She’s so alive.

Suddenly he’s filled with a consuming need, a pulsing rush of longing so strong it's enough to
make a sane man go mad.

He finds himself at their side a moment later, both halting their skirmish at his abrupt appearance,
Dany breathing hard and wiping sweat from her brow. Arya is completely unruffled.

“I’m horrible at this. I don't need you to tell me,” Dany huffs, the harsh breath blowing a silvery
wisp of hair off her forehead.

He doesn't respond, only stares with those sooty eyes of his, something glowing in them, like dark
honey, thick and warm. It promises to burn, to leave her a tongue tied and twisted mess beneath
him. A surge of heat runs through her and she's struck once again at how beautiful he is, her
husband. All black curls, moon pale skin, and full pink lips. Those infuriatingly fetching scars, lush
black lashes, and brooding brow pinched just so, every bit made to tempt her.

“A moment of private, please,” he requests, words silding free and brushing like heavy velvet over
sensitive skin. Then he walks away, not waiting for her to follow.

Arya plucks the wooden sword from her hand. “Well, are you gonna go, or just stare after him?”
she goads her. “You’ll be even more useless if you stay. You best go.”

Giving her new sister a fierce scowl, one met with a knowing smirk, Dany follows Jon’s retreating
form, careful to keep her pace poised. To be a queen and not a silly, besotted girl.

He’s undressing in the solar when she enters their chambers. Gorget gone, bracers too.

“Dismiss them.”

“What?” she asks, taken aback at his commanding tone.

“The guards,” he answers, the edge in his voice softer, but no less exacting.

“Why would I…”

Her words desert her as she watches him unbuckle his hauberk and pull it off, throwing it on top of
the rest of his discarded armor with a dull thunk. Free from all the restraint, he walks to her,
graceful as Ghost stalking his prey. He kisses her, his hunger evident and promises deep. Then he's
whispering in her ear as she stands on weak legs, “Trust me, you don't want them hearing what
we're about to do.”

He leaves her behind again, disappearing into their bedroom. She quickly dismisses the guards to
the end of the hall.

So aroused she's nearly ashamed, she finds him sitting on the bed in nothing but his leathers, his
snowy, scar cut chest glowing in the firelight.

“It's the middle of the day, Jon.” She meant to sound disapproving, to take the upper hand if only
for a moment. She failed. But she doesn't care, it was a feeble attempt at best. Giving into this
commanding side of her husband never disappoints, always leaving her thoroughly sated.
“It is, and I don't give a fook. Come here.” His fingers beckon her closer, eyes glinting dangerously
from under his brows.

Taking his outstretched hand, she allows him to pull her between his spread thighs. She moves to
straddle them, but he holds her firm and gives a small shake of his head, denying her.

“Are you feeling alright? The babe isn't giving you trouble?” he asks, doe-eyed and sweet now,
nimble fingers unlacing her leathers beneath her skirts.

“I'm fine. Maester Wolkan’s tonic works wonders,” she assures him.

“Good.”

Expecting nothing more than him to continue undressing her, she lets out an unqueenly squeal
when he manhandles her over his knee, her face landing in furs.

A wild mixture of emotions explode within Dany. The thrill of arousal, a touch of anger, and even
a spike of fear, but only the thrumming desire remains as Jon rucks up her skirts just as he teased
her he would days ago. Next, her leathers are yanked down, the cool air against her most
vulnerable places bringing her nerves to an even higher pitch. She jerks around, silently begging
him for what, she doesn't know.

His eyebrows raise, daring her to fight him. Violet clashes with chestnut as he nods his head
towards the bed, unwilling to bend. She lays back down, remembering she wanted this and that he's
doing it to please her.

Jon revels in the sight of all her milky smooth skin covering such a comely arse and mouth-
watering thighs. He runs a hand over the warm flesh, watching it crisp into goosebumps before he
even finishes his first pass, grinning when a moan escapes her.

Too curious to wait, he slips his fingers between her plump cheeks, finding her already slick, the
heat of her nearly burning. This time she gasps.

“Fook, you’re so wet. Do you know what that does to me?” he growls quietly, hips pressing his
stiff cock against her of their own accord.

Her only answer is a muffled moan let out into the bed covers.

Jon does his best to get his own desires under control, warring with himself whether drag the
torture out for them both or get it over with quickly so he can ravish her. She obviously wants this.
Who is he to deny his queen?

Decision made, he slides his right hand across her firm cheeks and places the left over her lower
back holding her lightly in place. He strokes circles over her, enjoying the lovely curves and how
good she feels under his palm as he gathers the courage to land the first blow. He’s never struck a
woman in his life, never even thought about it.

Soon she’s squirming beneath his touch, bringing him back to the present. He waits, watching as
her body tenses, bracing for his strike. Enjoying it a bit too much, he leaves her hanging on the
edge for two or three breaths, then lightly rubs again, waiting for the irritation at his stalling to
creep through. It does; a soft whine, restless legs and shifting feet. That’s when he brings his hand
down onto her arse with a quick smack, right on the sweet spot where she sits.

He barely feels the sting on his hand, but he's certain by her sharp hiss and his hand print already
blooming pink against white that Dany’s feeling it.
He pins her legs between his and swiftly lands two more stinging slaps, one to each cheek. She
gasps, throwing a hand back to cover herself, and tries to sit up.

“Ah, ah, ahhh, you little minx,” he chides her. “You wanted this and I'm not nearly done yet. Lay
down,” he orders quietly, putting a bit of authority behind his words, and moving her hand back
beside her head. “And don’t move that.”

She flops onto the bed again, turning her head to the side with a small huff, but Jon can see the
need written all over it. Her plump bottom lip is trapped between her teeth, eyes tightly shut and
brow wrinkled. He can almost feel her fighting it, but it's only a few seconds before she gives in,
her face relaxing and a soft pant leaving her now open mouth as her hips rock over his leg.

Before she can examine her feelings anymore he makes sure the only thing she can think about is
his hand connecting with her arse, not stopping until she's squealing into the furs and her cheeks
are glowing.

Using his still cool left hand he rubs over her heated flesh to calm them both. “Is this what you
wanted, wife?” Moaning, Dany arches her back, raising her hips to press herself against his
soothing palm. “Seein’ your sweet arse all pink and warm... Fook, we should've done this sooner,”
he grunts, sliding his fingers down between her reddened cheeks, not surprised to find her soaked.

He rubs through her wet lips, pressing and teasing until her pants turn to whimpers and her hips
rock back against him. His cock twitches in the too tight confines of his leathers, the constraint near
excruciating and frustrating him enough he smacks her arse again, making her cry out.

“So greedy.”

That greed, his as much as hers, spurs him on. He slips his fingers further down to her hardened
nub, rubbing over it in tight, fast circles while giving her four more sharp licks with the other hand.
She's soon a shaking, shrieking mess. He stops, letting her breathing calm a bit, before sliding two
fingers into her soaking cunt, but keeps them still, feeling her pulse and quiver around them as she
mewls.

“Oh fuuuck, Jon. Please,” she begs, pushing back and grinding against his hand, taking his fingers
deep.

“Please what?” he asks, pumping them in and out now, slowly, torturing her further.

“Make me come.”

Wanting nothing more, he works her hard and fast with his fingers and it only takes two more
stinging slaps to her perfect arse before she lets out a low wail, her cunt grasping and clutching at
his fingers, entire body shaking. Jon can’t help but shudder along with her.

Gently slipping his hand free, he rises from under her wasted form, giving her time to recover
while shucking out of his leathers, finally releasing his aching cock from its torment. She rolls half
way over, the rest of her delectable body, from her beautiful face to her dainty feet, is nearly as
flushed as her rosy arse. His dark gaze searches for rejection in eyes the deepest of violets, fearful
he may have gone too far. But gods be good, he finds only love mixed with fierce need staring back
at him.

Tear me open, they say. Find what heals you, take what’s yours.

She reaches for him and he joins her, pulling her close, running rough hands over silky skin. “Is
that what you wanted?” he asks, latching onto her throat, up under her jaw where he knows it send
shivers through her, sucking on her pounding pulse, biting at her with his teeth.

A moan escapes her, pleased and yielding as she writhes against him, her own hands grabbing
greedy handfuls of firm muscle.

“I didn't hurt you?” he worries, mouthing at a sore vexing nipple.

“Only in the best way.” She shoves him off, eyebrow cocked up wickedly along with the corner of
her pretty mouth. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“More than I should've,” he admits dropping his head to rest against her shoulder with a groan. “I
can't believe I hit you.”

“Don't do that,” she scolds. “You gave me what I wanted, and now I want more.” She reaches
down, taking his cock in hand, firm and insistent.

Then they're dancing around, fully aware of what they both want, both needing to fuck, but neither
backing down or making it easy on the other.

While she let him dominate and tease her relentlessly, she's pushing back now, fighting each
advance he makes even though her body wants everything she knows he has to offer.

Their focus, their strength, their will, fights not to falter, to crumble to ash under the pressing
weight that never seems to lift. They will, they know they will, but not now. Now they must fight a
different war, one between body and soul.

The battle may be enticing, but it’s not nearly enough. They both need more, the pressure building,
control slowly eroding, tied and taken by the touch of hands, rough and soft, melting under hungry
mouths. Until at last, any semblance of decorum vanishes. Dany becomes a snarling dragon, hips a
vice around his own, fingers dug into his back, sinking him deep and holding him there.

Her fights and struggles are a delicious thrill beneath Jon, almost as good as her cunt clenched
tightly around his cock. Her will bending to his. His desires yielding to hers. Violent bodies,
expressing violent needs. Jon’s self-restraint breaks, like a pack of hungry wolves done waiting
their turn.

Every noise that escapes Dany is a curse at her need of him, the touch of his skin against hers
flushing everything wild within her out from its hiding place. Yet she feels the care in every
collision of their hips mixed with that vicious need, the need to banish fears, to drown them with
lust, to only know each other and nothing more.

But the love between them will not be overcome, it makes each thrust connect, deep inside, far
deeper than either of them can reach. It made each slap across her arse retain its impact well after
her skin had flared in response. And just as effortlessly, it carries them to a shattering end.

Afterwards, after their breathing has calmed and the sweat has cooled their heated skin, Dany
brushes curls away from his forehead, running her thumbs over his silky eyebrows as he stares at
her, his eyes rich and liquid, full of heartbreaking sweetness. “Not that I didn't thoroughly enjoy
myself, but what was all that about?” she whispers.

His brow grows knit and gloomy, face suddenly torn with conflict. He closes his eyes and slides
down her body. Laying his head on her stomach, leaving one hand buried in her hair, he skims the
other along her bare thigh.

Breathing her in, Jon wills the fresh tangled scent of their essence to keep his raw nerves calmed.
Laying with her is like winter’s thaw, both of them warm, muscles and joints and bones, soft and
loose. But the cold grip of despair that had mercifully surrendered and fled to the edges of his mind
is crawling back, threatening to steal his peace.

Dany waits, giving him time. His hands draw along her body, as if he's turning her over and over
like a worry stone and soon she can no longer keep silent. “Jon? Please talk to me.”

He stops his hand’s path, halting where her leg and pelvis meet, fingers kneading the soft flesh of
her inner thigh. “Bran says it's time. We leave tomorrow,” he finally relents.

Her heart stutters with a still fresh and too well known terror. She swallows hard, forcing it back
down her throat. “Where?”

“South and east. Between Hornwood and White Harbor. We need to send the Unsullied and all
those on foot in boats down the White Knife. The Dothraki and any others on horses over land,” he
tells her, voice devoid of anything.

“Do we have enough boats?”

“No. Not nearly enough.”

“How will we know where to go? Without Howland and Bran?”

He takes a deep breath and rolls onto his back taking her with him. She settles into the crooks and
planes of his hardened body, the ones made just for her. His fingers slip into her tangled hair,
gently drawing out the knots.

“We’ll hunt for the storm. That's where he’ll be.”

She's about to ask for him to explain when a soft knock sounds against their door, Missandei's
soothing voice filtering through. “Some men have just arrived from the Wall, they're very eager to
speak to you, Your Grace.”

Heart pounding its way up his throat, Jon bounds to his feet, leaving Dany forgotten behind him.
He rips his leathers off the floor, hopping around, desperately trying to get his feet through the
holes as he barks questions at Missandei. “How many? Did they give you names? What’d they
look like?” The moment he gets them pulled up over his lovely arse and laced he jerks the door
open.

Missandei stumbles back, her brown eyes wide as saucers and unable to stay focused on his face,
as he stares her down willing her to answer. She can only stand there, mouth gaping, opening and
closing like a fish, not a sound escaping her.

Watching the two of them and their silent standoff, Dany rises, slipping on her robe then grabbing
Jon's tunic from the floor. “Jon, my love, perhaps more clothes first,” she suggests, holding the
tunic over his singularly splendid torso. “She may be my best friend, but I have no wish to share
my husband with her.”

Her words jolt him out of his frenzied haste, an adorable blush rushing to his cheeks. Dropping his
head and taking the tunic, he mumbles an apology to Missandei, stepping behind the door to finish
dressing.

Then a sudden pounding on the solar door startles them all. “SNOW! I know you're in there. Open
up!”
Jon’s heart asserts itself again, thunderously beating behind his ribs as his eyes find Dany's.

“Tormund,” they whisper as one, his face a mask of joyful shock, hers spreading into a wavering
smile.
 I'm something else when I see you
Chapter Summary

Tormund's back, lots and lots of feels, suiting up in some pretty armor, and stirring the
troops.

Chapter Notes

Thanks to my queen and beta, Meisiesmut for going over this chapter for me, and
adding such laughs and smut to my life. And to all my other tarts who make my days
exceptional! <3
“Gods, I thought sure he was dead,” Jon utters, voice no more than a husky croak coming from
behind his hands where he hides. His frame seems to collapse and shrink, his latent fear ripped
away by the favored and familiar voice yelling through the door, leaving him weak with relief.

Dany steps over, gently pulling at his wrists to bring him out of hiding. His beautiful brown eyes
shine, liquid and bright from under his furrowed brow. “He obviously isn't,” she whispers, giving
him an understanding smile, knowing what it feels like to have a cherished friend returned after all
hope had withered away. “You better go before he breaks the door down. I’ll get dressed.”

Taking a hurried, but restorative kiss from his wife's smiling lips, Jon closes her and Missandei up
in the bedroom, then hurries to the solar door, pulling it open. Tormund’s huge fist hangs in the air,
his red hair and beard wild as ever and covered in crystals of ice, his bright blue eyes wide and
frenzied.

“Snow,” he gasps, stunned, almost as if he expected someone else to answer.

Grabbing a handful of his furs, Jon yanks Tormund forward and into his arms, hugging him
fiercely in a ridiculous rush of gladness. “Gods be good, I thought I’d never see you again.”
Tormund hugs him back, nearly crushing his ribs in his shared enthusiasm, the air forced from
Jon’s lungs as he pounds his back. Then he's shoving him away, holding him at arm's length, his
sky filled eyes twinkling. “You're not the only one who's hard to kill, Snow,” he rumbles with a
cheeky grin and a wink.

“Yer lettin’ all the heat out, Tormund. Move outta the way, I’m fookin cold, you giant bastard,”
another familiar voice grumbles from behind his friend.

“Edd?” Jon breathes, unbelieving, shoving Tormund to the side.

“Aye, it's me. Lord Commander Tollett.” Edd grins, stepping up and hugging Jon almost as
fiercely as Tormund did.

“It’s good to see you,” Jon murmurs, hugging him back. “You got the raven?” he asks as soon as
Edd pulls away.

“Aye, and Tormund here showed up about the same time.”

“Did you get everyone out?” Jon asks, shutting the door behind them.

“Castle Black we did,” Edd answers. “Told as many of the Freefolk as we could to head south on
the way down.”

Jon’s eyes cut to Tormund. “Eastwatch?”

Tormund shakes his head, eyes downcast. “Buried under the Wall or wights by now, ‘cept me and
Dondarrion.”

“He’s here too?”

“Aye, left em with the Hound and Mormont,” Tormund grumbles.

Missandei slips out from their bedroom drawing the men's attention. Jon’s quick to introduce them
all. “Tormund, Edd, this is Missandei. She's Daenerys’ chief advisor and best friend. Missandei,
this is my friend Tormund Giantsbane, of the Freefolk, and Edd Tollett. He’s one of my brothers
from the Night's Watch. Their Lord Commander now.”

“Nice to meet you, my lords,” she greets them.

Both men nod, Edd with a somewhat besotted grin on his face and Tormund scowling as his eyes
dart between Jon and Missandei, his bushy eyebrows twisted tight.

“Could you bring us some drink, whatever you can find, and perhaps some food too, please?” Jon
asks her.

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll be back shortly.”

Jon notices Tormund’s accusing eye as she leaves. “Why are you starin’ at me like that?” he
questions him.

Tormund points to the bedroom door. “That where you sleep?”

“Aye.”

Crossing his arms over his massive chest Tormund's eyes narrow to ice blue slits. “What you think,
Crow?” he asks Edd, nearly knocking him over with an elbow to the shoulder. “His armor's layin’
on the floor, he’s barely dressed, got no shoes on, and that pretty hair o’ his is all messed up.”

Jon’s hands fly to the top of his head, brushing down any wayward curls.

“See! Look at em blush!” Tormund hollers, grabbing Jon by the shoulder, grip like a vice as he
pulls him close. “You fookin’ around on the Dragon Queen? With that pretty girl who was just in
here? Livin’ up to your name, huh? You bloody bastard. Didn't I teach you right?”

Too agitated to notice his surroundings, Tormund misses the bedroom door opening again, not
catching Dany’s presence until she takes her place beside Jon.

“Tormund. We’re both so happy to see you alive and well,” she greets him with a soft, knowing
smile and a gentle hand on his arm.

Jon laughs at his friend’s sudden change of demeanor. Back ramrod straight, mouth agape and eyes
bulging as he sputters, “Your lady...Dra… Dragon lady. I… I thought… I didn't..”

“Sit, Tormund,” Jon chuckles, nodding towards the table then looks to Edd. “Edd, this is Daenerys
Targaryen, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and my wife.”

“Wife?!” Tormund shouts, eyes once again nearly falling from his head.

“Yes, his wife,” Dany confirms, still smiling as she sits down at the table, Jon slumping into the
seat beside her just after. “We married in his godswood a few weeks ago and I assure you, I’m the
only woman he’s got time for.”

Tormund snorts as Edd barks out a laugh, kicking Jon under the table. “Breakin all those vows you
made, huh?” he jeers, smirking all the while.

Jon’s pale cheeks turn a fetching pink as he sits forward in his chair, though his smile is full of joy,
and perhaps a bit of pride as well Dany notices. “Aye, that I am,” he concedes quietly, his
cherished smile now focused on her. She wonders if he's even aware of his own fingers playing
with the ends of her hair.

They spend the next hour swapping news, learning all they can, before calling the others in for one
last meeting. Duty calls them back to its side soon after, the rest of their day spent in preparation
amongst their people under the expanse of heavy grey skies, hearts somber and faces no more than
ashen masks of resignation despite the tireless vigilance of all.

---

She's standing by the fire in their solar when he finally ends his day. She reaches a hand out, no
need to turn and see if it's him. The scrape of boots, the creak of leather, and the suffering sigh all
giving away who's joined her.

He slips his callused hand into hers. It's cold, even she can feel the stiffness in his fingers. She pulls
them to her cheek, pressing them to her warmer skin as he wraps himself around her from behind.

Cool, plush lips press behind her ear, his whiskers scraping gently against her skin. After blessing
her with a few more kisses, he notches his chin between her neck and shoulder, hands sliding to
rest over her belly. “You should be in bed.”
She leans into him, nuzzling her face against his, drinking in his scent, all leather and sweat and
snow, making her pleasantly dizzy. She's certain no other will ever bring her such comfort, the
feeling of warmth that engulfs her like a blanket of furs every time he’s near. “I won't sleep without
you. Not while I can.”

“Dany–

“Gendry is quite talented. Did he do all that himself? she asks, overly cheerful, waving a hand at
their armour laid out on the table across the room.

She hears a soft sigh as he pulls away a bit and rests his forehead against her braids, then a swallow
working his throat. She’ll not be scolded tonight, he doesn't have the heart. Not that he ever does.
“Most I think, though surely he had help to have finished so quickly.”

“You, my king, will be…” She trails off, her voice betraying her, the dam she's so carefully
maintained as of late threatening to crack. Jon lets her go, only to turn her around and take her face
in his hands, coal black eyes full of questions.

Her smile is weak as she stares back at him, but she's unable to strengthen it. She brushes a
fingertip over the half moon scar at his temple. “The shameless harlot in me lusts to see you in that
armour. To feel my blood turn to fire at the glorious sight you're certain to make. To watch you
command our armies, ride upon Rhaegal like the dragon I know you are, to see you in battle cutting
down our enemies with ease.”

Her King will be unlike any other. Braver, more noble, fierce and deadly as the name he bore. She
wonders if he realizes how very much he favors that name. Snow. Pure and soft, able to make
hearts ache. Loved by some, hated by many. Beautiful in any light. Quiet, peaceful. But also grim,
and even fatal in the right circumstances.

“But my heart…” she whispers before her fears become a solid rock within her chest and throat and
she can say no more.

He watches as a silver tear gathers and glistens in the corner of her eye, the sight a dagger sinking
to the bone. He wants to beg her to cease this torment, but he shares this wretched agony with her
and knows she can no more lay it aside than he can. He pulls her closer, leaning down and kissing
her honeyed lips before forcing himself to meet those sad amethyst eyes again. “You asked me this
afternoon what had gotten into me.” He nods his head towards the table and the stunning, yet cruel
armour upon it. “I’d just come from Gendry's forge and seeing those. I wanted to wrap you in that
gorgeous steel, then unwrap you just so I could fook you.”

She laughs, the sound like warm wine being poured from a silver pitcher, a blessed flash of light
chasing away the shadows, even if only for a moment. But her mirth fades quickly and she sinks
against his chest with a sigh.

He lays his cheek atop her head, stroking over the silky waves of her hair, soaking in the ease her
presence gives his wearied soul. “Then fookin Lannister had to open his mouth and I wanted
nothin’ more than to lock you away so I’d never have to feel this gods forsaken fear again.” His
voice was thick with resentment and futile protest, the same he felt this afternoon and every minute
of every hour before and since.

She pulls away, looking up, eyebrows knotted with curiosity. “What did he say? Surely he wasn't
foolish enough to say something about me?”

Jon shakes his head, letting out a frustrated groan. “No, he just reminded me that no matter what
precautions we take our enemy is like no other.”

Dany places her hands over his heart, seeing the brutal scar that mars his pale skin even though it's
covered in layers of wool and leather. “Maybe so, but we aren’t either.” She draws her eyes back to
his, those fathomless forest pools she loves to lose herself in. “You and I, we’re made from the
same substance as the sun. We are dragons. Fire made flesh. We're going to survive, Jon. We will.”

He tries to smile, but it's too twisted and tangled with doubt to be true. He drops his forehead to
hers. “Even if we do survive it all, I fear it’ll leave me aged as cracked leather and I’ll just crumble
to dust in your hands,” he whispers.

Dany cups his face, forcing him to see her. “You won't, I won't let you,” she insists, voice hard as
dragon scales. She takes a deep breath to calm herself, to soothe the crease in his brow. ”Have you
forgotten you have a son or daughter that will need you too?”

His answering scowl is as dark and wintery as the night outside their windows. “Of course I
haven’t. But Dany, the things we’ve done, the things we've seen...will do and see. You don't come
back from those. Trust me, I know.”

He’s right. She knows the truth of it all too well. Trailing her fingers down his cheek and into the
coarse hairs of his beard, unpleasant memories swirl through her mind like acrid smoke. “No, you
don't. You just keep going. If you look back, you're lost,” she counters, melancholic, like the
monotone beat of one's heart. Her eyes drop to their laced fingers, tongue darting out to lick her
bottom lip before gazing up at him again. “Take me to bed. I need your skin against mine.”

Without a word, he scoops her up and carries her to their room. They undress each other as they so
often do, but this night isn't about feeding their hunger for each other. The lust was appeased when
they locked themselves away earlier in the day. Now it's only solace they seek. For their hearts and
souls and minds.

They lie together a long while, just as she wanted, skin to skin, his body wrapped around hers from
behind, their hands resting over the slight swell of her stomach, both lost in the swirling torrent of
defiance against death and the nameless desolation that's dogged their heels for months.

“There’ll be three,” she whispers, finally breaking through the thick silence.

It takes a moment, but his face soon appears over her shoulder, brow furrowed. “Three what,
love?”

Dany rolls to her back, holding his hand still over their child, the other rising to stroke his cheek.
“Before we left the Isle, when I told your brother goodbye…” She swallows, dropping her eyes to
his jaw where her fingers worry his beard, the guilt of not telling him sooner suddenly weighing
her down like a millstone. Jon’s hand cups her face, his touch gentle and reassuring, giving her the
strength she needs. She meets his fretful eyes, trusting her next words will ease at least this burden.
“He told me we’ll have three children.”

His lips slowly loosen into a wonder filled smile, eyes glistening as a short burst of laughter
escapes him. “Three?” he asks, his voice catching on a quickened breath.

His joy contagious, Dany cannot control her own wavering smile. “Two girls and a boy he said. All
healthy,” she whispers, laughing through sudden tears.

Jon gathers her close, burying his face against her neck, his happy words garbled and lost
somewhere between there and her lips as he kisses her with heart-rending tenderness. Then
suddenly he stops and is looking down at her again, concern now clouding his features. “Wait.
Why are you only telling me now? That was days ago.”

She nearly flinches, his words a stinging wound. “Things have been… well you know how they’ve
been. And I… I was afraid,” she admits, reluctant.

“Afraid?” His dark gaze searches her face, hurt creasing his brow. “Not of me?”

“Oh Jon. Of course not. Never, my love,” she soothes him with whispered words and a soft kiss,
but then adds a different fear to his heart. “I was afraid to let myself believe it. He wouldn't have
lied to me, you don't think? To give us hope to keep going? A false hope?”

Dany can almost see Jon’s mind flipping and turning over her questions, his expression first
grievous, then fading to cautious as he works them to tatters until he's sure of the answers. Then he
shakes his head as if erasing the distressing thoughts for good. “I admit I don't know him as well as
I did, but no. No, I don't believe him to be that cruel.”

She bites at her trembling lip, burrowing into his chest, shame adding to her guilt. “I'm sorry for
even thinking it.”

Jon holds her close again, his callused hand running up her spine and into her hair, pressing his lips
to her temple. “Don't be, I understand. It's hard to believe in the extraordinary after we’ve had so
much sorrow.”

That brings her out of hiding, her heart aching yet determined to hold onto the precious hope that
has finally found them, even if it's still so fragile you could grasp it between your fingers and watch
it shatter. “We’re going to be okay,” she declares, as much for herself as for him. “We’ll survive
this, and do exactly what I said we would. Birth a dynasty unlike any other. Two daughters and
son,” she breathes, unable to control her smile, no amount of restraint capable of holding it back.
“Did you ever dream of anything so wonderful?”

“I wanted to,” he answers, words leaving slow and deep as a river, his nose running along her
cheek. “Mayhaps even let the hope slip through once or twice to grab my heart.”

“Was it a boy or girl you dreamed of,” she asks, barely loud enough to hear.

“A son. I thought of naming him Robb.” He huffs, shaking his head with a wry grin lurking at the
corners of his mouth. “Not the best Targaryen name, is it?”

Her smile turns indulgent as she tucks a wayward curl behind his ear. “Maybe not, but it's still a
fine name, even if he was given it because of Baratheon.”

Jon’s nose wrinkles at that, his lip pulling into a snarl as if he's smelled something unpleasant.

No son of his will carry the name of that fat, selfish fooker. “We'll come up with another. Leave it
for Arya or Sansa to use for one of their sons if they want.” He falls quiet for a moment, fingers
playing in her hair, calming himself with the indulgent habit. “Was it a girl you dreamed of?” he
asks.

She hums, nodding and smiling up at him as her fingers card through his hair, nails scraping his
scalp. “I want them to have your raven black curls. Your eyes too.”

He shakes his head, this time in disagreement. “Our daughters should have your eyes, not some
dull brown.”
Dany snorts and Jon’s sure he's never heard such an unqueenly sound leave her. A smile stretches
his face as she takes it in her hands, pulling him close, leaving only a breath between them. “Your
eyes have never been dull, Jon Snow,” she whispers with alluring authority before kissing him
soundly.

“Do you know how much I love you, Daenerys Targaryen?” he breathes into her sweet mouth,
taking her air for his own.

“I do, but show me again.”

---

They wake to find their family gathered in the solar, the room quite full, a steaming breakfast
waiting for them all.

Already Dany’s throat is over tight, her eyes burning, stomach threatening revolt. Today will be
one of her most difficult. She has grown to love every face that is staring back at her, their own
heavy hearts evident in each wavering smile, wrinkled brow, and downcast eye. She returns to their
room in a rush, drinking down Maester Wolkan’s blessed tonic before the acid boiling in her
stomach can rise too far.

A gentle hand runs across her shoulders as her breathing settles. Then it wraps around her, pulling
her against a firm, muscled chest. She sinks into his warmth, her own arms linking around his waist
as she fights back traitorous tears.

“I can send them away if it's too much,” he murmurs against her cheek.

She shakes her head, but says nothing, not trusting her voice quite yet. A few quiet moments in his
arms is all she needs and soon enough she's leading him back to the others.

The meal is a somber affair despite Tyrion and Davos doing their best to pull smiles from each one.
Neither is able to cut through the anxiety hanging over them like some dark impenetrable storm
cloud. Even so, the care and concern, the love shared amongst them all is easily felt. Be it a
bracing squeeze on a shoulder, a comforting hand held tightly by another, or warm eyes full of
tenderness sharing a glance.

Those gathered in this room are family, today and always. The family she longed for all her life.
She prays to every god she doesn't know that not a single one of them is taken from her.

It was decided the night before who would go and who would be left behind, none happy with the
compromise, but all accepting their role. Tyrion, Varys, Davos, Sansa, Missandei, Brienne,
Howland, Edd and the other Night’s Watch men will all stay, along with a small contingent of
soldiers made up from each group to hold Winterfell in case things do not go as planned. They
have the trenches, trebuchets, one scorpion, steel and dragon glass. It will have to be enough.

Should the rest not return, should the unspeakable happen and the last Targaryens fade from world,
Tyrion and Sansa have been named their heirs.

Food being only pushed around on plates, all come to a unanimous and silent agreement that the
time for goodbyes is here, in the private solitude away from thousands of eyes. Each hug lasts
longer than the one before and none dare to tease when tears begin to fall, their own eyes full and
overflowing. Though no one wishes for this farewell, many rush from the room, unable to keep the
reins on their emotions tight, and soon only a handful are left.

Davos and Gendry have stayed behind to help Jon into his armour. Arya and Missandei do the
same for Dany, taking her into the bedroom, while the men stay in the solar. It takes much longer
than either expects, having never worn more than a layer of protective leather.

Gendry's work was meticulous. Their safety having been his most important goal there'll scarcely
be an inch on either of their bodies left uncovered. They each get several layers of warmth to be
worn beneath, some fur lined, then the slow process of strapping and buckling them in begins.
Cuirass, pauldrons, bracers, brassarts, gorget, and many more pieces they don't know the names of.

Once Jon is all fastened up he shifts about, testing the new weight and restraint on his limbs and
joints. He’s surprised to find his movements free and easy, but grows restless as Davos and Gendry
look him over, one smiling, the other decidedly not.

A queer, strangled sound leaves the old knight as he puts a hand to each of their shoulders, his head
dropping low as he clears his throat. Jon freezes, heart thundering in his chest as if Dany's horde is
running through it. He can feel Gendry's eyes boring into his skull, no doubt curious as to what's
happening. The boy is still unused to having anyone’s care, but it's all Jon can do to keep his own
composure. He’ll be no help to him. Davos has become much more than his Hand over the past
year or so.

Jon feels as small and lost as he did saying goodbye to Ned all those years ago on the Kingsroad.

Then Davos raises his grizzled head, faded blue eyes wet and imploring as he looks to Jon and
Gendry in turn. “Promise me you'll fight. That you won't let those demons take ya. Go finish
cleaning up this shit world. I know ya can. But you come back to us. I’ve already lost a daughter
and more sons than any man should have to. I’ve no wish to lose the last two I’ve got.”

Jon isn't sure if it's a blessing or a curse, but the ladies join them before either he or Gendry can
respond. The three men shuffle apart, making space in the tight quarters and suddenly the room is
filled with a heavy silence.

The others only exchange glances as husband and wife slowly draw together, pulled by unseen
threads of love and lust. Missandei takes the arm Davos offers and lets him lead the way out, still
teary from the farewell with her dearest friend. It takes an elbow to the ribs from Arya to get
Gendry moving, but they too head for the door.

“Don’t you dare undo all that work,” Arya taunts them over her shoulder, grin as wicked as a
wolf’s. “I’ll be poking you both full of holes if you do.”

Grateful the tension has been cut, Dany’s laughter fills the room as Jon throws a glove at his
sister's retreating form. Arya’s too quick of course, the door already closed behind her, the leather
only smacking against wood before falling to the floor.

“I should have Gendry lock her up. Sansa could let her out in a few days,” Jon grumbles, picking
his glove up and shoving his fingers in forcefully.

“You would never do that to her,” Dany scolds, taking his other glove from the table and holding it
open for him.

His sigh carries the weight of the world as he shakes his head, slipping his hand in, then flexing his
fingers. “No. I’ve always known she wasn't meant to be a lady. That one day she’d wield a sword.
If I was to lock her up, she’d gut me as soon as she caught me,” he exhales, disgruntled but
grinning.

Dany finds her fingers trailing over the dragon emblazoned across his chest, still awed by the
craftsmanship, made all the more devastating by the man wearing it. The sight of him… she's never
felt a more lethal blow. “You're rare that way,” she murmurs.

He takes her hand in his, kissing her fingertips. “What way?”

She meets his eyes for the first time in what seems like hours, the pain of avoidance finally greater
than looking into those deep, dark wells of sadness. “You don't put women in a box. You let us be
who we are. Arya, Lady Mormont, me. No other husband would hear of his wife cladding herself
in armor and going to war.”

His smile is both haunting and achingly sweet. She wonders how long it will be before she’ll see it
again. “Aye, but no other man is married to the Dragon Queen either.” He leaves a quick kiss on
her forehead then moves across the room, taking her cloak from where it hangs in the corner,
coming back and slipping it over her shoulders, before moving around to clasp it closed at her
chest.

“I'm quite warm, my love,” she assures him. “Sitting dragon back we’ll be lucky if we don't roast
alive in this armor like meat in an oven.”

His pretty mouth drops into its too often seen frown. “Keepin’ you warm isn’t what I’m worried
about,” he mutters, fingers worrying with the front edges of the cloak.

Dany cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, the cloak now gaping open from her arms held
akimbo by her hands on her hips. “Hhmmm, what else could it possibly be?”

Jon cuts his eyes at her, narrowed and knowing, giving a slow shake of his head. “You know
exactly what it is, you minx. I may differ from some men, but…” His hands find their way beneath
the cloak to her waist, grasping it and pulling her close. Dany swears she can feel the heat of them
burning through the steel. “I should've kept a keener eye on Gendry while he was making this,” he
says, voice rough as gravel now, sending all her nerves alight. “Every man out there will be
thinkin’ of doing filthy things to my wife once they see you lookin’ like you do.”

“And just how do I look?” she asks, voice more tempting than she intended as she slips her hand
into the loose curls covering the nape of his neck.

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to her lips as he licks his own. “Can we not talk about how you
look right now?”

She decides to have mercy on him, his situation below could become quite dreadful restrained as
he is. And damn it all to the Seven Hells, they do not have time. “You know I can handle myself,”
she tries.

“O’course I know. Doesn't mean I want half the eyes in Westeros fookin you though,” he growls.

She huffs a dismissal, rolling her own eyes. “Have you seen yourself? No other man would dare
lay a hand on me with you all…” Words failing, she waves her hands at the overwhelmingly
dangerous display he makes. “Besides, there's only one man I’ll ever allow to do filthy things to
me. Anyone else tries it and I’ll burn them alive.”

That brings a true smile to the surface, lighting up his beloved face. He wraps her in his arms, his
wonderful mouth finding the bare skin of her neck and trailing kisses over it, his beard leaving
behind a pleasant burn. “If we live through the day, I can promise you your night will be filled with
all sorts of filthy things,” he murmurs under her ear. “Whatever you want.”

Quivering on weak legs, Dany grasps the edges of his cuirass, shaking him loose, her heart raw and
stinging in her chest. “We’re going to live countless days and nights, do you hear me?” she hisses,
biting at his plump bottom lip. He winces, properly scolded, eyes now melting with sorrow. That
she cannot bear either. “But you're still going to make good on that promise this night,” she
demands, giving him another bite, gentle this time. “I insist.”

“You won't get a fight from me, Your Grace,” he breathes against her lips, his smile appearing
again.

She clutches at him tightly, keeping their faces a breath apart, drawing in his precious air. “I
needed your smile today,” she confesses, voice no more than a thready whisper.

His brow creases, his lovely sooty eyes disappearing behind pale lids. “Aye, I needed yours too,”
he admits sounding every bit as pained.

She kisses him, unable to restrain herself another moment. His lips are warm, tongue hot and soft
and sweet against her own. Jon drinks her in, determined to thoroughly wreck her, and himself, to
soak in the heat their bodies never fail to make. They’ll need something to keep them warm as they
sit alone atop their dragons flying them ever closer to death.

No air left in their lungs, they break apart, sharing a last lingering look. Before either can change
their minds and find somewhere to lock themselves away, Daenerys steps back, gathering her cloak
around her like drifted snow, and slips out the door. Jon does the only thing he can. He follows his
queen.

---

They shut away their bruised and battered hearts leaving only the King and Queen for all to see as
they enter the courtyard. Not a single gaze is exchanged in fear they'll simply unravel and run.

With a quick brush of her fingers against his Daenerys heads straight to her sons to check once
more that the few pieces of armor Gendry managed to finish are strapped tight. Crude saddles were
also crafted for her dragons, the fear of battling in the skies and having to watch their lover fall too
much for either her or Jon to tolerate.

His love out of sight, Jon pulls himself together, checking and rechecking that all is ready for those
being left behind and those marching ahead.

The freezing air is thick and heavy against his neck as he moves from one to the next, but it's more
than just the cold. The very air is haunted with a chill of foreboding and every man, woman, and
child feels it as well. While all manner of noise goes on around them, not a voice can be heard,
everyone silent, lost in their work, or more likely made taciturn by the misfortune that has befallen
them all. It makes the considerable rock of dread sitting in Jon’s gut all the more weighty.

But there is nothing for it now, the time has come, the choices have been made. Death is coming.
It’s time to end it or die trying.

There's one last thing to pass on before taking to the air on Rhaegal. He searches the yard and
castle walls until he finds a familiar head kissed by fire. Jon slaps his back to get his attention then
loosens his sword belt, pulling it and Longclaw free and handing them over to him.

Tormund is shocked to say the least. “What's this, Snow?”

He points to the hilt of Lightbringer looming over his shoulder. “I can't fight with two. No one I’d
rather have this than you.”

Tormund gently takes the beloved sword from Jon’s grasp. “I’ll give it back, hey?” he says. “After
we’ve won. That lil’ dragon pup your Queen is givin’ ya will need something to fight with one
day.”

Now it's Jon's turn to gape in shock. “How’d you…”

“Not as dumb as I look,” Tormund snickers. “Don't know why you're keepin’ it secret. Should be
howling it loud and long for all to hear if you ask me. Give em something else to fight for,” he
says, low and earnest.

“Their heads won't be in the fight,” Jon argues, hesitant.

Tormund shakes his head. “No, but their hearts will, and that's what counts,” he murmurs, pining
Jon with eyes alight with wisdom before wacking his shoulder with Longclaw and walking away,
his booming laughter following him.

Is he right? Should they spill their secret? Can their child make a difference before they're even
born?

“Hey Jon!”

He looks up from his momentary daze seeing Arya and Gendry just outside the gates, both sitting
their horses, having what looks to be a spirited conversation between lovers despite both of them
being focused on him.

“What’d he say to you?” Arya asks, the moment he’s within earshot, always able to ferret out his
troubles from the time they were children.

He shakes his head, unsurprised she’d been watching him long before he saw her. “Nothin’. I’ll tell
you later.”

“Tonight,” she says, more of a demand than a request.

“Yeah, alright,” he relents. Tormund was right, he knows that now. “You two stay together,” he
orders. “I promised Davos and Sansa I’d bring you both back in one piece.”

Arya laughs, while Gendry smirks beside her, his war hammer still resting across his lap. “Yeah,
and I promised them the same about you,” she snorts. “Go find your dragon, brother. If you make
us wait much longer the rest of this bunch is gonna turn tail and run.”

Jon waves her off. “Have you seen Ghost. I wanted him to stay with you.”

A slow smiles pulls at her lips as she stretches her arm out, pointing over the ranks of Northmen
towards the Wolfswood. “He’s just there. With his sister.”

Perplexed, Jon tugs her foot from the stirrup then slips his own into it, pulling himself up by the
saddle horn to see for himself. Arya’s horse squeals, prancing about, angered at the extra weight,
but Jon ignores it, easily holding on and smiling at the sight that greets him.

There, just at the edge of the Wolfswood stands Ghost and Nymeria surrounded by a scattering of
smaller wolves.

“I thought she was gone, like all the the rest,” Jon murmurs, enthralled by the direwolf siblings
together again.

“I ran her off to protect her from Joffery and Cersei before we ever made it to King's Landing. I
came across her not far from here on my way home,” Arya explains. “Her and her pack. She
wouldn't let me touch her, or come with me, but she knew it was me.”

Jon turns, grasping Arya's head in hand and planting a kiss atop it. “I’m glad he has his sister
back,’ he stammers, voice sparse and catching.

He drops down off her horse and walks away after squeezing her thigh. “She's glad to have him
back too,” she calls after him. Jon can only raise a hand in the air and keep walking.

His wife is already atop Drogon when he joins her, and while he’d love another chance to hold her,
to draw breath from her heavenly mouth again he mounts Rhaegal instead. He will be a king
worthy enough of his Queen.

Once she's sure he's seated and ready, confirmed with exchanged nods, Dany sends Drogon into
the skies. Rhaegal follows his mother and brother the short distance to the small rise near their
waiting armies. He lands beside them with only a slightly less earth shaking thud than his brother
did, drawing all eyes to focus on the king and queen and the roaring dragons they ride.

Jon surveys their armies as the dragons settle a bit. The Northmen paint a picture of grit and
resolution, though some faces are still shadowed with doubt. The Unsullied stand motionless, silent
and impenetrable as always, while horses dance beneath eager Dothraki riders as they scream
savage battle cries, arkahs held trembling in the frigid air in salute to their queen.

“Dothrakhqoyí! Kisha dathrakh lajat athvilajerar jin asshekh!” Daenerys shouts to her khalasar,
having risen to her feet upon Drogon's back. Then she calls to her Valyrian soldiers. “Dovaogēdys!
We go to war this day!”

A resounding cry erupts from the Unsullied, spears and shields clashing to mix with the Dothraki
screamers, as Dany continues to stir her men. Jon is buoyed to see that even some of the Westerosi
have joined in on the ruckus, their swords held high as they add their voices to the call.

So small, yet so fierce, this woman he calls wife. No other deserves to be called Queen save her.

Iron floats in her breath, filling the savage foreign words that flow from her tongue with thunder.
Their harshness drops Jon into the midst of battle, sounding of guttural screams, clashing blades,
and steel cutting across flesh. Yet her beauty keeps him grounded. It is absolute, terrible even,
enough to cause one to tremble before her. Standing in her gleaming armor, her cloak and hair of
snow whipping around her delicate features, her violet eyes spark, flecked with the ash of her
enemies. He knows of the ancient blood and fire that flows through her veins, the magic that gives
her an ethereal glow. She has conquered and crushed empires beneath her dainty feet. Birthed
dragons, and survived much more than scorching flames. Armor resides under her skin, stronger
than the pearly black that surrounds her now. Born amidst a storm she was made for war. And
right this moment, Jon couldn't love her more.

“We do not fight for a throne, nor crowns,” she continues, every soul before her enraptured. “It’s
not lands or castles we want. We do not fight for the riches of Westeros. We fight for life!” One
hand has fell to the metal covering her stomach and Jon wonders if Tormund got to her too. “For
our lives, for the lives of those we love. Husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers.
For our children and grandchildren. Because death comes for us all! We fight to live!”

The near deafening cries of their people rattle Jon’s very bones and it's only then he sees all eyes
have fell to him, expecting a speech just as rousing from their king. Thankfully it wasn't just their
armies his Queen stirred.

He had dreamed of leading men when he was just a boy, like the Young Dragon, Daeron
Targaryen. Now here he was, a Dragon King in his own right, leading an army unlike any other
alongside his Queen, out to conquer death itself. A ferocious quickening rises in his blood unequal
to any that have come before, filling him with a furor he can't control.

“Everything you hold dear, death threatens to steal from you!” he roars, Rhaegal rumbling his
agreement beneath him. “No matter your birth; North, South, East, or West, it is not in our blood to
lay down our lives without a fight!” Again the cries of their people fill the icy air answering his
call. He draws Lightbringer from its sheath at his back, lifting it high above his head. “We will end
this long night! Death will flee before us! Winter will find its end and we will have our spring. As
will our children and their children after them!”

His eyes find his wife's, fervent and fiery, her smile severe and sharp as blade as she holds his gaze.
“For life!” she cries out over the clamor below them.

Thousands of voices fill the air, swords and spears and shields raised. “For life! For life! For life!”
 All You Have is Your Fire
Chapter Summary

The Battle for the Dawn with some fluff and smut beforehand to ease the pain.

Chapter Notes

I can't believe I finally did it. This chapter has been dreaded for months, my nasty
anxiety telling me I'd never be able to pull it off. It came to the point I had to follow
through just to prove to myself I could. NEVER WRITTEN A BATTLE IN MY
LIFE! Without the help of my beloved Tarts, especially Ashleyfanfic, Sparkles59, and
Meisiesmut I never would've finished, and you wouldn't have what I hope is an
amazing chapter. They poked and prodded me, listened to my endless whining, and of
course encouraged me every step of the way. All three also beta-ed for me throughout
this grueling endeavor. Thank you, my loves! You all mean the world to me! Can't
forget the rest of my tarts, AC, Jaq, and Frost. They too, put up with my crap and
continued to be wonderful friends through it all.

Love you ladies to the moon and back!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

High above the river of marching men and lumbering wagons the air is so chill it cuts like knives
into their exposed skin. They’d surely be no more than frozen corpses if not for their fiery mounts
beneath them. Dany was correct, the armor acts much like an oven, holding in the heat from their
own bodies and the dragon’s. Jon will be leaving off a layer or two tomorrow. Being encased in
sweat soaked wool all day is far from pleasant.

The hours have crawled by as they’ve watched, circling like falcons hunting for prey, searching for
the sight of anything that would harm their people, but there's been nothing. Only miles and miles
of snow lying beneath a sky the color of drab weathered stone.
He’s exhausted. Despite Rhaegal's heat, his every bone, muscle, and joint is screaming for relief
after hours and hours of the thrumming tension that has kept his body as tight as a bow string. It's a
thousand wonders he hasn't simply slipped off and fell to his death. But thoughts of his wife flying
to save his miserable arse beyond the Wall have kept him upright and firmly seated.

The sun is quickly creeping away behind gauzy clouds, like some frightened child, meaning night
is coming to swallow them in its abyss.

They’ve gone far enough today. It's time to make camp.

---

A few of the Dothraki women had joined the armies to help serve their Khaleesi and Khal’s needs.
They’re still hovering about the tent, fluffing furs and checking the braziers, after bringing food
and filling the copper tub with steaming water. Daenerys leaves them to their work until one begins
cooing at her husband as she steps up to help remove his armor. The look of genuine distress on
Jon's face as he backs away from the woman has Dany swallowing down a giggle and dismissing
them quickly.

More than ready to face a legion of ice demons, yet he shys away from a strange woman. Such a
tangle of intrepidness and integrity he is, and all of it coming from such a pure heart.

“Thank you,” he says, blowing out a relieved breath as she draws closer. “It’s one thing to have
Davos help me, quite another to have a woman do it.”

Dany allows herself to laugh softly as she takes over the unfinished job. “Is it alright for this
woman to do it?” she asks, unbuckling a strap.

He looks over his shoulder at her, his tired hooded eyes growing darker. “Aye,” he whispers, voice
hoarse from the cold air he’s breathed all day and perhaps the yelling he did this morning. Either
way, the small word sounded like a caress to Dany’s weary soul.

Finished with the buckles at his back she moves around to his front taking his arm and loosening
the straps of the gauntlet it’s wrapped in. “I wouldn't have let her get past the first layer. You may
be their Khal now, but you are mine,” she states defiantly. “Your naked body is for me only.”
He ducks his head to catch her eyes. “That's the only way I want it,” he murmurs, a slow grin
pulling at one corner of his comely mouth.

She stares at him, until the grin fades and hunger burns in his eyes. “I know.” She kisses him, then
quickly leaves him wanting as she goes back to her work.

Jon shakes his arm and flexes his fingers once she's freed him from the gauntlet, then holds his
other arm up for her, eager for both of them to be unburdened from their steel restraints. “Why did
you say I was their Khal?” he asks, doing his best to sound indifferent.

“Because you are,” she says simply. “They talk about you often, you know?”

He shifts his weight and swallows deeply, abashed, his confusion showing in a furrowed brow.

She shakes her head at him, smiling, still working straps and buckles. “All good things, my love.
They have seen your strength. Know I have chosen you, that my sons have accepted you. Being a
king might not have been something you chose, but you truly are good at it. You inspire loyalty
just by being yourself.”

“I try.”

She stops then, focusing on him instead of her task. “That's just the thing, Jon. You don't have to
try. It's who you are. Did you not notice them this morning? It wasn't only your men shouting back
at you. My people were too. As loudly as they had done for me.”

“The Northmen cried for you as well,” he argues.

“Some of them, but not all.”

“They should have,” he snaps, then shakes his head, a tentative hand reaching up to cover hers. “I
am nothing compared to you.”
“What utter nonsense,” she grumbles, spinning around and presenting him her back, hiding her
welling eyes. She clears her throat against the cracks filling it. “My turn, and hurry. Our bath is
growing cold. I wish to be clean before we get to those filthy things you promised me.”

---

The sweat and cold now washed away, they rest submerged in the luxurious water, the warm and
heady scents of Essosi oils wafting around them, both finally beginning to relax from their arduous
day.

Sly fingers pinch his side. “Stop brooding.”

He jerks away with a laugh, making her slip off his lap. “How’d you know I’m broodin’?”

“I can feel it. You’re still tense.” She props her chin on his chest, looking up at him. She loves him
this way, all wet, curls hanging heavy down his neck, skin pinked from the heat of the water, eyes
dark and lazy. Something twists inside her, begging her to keep them here, to never leave this tub
or tent. She smiles, resolved to keep the mood light. “Besides the fate of the world resting on our
shoulders, whatever could be bothering you?”

A smirk tugs at his full lips, but doesn't reach further as he brushes a wet strand of hair from her
face. He sighs, letting his head fall back against the edge of the tub. “I feel a right shit. I'm in a
bath, all warm, with my soft, naked wife layin’ over me while everyone else is out there freezin’
their stones off, their women miles away.”

Damn him and that noble heart of his she loves so dearly. “You suffered many a night just like
that, did you not?”

“Aye, suppose I did.”

She slides back over his body, settling firmly on his lap, thighs pressed tight to his slim hips, her
cunt seated against his straining cock. He’s been ready for her since the moment the first of their
armor fell away. His hands go to her arse, griping greedy handfuls as he lets out a low groan and
grinds her against him. She suppresses a shiver. “We lit as many fires as we could,” she whispers
against his neck where she’s placing slow kisses. “Made sure they were all fed, had furs to sleep in,
tents to keep the worst of the cold away.” Her teeth drag over his earlobe and she delights in his
shudder. “And all before we took our own comfort.” Grasping his face in her hands, her thumbs
wipe away the few lines of worry left around his eyes. “We’re good to our people, much better than
most. Stop fretting and love me while you can, Husband.”

Jon wastes no time doing as she wishes, his mouth and hands taking from her as she’s longed for
all day.

But then the whip of leather and wind invade their pleasures, his sister barging in, unannounced,
flinging the flaps of the tent wide, the gust of frosty air that follows her sending a chill across their
exposed skin.

“You’re pregnant,” she proclaims, face alight.

“Fookin’ hells, Arya!” Jon pulls Dany against his chest to hide them both, throwing a chunk of
soap at her. “Get out of here!”

She dodges it with little effort, her smile not faltering. “You promised me we’d talk. So talk. Was
that what your Wildling friend figured out before we left?” she asks him, before turning narrowed
eyes on Daenerys. “And all that yelling about life to bolster everyone? It was because you're
pregnant, wasn't it?”

Dany places her hand over Jon’s mouth before he can do anymore shouting. She sits up,
unconcerned with her nudity and regards Arya with the passive observation of a queen. “Yes, Arya.
I’m pregnant.”

The enigmatic girl does a slight victory jump before quickly schooling her features once more.
“Why didn't you tell us? Don't you think that's something we all should know?”

Some of their precious hot water sloshes over the edge of the tub when Jon jerks underneath Dany
at his sister's challenging tone. With a cut of her eyes and shake of her head, he settles again, his
whiskers prickling her fingers as he gripes behind them.

“It’s no one's business but ours actually,” Daenerys answers. “If you think I would have allowed
any of you to leave me behind, you are sorely mistaken. Of all people, I would’ve thought you
would understand that.”
“Well, of course not,” Arya retreats, “but still.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow at her. “Still what?”

What little patience he had gone, Jon pulls Dany’s hand away from his mouth, scowling fiercely.
“Still nothin’. We’ll discuss it later. Now go away. And Gendry!” he yells out.

“Yes, Your Grace?” comes a meek reply filtering through the tent flaps.

Pinning her lips between her teeth, Daenerys smothers her second giggle of the night.

“If you even think of looking in this tent when she walks out, I’ll run you through,” Jon threatens.

“Of course not, Your Grace.”

With a squinty-eyed snarl, Arya storms out in a huff, giving them a rarely seen glimpse of the
young woman that hides beneath the assassin.

“Told you I should've locked her up,” her husband grumps.

Dany rubs a soothing hand over his chest, before standing up, her hand held out for him to take.
“She's happy for us, and worried. Just as we are.”

Swatting her hand away he places his on her hips and pulls her closer. Her legs spread enough now
he can see her cunt glistening with more than their bath water. Unable to help himself he leans
forward and runs his tongue through her sweetness, drawing a gasp from her open mouth.

“Jon.”

“I’ll never tire of the taste of you,” he hums before taking another swipe at her, this time in a slow
drag.
“Gods, I hope not.” Her fingers are buried in his damp midnight curls now, legs already traitorous
and trembling. “Let's go to the furs, love,” she begs, breath catching as his lips seal around her nub,
his clever tongue stealing the air from her lungs. Air that is chilling her wet skin, adding a
delicious contrast to the flood of warmth he’s creating within her.

He releases her with slight pop, one hand tightening its grip upon her arse to keep her still and
standing, the other sliding up an inner thigh. “No, we’re stayin’ here til I’m done,” he rumbles, two
fingers delving into her slick folds, then further still to sheath themselves inside her swollen walls.

She quivers this time, her hands tightening in his hair as his mouth finds her again. He teases her
mercilessly, tongue drawing lazy circles around her nub, then flicking lightly, up and down, fingers
slow and smooth as they plunder. Helpless, Dany gives into the indulgence, her body taking over,
hips rising, tilting to ease his path, hands pressing his talented mouth closer.

Jon quickly reads her cues and increases his attentions, devouring her like a wolf with a fresh kill;
fingers, lips, and tongue drawing out the shameless wanton she keeps hidden so well within the
queen. Watching her walls fall away and leave the true Daenerys exposed stirs his blood like
nothing else. In his hands and beneath his touch her countless masks disappear to reveal the
goddess that is his and his alone.

Soon her mewls turn into a deep keening wail and he must place a hand against her chest to keep
her from falling over him as she shatters from within, her cunt pulsing around his fingers, her
delicious juices filling his mouth. He soothes her back to the here and now with soft licks and
gentle strokes, then eases her down into the bath with him once more.

She collapses into his arms with a sated sigh. “You are far too good at that, you beast. I’m utterly
defenseless when you pull your tricks.”

He smiles into her hair, pressing a kiss against it and pulls her tighter into his chest. “No tricks, my
love. Just a need to serve my queen as she deserves.”

“Well, I’m grateful for you needs. Now I have some of my own to tend to.”

“Greedy.”

“For you? Always.”

She rises from the tub and steps out, water running golden rivulets down her moonglow skin.
Walking to the furs she drops to her knees and slowly bends over, her beautiful arse lifted towards
him, and that sweet, pink cunt open and ready to take his eager cock.

Jon is on his feet and a step away before she's taken a breath. “Are you sure?” He’s captivated by
the sight of her, but not enough to forget he’s never taken her this way for a reason.

While he’s always imagined it, wanted it, he’s sensed a reluctance in her he dare not push against.
It doesn't take a learned man to think of how her first husband must have handled her. He saw
enough evidence on Dragonstone, and even here amidst the cold lands of Westeros the Dothraki
have no concern to hide their relations. He’s seen more than a few taking their women as rough and
careless as any animal. He has no desire to use her that way.

“I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't sure. Take me, Jon. Before long this will be the only way you
can. Best practice,” she teases him with a wink and wiggle.

Felled by the sensual plenty before him he drops to his knees behind her, hands going straight to
her lovely arse, caressing the soft skin, memories of it glowing with a rosy blush flashing into his
mind. He’s landed a quick blow before the thought barely registers, worry of someone overhearing
the crack, or her responding moan ripped away with the howling wind outside. Her cunt is already
blooming red and ripe after his wolfish ministrations earlier so he grasps his cock, sliding the
plump head through her sopping folds causing both of them to shiver and shake. They moan
together as he slowly slides in, splitting her open. He’s so hard and her channel so tight, it nearly
hurts.

Dany turns to watch, needing to see him, but quickly fears the sight may undo her. Black curls
clinging about his handsome face, pale skin, shining and taut over his straining muscles, full pink
lips parted as he pants, and his eyes… They burn with a dark fire as he watches himself disappear
into her greedy cunt.

“Fookin’ hells,” he grunts, long sooty lashes brushing his cheeks as he finally bottoms out against
her aching womb.

She gasps, head falling to the furs below, a deep shudder running through her as she revels in his
pleasure and her own. He slides out, then sinks himself deep again, then again, strokes slow and
fluid, each exquisite inch felt by the other. The past slides away, all thoughts of pain and hurt
replaced by Jon and his unending love for her. To submit to him is as easy as breathing as he draws
her need out of her by inches, the heat and aches filling all her senses like an intoxicating wine,
letting her wander on the plateau for an age.
Then suddenly he slams into her and she cries out from being filled so quickly, so fucking
completely, but nothing has ever felt better. His grip is unyielding on her hips as he drives into her
over and over. There’ll be bruises, but she doesn’t care. He’s hitting that perfect spot with every
stroke. Not slowing down at her cry, he pulls her over him faster and harder. Her head thrashes side
to side with the intensity of it all, the line between pleasure and pain blurring more than it ever has.
It needs to stop, but she never wants it to, and soon she fractures into a thousand riotous sparks,
screaming out his name.

His moans join her whimpering as he lays himself over her, tucking his face into her neck and
curling his back, his hips pressed tighter against her as his strokes become deeper and more
insistent. Dany tilts her own, allowing him to bottom out, squeezing her walls to massage him in
time with his strokes.

“Fook, Dany. Yes,” he pants, one hand rubbing her breast, his soft lips, teeth, and prickly beard
mouthing at her shoulder. Then it’s all incoherent groans and grunts as he follows her over the
cliff’s edge, his hips grinding into her in short, hard bursts.

A few more shudders and he wraps his arms around her and rolls them onto the furs. Dany turns
over, settling into the shelter of his spent body, peppering kisses across his warm neck and chest
while she brushes his damp hair away from his flushed face.

Once he catches his breath and finally comes back to himself, his rough hands map her curves,
languid kisses placed wherever he can reach as he whispers sweet nonsense.

War is the furthest thing from their minds as they drift into a restful sleep.

---

Death finds them three days later on the rolling snow covered moors north west of White Harbor.

He feels it before any eyes can see it. Tormund and the other Free Folk too, their wide eyes
searching out his through the throng of bodies and horses. It's a cold so cruel it’s a thousand shards
of ice burying themselves within his bones, freezing him from the inside out. Death is coming.

A glacial pang of fear rips through him, his eyes immediately scanning the skies for his wife and
her children circling far above them. There, to the west, flying in fast. Fuck! He knew better than to
let her go alone this far into their march, but she insisted he take a few hours with their men to keep
them bolstered. They’d been taking turns the last few days as hopes and spirits lagged.
Please gods. Please. Keep her safe.

His eyes continue their search for another and his dragon slave, but he's nowhere to be seen, hidden
no doubt by the storm that surrounds and heralds the dead. The sun, now sliding to the west is
veiled behind the dark threatening mist, glowing the sullen grey of a frigid dusk. In the hearts of
those who’ve dared to brave it, it feels like the end of all light.

For down from the hills on every side pour wights innumerable. The grey blue frost of the bitter
cold surrounding them chokes the air, stealing the breath from living lungs. They can barely see
their enemy, but the ear splitting screeches layered underneath the guttural groans that rise from
the vast rushing horde, rips terror down the spines of those who face them. It’s the death rattle of a
hundred thousand strong army of the dead intent on swelling their ranks.

Jon’s mount dances beneath him in terror along with every other horse upon the field. He struggles
to keep his seat as he grasps the hilt of Lightbringer and draws it from its sheath. The flames that
dance along the blade seem to glow bright as the sun, spreading light over those closest to him.
One pale star against the coming night. Ahead of him Beric’s own flaming sword alights, another
beacon of hope.

“For life!” he bellows above the chaos.

While not the resounding cry that answered him at Winterfell, his heart surges at the echoing call
of his troops as they move to action after days of strung out nerves.

No better than proffered bait, their men stand strong. Taking the lead as planned–Jorah, Jaime,
Bronn, Beric, a few Unsullied and Dothraki create a front line, their gleaming Valyrian swords and
bristling spears of glinting dragonglass held aloft and at the ready.

“Archers!” The next line of their defense rushes forward at Jon’s command, bows already drawn.
“Knock!” Torch runners break through the lines, lighting arrows with practiced speed despite the
snow and their tired frozen bodies. He waits one breath, then two while the dead rush closer, then
he can wait no longer. “Draw! Loose!”

All sounds are lost in the whistle of air caused by the flight of a thousand flaming arrows humming
over their heads. Nerves spread parchment thin in the eerie quiet, all of them quaking and quivering
like destriers, high strung and ready to bolt. But the arrows find their marks and the front line of
their enemy breaks like a dam of river reeds, bent and broken.
“Again!” he bellows, the decaying mob’s screeches sending a tremor through his spine as their
putrid stench finally reaches them through the storm, churning his stomach. His mount snorts and
screams, stamping beneath him, then rearing up, desperate to flee. As he wrangles him into control
once more a second round of arrows arc through the mist and hit their targets, then a third.

Whether from the fire or tips of dragonglass the wights fall by the hundreds, but no relief can be
found as thousands more take their place, a crazed and vicious swarm flowing towards them.

Many begin to flee, their terror too much to hold them firm against the demented charge. Then a
deafening shriek tears through the skies above, freezing all in their tracks as the ground trembles
beneath their feet. Jon spins around, horror struck as the penalty for their hostilities strikes like a
thunderbolt from heaven, a blast of blue fire pouring from her once majestic child, scouring the
earth, all those who stood upon it turned to nothing more than vapor and wind before his eyes.

Her sons’ cries peal through Dany's brain like a muffled bell as she watches what is left of Viserion
destroy the living below. Within her chest her heart feels thin and weak, as though it's been tucked
away in some dark place, unused and forgotten. My sweet son, what has he done to you? Golden no
more, his scales hang dull and grey from his bones, wings once strong and powerful are now
riddled with rips and tears, the pale light of the sun filtering through. And his eyes… Glowing the
same unearthly blue as the fire that streams from his gaping jaws. They hold no life . They are …
His eyes.

He smiles at her as they hover above the reign of terror unfolding beneath them. A monster
determined to bring death to them all and using her son to do it.

Not this day.

“Dracarys.”

Drogon releases his fury, Rhaegal doing the same, and the air around her crashes and heaves like a
roaring ocean amidst a terrible storm. A storm made of ice and fire. Viserion has struck too, his
unearthly blue flame colliding with scorching orange. They’re blasted with scalding steam, blinded,
but unharmed until hailstones the size of boulders, large and small begin to strike.

Daenerys ducks in time to save her head from being taken from her shoulders, the ping and clash of
dozens more pelting and pummeling her armor.
Her living sons shriek in alarm, their cries and fear near splitting her skull. Both retreat, throwing
their enormous bodies backwards, the whip of their wings thunderous as they beat the sky to climb
away from their demonic foe. If not for the crude saddle her husband insisted upon, Daenerys
would surely be falling to her death, instead she hangs from her strapped thighs, and the death grip
of one hand, her body thrown back and flapping against Drogon’s scales like a cut sail. Finally he
rights himself and she's able to do the same. Rhaegal still climbs to their left.

Below, the creature that was once her son violently shakes his head, his screaming never ceasing as
he too recovers from the savage attack. His rider clings, seemingly unharmed, glaring eyes fixated
upon her, filled with the same shocking evil that has haunted her dreams since her journey beyond
the Wall.

They must stay above him, pluck him from his seat, then roast and devour him like a boar and this
will all be over.

Under a raining shower of hail, Jon is trapped better than any animal in a steel cage, his stomach
twisted, lungs gasping for air that refuses to come, his heart a throbbing knot behind his ribs. The
war around him is forgotten, the screams not reaching his ears, eyes not seeing the carnage of steel
slicing flesh and rotted bones, only the vision of his tiny wife strapped atop one beast fleeing from
another who’s too unholy to be imagined.

First Rhaegal’s and then Drogon’s massives shadows flash over, diving, then climbing again,
throwing him into darkness, their fury felt in every bone as their roars shatter the air. But disaster
follows them through the gloom, a ghostly figure, drawing closer and closer. The fear claws at
Jon’s throat as he watches, useless and wasted below them, until he’s nearly knocked off his horse
by a pack of wights.

With one downward swing of Lightbringer he dispatches three, managing to keep his seat to split
them in half, the rest turned to carrion with quick thrusts and stabs.

Tormund and the Free Folk fight to his left, the mass of bones and rotted skin at their feet growing,
only a few fur covered bodies lay burning amongst them. He turns his mount around to find Arya
and Gendry waging their own war not far away. His sister moves through the wights like a dancer,
her Valyrian dagger flashing in and out of dead flesh like lightning as she spins and twists so
gracefully he doesn't have a chance to fear for her. Gendry is more of a raging bull, his huge
hammer destroying all it comes in contact with, leaving showers of carcasses to fall in its wake.
Ghost and Nymeria and her pack work effortlessly through the swarm of wights surrounding them,
teeth ripping and tearing through limbs, necks, and jaws, keeping the numbers down enough so the
pair isn’t overwhelmed.

He turns, the screams of the Dothraki wrenching his attention towards the north only for a familiar
voice to scream out his name and send a paralyzing jolt through him before jerking him around
again.

His sister, still fighting and running towards him continues to scream, “Jon! Get on that bloody
dragon! Fucking now!”

She isn't watching and the blood draws from Jon’s limbs, swelling his heart, forcing it into his
throat. A wight is charging towards her back, battle-axe held high and ready to strike. It's too late,
he's too far away. He slams his heels into his mount’s side with vicious force still knowing he
won't reach her in time, knowing he’ll see his sister fall just as Rickon did. That another piece of
his soul will be lost. He races towards her anyway, his roar strangled and choked, Lightbringer
swinging in a great arc at his side, all in its path sliced and severed.

He jerks the reigns readying to jump, his horse plowing furrows as it slides to a stop with a
maddened scream. Mud, snow, and decay fly up, coating Jon in muck as he watches a Valyrian
longsword plunge through the wight’s chest a second before its axe could fall through his sister's
skull.

He spits the rancid mire from his mouth, wiping at his stinging eyes to see Jaime Lannister appear
where the wight had stood, his own eyes wild as he nods at a stunned Arya, then spins to take
down another of the dead.

Arya faces Jon again, her expression filled with grim recognition. “Go! You have to kill him.
There's no other way. Go! Go now!”

His blood still churning and boiling from fear and relief, a great anger overtakes him, like a beast
rising within, pacing behind a cage of ribs and sinew, claws clicking, foam dripping from snarling
jaws. He points the tip of Lightbringer at Arya. “Don't you fooking die!” he bellows then whips his
horse around, spurring him south with another violent kick of his heels.

“You better not either!” he hears her scream as he races away from the battle towards an open field
hacking the dead as he goes. He prays beyond hope Rhaegal can feel him calling through their
shared rage. The faint tether he’s built between them is frail and fragile, shaky at best. The green is
used to having his own head, quiet content to follow his mother and brother and ignore Jon's lead.

But a furious rumble rolls through the sky above, an answer to his desperate plea. With a quick
glance overhead, Jon’s grateful shout dies on the wind. Rhaegal is closing on him fast, but his
mother and brother are being hounded relentlessly by a demon far above, brilliant blue and orange
bursts of fire lighting an ebbing sky filled with horrible screeches and screams.
He slows his horse enough to jump from the saddle, tucking his body and rolling through the wet
snow, his terrified mount galloping away behind him. He’s on his feet in an instant, running for his
sword having dropped it to keep the lethal blade far from his person. Rhaegal circles tightly above
him then lands with a crashing thud, Jon watching the skies as his fierce queen takes on the devil.

“Dracarys!” Daenerys shouts again, cleaved to her son's back like a second skin as he sends a
molten blast into one of Viserion's disintegrating wings, quickly twisting and diving to avoid his
brother's wicked talons. They're burning away slowly despite his icy form. If they can just keep
hitting them, he’ll fall from...

Their foe has turned his attention elsewhere, swooping away, then down towards the snowy
ground. That's when she sees his prey. Rhaegal, wrathful and wild as he crawls over the snow, a
great winged snake, and the small black figure running to meet him, a flaming sword cutting
through the bitter cold beside him.

Jon, no! Run!

“ Fly, my love, fly! We mustn't let him close to them!” she begs Drogon, her terror a scar ripped
opened in her soul, weeping and gnashing. Like a crow whose wings cut through the air, black as
night, rustling as it readies to land on a gravestone. “Ruin and grief, grief and ruin,” it squawks.

No! She will not be afraid.

They dive, a living bolt shot from a scorpion, murderous and vengeful, their fiery blood boiling
infernos within their veins. With the Night King targeted on Jon, they gain on them quickly. The
moment he's close enough Drogon takes a savage bite of Viserion's tail, slinging his smaller form
up and away from Jon and his protective fire-breathing son. A torrent of blue flame misses them by
only inches, violent steam, ice, and flame erupting and hiding them from view as Rhaegal fires
back. Time stops, her heart and breath with it, until the mist fades and she sees Jon dart from
beneath Rhaegal's wing and scramble onto his back.

“ Sōves!” Jon shouts, not bothering to strap himself to the saddle, only gripping the dragon’s spikes
as he launches into the sky. His regret is immediate. He slips from the seat, like butter from a knife,
fingers grasping and clawing at scale and leather. His hand catches on the chain of Rhaegal's
armor, leaving him dangling like a fish on a hook.

Gods bless you, Gendry.

Finally, Rhaegal ceases his climb, sweeping left, then right before leveling off enough Jon can claw
his way back to the saddle. He loops a strap around his wrist, all he has time for as Rhaegal joins
the battle once more, his fury too rabid to contain.

The three brothers wage war in the darkening skies, gaping jaws spewing flames, talons and teeth
ripping and tearing while their riders cling with all their strength, enduring bone jarring hits, their
bodies whipped brutally about as the dragons twist and turn, fighting for any advantage.

After one such dizzying attack, Jon and Dany sit in shock, the steaming mists clearing, their vision
filled with Viserion’s retreating form, flying south and fading fast into the dimness. Dany spares
Jon only a fleeting glance, pointing towards the ground, before tucking herself tight to Drogon's
back as he dives after them, his enormous wings tearing through the sky.

Rhaegal screeches underneath him, slinging his head and throwing out his wings. Jon's certain it's
in protest to a command he did not give. She's ordered them both to stay behind. He knew the
wrath over her child's suffering could become too strong to control, might override her rational
thought. Feared it, and now...

The air around him quiet once more, the sounds of dying men reach his ears. His eyes drop to the
battle below. Fallen bodies lay in drifts and heaps across the snow, like great piles of scarlet and
blackened roses against a sheet of white. The living are still battling fiercely with the dead, no time
to burn their lost if they want to live.

They'll rise and make dead of them all.

A helplessness invades Jon, a cold sickening of the heart, a stone in his festering gut. He cannot be
two places at once. There's no hope to save them all, but he can try.

“ Dive, my friend,” he whispers to Rhaegal. “ We must help them first, then we’ll follow. I swear
it.”

The green, as eager as Jon to be chasing after their queen, dives, wings tucked, his slithering neck
and tail steering them through the bitter winds to the ground below.

With practiced precision, Jon leans back moments before they reach the field and Rhaegal's wings
spread wide, catching the air and slowing them. “Dracarys.” Rhaegal unleashes his vehemence
upon the dead in a storm of devouring flame and smoke black as pitch. Jon tucks himself tight to
his scaley hide, the ash and embers swirling within the tremendous heat surrounding him almost
more than he can withstand.
In and out he’s plunged, from sweltering wave to biting cold and back again as Rhaegal bathes the
battlefield in flame. Then he sees them, two swarms of men, one flowing in from the southwest,
another from the southeast. And by the gods these are not more dead men, but living. Crannogmen
and soldiers from White Harbor come to fight for dawn by the thousands.

The numbers at last in their favor, he doesn't spare another moment. “ Go , Rhaegal. Let's find
them!”

With a thunderous roar, the green turns south, rushing through smoke and mist to search out his
mother. Jon's heart throbs painfully to the pounding beat of Rhaegal's wings.

They could be anywhere by now, any direction. There's no orange or blue flashes filling the gloom
to light the way, no bellowing rage shaking the skies. But his heart leaves no doubt. It seems to be
drawing him towards her, his chest feeling as if some great ocean's tide is dragging it through his
ribs, frantic and furious to bring him to her side.

And Bran’s visions.

They're headed to The Gods Eye.

They fly swift as the northern storm winds, past Moat Cailin and the edges of The Neck, then over
the icy waters of The Bite. There Jon reluctantly slows Rhaegal, a fleet of ships catching his eye,
their black sails all emblazoned with red flaming hearts or golden krakens. He urges Rhaegal
down, sweeping as close as he dares without risking their lives. Shouts and raised fists greet them
from the decks below instead of a volley of arrows. Not enemies, then? With another sweep, the
sight of three he thought he'd never see again confirms it.

Theon, Yara, and Melisandre.

He isn't sure how to feels about seeing the priestess again, but there's no time to consider it, let
alone stop to carry through a sentence.

Rhaegal rumbles his approval as Jon gives him his head once more. Soon the mountains of The
Eyrie appear, but still no sign of either dragon, nor their riders, not until they pass over The Ruby
Ford where his father lost his own battle. The Trident lies just ahead, and further still, through the
fog and shadows he sees the glow, first a brilliant unnatural blue, then burning red.
Rhaegal cries out, suddenly lunging forward, his leathern wings crackling like thunder as they
thrash against the wind, pushing them to a frightening speed.

An unkindness of ravens suddenly appears around them. They swim through the flood of air,
hundreds of tiny ships tossed about on windswept seas. Their shiny black button eyes have gone
white as snow, heads twitching and turning to see all there is to see.

Bran.

“Help us brother,” Jon throws his thoughts towards them, desperate for any aid he can provide.

As one they cry out to him then cut through the air, leading the way towards the ominous ruins of
Harrenhal just coming into view, a mountain of charcoal growing along the horizon. Rhaegal
follows without prodding and Jon allows one small spark of hope to light his heart.

They chased him for hours through the clouds and gloom, never able to draw closer, Viserion's
speed queer and unnatural even for a dragon. In truth, Daenerys allowed the distance, careful to
never lose sight of them, but knowing in her heart she and Drogon were not meant to battle them
alone.

Together. They would do it together.

Their people needed Jon to stay behind, but it did not stop her ceaseless prayers, her desperate calls
to the void for him to return to her side.

But he isn't here and the demon has finally stopped his fleeing. He’s perched atop the melted
stones of Harrenhal, a hellish wraith upon his fellbeast. Drogon seethes beneath her, his fire and
fury raging, determined to destroy the cursed devils once and for all.

“ Wait, my son. Not yet,” she murmurs in hopes of soothing his wrath, while urging him up to
circle their prey. Something isn't right.

Instead of watching them with his heinous eyes, he only stares south, over the waters of The Gods
Eye to what's hidden beyond, ignoring the threat they pose. Perhaps he's feigning his seeming
disregard, to lure her closer, a spider teasing a fly to its web. Yet something whispers within her
mind that isn't it at all.

Bran was right, whatever it is this foul creature wants, it lies somewhere upon that mystic Isle.

Death, Elric said. He only wants death.

He shall have it, this monster upon the back of the child she loved, the child he stole and enslaved.
The one who does not know another monster has also come for death.

She leans over Drogon's neck, her own fire boiling through her as great as his. “Destroy him.”

They find them north of Harrenhall, history determined to repeat itself. But this is no dance the
likes of which Jon has ever seen. The beasts devour one another, a demented knot of flame and
flesh, gnashing teeth and lethal talons spinning in the skies.

With a grieved wail, Rhaegal circles them, calling out to his brother, the battle too frenzied to
enter, leaving them helpless spectators.

Refusing to watch his wife be ripped apart before his eyes, Jon orders the overwrought dragon into
the fray. They get lucky, Rhaegal snatching Viserion's tail and hauling him back, allowing Drogon
a moment to right himself. Jon doesn't breathe again until he sees her white braid whipping in the
wind, Drogon already coming in for another pass.

He releases a gluttonous stream of fire across Viserion's wings, pulling up and around as Viserion
twists away with a tormented scream.

Rhaegal exploits his moment of distraction, rearing back and throwing out his legs just catching
one of Viserion's burning wings in his talons. His weakened flesh rips and tears, but he whips his
head up and around in retaliation, his vicious jaws sinking onto the base of Rhaegal’s neck, his
talons sending ear-splitting screeches to blend with Rhaegal's shriek of pain as they grind against
his armor, grasping for purchase.

A stream of roasting fire engulfs Viseron’s face, Drogon attacking him from above. He releases
Rhaegal from his jaws and Jon's body locks down like a vice as Rhaegal throws himself away from
the threat, twisting and flipping in panic, a hooked fish in the sky, scarlet blood flowing from his
wounds and coating them both.
Jon hangs by only a thread, once again bucked from the saddle. “ Land, Rhaegal ! Land!” he
screams, but nothing gets through to the frantic dragon as he arcs and spirals through the air. At a
flash of Viserion hovering beneath them, Jon doesn't give himself time to think, pulling the
dragonglass dagger from its sheath and slicing through the leather saddle strap wrapped around his
wrist.

He falls, eyes closed, waiting for the impact. It comes swift. Despite the yield the dragon’s rotting
carcass gives, Jon hits with an excruciating crack that splinters through his body, his vision black
and spinning with stars. Knowing there's no time, how quickly he could end this now, he shakes
his head to clear the horrible pounding, then rises to his knees, shocked to see the swirling vision of
the dragonglass blade still gripped in his fist.

He raises his aching head, waiting for his vision to clear. The Night King sits in front of him, still
as stone while ravens wheel around him, black leaves caught in whirlwind. Viserion's shredded
wings somehow beat a slow hum through the air, his body rising and falling like a boat on gentle
waves. Her living sons cry out to one another somewhere behind him. Brother helping brother .

It’s time. They can end this.

Knowing Bran may not be able to hold them for long, but fearing his hammering head and
wavering vision will pitch him off his feet, ending any chance they have, Jon drops to his hands,
only to bite back a cry of pain and clutch his left arm to his chest in reflex. Broken, no doubt . But
still he crawls, as quick as his damaged body allows until he's kneeling behind his greatest enemy.

A dozen outcomes flash through his mind as he stares at the back of the demon’s head. All end
with his own death. Throw him off and risk losing Bran’s control over him and no certainty the fall
would kill him. Even if it did, Jon hasn't a hope of taming the ice dragon they sit upon, he’s too
weak to hold on, let alone bring him safely to the ground. He could plunge Lightbringer through
his back, if he could stand long enough, shattering the monster into a thousand shards of ice, but
Viserion would collapse into a bag of bones beneath Jon and they’d both plummet to the earth
below.

He has to weaken him enough to give Bran time to get them to the ground where Jon can end him.
It's his only hope of keeping his promise.

Her beautiful face suddenly floats before him, eyes shining bright violets, voice sweet honey
slipping through his soul as she lays naked in his arms. “You will not die, my love. I forbid it. You
will fight, until you can fight no more, but you will survive. Promise me.”
Clinging to the only hope he has, Jon rises up, the glinting dragonglass blade brandished over his
head

Please , brother. Get us to the ground.

With a raged filled roar he buries the dagger into the Night King's neck. An ear-shattering scream
pierces his skull, all other sound ripped away. He’s thrown backwards, a hammer of icy stone
slamming into his face. Then he's in the air, certain death rising up to swallow him.

I'm sorry, Dany. I'm so sorry.

A thunderous explosion crashes across the heavens, every bone trembling within her as Daenerys
watches her lost son falling from the sky once more. His slayer falls with him, and another.

The unmistakable figure seems to hang within the grey sky, lifeless, body curved, arms and legs
raised and pointing towards the heavens. Then the ground begins to rush up to take him and
Dany’s soul is wrung with a terror so great it freezes her blood.

Jon.

“Go, my son! Go!”

With the ravens he waits for the cold earth’s embrace. Their inky wings are splayed this way and
that, feathers fluttering, yet they do not fly. Their eyes are no longer white, once again shiny black
beads, but he knows they cannot see.

Memories flood his mind. A little brother who looked so like Robb. An easy smile. The stubborn
determination to ride and shoot as well as his big brothers and sister. The day he fell and they all
feared him dead. He kissed his hair as she glared at him with hate. And he told him goodbye again
not so long ago.

We all have our parts to play and this is mine.

His body erupts with sudden pain, ripping all thoughts away, a thousand searing spikes impaling
him. Roars of agony fill his ears, a distant scream as well, but none belong to him. There's no air
within his lungs. He cannot make a sound. His vision swims, black, then white, and black again.
No. Green. A green so dark it only seems black. It traps him, an enormous claw, pinning him to the
scalding heat at his back and he knows no more.

Dany struggles to her feet, wobbly as a newborn foal in the thick snow she landed in. Her hands
fall to her waist without thought, mind searching for telltale pains. None registering, she tears off
her gloves and closes her eyes, fingers slipping further down her body and between her thighs to be
certain. Relief floods through her as she holds them up, trembling, to see them free of the slick dark
blood she feared would be there.

Drogon calls her with a chuffing whine, spinning her round and it's only then she notices the
dangerous throbbing in her head, the ache in every inch of her body. She pushes them aside,
rushing towards him, eyes frantically searching him for injuries and the red armor, pale face, and
wild curls that landed upon his back just before they crashed to the ground. Rhaegal lays someway
behind Drogon, surrounded by bloodstained snow, slowly crawling towards his brother. Sensing
her distress, Drogon lays himself flat, stretching out a wing. She scrambles up, heart in her throat.

He’s not dead, he’s not dead. We saved him. We caught him in time.

Then she sees him, lifeless limbs and a ghostly white face streaked with blood. “Jon!”

Drogon's back seems to lengthen and stretch, pulling Jon further away with every forward step she
takes. She falls, tripping on sharp spikes and landing with a cry, then she’s scrambling on hands
and knees, only to pull up short when she finally reaches him.

He’s so still, the blood so frighteningly bright against his pale skin. She cannot see his chest rising
and falling, his armor hiding it from her.

Please gods, no. Please!

Fear nearly choking her, she leans over him, trembling fingers at his neck, face turned to his. A
strangled cry rushes up her throat. It’s faint, but it's there, the slight puffs of air against her frozen
cheek, the gentle thump beneath her fingertips. She sobs then, relief beginning to race through her
veins like a triumphing fire.
Pulling back she takes in his battered face once more, gingerly wiping at the blood covering his
ashened skin. “Jon, my love, please!” she begs, not caring to swallow back her weeping. “Open
your eyes. You will not leave me, you promised!”

Drogon is the only one to respond, a dangerous deep growl vibrating through her. She tears her
eyes away from her husband to find the Night King stalking towards them, blue eyes glowing
through the grey dusk. A brilliant rage burning brighter than the sun rises within Daenerys. He will
take no more life this day. Or ever again.

Not willing to risk injuring Jon further by pulling Lightbringer from his back, her daggers are
ripped from their sheaths as she rises, eyes focused on the creature coming for her.

Drogon again drops a shoulder and Daenerys descends. “Dracarys,” she murmurs to her son, then
walks into his flames.

A tremendous roar wakes Jon, rattling his bones like rocks in a cup as it drums through his armor.
He rolls down steaming scales, falling to the ground, stumbling, then all at once, wrestling
furiously at breath like a wolf snatching meat, all air having abandoned him.

He lives, but is weak as a babe, a shrunk cedar white with hoar-frost, and the pain... Gods, it lances
through him like burning arrows, igniting every nerve with agony. He tries to get up, but his head
spins wickedly within his skull and he empties the megar contents of his stomach into the snow
with punishing heaves.

Drogon roars again, the unmistakable sound of his fire blasting from his jaws filling the air as Jon
tries to breathe. Somewhere close he hears Rhaegal's answering bellow. It's broken and strained.

Viserion. His jaws embedded Rhaegal's neck. His blade buried in the Night King's neck. The
explosion. Falling. Dany!

His soul compresses into a single agonizing prayer; please don't let me be too late.

He forces himself to his knees. The pain will have to wait. He has to find her. “Dany.”

No answer follows his whispered plea. He tries again, eyes scanning the snow for her dark armor.
She's nowhere. Only the black spots of dead ravens dot the ground, and Drogon and Rhaegal
spewing flames, at what he cannot see. The plumes of fire never cease.

“Drogon, stop,” he gasps, nowhere near loud enough for him to hear. He draws Lightbringer from
its scabbard and the sword falls at his feet, his arm too weak to hold it. He bends to retrieve it only
to sink to his knees, every breath and pulse of blood torture. But he must get up. He must.

Grasping the sword again he uses it as a crutch, pulling himself to his feet once more. Staggering
closer to Drogon's head, he falls into the dragon’s side with a anguished groan. “Stop, Drogon.
Stop!”

His begging continues to be ignored and it's then he knows. She's within those flames. Fighting
that demon, all on her own.

“Daenerys!”

He stalks towards her through the blazing fire, a blue spector in the light. He burns, flames running
along his icy skin, but they do not stop him anymore than they do her. She knows the hope of
winning this fight is as thin as the dagger’s blades gripped within her hands, but she must try. For
her child, for Jon, their family, and all the living.

She doesn't wait for him to reach her, charging forward only to drop, then roll, landing in a crouch
at his feet as Arya taught her. The dragonglass enters his thigh, merely a distraction as she propels
herself up and buries the Valyrian steel into his chest, begging all the gods she hit her mark.

But he does not shatter like a crystal vase dashed upon the stones, only stares at her, a hand, icily
cold and clammy as death brought forward and wrapped around her throat.

For the first time in her life Daenerys Targaryen knows the pain of burning.

Jon’s anguished screams finally seem to reach her son's ears, the ravenous wall of flame suddenly
gone, leaving behind scorched earth and a scene made of pure nightmares.

The Night King stands before him, a skull shattering shriek ripping from his gaping mouth as
flames lick up his body. Thick black sludge oozes from the three daggers embedded within his
flesh, Jon’s in his neck, and what can only be Daenerys’ in his thigh and chest, the last just left of
his heart. She dangles from the hand he has wrapped around her throat, her own screams joining his
as she struggles to free herself from his grasp, a frightening blue scourge smoking and crawling
across her pale skin everywhere they touch.

Her screams fade, violet eyes meeting his, filled with love, pleading, and regret, a thousand
precious moments passing between them in an instant.

Rage straightens Jon’s broken body, all pain but that in his heart forgotten, Lightbringer now
gripped in both hands as he points it menacingly towards his foe ready to rush him. But the
howling demon suddenly throws Dany across the blackened ground to land with a sickening thud
of snapped bones and bent steel before falling to his knees writhing in pain.

Jon only sees his wife lying lifeless upon the smouldering earth, acrid blue smoke wafting from her
neck and hands, a thin trail of blood running from her nose and across a pale cheek.

With a fierce broken roar, Jon’s fury explodes. The Night King shatters in a silvery, shimmering
shower of ice, Lightbringer still aflame despite the black heart split upon the blade.

Jon flings the sword aside, running to her, his agonizing wail creating a mournful song as it mixes
with those of her son’s. His feet fail him on the slick blackened mud and he falls, once, then again,
what little air left him forced from his lungs. He crawls then, closing the endless space between
them.

“Daenerys.” Her name leaves his lips on a tortured gasp, shaking fingers hovering above the icy
burns crawling across her skin. “He’s gone. We did it. It's over, you can wake up now, love.”

At her silence, his body wracked with pain and fear, Jon wraps trembling arms around her, burying
his face into her hair. “Please, Daenerys.” Ash and smoke fill his nose as he sucks in great gaping
breaths, each more strangled than the last. “I kept my promise, Dany. You have to keep yours.
Keep yours,” he begs.

The soft smothered sounds of weeping are the last he knows.

Chapter End Notes

Yes, I left it there. I am an evil soul. But I do hope by now you all trust me to see our
King and Queen through this. I would LOVE to know your thoughts! Please leave me
a comment. I feel like I left my soul on this chapter, I need to know it was worth. LOL
Love to you all, thank you so much for reading my word making doing <3
 No Grave Can Hold My Body Down
Chapter Summary

The fate of our King and Queen comes to light, as well as another important tale.

Chapter Notes

*Peeks from under my rock and waves timidly*

I'm so sorry this has taken me so long. I won't bore you with excuses, though I promise
they weren't sorry ones, but please take a moment to read below.

I’ve taken some liberties with this chapter where magic is concerned, and the lifespans
it can allow. We’ve seen from the show that the Night King is certainly ancient,
possibly some of the Children of the Forest as well. Melisandre is quite old too. Some
statements from the creators and producers I found said centuries old, others said she
was ancient. I'm going with the latter.

With that said let's move to this. One burning question I think every fan of GoT has
had at one point of another is: What does the Night King want?

This chapter is my answer to that question. I do not believe in the slightest that this will
happen in the show, and certainly not in the books. This is just my own imagination
taking over, along with some encouragement from my fifteen year old son who
insisted the NK had to have a better purpose than wanting everyone dead because that
was just stupid and lazy. Granted he has only seen small bits and pieces of the show,
and those he has always make him say; they stole that from Elder Scrolls/Skyrim, lol.
Anyway, after a two hour brainstorming session this is what we came up with it.

Hope you enjoy! And as always, thanks to my Tarts for all their love and support.
Ashleyfanfic held my hand through this one, helping me keep the plot holes filled and
I love her for it. And last, but certainly not least, I must thank Meisie for her beta
work. She keeps me in line even when she's feeling rough. Love you, my Queen!

And you too, Drakhus ;)

A thousand teeth gnashing. Wet snow a quiet bed. Heartbeats slow and sluggish. Hunger gnawing.
Days, or hours. Freezing, then thawing. The fire, the ice. Hand in hand, fixed and cold. A deep
slumber that creeps and claims. Home. Dark wings circle above. Years, or maybe a week.

“Careful with them, but move quickly. There isn't much time.”
Blackness. Red. Greens and browns. The pain is everywhere. Strange voices, soft and deep and
numerous. Hands touching. Someone screaming. Dany. The blackness comes again.

“Can you heal them?”

“If it is the Lord’s will. Now leave us, and let me work.”

All there is is fire. Endless burning. Flames feeding on flesh, ice cold and biting. No sweet air to
bring relief, only fire. Lungs left lined in smoke and ash. Hours of agony. A voice sings an
arsonist's lullaby. Hands gentle and soft come to ease the pain.

“There my brave girl, shhhh. Let it go. You need not fight any longer.”

“Jon.”

“He lives, just as you do. Rest now.”

Damp earth, moss, and burning wood mingle with foul odors. Colors swirl around blurred faces.
Queer muffled voices float about then dissolve into the silence. Heat, then cold, then heat again.
Soft, cool hands. Soothing liquid to parched lips and throat. Sleep. Sleep. Blessed sleep.

His limbs feel weighted, compressed, as if he lies beneath the earth, a corpse within its grave. He’d
have no doubt if not for the light filtering through his heavy lids, and the slight awareness is all it
takes for the terrors and despair to come rushing back to seize him.

“Dany!”

“Your Grace! It's alright. Lay down, it's alright. She’s right beside you. She's only sleeping.”

Jon jerks away from the cool hand upon his shoulder, groaning as pain lances through him like hot
arrows. He turns his head to the side, but his eyes won’t open. She was gone, dead. They're lying.
This is some cruel, horrible trick.
“ Your Grace, I promise she's alright. Open your eyes.” He turns back, opening them to find Meera
standing over him, her face etched with worry in the candle light. “Look for yourself. I wouldn't lie
to you, Your Grace,” she says, voice soft, yet sure. She grabs the sheet he’s laying on in both
hands. “Here, let me help you so it won't hurt as much.” She pulls gentle and slow, rolling him
over to his side.

The air leaves him, his heart slamming against his chest, like a boulder flung at a castle wall. His
Dany. Pale and still, bruised, scarred, bandaged and battered, but breathing. He watches his
trembling fingers reach out and touch her cheek, gasping at the warmth seeping into them. Relief
rushes through him, shaking him to his very core, a great sob wrenching free from his throat.

He buries his face into the pillow to muffle his cries, his fingertips now resting over the steady
pulse thrumming away in her neck.

“Jon?” her sweet voice whispers, weak fingers threading through his hair.

Lifting his head and ignoring the throbbing pain within his skull he looks into the pools of violet he
feared he’d never see again. His tears burn hot and copious, blurring the beautiful sight of her as
her own well up and spill over.

Then they know the warmth of each other, damaged arms wrapped clumsily, yet carefully, noses
buried in necks, drawing in precious scents, hands and lips gentle and reverent as they search
beloved faces. Words are spoken, but most are lost to gasping breaths and tear stricken throats,
neither able to voice the horrors they endured just yet.

The hurried shuffling of feet and a flash of dark furs and curls at the end of their bed catch Dany’s
attention. “Meera–,” she whispers, her voice strained and weak, but the girl cuts her off.

“I was just leaving, Your Grace. My apologies,” she mumbles, reaching for the door.

Dany, shakes her head and swallows before trying to speak again. “No, please stay.”

Jon reluctantly eases himself away from his wife, knowing they need to focus on the rest. “Please,
Lady Reed. What can you tell us? How long have we been here? Has there been word from our
armies?” he asks. “My brother,” he adds, hesitant, praying there’s still a chance.

A riot of expressions cross Meera’s face, finally settling on heavy disquiet. She licks her lips, eyes
dropping to the floor. “Elric and the Lady would be best to explain everything, Your Graces. I’ll go
get them.” With that she rushes through the door, giving them no chance to stop her.

“Lady?” Dany wonders, brows twisted. Jon shrugs, no more knowledgeable than her.

Troubled and tired, they sink back into the surprisingly soft mattress beneath them, eyes and hands
once again roaming.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Jon whispers, his voice gravelly with disuse, his fingers hovering over the
handprint seared into her neck. The skin is puckered tightly and shining like a blade of blue steel.

“I promised, didn't I?” she answers, mouthing the words, her broken voice hushed as she runs her
hand over the strange hard bandage that covers his arm.

He takes it in his own, eyeing the same silvery blue scars upon her palm and fingers before
pressing them to his lips. “Aye.” Her screams peal through his mind and his eyes slam shut against
the barrage, only to see her thrown through the air like a child's toy to break upon the blackened
ground. He swallows down the bile rising in his throat and focuses on her sweet face. “How do you
feel?”

Eyes watery, she looks him over, still not sure he's real and fearing he could disappear on her at any
moment. “Thinner. Weak.” She shakes her head, gently running a thumb across his red and angry
eyebrow. He’ll soon have another fetching scar to go with the rest. “Like an old sheaf of parchment
that's ready to turn to dust. Or a twist of rotten silk. You?”

“I was thinking like leather stretched too tight, the skin worn so thin the light’s gettin’ through.”

“We’re not the same,” she says.

Sadness pinches at his brow, lifting it over his deep, inky eyes. “No,” he agrees, “but we're still
here. We’re alive.”

She nods, a ghost of a smile upon her lips before she traps them between her teeth, a small mewling
sound escaping along with a single tear as her eyes squeeze shut.
A sickening fear hits Jon as he watches it slide down her cheek. It swallows him whole, leaving his
heart pounding and nausea to fill his gut. Gods please, not their babe.

He slips his hand under the covers and over her ribs, his touch feather light and hovering, too afraid
to move lower for fear the firm swell beneath her skin may be gone. He stares down at her stricken
face, willing her to open her eyes and see the question in his own. When she doesn't he can stand it
no longer. Dropping his forehead to hers, he grips a handful of her gown. “Dany, tell me,” he begs,
“Please.”

Her heart breaks anew at the desperation flowing from him. She chokes down a sob and grips his
hand in her own, pressing it over their child, still safe and sound within her womb. “Still with us,”
she whispers.

He gasps into her mouth, “Thank the gods.”

She whimpers as he kisses her fiercely, stroking his face and staring into his watery eyes once he
pulls away. “Our babe is fine. There's been no bleeding, or cramping. Meera told me as soon as I
woke. You were still sleeping.”

“You're sure? You don't feel any different?” he frets.

She shakes her head. “Not where our babe is concerned, no. We're fine, my love. I promise.”

He presses his cheek to hers, drawing in deep breaths of her sweet scent, holding her as tightly as
he can without causing her pain. “I love you. I love you so fooking much.”

“I love you too,” she whispers, clinging to him.

Jon pulls away, looking down on her with an awe-filled smile. “We did it. We killed that fookin’
frozen bastard.”

She laughs, only to wince at the pain in her throat. “ You did. I did nothing but anger him. I tried to
hit his heart–” she tries, but he cuts her off.
“Seven hells, woman!” he exclaims. “You battled him in the skies, chased him down, then battled
him again. You walked into the fire and fought him. You stuck him with not one blade, but two.
You crippled him with pain. I don't know how, but he was nothing but a creature writhing in agony
by the time I was any help.”

“You knocked him from the sky,” she whispers as loudly as her throat allows, poking him
emphatically, but gently, before covering her face with a hand and sucking in a strangled breath.
“Gods, Jon. I’ve never felt such terror seeing you falling like that.” She meets his eyes again, lip
trembling. “Then to find you on Drogon's back. You were so pale, there was blood everywhere,
and you weren't moving,” she gasps.

Hating himself for the fear and pain he caused her, he pulls her close, rubbing her back as best he
can. “Shhh, let's not, okay? We're here, we’re all three here. It's over. We won. That's all that
matters. I’ll be fine if we never speak of it again.”

“Me too,” she mumbles into his chest.

They lay quiet, never separating, minds still swirling with memories more vivid than either want
until a light knock sounds against their door and a new voice begs entrance to their tiny resting
place. At their bidding, a woman glides into the room, Elric following her sedately. A peculiar
sense of knowing invades them both. Tall, ethereal, and draped in red, her presence fills the room
to every rough-hewn nook and cranny.

They straighten as best they can, which is barely at all, exchanging concerned glances.

Pale, slender fingers grasp her hood, removing it to reveal a head of silver hair as she lifts dark, yet
unmistakable violet eyes and surveys them. “I am pleased to see you both looking so well,” she
greets, voice soft, soothing and gentle, like the murmuring of a mother over her sleeping child.

Their shock is palpable, neither having seen anyone who so resembles Daenerys. The perfect pale
skin, moon-kissed hair, and amethyst eyes all so similar, yet where Daenerys’ face is smooth and
round, this woman's is long and angular.

Dany shakes herself and finds her voice. “Is it you we have to thank for that?”

The beautiful woman tilts her head. “R’hllor, Your Grace. As his servant I can only do what he
allows.”
“We thank you all the same…?”

“I am called, Ilanthe, Your Grace. And please, save your voice.” She walks to the table beneath the
one tiny window within their room, pouring steaming liquid from the kettle that sits upon it into an
earthen cup, then brings it to Daenerys. “Drink, Your Grace. Liquorice root tea, it will help your
throat. Sip it slowly.”

As his wife gratefully takes the cup from the priestess, Jon narrows his eyes at her. “Did
Melisandre send you? How long have we been here?”

Unfazed by his demanding questions, her responding smile is small and knowing. “She did not. It
was I that sent her. And it is the night of the third day, Your Grace.”

Jon and Dany exchange another glance, this one more puzzled than the last. “Three days? It feels
like an age,” Dany whispers. “Please, my Lady, help us understand,” she asks, and sips at her tea.

“It is a long tale, perhaps when you are both stronger,” the priestess suggests. “You’ve only just
woken.”

Jon looks to Dany and she nods her head. “We're strong enough for all of it,” he answers for them.

“As you wish.” Ilanthe sits, Elric does as well. They all wait, watching as she stares into the flames
of the small fire, her fingers caressing the blood red jewel upon her throat. It pulses with light, like
a smouldering ember.

Jon grows impatient, easing his body further up the bed with his one good arm, teeth buried into
his plump bottom lip to withhold any sound of pain, his dark eyes focused on their visitor. Dany
frets beside him, wrapping her hand around his clenched fist, ignoring the tight pull of her scarred
skin as he takes several shallow breaths.

“We’ll heal, right? She's going to be fine, and the babe?” he demands of the priestess, the pain
easing enough he can finally speak.

Ilanthe nods her head, her face void of any emotion. “I feared, more than once, that you were both
not long for this world, but I fear no longer. The wounds you suffered will not bring death to any of
you now. Though I do suggest a fortnight of rest, or two. You need time to gain all of your strength
once more and to allow your broken bones to begin healing.”

“A fortnight?” Dany protests, “Our men, my dragons. And Cersei. She will not wait for us to gain
our strength.”

“You have saved us all from a fate greater than death, there are others who will rise to defeat your
enemy.”

“What’d you mean?” Jon grunts.

“There are many fiercely loyal to you both and they too have felt the pain dealt by the false queen.
She sealed her own fate long ago, you need not worry. Her end is near.”

“Alright, but what of our armies, my dragons. Our families,” Dany insists, straining her throat too
far and sending herself into a fit of coughing. Jon hovers worriedly, tipping her cup of tea to her
lips as soon as it eases. She drinks eagerly then deflates into her pillows.

As Jon smooths away the damp hair from her brow, Ilanthe smiles softly at her. “Your dragons are
well. They are not far and are certain to come when their mother calls. As for war, it is a terrible
thing. There were losses, but there was not a soul who marched with you who did not know the
price. Those who survived are being seen to, just as you are, Your Grace.”

Meera enters the room once more, carrying a scroll. Jon immediately recognizes the sea green seal.
Manderly. He reaches for it, flicking his fingers impatiently. Meera's eyes dart to the red woman,
then back to Jon before she steps closer and passes him the scroll, more than a little reluctant.

Dany leans her head against his shoulder to read along as he opens it.

Jon,

I pray this finds you and our queen alive and well. The Great War is won, the dead are no more.
One moment we were fighting for our lives, the next they dropped like stones. I feel certain, as do
the rest of us, you and Daenerys are to thank for that and that the Night King is no more. Nearly
two thirds of your combined armies survived. We have burned or buried the dead as their custom
and are moving the injured to White Harbor.

I regret to say several of those closest to you did not survive. I’ve made a list of everyone, but
thought these you would prefer to know sooner rather than later. Ser Jorah Mormont, Beric
Dondarrion, Theon Greyjoy, and the sellsword Bronn. Ser Jaime Lannister and the red woman,
Melisandre have both perished as well. And we have searched tirelessly, but your sister, Gendry,
and The Hound are gone, but presumed alive. Horses are missing, as well as their weapons.

Again, we pray you are both well, and we eagerly await word.

Your friend, Samwell

Jon allows the parchment to fall to his lap, placing his hand over Dany’s where it grips his arm and
presses his face into her hair. Only the crackle of the fire in the small hearth can be heard for
several long moments before they become the king and queen once more.

“Have you sent ravens out?” Jon asks, “Told Sam and my sister that we survived?”

Elric nods. “Yes, Your Grace. To White Harbor and Winterfell first, then to the rest of your allied
houses. They should all know by now. Others can be sent at your behest.”

“My brother…” Meera's sudden exit from the room turns Jon's grief from a shifting shadow into a
grappling hook lodged firmly within his heart. He swallows down the lump in his throat, doing his
best to collect himself as Dany carefully hugs herself to his side.

“Has he been laid to rest?” she asks for him.

“In a way of sorts, Your Grace,” Elric answers.

“ What does that mean?” Jon bites out. “We’d all be dead if not for him. He deserves a proper
resting place. In Winterfell , with his family.”

“I'm afraid that isn't possible, Your Grace,” Ilanthe’s soothing voice interjects.
“Why not?”

“It's the trees, Your Grace. The old gods. They claimed him,” Elric explains. When Jon can only
stare, he tries again. “Once you're able, I will take you to him so you’ll understand and can pay
your respects.”

Jon pushes aside his grief for his lost brother for the time being. His little sister is lost in another
way and can still be helped. “Arya, Gendry. Have they gone where I think they have?” he asks
Ilanthe.

“Yes.”

A string of colorful curses leaves Jon. Dany watches warily as he runs a hand over his face, his
eyes falling closed while he lets out a ragged sigh.

“Where have they gone?” she asks him gently.

“I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don't count,” he grumbles, sinking further into the
pillows, his weakened state suddenly glaring.

The truth hits Dany like a wave from a stormy sea nearly taking her breath with it. “She wouldn't?”

“She already fookin’ has,” he says, defeated.

“We’ll go after her,” she declares, “We’ll find the dragons, and then we'll go. She'll be fine.”

“The deed will be done before you could reach them,” Ilanthe says.

“Will they succeed?” Jon asks.

“They will.”
“Without injuries?”

She nods her head. “Your sister is quite proficient. You needn't worry.”

“She's my little sister. I'm worried.”

“She's an assassin, better at killing than either of you,” Ilanthe counters.

“Thanks for that,” he deadpans, wiping a hand over his tired face once more, then eyeing her
skeptically. “Tell us why you're here. What you have to do with all of this, and us.”

Ilanthe ignores Jon's prickliness, growing pensive, the flames once again drawing her gaze. “Those
of us whom serve the Lord of Light do so at great cost. The weight of all resting upon one’s
shoulders can be–” An ill-humored snort from Jon followed by a smack brings her attention back to
them. Her expression turns indulgent seeing the pair scowling at one another. “The King is right to
be offended, my Queen.” She looks to Jon. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Of course you are both well
aware of such a burden.”

He nods solemnly and Daenerys gently smiles at her. “Continue, please,” she asks.

Ilanthe stands, folding her hands within the sleeves of her blood red robes, then turns towards the
fire. “As I’m sure you have already surmised, the blood of the Valyria flows in my veins as well as
yours.” She looks over her shoulder at them for a moment, then back into the flames. “While I’m
from our homeland, I left long before its rise to power. As a young girl I was taken from my family
to Asshai, raised as a servant to R'hllor. When it was decided I was ready I was sent west under the
guise of a slave of the First Men before they left for Westeros.”

Jon scoffs. “You’re trying to tell us you're thousands of years old?” he asks, incredulous.

She turns around to face them, her violet eyes glistening. “I am.”

“That isn't possible.”

Her smile is enigmatic. “Your wife walks through fire unburnt. Birthed dragons from stone. You
have been raised from the dead. The two of you have only just ended a reign of magic so
powerful…” She shakes her head and raises her eyebrows at him. “Magic is capable of anything,
never doubt its possibilities.”

“Let her finish, Jon,” Dany scolds, thoroughly caught within the web Ilanthe is spinning with her
tale.

“Fine,” he grunts. “Continue. Please.”

She nods, slight smile still in place, but it fades quickly. “You asked Elric the last time you were
here what the Night King wanted. He told you death. He was not entirely wrong. That is what he
wanted. The death of those who took away the thing he loved most, and all the ones who stood
between him and that very thing.”

“And that is…?” Jon asks when she falls silent.

“Me.”

Daenerys gasps. “You?”

“I was his wife.”

Jon and Dany are stunned into silence, eyes wide and mouths gaping.

Expecting such a reaction, Ilanthe continues her tale. “The years passed. The fighting began
between the men and the Children. I met him the night he came with a few others to my master’s
home. They wanted to discuss plans for further attacks. I got in the way, spilled something. My
master struck me to the floor and before I knew it, he was there beside me bleeding out as Rodrik
Stark wiped the blood from his blade on my master’s tunic.”

“Stark,” Jon breathes, eyes darting back and forth between Daenerys and Ilanthe. “Old Nan told us
that in one of her stories. I… I didn't…”
“She spoke true, he was a Stark,” Ilanthe attests. “One of the first. We were also the first union of
Ice and Fire.” She looks at Jon. “Your parents were the second. Both unions brought only death
and destruction to Westeros. But you two, you have finally brought healing.”

“I don't understand,” Daenerys cuts in, her ragged voice harsh as a winter wind. “ Why ? Why did
there ever need to be a union of Ice and Fire? Why allow two to destroy and force another to clean
up their mess?” she demands.

As Jon reaches out and takes his wife's hand, soothing her with whispered words, Ilanthe looks at
Daenerys, shaking her head. “No one knows why the gods do what they do. I am only a servant
sent to follow his orders.”

Dany scowls back at her. “That is nowhere near good enough for me, but please, continue. I will
rage at your god for his cruel games later.”

Ilanthe smiles, her shoulders even raising slightly with her mirth, but again it's replaced by
enduring calm a moment later. “By the laws of the time I became Rodrik’s slave. He took my
master’s life, so mine was his,” she explains. “He immediately freed me, and soon after asked me
to be his wife. I was told before I left Asshai I would know my path when it was laid before me,
and I did.” She walks to the little window, looking out at the darkness through its grimy glass to
places and times they could never see. “We were happy for awhile. He loved me, fiercely, and
despite myself, I too fell in love with him.”

“If this is too painful, you need not tell us,” Dany offers in a whisper.

Ilanthe's smile returns, one of gratitude gracing her beautiful face. “I thank you, but you both
deserve to know.” She returns to her chair beside Eldric, folding her hands together in her lap, spine
straight as an arrow, face stoic. “The fighting had only increased with the Children. They grew
desperate to save their lands. Rodrick and I were taken during the night from our bed. They
threatened me to make him do as they wished. It worked. He would have died for me if necessary.
Instead they turned him into a weapon, and he in turn made others the same. For awhile he was
only a soldier, doing as they bid on the promise he would see me again, be freed from the magic so
we could go back to our lives. But that promise was broken time and again. The fury grew so
strong within him his love for me turned to madness. One so great the Children could never hope
to control it.” She tilts her head. “The rest you already know.”

“Fookin’ hells,” Jon groans and heaves a heavy sigh, face etched with pain and frustration. “All
this time. All that death over a broken heart.”
Daenerys pins him with flashing amethyst eyes. “I would burn the world to ashes if someone took
you from me, Jon.”

“No, you wouldn't,” he retorts as sure and hard as storm waves meet the shore. “You're better than
that. You’d never kill innocent people to ease your own pain.”

“He’s right, Your Grace,” Ilanthe agrees. “You are better than that, and so is he. You both proved it
only a few days ago.”

Dany dismisses their praise, her emotions too volatile to except such without her fragile walls
tumbling. “Regardless of what I would do, I’m sorry for your suffering. I cannot imagine the pain,”
she laments.

“I have had many years to accept that pain, and all the rest that followed, but I thank you all the
same,” Ilanthe returns.

“Why did you not go home?” Daenerys asks gently. “Why are you still here after all this time?”
Her eyes cut to Eldric dark and dangerous. “With the ones who betrayed you.”

Ilanthe sighs softly, eyes falling to her clasped hands. “I could not help but feel I had made a
mistake, caused all the death and pain. That he hadn't been my path at all.” She looks up, meeting
Daenerys' eyes. “I needed to stay and find my true one.”

“And did you?” Dany asks.

She nods, lifting her hands up and open. “I did, and here I sit at the end of it,” she declares, her
smile finally reaching her eyes.

---

After being fussed over by Ilanthe, their injuries checked and rechecked, both carefully bathed and
helped to and from the privy, then fed a light stew, they are finally left alone with strict orders to
rest.
“I still can't believe it,” Jon sighs, staring up at the thatched roof above them. “Not that he's gone
and we're safe, and certainly not why he was ever here to begin with. The weight of him has been
smotherin’ me for years. I'm not sure I know how to act now it's gone.”

“I imagine it will take time to truly believe it all,” Dany muses, “to find a new reality.” She rolls
towards him, grateful her sore shoulder is on the opposite side so she can. It was badly dislocated
when that monster tossed her away. One of her ankles fared even worse. Walking on it anytime
soon is not an option. It too is wrapped in hardened linen strips, just as Jon’s broken arm is.

He rolls to face her, wincing all the while. Ilanthe had changed the bandages around his torso,
unwrapping them to reveal a gastly map of bruises in a hundred shades of black and blue, shocking
against his paleness. Dany had needed to bite her lip near to drawing blood to keep from crying out
at the sight of him. Ilanthe informed them only a few of his ribs had survived the battle without
cracks. Moving and even breathing would be quite uncomfortable for him for awhile.

She brushes back a few curls from his forehead, still damp from washing, tucking them behind his
ear. “Are you feeling any better? How's your pain?”

“A lil’ better. Whatever she gave me seems to be workin'. Still feel as if all my bones have been
trampled by your horde though, and I'm pretty certain the horde is trapped inside my skull at the
moment.” He reaches up and gingerly checks the lump on the back of his head. “Dying and nearly
freezin’ to death were less painful,” he grunts, then catches her fingers and presses them to his lips.
“What about you?”

“My ankle is throbbing, and my shoulder a bit, other than that I'm just…”

“Exhausted?”

“Yes, certainly that, but…” Her brooding frown could beat his own.

“But what?” he asks when she seems at a loss.

She worries her plump bottom lip with teeth and tongue before taking a deep breath, eyes focused
on her fingers linked with his. “When I found you on Drogon's back… I was terrified I’d have to
find a way to live without you. Then when he… when he had me by the throat. The burning, the
pain, it was nothing compared to what I felt in my heart seeing the devastation in your eyes as you
watched,” she rushes out with a gasp.
“Hey now,” he whispers, sliding his fingers into her hair and cupping the back of her head,
drawing her closer and pressing kisses to her forehead. “I thought we agreed no talking about that
anymore.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I can't seem to make it stop running through my head.”

“What do you need? How can I help?”

“You can't.”

“I can and I will. Tell me what you need.”

“I need you , Jon. I need to see... I need to erase the bad with the good. To see nothing but love in
your eyes, not the horror that's seared into my mind. We're alive, and my body, my heart, they’re
desperate to revel in that.”

“Aye, I know exactly what you mean. Surviving a battle will do that to ya.”

She trails her fingers from his ear to the hollow of his throat. “Do you think we could be careful?”

He snorts. “Careful isn't what our bodies seem capable of once they touch.”

“We could try our best?” she tries again, knowing it's not possible, but hoping to tease a smile from
him regardless.

She gets a smile and his deep laughter too, only for them to be cut off by a groan and grimace. “Oh
seven hells, don’t make me laugh,” he gasps, his breathing short and shallow, his beautiful face
twisted with pain. “There's nothing I’d like more than to be buried inside you, lov–”

“No, no. Hush. I was teasing,” she rushes out. “I couldn't stand it if I hurt you more.”
Grabbing the blankets, Jon rolls slowly onto his back, carefully throwing the blankets off them in
the process. “I wasn't teasin’. Help me get these off,” he grunts, pulling at his small clothes.

“Jon, no. We’ll hurt you even worse than you already are, then we'll never get out of this bed,” she
protests.

He manages a smirk. “Am I too weak and ugly for you now?”

“Of course not! You're perfect, just as you've always been.” She bites her lip as her hand goes to
her scarred throat of its own accord, a rare bout of insecurity seizing her. “Am I?”

The scowl across his brow is harsh. “Now who needs to hush?” He stares at her a moment, his
displeasure fading to tender adoration. “You're the furthest thing from weak and ugly I’ve ever
known, love,” he whispers.

She wants to trust his words, but fears just looking on her will cause him pain, horrible memories
to reach up and choke him each time he sees the unsightly scars until he can look on her no more.
Ilanthe assured her they would fade with time, but doubts cling to her heart like cobwebs.

“Dany, look at me,” he demands, breaking her free from the tangle of anxiety. She looks into the
eyes she adores, her heart swelling at the love flowing from them. “I don’t see them. Only you and
who and what you are. The woman I love. My Queen, my wife, the mother of my child. My
salvation . I’m yours. A few scars matter less than nothin’ to me.”

Tears well, but she refuses to let them fall as she leans over and presses a lingering kiss to his full
lips. “Do you know how much I love you?” she whispers against them.

He kisses her back, grinning. “I’ve got a pretty good idea, now quit stallin’ and help me.”

“Are you sure? I can wait, Jon.”

“Maybe, but I can’t. We’ll be careful.”

“You just said we weren’t capable of being careful,” she fusses, even as she sits up, brushing his
hand away to free him of the restraining fabric herself. His cock already lays hard and enticing
against his bandaged stomach, the tip swollen and red. The ache within her grows urgent.

“We’ve got no choice. Now your turn,” he orders, voice rough as gravel as he reaches down, taking
his rigid cock in hand and stroking himself. “I want to see all of you.”

His eyes turn black as a starless sky as he props himself against a nest of pillows and watches her
slip free of her gown and small clothes, her own mesmerized by them and the blatant movement of
his hand, a rush of wet heat flooding from between her thighs at the sight.

"You like watchin’ me,” he says, his voice the rumble of a rock slide.

She breathes out, shifting closer. “Yes.”

"One of these days we’ll get around to watchin’ each other, but right now I need you. Climb up
here."

Moving slow and cautious, Dany straddles his hips, one hand braced beside him, her broken ankle
off the bed, her weight resting on her good knee as she hovers above him.

His cock still in hand, Jon rubs it through her slick folds, circling her hard little nub with the head
as they drink from each other with lips and tongue, both parched and wanting, the ache like a scar
ripped open between them that can only be healed with more of the same. He can taste it, like the
bite of metal drawing blood, sharp and clean.

Impatient, Dany tilts her hips and he slides home, groaning deep, her whimpers catching in her
throat. Her delicious heat draws him in as she sinks down, her body a quivering mess above him,
his tight as a bowstring beneath. Knowing she's probably as sore as he is, he forces himself to lie
still, to let her lead, praying their bodies allow them the release they both so desperately need.

She sits back, consuming him to the hilt, settling down and cradling his hips with her own, thighs
spread wide to save his ribs. Jon lifts a hand to her breast, palming it gently as she watches him,
frustrated he has only one good hand to worship her with. Making the best of what he does have, he
showers one, then the other with attention, fingers pinching and pulling at her wine red nipples.

Soon she's rolling her hips in long, slow strokes, her soft mewls and moans only adding to the
indulgence. Then she rocks forward, squeezing his cock with her silkened walls from base to tip
before sinking down again. Jon’s eyes to slam shut with pleasure. He could swear she's trying to
suck his cock right off, and by gods he’ll gladly let her. Over and over and over in a maddening
rhythm she rises and falls, leaving him teetering on the edge of sanity. By the rise of her whimpers
and the trembling of her limbs, she isn't far behind.

"Jon,” she cries out, sounding almost frightened by the intensity that's built between them so
quickly.

It takes all his control not to spill within her the moment he opens his eyes. His goddess rides him,
moon kissed skin flushed pink from arousal, soft lashes fluttering against cheeks, lips gasping for
air, swollen and bruised from his kisses, breasts full and firm, swaying as she moves over him.

His name leaves her once more in a keening cry and he coos at her, running a soothing hand up her
thigh. "I’ve got you, Dany. I'm right here." Her eyes find his, a thousand shades of twilight begging
him to ease her path. "Pinch your nipples, love. I need you to come with me," he orders, his thumb
finding her sensitive bundle of nerves within her silken folds, slippery and soaked with her need.

He rubs it in slow, tight circles as another cry overtakes her, head falling back, hips rocking harder,
urgent whimpers and mewls slipping free of her throat. Her hands run up to her breasts, squeezing
them as he longs to do, then her fingers are twisting and pulling at her nipples.

A feral growl escapes him, his hips thrusting up, the sensual beauty of her more than his body can
stand. He isn't going to last and tells her so with a snarl. “Fook, Dany. You need to come for me.”

His words spur her hips to an erratic pace, her cries growing louder with every forward stroke. He
begs then, as she works him harder, her velvet walls clenching around him, stealing his breath.
“Dany, please.”

That's all it takes, she cries out his name, convulsing over and around him, as he grunts and groans
beneath her, hips thrusting upwards with no caution as he fills her with his seed.

Dany slumps over, catching herself on one hand, still panting, Jon doing his best to control his own
breathing beneath her. "I love you," she gasps against his lips. Their kiss is messy and wrecked,
then slowly sits back up, allowing him to breath and gifting him with a sweet smile.

“I love you,” he pants back.

"Are you okay?”

He nods, smiling dreamily up at her. "Will you ever quit worryin’ about me?"

"No," she snorts. "Do you want me to?"

"No. I like it," he admits without shame.

She smirks. "That's what I thought.”

“We didn't hurt you, did we?” he asks, palming the swell of their babe.

Her hand covers his. “No, my love. We're both fine. More than fine.” She carefully and reluctantly
climbs off him, using her discarded smallclothes to clean them up, then settles herself at his side,
her heated face resting against his cool shoulder.

“So what now?” he asks, “Since we're no longer fooked.” He delights in her giggle, turning his
head to kiss her own.

“Mmmm, we could just fook some more,” she purrs, then winks at him. “We have a lot of catching
up to do.”

His smile is bright with mischief and a balm to her heart. “Aye, we’ve certainly got plenty of time
for that in the next few weeks if we're going to be stuck in this bed.”

Laughing softly, she nuzzles at his scruffy cheek before giving it a kiss. “So we fuck and heal and
bathe and rest until we can stand it no longer, then go find our family and all head south. I seem to
remember a promise to help me–”

Watching her go suddenly silent, eyes wide, lips parted with a gasp, Jon can't help the fear that
grips him. He’s known many to live days after a battle, all seeming well, then in a blink they're
gone. “Dany, what is it? Where does it hurt?” he asks, hand hovering. She gives a tiny shake of her
head that does nothing to ease his worry.

Afraid to move too much for fear the miracle will cease and he’ll miss it, Dany barely breathes as
she pushes the blankets down, then grabs his hand, placing it over her swelling stomach. “Do you
feel it?” she whispers, barely loud enough to hear.

He does. There, beneath his palm the tiniest of flutters dances under her warm skin. His heart
nearly stops. “Gods, Dany. Is that…” The rest of his words get stuck in his swelling throat as
another wave of movement stirs against his hand.

Her responding smile is enough to light the rest of his days. “It is. That's our babe, Jon.”

Outside their window, dawn breaks, mother of pearl, misted gold, and tender, the promise of spring
in the iridescent light.
 I Clutched My Life and Wished it Kept
Chapter Summary

Jon and Daenerys leave the Isle of Faces and join their family in White Harbor

Chapter Notes

It has been 84 years.... And I'm truly sorry for that, and while I have a multitude of
excuses, I won't bore you with them. But can I just say, switching back and forth
between omniscient present pov and third person past is a nightmare. I do not
recommend it as a writer.

Anyway, if you're here and still invested, I love and appreciate you!! This is not the
last chapter, while writing it kept going and going and going so I decided to split it. I'll
post the next one hopefully by Wednesday, but at the very latest Friday, it's almost
finished. An epilogue will follow that, within a week or two.

In case you need a refresher....

Jon and Daenerys chased the Night King and Viserion down to the Isle of Faces and
the Dance of Dragons 2.0 occurred, our King and Queen the victors of course–with
Bran's help(bye Bran )–though they did not survive unscathed.

A little worse for wear they awoke several days later and meet the red woman Ilanthe
and she had a tale to tell. The Night King was indeed a Stark as Old Nan told the
Starklings, and Ilanthe was his wife–sent in the service of R'hllor(Ice and Fire magic
needing balance, yada yada) The Children of the Forest took them, intent on creating a
force to defeat their enemies the First Men–turning him into the NK and keeping her as
a prisoner to insure his service. But alas the Children did not keep their promise and
the monster they created turned on them and everyone else.

The gods worked to bring balance back between the Song of Fire and Ice for
thousands of years, all those in Westeros playing their part, but only our loves were
pure enough to restore it. They cling to each other to accept the sacrifices that had to be
made to bring peace to their world.

Now onto the rest....

And a huge thank you to Ashley putting up with my whinging about this fic for
months, all the read throughs she did to calm my nerves, I love you!!! And thanks to
Jalenmara too! She also gave this a detailed look through and helped me learn to spell,
lol. Love you Meg!! <3
She loves to watch him sleep. No lines mar his sweet face, save the scars from battles won. The
dragging weight of worry gone from his brow, eyes and mouth no longer grim. Years have left his
features, as if they somehow managed to turn back time in the weeks they've lingered inside their
little hut, hidden from the rest of the world.

The first was spent in a shock filled daze, Ilanthe's foul and odorous concoctions dulling their pain,
and their wits. When the fog would clear, when they could drag themselves from the oppressive
sway of sleep, they begged for the answers again, to questions already asked, until finally refusing
another drop of anything the witch might stir up. Jon even wielded his title, more than once, as
forcefully as his weakened body would allow. He was the King, he'd not be doing anything he
didn't want.

I am a King.
It never failed to make her heart swell and her loins ache. He was a king. Her King.

Of all the things she'd done, survived and conquered, the choices she'd made whether easy or
difficult–Jon was unrivaled amongst them all.

The miraculous result of that choice, of their love, tumbles within her, kicking at the hand he has
resting over her stomach, as if echoing and approving her thoughts. There was scarcely a moment
that had passed in the last few weeks when he wasn't touching her, as if he feared they would
disappear if he were to break the connection. That and he was in awe of the life they had created
nestled within her.

Each day that passed seemed to bring new experiences with their little one. More movements,
feelings, lifting their spirits with each twist and kick. Sometimes their little dragonwolf would
become excited, feeding off her frustrations. It was maddening to be locked in place, unable to
help, left waiting for news. Jon was always there to calm them both. His soothing touch and voice
taming their fire, lulling their babe to sleep and her into a peace she never dared hope for.

But it was time for them to leave their small shelter of rest, and venture out to face the new age
ahead of them. To pick up the pieces of the old one left behind.

Ilanthe had came to them the day before, her news welcome and not. Their loved ones from
Winterfell were traveling south to White Harbor, in hopes to see them again. Only Edd staying
back to guard the keep. They would arrive in a few days time, weather permitting. She and Jon
couldn't be more eager to see them, but that was where the good news ended.

Though the red woman has assured them Arya and Gendry are well, that Cersei met her end, there
has been no word from them, nor King's Landing. No matter how much Jon scowls or demands,
Ilanthe can not tell him what he wants to know. Trusting her, despite what she'd done for them, was
still difficult for him. And for Dany as well, if she were honest.

So they would leave in two days time, travel to White Harbor and reunite with their family and
counsel then all head south to King's Landing. To see for themselves. It’s time to know of his
sister's deeds and hopefully take the throne with little conflict.

Though she worries. Ilanthe had come with unwelcome news for her too. Now that the Song of Ice
had been ended, the one of Fire had been as well. Her sons were indeed changed, their fires
dwindling to sparks and sputters of smoke. They were quite unhappy about it according to Elric.
They’d been too injured to fly, and were far from any hunting grounds save the Isle. Elric and his
men had been kind enough to supply them with deer and elk, but it had become too dangerous for
them to approach them any longer. Drogon had nearly eaten the last to offer them food. They
needed their mother to soothe their anger and impatience.

They would go see them today where they rested amongst the ruins of Harrenhal, but first they
were to go see what had become of Bran. Jon refuses to wait any longer.

His hand twitches, thumb beginning to stroke over the foot or elbow that's been poking at him. She
turns back and watches as his lids flutter, long dark lashes seeming to weigh them down, but then
the sweetest eyes of brown find her. She swears every time they do it adds another year to her life.

“Both up before me again, mmm?” he murmurs, his voice sleep roughened and warm, smile
tender.

She rolls toward him giving him his own morning smile. He shifts closer. He's almost stopped
wincing every time he moves, though Ilanthe still insists his wrappings stay on. They slip together,
limbs fitting effortlessly into spaces made just for them while a soft and scruffy mouth pulls kisses
from her lips. The heat that's been banked low in her belly flairs to life.

His has as well, if the growing weight against her thigh is any hint.

There's no question these days, no reason to deny themselves. No meetings demand their attention,
no one waits outside their door for a word, no monsters march toward them. They can give into
their wants whenever they arise, take the opportunity to heal their hearts and bodies.

He has joked more than once they would waste away to nothing if they didn't use them. What
better way than losing themselves in one another?

Some might say their need for each other is abnormal, ravenous, that of unnatural creatures. But
they are most at peace when together, their bodies and souls as close as nature allows, the sense of
separation lost, no longer two beings but one.

The past few weeks have almost been their beginning all over again. Days and nights spent in the
cabin of a ship traded for the seclusion of their tiny hut. Though the urgency is gone, replaced with
knowing and contentment. Every touch is soft and sweet as a new dawn, slowly drawing their
needs to a zenith before fading to the lulling slumber of dusk.

This morning is not much different. No words are needed, no permission asked. Shiny eyes heavy
with want and eager hands and mouths telling all they need to know. But as he pulls her thigh over
his hip and slides home, she senses the weight that is tugging at him. How hard he's working to
push it aside for a little longer.

She loves him a little more. Holds him a little tighter, adds more fire to her kisses, more insistence
to the rocking of her hips against his own. Holds off her release to keep them spinning at the edge
of the abyss for as long as she can.

He knows what she's doing and loves her all the more for it, this woman who knows his heart
better than he does himself. He falls into her spell, flinging himself into the web she weaves to fool
his worried mind, pulling it from its heavy troubled thoughts and into her warm and willing love.
He gives as he receives until they are spent and sweaty, bones and muscles melted into peace.

As they recover their little one stirs between them, kicking through her stomach into his, drawing a
smile to their faces. He palms the small swell, rubbing soothing circles over her skin. “We're done,
little love,” he rasps, “you can sleep now.”

She places her hand over his. “I imagine there will be lots of sleeping done with all the moving
around I'll be doing today.”

Jon doesn't respond, only leans over and kisses her stomach before easing himself up to sit on the
side of the bed, scrubbing his face with his good hand. She follows him, adjusting herself
comfortably at his back and begins smoothing and gathering his raven curls with her fingers. It's a
habit she's developed as of late, and one he's indulged; her braiding the unruly locks. She loves
them free, but he hates them in his face. It's a compromise.

It only takes her a few moments to twist the silky strands into submission. Jon reaches over to the
small table beside their bed and grabs the thin strip of leather laying there, passing it to her over his
shoulder. She ties off the short braid before brushing away the lose curls at his neck and pressing a
few kisses to the smooth skin beneath. He smells so good her eyes fall closed.

“We can wait, till tomorrow,” she offers, breathing softly against his ear. He'd never ask.
He swallows thickly, turning and catching her lips with his. His kiss is soft, slow, his sigh heavy
and heart-rending. He rests his forehead to hers. “He deserves better than my draggin’ feet.”

“Jon, he'd understand.”

He stands, but turns back and kisses the top of her head. “I know, but I've put it off long enough.”

With a nod she takes his offered hand and they prepare for the day ahead.

---

He didn't want her walking. Insistent she spare her ankle. He kept the vivid pictures of her tripping
and landing on her stomach to himself, she'd only roll her eyes at him. She fusses, quite a lot, but
relents in the end to ease his worry. A litter is fashioned out of saplings and leather. She’s carried
by two of Elric's brothers. He wanted to help, but in that she would not budge. Grumbling if she
could not take the risk of reinjury then neither could he.

Even tucked within their hut, they'd grown used to the forest that surrounded them like a thick
blanket. The quiet, dense air now familiar and even welcome, no longer eerie, but peaceful. The
trek through the trees isn't as lengthy as their first visit to the isle either–the green men's settlement
being nestled deep within the forest. The weirwoods come into view quickly, their tranquility
seeping into their bones. Until they see him.

Jon has stopped, frozen in place as he stares at his little brother. He's trembling, his fists clenched
at his sides. She lightly kicks the man carrying the front of her litter. “Put me down, now, please.”
Thankfully, he listens and she's lowered to the ground.

She grabs her crutch and hobbles to her husband, carefully picking her way over the winding roots
to his side. He shows no signs of knowing she's there, lost in his grief, tears slowly sliding down
his face, his breathing labored. She wraps her hands around his fist and leans against his shoulder, a
silent sentinel.

Elric's words no longer seem so strange now. Bran had indeed been claimed. It was as though the
weirwood had absorbed him, or grown around him at an inconceivable pace. His torso was no
longer visible, only his face, arms and legs. And not even all of those. He was frozen in place and
time, turned to bone white wood.

Seeing him left no wonder as to why Meera had begged leave of them the week before, intent on
going home to the Neck and her father. Her heartbreak had been as evident as their own now felt.
They hadn't blamed her for wanting to leave then and certainly understood the haste now. They
had let her go with the assurance that if House Reed ever needed their aid they would have it, they
only need call.

Jon steps away from her, going to his brother and kneeling before him just as he'd done the last
time they'd seen him. The last of three. He's lost them all. Watching her husband grieve–head
bowed, shoulders shaking–Dany prays he will not lose anymore of his family. That the time of
death and grief is over and will not cover him in shadow for many, many years to come.

Their babe tumbles within her as if to echo her hopes. She runs her hands over her swollen
stomach, her heart aching, yet full.
Finally Jon stands and comes to her. She wipes the tears from his cheeks and wraps him carefully
in her arms, aching to squeeze him tightly, to pull him close enough she might absorb his pain and
take it from him. But gentleness and whispered words will have to do. He lets her go after a few
moments, kissing her forehead and giving her a tender smile tinged with gratitude and grief.

He looks over at Elric. “I want his bones returned to Winterfell, when that’s all that’s left. Cut him
out if you have to. My brothers belong together, at home with their family.” His voice wavered,
struggling to hang onto any strength.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Elric answers with a nod.

Jon holds her free hand and helps her traverse the uneven forest floor, hovering as a mother hen
would when she's lifted onto the litter once more. “Still up for this? We can wait,” he offers.

“No, I miss them,” she answers, “and I don’t wish to risk them hurting someone. No more
waiting.”

With a nod he waves them on and Elric leads the way. They take a new path, heading North. The
trek grows long and winding, narrow and precarious to pick their way through. Brushes and
brambles thick and tearing at their clothes. She worries it's too much for Jon having been sedate for
weeks. His face pale and sweaty each time he turns back to check on her, no doubt his head is
vexing him. They should’ve saved this for another day.

Jon for his part frets for her as well. Worries for her heart and what they will find of her sons. One
forever lost, two forever changed. As they trample over moss and root and rock, his mind has gone
back to another time and place. The Dragon pit and their quiet, stolen moment. He was right, she
wasn't like anyone else, still isn't. No one will ever be her equal. But he fears her words may prove
true as well. That her sons will waste away now their magic is gone, and what if her heart wastes
with them?

He scolds himself for fearing it. She's the strongest soul he knows, his queen. She won't let her
sons dwindle to spindly creatures, nor herself. And if at any time the weight becomes too much for
her, he'll be there to carry it with her. Their family hasn't seen its end, nor will it.

They break through the dense foliage from one moment to the next. Jon throws an arm up to shield
his eyes, a spike of pain slicing through his skull. The headaches and dizziness have plagued him
since he woke weeks ago, but they do seem to be lessening as the days pass. He’s grateful
regardless, that winter is still upon them, though fading. A summer sun would send him back into
hiding for sure.

Dany is brought to his side, wincing as well. A small boat waits for them on the shore. He helps
her down from her litter and into it as Elric holds it steady for them. He climbs in with them once
they're seated and soon has them gliding across the deep blue-green waters of the Gods Eye, still as
glass. Only a grey mist lies North, East and West as well. Jon turns back and watches the Isle grow
smaller.

A flash of red catches his eye. Ilanthe, standing just within the edge of the forest. A small fire is
burning at her feet.

“What’s she doing?” he asks, nodding toward her. He can't help his unease of her though he's tried
to let go of it. Of all the anguish he and Dany have suffered, and those before them, Ilanthe is at the
root of it all. His want to rip and tear her free from their lives is sometimes of a strength he fears.

Elric glances over his shoulder for only a moment. “Making our way easier.”
“The spell around the isle?” Dany queries beside him.

“Indeed, your Grace.”

Dany's hand wraps around Jon's clenched fist, unfurling his fingers and entwining them with her
own.

He drags his mistrustful gaze from the red woman to his wife, most of his tension melting away at
the knowing smile hiding in her violet eyes and the corner of her full mouth. Others would never
see it, but he does, because it is only for him. He sees something else as well; unease.

He squeezes her hand. “They’ll be happy to see you.”

Her faint smile grows to one of confession, her eyes dropping to their clasped hands. She licks her
lips. “And I them, but I worry.”

“If they're angry with anyone, it'll be me. But perhaps, despite their intelligence, they don't connect
me with what's happened to them.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe they will. They knew the monster we hunted. But no matter,
I won't let them hurt you.”

“I know, but I'll be keepin’ my distance for a bit just to be sure. Let the three of you have your time
together.”

“Jon, your bond with Rhaegal is strong, don't forget that.”

“I haven't,” he assures her, wrapping an arm around her. “If he comes to me, of course I won't turn
him away. I've missed him too, worried about him,” he whispers against her hair.

The light suddenly grows brighter around them and they both look up. The mist has faded, leaving
the skies a clear pale blue above and the water sparkling crystal clear all around them. They aren't
the only ones making their way across it. A dozen or more black swans have joined them, elegant
escorts gliding along at their sides.

While lovely and graceful, Dany cannot help but be wary at their presence. There has been
darkness and so much death in this place, much of it linked to their family. The beautiful birds with
their pitch black feathers and blood red bills seem to embody those erstwhile times.

And as if her thoughts had conjured it, the charcoaled ruins grow clearer on the horizon,
foreboding, taunting her troubled mind. But she will not give in, the dishonor is not hers, and
certainly not Jon's.

If we look back, we are lost.

They draw close to the North shore and what's left of Harrenhal half an hour later and Dany taps
Jon on the leg. “Call him.”

“What?” he asks startled from his own musings. He looks over at her, but her eyes are closed. Her
order becomes clear and his eyes fall shut as well.

They reach out for her sons, seeking them silently through their bonds. The ground begins to shake
and rumble. Ripples spread out from the shore of the lake racing toward their little skiff, disturbing
the still waters. A tremendous roar splits the air and Daenerys smiles as her fearsome son, Drogon
climbs up and out onto the highest wall of Harrenhal. His great, blood-red leathern wings spread
out, nearly blocking the meger sun, his serpentine head stretched toward the skies as another bone-
rattling roar is released.

Rhaegal crawls from inside the ruins then, his pace lumbering, but quick across the snowy ground,
screeching and chattering in greeting, seemingly happy as a pup too long from its master.

Elric gets them onto the shore, and Jon hops from the little boat quicker than he should've, his own
excitement getting the best of him. He swallows down a groan of pain and measures his breathing
to ease the ache in his ribs as he reaches for his wife.

“Easy with yourself, my love,” she scolds him gently, reaching for his hand.

He shoos her attempt away and hooks an arm around her waist, lifting her up and out of the boat.
“Aye, and same to you. Don't be lettin' them knock you down,” he grunts, setting her on her feet
and taking her crutch from Elric.

Dany cuts him a reprimanding frown, but still lets him help her make her way to the flat expanse of
land not far from the lake's edge.

Jon’s idea of staying back falls away the moment he realizes Rhaegal has no plans to slow his
approach. He stands in front of Dany prepared to take the worst of the hit as the dragon closes in,
so happy to see them he runs over top and past them both. They quickly sit to keep him from doing
too much damage and wait for him to come back around. His giant green head drops in front of
them, body hunched, tail swinging, and Jon swears the beast almost smiles at them, his rows of
lethal teeth shining as he purrs and chirps. They laugh, rubbing his sparkling scales and his golden
eyes fall closed in contentment.

“I told you he would want to see you,” Dany reminds him with a brilliant smile.

Jon can't help the one that splits his face as he continues to rub over the warm scales of his friend.
“You did, and I'm glad you were right. I knew I missed him, but didn't realize how much. He looks
well, all healed from his injuries. Don't you think?”

She nods. “Dragons heal remarkably fast.”

“Wouldn't it be nice if we did?”

She chuckles and looks over her shoulder at her other son. “It would, yes.”

Drogon has yet to join them, fiercely roaring still, blasting plumes of smoke from the top of
Harrenhal. He makes quite the sight.

“He's unhappy with us,” Dany murmurs as she turns back and lays against her other son's cheek,
soaking in his affection.

“Aye, I imagine so,” Jon agrees with a grunt as Rhaegal nudges him with a blowing snort,
engulfing him in the equivalent of a hot steam bath. “Maybe once he gets over his tantrum he'll
realize we got here as soon as we could,” he adds, wiping a hand down his now sweaty face.

Drogon does eventually calm, or decides his brother is getting more attention than he deserves. He
flies over, shaking the earth beneath them as he lands. Jon feels it within every cracked and broken
bone he has. With a deep growl and a shove Drogon pushes Rhaegal out of the way, taking his
place and demanding his own pets and loving strokes.

“You be nice to your brother,” Dany laughs, her scolding falling on deaf ears. She falls into a
softly cutting string of Valyrian and Drogon finally relaxes, settling himself on the ground in a low
crouch. But he blows out a petulant cloud of smoke that sends them both into a coughing fit.

“Suppose that's our punishment,” Jon sputters and gasps, arms wrapped around his aching ribs as
he tries to catch his breath as painlessly as possible.

Dany truly reprimands Drogon then, her tongue and words sharp. Jon would've never believed it
had he not been on the receiving end, but Drogon shrinks in front of him, pupils wide, his clicks
going soft as he brushes his immense snout against his arm as gentle as a kitten.

Jon doesn't blame him though, imagining Drogon losing his fire must be what losing his own
sword arm would feel like in comparison. He doesn't want to even think about it. He runs his hand
across Drogon's jaw. “Sorry, boy, we're all a bit different now I'm afraid. We'll get use to it soon,
maybe.”

With a deep rolling purr Drogon suddenly rises and launches himself into the sky, only to fly
behind the castle and land with a thud.

“Maybe not so soon,” Jon sighs, wincing over his shoulder at Daenerys. She’s lost her smile. He
goes to her and sweeps his hand over her shoulder and pulls her into his side. “It might take him
some time, love.”

She reaches over and grabs her crutch, rising to stand. “I don’t think so, he wants us to see
something.”

They follow him, the trip through the ruins slow, but soon find him nosing at a scattered trail of
bones laying some distance beyond the castle. He rears back and lets out a roar as soon as he spots
them.

Viserion.

She wasn't sure how far away he laid, had only let herself wonder a few times, the melancholy too
much for her to bear and Jon to witness. Somehow she's comforted by the sight of him, knowing
where he is finally. That despite his horrible death, he is no more a slave, but at peace.

Jon helps her to him as best he can and gives her space and quiet to mourn. It's not until the tears
begin to fall in earnest as she rubs the white bones of his skull that he can stand it no longer and
takes her into his arms.

“Can you find some small folk with wagons nearby,” Jon's voice rumbles softly under her ear,
“that are in need of coin?”

“That should not be difficult, your Grace,” Elric answers him. Dany hadn't been aware he'd
followed them this far.

“Promise whatever is needed to have them gather his bones—”

She pulls away, staring up at Jon, confusion stirring her from her grief. “What are you talking
about?”

He gazes down into her eyes, his brow wrinkled as he brushes a wisp of hair behind her ear.
Whatever it is, he's unsure of how his next words will make her feel. She rubs his back to
encourage him. He takes a deep breath. “I thought we'd send him home to rest,” he admits, voice
husky.
She has to hide her face, dropping her forehead to his chest, too overcome to let him see. He holds
her, hands stroking up and down her back, until she regains her composure and looks up at him
again. “You'd do that for me?”

“Dany,” he draws her name out with a chuff, twisting his head at her, brow creased. He slips a
hand around her neck, his thumb brushes across her jaw. “I would've found a way to pull him from
his icy grave the moment it was safe if that's where he'd been left. I took him from you, it's the
least I can do.”

Swallowing down her tears she cups his precious face, heart aching with the sweetest type of
torment. “You didn't take him from me, my love. We've talked about this.”

“Aye, we have, but still…” He pulls in a deep breath through his nose, releasing it as he places a
kiss to her forehead. “They can take him to White Harbor, we'll get him to Dragonstone from
there.”

She holds him close, her heart so full she worries it will spill in a flood from between her ribs. All
the shadows they'd lived through to find one another and survive, all the light and joy that lies
ahead of them; the immensity of it all overtakes her at times and this is one of them.

And Jon knew, he always knew, all that was in her heart because it was in his as well. He cradles
her to him, his face against hers and waits for the tulmet to pass.

“Is that home then?” she finally manages to ask. “Not the Red Keep? Or Winterfell?” That was
something they hadn't spoken of yet.

He shakes his head. “Winterfell is too far, and Dragonstone is ours, no one else’s. We've got your
sons—”

“Our sons,” she interrupts.

Jon smirks and rolls his eyes. “We have our sons. We can fly to King's Landing when needed. If it's
all the same to you, I'd rather not live in that bloody awful place.”

An unladylike snort leaves her, she couldn't contain it. He looks so put out at just the idea he’ll
have to set foot in that city again.

Her heart does a happy tumble within her chest and she smiles, sliding her hand beneath his curls
and around his neck, carefully rising up, balancing on the toes of her good foot. Jon tightens his
grip to hold her steady as she softly kisses him.

“If that's what my king wishes, his queen is more than happy to grant it.”

---

They were meant to wait one more day, but neither could stand the idleness any longer. They rose
the next morning their intent clear to all on the Isle. It was time to say goodbye.

Ilanthe rid them of their bindings, exchanging them for lighter, more moveable support and a stern
warning that they still had healing to do, not to push themselves too far.
Dany thanked her profusely for taking care of them, while Jon only spared her a brooding look and
a nod.

“Will you stay here?” she asked the red woman.

Ilanthe shook her head, pale hair swaying softly with the motion. “My time here is done, I have
served my purpose.”

“Where will you go?”

Violet eyes met violet, both women so strikingly alluring Jon feels a twist of disquiet snake down
his spine. He loves one with all his heart and wishes the other to never cast her shadow over their
lives again. He turns away from them and busies himself with packing up the few supplies they'll
take with them.

“To wherever the gods see fit to send a faithful servant,” Ilanthe answers his wife, her smooth
cadence irritatingly soothing.

“Do you mean… You plan to die?” Dany asks, her bewilderment evident in the pitch of her voice.

“I do. I have been here long enough.”

He chuffs, a harsh and bitter sound, and faces her again. “You’ll be goin’ to nowhere and nothin’.”

Dany comes to his side, heartbreak sparking in her loving eyes as she entwines her fingers with his,
but Ilanthe just smiles softly at him. “Your service was far from over, Your Grace. You were
merely waiting to be reborn. There will be no coming back for me. If there is a reward to be had, I
will find it. Just as you will one day.”

Jon stares at his wife, takes in the love and beauty that is all his. He strokes his fingers along her
soft, downy cheek to the blue scars that still mark her neck. His warrior queen. “My reward is
already here,” he declares, and drops his hand to the swell of their babe, “and she has given me
promises of so much more.” Dany's lips press together, her fathomless eyes shiny and bright as her
hand covers his own. He spares Ilanthe a glance. “Whatever lies beyond will not compare to what I
already have, but mayhaps you will find what you seek.”

It's not the most gracious of farewells he's ever given, but it's all he can manage.

---

For the second day in a row Elric took them to the ruins of Harrenhal, this time to leave them. He
doesn't tarry, giving a bow to Dany before taking a firm grip of Jon's arm, no doubt sensing their
impatience to be on their way.

“May the gods grant you peace and long lives, Your Graces.”

“And you, Elric,” Jon returns.

With that he's gone, slipping back across the waters and into the mists that conceal his home.

Her sons are eager to be in the skies again, both trembling with energy. Rhaegal is put out when
she orders him into the skies without Jon, but with both of them encouraging him, he finally does
as they ask. She and Jon make the slow, careful climb onto Drogon's back as soon as his brother
takes to the skies.

She'd insisted Jon ride with her, worried controlling a dragon would be too much on his ribs and
broken arm, but mostly because of his continued dizziness and painful headaches. She will not
watch him fall through the skies again. Just the thought nearly had her begging for horses to make
their journey on instead.

Even now she must shove her fears down as she wraps Jon's arms tight around her before grasping
onto Drogon's spikes and glancing over her shoulder at him. “You ready?”

“Aye, love. Let's go,” he returns, a sweet but prickly kiss placed upon her cheek. “The sooner we
do, the sooner we get to go home.”

Home.

A sudden sense of glee rushes up within her at his softly given words. A smile comes to her face,
unbidden, her heart already soaring. The time had truly come to let the shadows of their past fade,
to make way for the hopes for their future so they could bloom and thrive like a ripe spring.

She kisses him, long and deep, his scarred and pretty face clasped in her hands until a bubble of
pure joy escapes her and he pulls back, staring at her quizzically, a faint, wistful smile on his full
lips.

“What was that for? Not that I'm complainin’.”

“I love you Jon Snow, and I couldn't be happier to be here with you at the beginning of all things.”

His smile grows until it takes her breath and heals every crack that ever filled her heart. His
responding kiss does all that and more.

---

The journey is quick, quicker than he remembered. Every moment that passed while he chased
after Dany weeks ago had felt like a lifetime, but flying toward their families barely feels as if it
takes no more than a blink. They circle the harbor and the white city, once and then again, the
briney air of the sea invading their senses, curdled and clammy. People swarm in and out, some
running in fear, others stopping to stare up in awe. Satisfied they've been seen Dany sends Drogon
outside the walls to the rolling, snow-dusted fields beyond.

Jon watches behind, waiting for signs of their loved ones riding out to meet them, but instead spots
an unmistakable blur of white is chasing after them.

Ghost!

“Thank the gods!”

He'd been too fearful to ask Ilanthe about his companion's fate, or even to mention him to Sam in a
raven, knowing his heart wasn't ready to handle another blow.

Dany has turned around, eyes wide. “What is it?”

He rubs her stomach and gives her a smile. “It's Ghost,” he yells over the wind. “He's runnin’ to
meet us.”
Her face lights with happiness and she squeezes his hand before ordering Drogon to the ground. He
lands with amazing ease, almost as if he truly knows of their injuries and his Mother's condition
and wants to spare their bodies any upset.

Jon lowers himself down first, after throwing Dany's crutch to the ground. He turns back and helps
her dismount. Ghost waits patiently, tail wagging in a slow sweep, until they're standing steady
then nearly tackles Jon in his excitement.

“Hey boy. Gods I was worried I'd lost ya,” Jon breaths into the thick fur of his neck, his sigh of
relief turning to laughter as his wolf pulls away and bathes his face with his raspy tongue.

“Not this good boy,” Dany coos beside them, hands stroking over his great white head. Ghost turns
his attention to her, licking her face as well then dropping down to nuzzle into her stomach. She
laughs and stumbles back. Jon’s quick to catch her. “We're all here and well, Ghost, we promise,”
she assures the beast, ruffling the scruff of his neck.

A horde of thundering hooves rushes toward them from behind, drawing their attention. Sansa,
Davos, Missandei, Sam… and so many others are riding out to meet them. Dany quickly sends the
dragons off to feed from the Narrow Sea, tears of happiness already swimming in her eyes.

She and Jon lean into each other for support, doing their best not to fall apart before their loved
ones even reach them. They've missed them terribly and seeing them alive and well with their own
eyes is almost too much for their hearts to contain without spilling over.

Davos arrives first, swinging down from his horse like a man half his age. “You two are a sight
sore eyes,” he rasps coming in for a hug.

“We could say the same for you,” Jon agrees, “Not too tight on the hug, my friend.”

Davos halts, arms hanging mid-air. “Are you well?”

Jon nods and hugs him, unable to scrounge up a care that it might hurt. “Aye, we're much better
now,” he chokes out, burning eyes screwed shut, “just some cracked ribs, an arm and bashed head
for me. Her ankle, throat and hands took some damage.” He pulls away, smiling despite his watery
eyes. “We're healin’ up though.”

Davos takes him by the shoulders, gives them a firm squeeze, his faded blue eyes gone wet. “Good
on ya lad for comin’ back to us.”

Jon has to shake his head and swallow down the rather large lump in his throat before he can speak,
even then it's barely a croak. “Nowhere else I wanted to be.”

His old friend eyes Dany from her smiling face down to her dainty feet and back, giving her a
wink. Her borrowed gown from Ilanthe hides little of her condition. “Aye, I can see why. Our
Queen has a certain glow about her, don't she? Can’t wait to see Tyrion's face when he sees what I
am,” he chuckles before sobering and taking her hand, placing a kiss to her fingers as Dany
smothers her smile down to a small smirk–cheeks pink from more than just the cold wind.
“Congratulations, Your Grace. Don't know anyone else more deservin’ of such as gift than you
two.”

She takes both his hands in hers and pulls him into a hug, stunning the old knight momentarily, but
soon he's returning the affection. “Thank you, Ser. I do hope you're ready to fill the role of
grandfather as well a Hand,” she queries as she lets him go.

Davos stands back in a daze, a tear slipping free as he looks between them. They only smile in
return–it’s all they can manage–as he clears his throat, wiping a gloved hand down his face. “I’m
not deservin’ of either honor, but I'll gladly do both.”

Sansa reaches them before they can respond, Missandei right behind her, and both ladies engulfed
them with hugs, shedding a fair amount of tears as they do so.

The next quarter hour is filled with even more tears, along with plenty of laughter, and careful
hugs. Sam and Grey Worm, Tormund and Brienne all join in on the reunion as well. Everyone is
full of questions and they struggle to keep up with them all, until Davos finally calls a stop to it,
seeing how tired, cold, and in pain they both are. Their horses are brought forward and the group
rides back to the city, the constant stream of chatter barely ceasing.

The Dothraki, Unsullied, and Westeroi soldiers greet them outside the walls–the pounding of
spikes, screaming, and chants reverberating through the chilly air. Once again they're nearly
overcome, raw emotions lying just beneath slight and shaky surfaces. No matter how joyous their
welcome, seeing the vastly dwindled numbers and still injured men of their armies is a brutal
punch to the gut. One they'd been expecting, but couldn't possibly have been prepared for.

But they aren't given time to react past reaching a hand out for the other–a feeble attempt to stave
off the flood–the people of White Harbor continue the exuberant welcome as soon as they enter the
gates. Resounding shouts of “our king and queen” fill the air, leaving them both shaken and silent,
but smiling all the same. Dany has been at the center of such ardent praise before, but Jon has little
experience with it. Despite what he and his wife accomplished, he couldn't feel more unworthy, not
with the heavy price that was paid for their victory.

There was never a hope to save them all, but it never stopped him from wanting it.

Tyrion, Varys, and Lord Manderly stand waiting in the courtyard for them, all smiling and visibly
relieved to see them alive and well. Their party squeezes into the small space and the gates close
behind them, muffling some of the ruckus that still goes on in the streets. Jon draws in a steadying
breath or two as they all dismount, slipping around his horse to help his wife land gently on her
feet.

Her Hand has already left his perch upon the steps and now stands amongst the horses. Jon helps
her make her way to him.

“I don't know that I've ever been happier to see—” His words unusually failing him, Tyrion's eyes
have gone round, stuck soundly upon the swell of their babe Dany is lovingly stroking a hand over.

It's a habit she's developed over the last few weeks–an absent-minded allayment of past pain and
doubt, a protectivenes of the future–one that causes Jon's heart to ache and swell to the point of
pain every time he’s blessed with the honor to witness it.

Tyrion's brow twists tight, mouth pinched in a droll smirk. He gives a slow tilted shake of his head,
his green eyes finally coming up to hers, twinkling now. He wags a scolding finger at them both.
“You are far too good at keeping secrets, or I am far more a fool than I ever thought.”

Dany smiles knowingly. “Perhaps it's a bit of both, My Lord.”

Still shaking his head, his smile now genuine, he comes forward, hand raised. “I am beyond
pleased for you, my dear.” She takes his offered hand in her own, squeezing it as he places a kiss
upon her fingers. “No child could ask for a better mother,” his eyes dart to Jon, “nor father.
Congratulations to you both.”
“Thank you, my friend. I'm sure they couldn't ask for a better uncle either,” she replies with a wink.

Much as Davos had, Tyrion must take a moment, nearly succumbing to the rush of emotion her
words wrought. “I will make it my sole purpose to nurture any mischievousness they possess. Can
not have you two becoming lazy, must keep you on your toes,” he warns, righting himself, his
impish nature coming to his rescue.

Daenerys just rolls her eyes while Jon inwardly groans, his mind already imagining the trials his
nerves will no doubt face. He encourages Dany forward with a gentle hand to her back and they all
move to go inside. The pair give a nod to Varys and Manderly as they take the steps.

“I was hoping we would have a long awaited talk, but you should probably rest for awhile, eat, get
warm,” Tyrion says, hovering just in front of her, hands out as if he could catch her if she were to
stumble forward. More like it will be her doing the catching with him walking backwards up a
flight of stairs.

Ghost has also taken up as century on her right, Jon still on her left. She grits her teeth and bites
back a groan of frustration at their overbearing protectiveness. Of course they only want her safe.

“We've done nothing but rest and sit on our hands for weeks, my Lord Hand,” she retorts, releasing
a bit of steam anyway. “A few scant ravens have not eased our minds. We'll not wait another
moment to learn all you know and you the same from us.”

Tyrion grins, a proud one by her estimation. “Of course, Your Grace.”
 Sweet and Right and Merciful
Chapter Summary

Our loves have a meeting with their counsel at White Harbor--some rest and relief
thrown in--sail home to Dragonstone and then on to Kings Landing.

Chapter Notes

Welp folks, this is it. The last official chapter of Heal. Only took me a year and a half.
*sorry* I could weep and sob, but I'll leave that for when I post the epilogue. I hope I
can still get it to you before Sunday, that's the plan anyway.

I hope all of you enjoy this one, endings are so hard to get right. I'd love to hear what
you think, but regardless thank you all for joining me, especially you lovely peeps that
have been with me from the very beginning. Love you all!!

Can't leave without giving love to my bestie, Ashleyfanfic. She's held my hand
through the last four chapters of this fic and I couldn't have gotten it done without her.
Love you to the moon and back, Ash!!!
“Right this way, Your Graces,” Lord Manderly says, leading the way inside his opulent castle and
down one of the halls. All their family and counsel follow them. “The library will give you enough
space and privacy I believe.”

As they all enter he booms and chortles of the grand feast he's already planned for the night, face
jiggling and red, hands waving, his wife tittering beside him, proud as a peacock.

“No feasts, My Lord,” Jon cuts over him, his tone causing the smile to slip from Manderly's face
like warm butter from a knife. “Not tonight, nor anytime soon.”

“But, Your Grace,” Manderly sputters, gaping like some swollen puffer fish.
The room has fallen deathly quiet, everyone frozen in place as all eyes dart between Lord and
King, save Jon's whose are locked firmly with hers. She suddenly feels the ridiculous urge to do
the preening, her pride in him rising up to leave a warmth upon her cheeks, and another pool of
heat deep within her belly. Instead she finds the strength to control herself and gives him the
smallest of nods.

He turns back to his Bannerman. “Whatever's been prepared or bought, I want it sent to our soldiers
and your common folk first, spread it as far as it will go.”

Manderly and his wife look as if Jon has slapped them instead of making a reasonable request.

“There will be a time for feasts once we’re assured our people and kingdoms are at peace and being
provided for, my lord,” she adds, hoping to bring an end to the matter.

Manderly's gawping mouth finally closes and he bows to them. “As you wish, I will see to your
orders now if it please you both.”

“Thank you, Lord Manderly, it certainly would,” she excuses him.

Davos has pulled out a seat for her at the table and she lowers herself into it gratefully with Jon's
help. He takes the one to her left and the rest of their counsel follows suit, numerous chairs
scraping across marble, wood creaking as everyone settles. Ghost lays himself behind them, a soft
sigh escaping him. She's certain they will not be out of his sight very often in the coming days.

“How many were lost?” Jon asks, the moment the room falls quiet.

When no one else seems willing to answer, Tyrion clears his throat. “Too many,” he offers, the
statement laden with grief.

“I know that,” Jon counters, harsh and biting, “I asked for a number.”

Everyone's eyes fall away, disheartened by the facts and no doubt his bitter frustration. Dany's
hand comes to rest upon his thigh, rubbing a soothing path. His eyes fall closed and he lets out a
heavy sigh. “Just please, someone tell me how many, I need to know.”

Why he does, he couldn't tell them, but it is a raw, pulsing thing within him, gnawing at his insides,
like a rat feasting in a dark cupboard.

“Roughly one hundred and twenty-five thousand rode out with you,” Tyrion answers him, “another
fifty came to our aid by the end. We haven't finished a final count, there are some that… may not
survive still.” He pauses, face twisted in thought. “Last count was what, Tarly? Sixty?”

At the other end of the table Sam nods, silent.

“Sixty thousand men.” The words leave Jon on a ragged breath. He never gave them permission to
do so. He grips Dany's hand and her fingers lace with his, squeezing tight. He can't look at her, see
the pain he knows will be in her eyes, or anyone else's for that matter, his own is more than enough
to bear.

“It is a blow to be sure, Your Grace,” Tyrion goes on, “but considering…” He shakes his head and
breaths deep. “You know it's a miracle any of us are alive.”

“Aye, I know it,” he rasps, “doesn't make it any easier.”

“Jorah, Jaime and the others…” Dany asks, her voice wavering.
“Were given proper burials all,” Missandei answers her softly.

His wife turns to her Hand, swallows tightly and licks at her lips. “I am sorry about Jaime,” she
finally manages.

Tyrion nods, laying his hand atop her other where it's fisted upon the table.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Sam pipes up. “How you did it?”

Jon shakes his head, biting at his lips. “By the skin of our teeth,” he mutters.

“Well, yeah, I figured, but… how exactly?” Sam tries again, smiling hopefully.

He and Dany share a look, both sensing the other's reluctance. After their painful bouts of hellish
memories once they woke they haven't spoken of it. Neither are interested in doing it now, but with
a scan of the room's occupants, it's clear they won't be able to move on until they do.

His wife draws in a deep breath. He keeps her hand clutched tightly in his to give her what support
he can. “I chased him—”

A chair grates across the stone floor, startling them all, and Sam is up and running over to another
table. “A moment, Your Grace,” he calls over his shoulder. He gathers a large tome, a well of ink
and a quill in his arms, before rushing back to the table and sitting down again.

“What're you doin’, Sam?” Jon asks, suddenly very tired and very done with this whole business.

His friend huffs, exasperation clear. “I have to write it down, Jon. You two bloody well saved
Westeros. People need to know, now and hundreds and thousands of years from now too.”

Jon sighs, dropping his head into his hand, rubbing at the growing throb that's developed behind
his brow. “Sam, that's gonna take more time than—”

“Don’t worry, I'll just take down the high points for now, we can fill in the rest later.”

He looks to Dany, giving her a chance to decline, hoping, wishing, she might take it. She doesn't.

Their tale leaves them all visibly shaken. Davos having to get up and pace as Dany described Jon
falling through the air. Tears fell copiously from Sansa's ice blue eyes as she listened, leaning over
to hug the only brother she has left halfway through. Missandei wound up embracing her best
friend as well as she heard of her lifeless and broken body upon the ground and Jon's fear his wife
had been taken from him.

The worst bits over and done, they tell them of Ilanthe and the Green Men, but only after they insist
Sam leave them out of his records. He was quite put out, but complied regardless.

Stunned silence is the response. Jon can see hundreds of questions churning within their heads,
none of which he has the mental energy to answer any time soon. His head is aching something
fierce and his stomach feels as if he's consumed several pints of Tormund's soured goat's milk. He
pushes them on to other things.

They talk news of Cersei and Kings Landing– declaring themselves to the rest of the Kingdoms.
Neither want to until they find Arya, but at that Tyrion tells them all of Westeros has already bent
the knee, save the Crownlands, there’s no need to do more. At their shock, he has Sam dig through
a pile a scrolls, and soon they see the truth for themselves.
Six Kingdoms, the Iron Islands, and countless houses all have declared themselves under House
Targaryen's rule, sworn their loyalty and banners to King Jaegon and Queen Daenerys.

The meeting goes on and hours somehow pass, the weak rays of sunlight lengthening and crawling
across the table as they talk, but they all fell into a lull now, minds full of new information to chew
and stew upon.

Daenerys’ jaw cracks as she yawns beside him. She's no longer sitting rigid and queen-like in her
chair, but wilted as a spring flower caught out late and scorched by a hot summer sun. He cuts his
eyes to Missandei and they exchange a look.

Just as he knew she would, her faithful friend rises to her feet. “Your Grace, I'm not sure who was
taking care of your hair while you were away, but I haven't seen it in such a state since you
returned to Meeren. Will you let me get you set to rights?” she asks. “We could all use a break, I
believe.”

Dany lets out an amused chuff and rolls her head over to share a smile with him before turning
back to Missandei. “Careful my friend, you just insulted the king. Jon has been the one taking care
of my tiresome hair,” she informs her.

Missandei's golden eyes round with regret. He waves her off with a shake of his head and a gentle
smile. “No offense taken, My Lady. Perhaps you should give me proper lessons soon, just in case
the need ever arises for me to be handmaiden of the queen again.”

“You did a fine job, my love,” Dany soothes him, even though it's unnecessary. “We didn't have
much to work with after all.”

He helps her up and though he's reluctant to have her away from his side after so long of not being
out of each other's sight, he knows some time with Missandei will do her good. She's missed her
friend. “Go, you deserve some pamperin’. I'll finish up here and join you soon.”

“Half an hour?” she begs softly.

He nods his agreement and places a kiss to her fingers. “Half an hour, My Queen.”

---

Manderly comes back soon after she's gone and Jon requests a light meal to take in their chambers.
Even with all that needs tending to, they’re still not fully recovered and need their rest. There are
some decisions to be made between just the two of them as well.

The food he requested is brought to him shortly after and he excuses himself, bidding their family
and counsel an early evening, assuring them they'll meet again in the morning before heading
toward their chambers, Ghost prowling the pristine hallways by his side.

They arrive at their destination after a short stroll and despite all the gleaming white marble, he
finds their chamber cozy and warm, dozens of candles flickering, and a healthy fire burning in the
sizable hearth. The evocative aromas of Essosi oils only add to the enveloping ease. Missy is
pinning up Dany’s hair as she soaks in a sunken pool large enough to bathe a horse or three.
Appropriate considering the Manderly's are half fish he supposes.
They both give him a smile in greeting and soon Missandei is done and on her feet coming toward
him. “She's in much better shape than I imagined,” she says as she reaches him. She places a hand
upon his forearm and squeezes gently. “All thanks to you I believe, Your Grace. Thank you for
keeping her safe, for seeing you both back to us. All would've been lost without you. Both of you.”

He only has a chance to nod, his response getting tangled in his throat before she slips away on
silent feet, the door clicking softly closed behind her.

He shakes himself and gets settled at the small table near the fire. Ghost has already made himself
comfortable upon the rug, red eyes ever watchful over his charge as she floats in her steaming pool.

“Are she and Grey as well as they appear,” he asks, popping a chunk of cheese into his mouth
while pouring himself a goblet of wine.

Dany hums, the sound traveling down his spine and stirring his cock further to life. Her beautiful
body has been calling to him from the moment he entered the room. It sways slowly beneath the
surface of the dark water, glowing as if the moon itself lives within her skin. He can already feel
her softness beneath his palms, searing and sensuous. His blood rises, burns brighter, making him
forget the nagging pain in his head. He drains his goblet. He can eat later he decides, bending over
and shedding himself of a boot.

“They're well, very pleased to be together again, both alive,” she murmurs, opening her eyes at the
thunk of his other boot hitting the floor.

Those eyes, the colors of a splendid summer sky at dusk soon find him across the room and watch
his every move as he stands and strips his layers off. He's hard as a stone and aching like a fresh
wound by the time he rids himself of his small clothes, but he can only stare back at her, lost in a
haze of lust.

“Are you going to join me?” she asks with a smirk, “Or are you just giving me the loveliest of
views to enjoy while I bathe?”

He chuffs, mostly at himself and stalks toward her. “I think I'll join you. Let you enjoy the view a
bit closer.”

“How thoughtful of you,” she returns, her tinkling laugh echoing around the room and straight into
his heart. It's been too rare a thing as of late. He means to hear much more of it from now on.

Her hand reaches for him and he takes it as he lowers himself in, hissing at the sting of the hot
water. She wraps her body around his, pulling him down until they're both submerged. Her softness
and the sweet scent of her oils invades his senses and he forgets the burning of his skin, running his
nose along the curve of her neck as his palms slide over the lush ones of her body, all too tempting
by far. Her curves are growing, slowly day by day. She's more beautiful with each one that passes.

He swims them to the pool’s side and lays back, his head caught upon the ledge, her draped atop
him, and they rest in each other's arms, the water supporting most of their weight. The heat of it
melts them together, seeps the tension from tight muscles and worries from the troubled minds,
Ghost's quiet snores and the crackle of the fire adding to the peaceful interlude.

“Wash me?” she mumbles against his neck sometime later, her words barely heard.

He grunts, having been nearly comatose, and gathers enough awareness to sit them up. “You
haven't already?”

“No,” she murmurs, shaking her head and reaching for the cloth behind him. She drapes it over his
shoulder. “Only soaked the aches and cold away while Missy tended to my hair.” Her hands skate
up his back, nails sending pleasing shivers over his skin. “I was waiting for you. It's much more
enjoyable when we have one together, don't you think?”

He takes a possessive grip of her arse and she's pulled tighter against him, her breasts caught,
peaked nipples teased by the sweet slide of wet skin against skin. “Aye, I've missed our baths,” he
agrees, voice a low rumble that stirs deep in her belly, sends a pulsing to ignite between her thighs.

“Get to work then, Jon Snow,” she orders, taking a biting taste of his plump lips and a sweep of his
tongue with her own.

He chuckles into her mouth and gives her a pinch on the arse for her sauciness, but she just smiles
beautifully at him and he let's her go, turning to find the soap.

She pulls him backwards once he's got it in hand and he only fights her for moment before relaxing
into her hold, allowing her to wet his inky locks. He stands once she's done, slinging off the worst
of the water and soaping the cloth up as she sorts through the bottles Missandei left at the side of
the pool. Choosing one, she motions for him to drop down as she comes to him, pouring a thick
golden liquid into her palm. He does as requested and she sets the bottle aside before rubbing a
froth up between her hands and sinking her fingers into his hair.

“Now who has the lovely view?” he murmurs, her breasts pert and full, and directly in his face. He
cups them in his hands, placing a tender kiss to each tight peak.

“Jon, I can’t do this properly if you distract me like that,” she sighs out.

“You can’t expect me to stop when they’re so attainable.” He smirks up at her, tweaking a nipple
between finger and thumb. “You’ll just have to manage somehow.”

Rolling her eyes she makes a very unladylike noise but continues on, massaging his scalp, fingers
slipping down to knead the muscles of his neck as well. He forgets he has his own work to do, a
moan dragging free from his throat at the splendid feel of it. His eyes roll behind heavy lids and he
drops his head back against the ledge. “Gods that feels good. My fookin’ head has been poundin’
for hours.”

“I'm sorry, my love. I wish I could make it stop. I hate you're in pain so often,” she frets.

“S'alright, love,” he soothes her, hands skimming up and down her sides. “It’s not your fault.
They're gettin’ better, it's just been a long day.”

“It has,” she agrees on a heavy exhale.

His eyes pop open, search her own for burdens, for worried lines etched between them. “You
alright? The babe?”

Her full lips curve up, soft and sweet. She presses them against his own in a chaste kiss. “We're
both fine, my love. I promise. Just tired.”

He scolds himself for not being more mindful, she’s creating a whole new person for bloody's
sake. “Here,” he says, grabbing the rag off his shoulder and bathing her chest, “let me get you
cleaned up and we can get you to bed.”

“No. I want this, we need this,” she denies him, taking his anxious hand in hers and stopping its
fussing. “You know we'd never sleep if we don't untangle ourselves from the day first. Relax, let's
enjoy this peace while we can.”
He takes a deep breath and blows it out, black eyes round and full of regret, and gods but he breaks
her heart sometimes. “Aye, you're right.”

“Aren't I always?” she asks, the jest made in hopes of pulling a rare smile out from amongst his
melancholy.

Her heart gives a happy thump behind her breast when she's gifted with a flash of teeth, his lush
lips tugged back into a grin. His fingers even tickle over her ribs.

She kisses his nose with a smile and goes back to work cleaning his curls. It's been weeks since
either of them had a proper scrub.

The lovely attention lulls Jon into a half stupor, cooling his urges enough his brooding mind
pushes its way forward. Hundreds, thousands, of smiling faces flash behind his eyelids, all those
who greeted them that day, each one putting him upon a pedestal. Yet how many weren't there, will
never be there, or anywhere else again? How many did he fail?

“Jon, what do we say?” her voice breaks through his thoughts, barely a whisper, a flicker of light in
the darkness, but just the one he needed. Her gentle fingers smooth along his brow and down to his
jaw to tilt his chin up. “Jon.”

He opens his eyes and stares into hers, attempting a smile. She doesn’t need his guilt to add to her
own, but she knows him too well, is able to sift through his moods as easy as a child's fingers slip
through sand. She's a ranger, his thoughts her quarry, once found she brings them out into the light
with little effort.

He'd been wary of her gift at first. That was the best word for it, for it was a gift. For him. To be
able to bare his draining worries and fears with no chance of them being mocked or dismissed, but
heard and understood as well…

“If we look back, we're lost,” he finally answers her.

She cups his face in her hands and stares into his dark eyes. “There was no way for us to have
saved them all. We did all we could, the best we could.”

“Aye, I know.”

Her forehead comes to rest against his. “Then stay here with me. Right here.”

He nods and pulls her close. “I'm here,” he whispers, “I'm sorry, love. I'm here, I promise.”

Soft lips shush him and he kisses her soundly, pushing away her worries and his own with lips and
tongue and teeth, getting lost until they need air.

They get back to work, her finishing his hair while he soaps up his hands and washes what he can
reach, gently kneading her breasts in the process, pinching and pulling her nipples in turn, but
careful to keep his touch light. They're sore these days.

“All done,” she soon says, her voice catching a bit. She clears her throat and bites at her lip, two of
her little tells. His teasing is getting to her. “Lay back for me?”

He manages to contain the smirk that wants free reign of his face, doing as asked and her fingers
thread through his hair, rinsing the suds from it. Once she’s done he stands up and squeezes out the
excess water before slinging even more free, Dany pulling a face at his antics.
Intent on bathing her next so they can move onto more enjoyable things, he reaches for the cloth
but she grabs it before he can. She smiles up at him, victory gleaming in her pretty eyes as she rubs
soap into it.

Jon rolls his, but lets her do as she pleases, there's nothing to not enjoy about it after all. She starts
at his neck, works her way over and down his chest, then around to his back. He lets out a deep
sigh, eyes closed, but the moment she finishes he pulls her around to his front and gathers her up
against his chest. “Your turn, don't you think?”

He was clean enough.

He kisses her slowly silencing any answer she may have given and walks them back to the steps,
sitting down and pulling her onto his lap. Taking the cloth back from her, he bathes her stomach,
back and sides.

“I suppose, if you insist,” she sighs, “even if I was enjoying myself.” She peppers featherlight
kisses across his cheekbone. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks, sitting back and smiling
sweetly, raising a leg up for him to wash.

“Immensely,” he smirks, grinding his hips up into hers to prove it.

She slips a hand beneath the water and grips his cock, grinning at his sharp intake of breath, the
clenching of all his hard muscles. “Mmmmm, yes you are,” she purrs pulling the cloth free from
his now lax fingers and throwing it behind him.

“Dany—”

Stopping his protest, she takes his plump bottom lip into her mouth, sucking on it, enjoying it
thoroughly for the divine delight it is, before letting it slide free from between her teeth and kissing
her way up to his ear and breathing into it. “Avy jorraelan.”

Jon shudders, cock jumping within her hand, his fingers gripping deep into her thighs. “You're not
playin’ fair, Daenerys,” he groans. Her lilting words may be foreign to his ears but they add fuel to
the already heady fire burning within his blood. “It's time you teach me some of that. What d’you
say?”

Her hand squeezes, pulls, wrist twisting. “I love you.”

“I love you.” His echoed words were nothing more than a gasping groan, she has him caught, any
control he had now firmly within her grasp.

She shakes her head. “Avy jorraelan.”

“Aavee joryela,” he tries and she giggles, nose scrunched at his apparent butchering of her native
tongue.

“Sorry,” he says sheepish.

“You must roll your r's, my love,” she tells him. “Jorrrrraelan,” she purrs, he sound tickles his ear
and runs down his spine as her hand follows the rhythm of the exotic word, clasping and tugging in
a slow sensual glide.

His stones tingle and tighten, hips trembling with the need to thrust. He tries again, but his tongue
is too tied up in her web, right along with the rest of him. “I can’t seem to make my mouth work as
you do.” He plunges his hand beneath the water and grabs hers, halting her teasing torment of his
cock. “Especially with you doin’ that,” he grunts.

Her smile is a wicked thing. “I'm more than happy to teach you, but later perhaps?”

“Aye, later,” he husks.

“Stand up for me.”

He rises up as she requested, knowing bathing is no longer her intent. The water is only to his mid
thighs now and his cock continues to make his needs well known, hard as granite and straining
toward her.

At the flick of her tongue across her plump lips, he groans. Her violet eyes are drinking him in, soft
hands glide up his thighs and around to his arse, squeezing, nails biting. She kisses her way down
his hard stomach first, the muscles clenching beneath her teasing touches. It's all he can do to stand
still as her hot tongue slides up the groove between his cock and hip bone.

She’s going to drive him insane if she keeps it up.

“Careful, you’re temptin’ the beast,” he growls quietly, her silver tresses falling loose as his fingers
tangle amongst them.

“Mmmmm, and what if that was the plan all along,” she quips, pulling back and gliding her hot
tongue around the head of his cock.

“Fuuuck, Daenerys.” Groaning, he grabs the sides of her face, gently raising it so she will look up.

Her huge eyes meet his, power and innocence swimming within the velvety depths all at once. It's
sexy as hell.

“You’re drivin’ me crazy, love. We’re not going to make it out of here anytime soon if you keep
that up,” he cautions tenderly, thumb rubbing across her plump lips, betraying his warning.

He wants them wrapped around his cock so badly he may go blind with it.

Her only answer is a smirk as she enfolds his shaft in her small hands and begins to stroke. Eyes
rolling back into his head, he easily gives into her desires, knowing they will only pay off for him
in the end.

The soap on her hands is not quite as satisfying as her wet cunt, but it’s damn bloody close. She’s
twisting her wrists on every up stroke, squeezing just hard enough to build the tension up slowly.
One hand moves down to his stones, massaging, tugging, careful. The coil of delicious tension
deep within him flares and flames, but somehow he manages several more gloriously tormenting
minutes before he can stand it no more. He needs her mouth or her hot cunt wrapped around him,
now.

He steps out of the bath, pulling her with him, careful not to let her slip and fall. Hastily, he
snatches up one of the large linen cloths from the floor and rids their bodies of the worst of the
water before picking her up and carrying her toward the bed.

“Jon, your ribs,” she scolds. “Your arm!”

“Fook em, I don't care,” he rasps, laying her down upon her back.

Without a word she turns around getting on her hands and knees and presents her beautiful arse.
Her back is arched allowing her pearly pink cunt to bloom in full view. Jon lets out another grunt at
the sight, the ache in his cock becoming unbearable. He takes it in hand, hoping to relieve some of
the pressure as his other goes straight to her cunt, thumb sliding up through her slick folds,
smearing her mess. His mouth waters as he watches her walls clench, yearning to be filled.

Her head turns back, violet eyes gone dark, sparking amethysts in the firelight. “I thought you
needed me,” she breathes, pushing back against his hand causing his thumb slip inside her.

She gasps at the invasion and his cock jumps within his fist. She is so hot, tight, and wet.

“I do, trust me, but seein’ you like this... I’m going to enjoy it fully,” he tells her, his voice rough
with need, deep as a hidden spring.

She shivers, the sight of him, pale and perfect behind her soul rattling. He is midnight and the
moon, her light and guide to the darkness she can lose herself in.

His thumb draws in and out of her slowly, curving up to rub against that wonderfully sensitive well
deep inside her and Daenerys finds herself already panting, her body rocking back of its own
accord. He pushes deeper, pumping in short quick strokes, pressing into her over and over, a
teasing taste of what would come once his cock was buried within her aching cunt. Lights begin to
flash beneath her eyelids, blood, near boiling rushes through her ears, her head is spinning, breath
catching.

Jon smiles when she begins to whimper, pressing back and grinding hard against his hand, her
velvet walls clasping and clutching at him, eager and greedy for more.

He spanks her, once, the crack of it echoing about the room, her cry a bolt of pleasure running
through him. Grabbing her braid, he wraps it around his fist and tugs. Her body bows back,
breathing a ragged torrent as he fucks her with his thumb until the tale tell flutters make themselves
know.

She’s suddenly let go, left horribly empty, and she lets out a keening wail of frustration. But her
grievance doesn't last. His scorching tongue swipes over her swollen and needy cunt and a sob rips
free from her throat, her entire body taken by a tremor of satisfaction. With a hungry growl Jon
flips her over onto her back and gathers up her legs, holding them against his chest, arm a steel
band around her thighs and drives into her in one brutal thrust.

“Jon!”

He’s snarling above her, her dragon wolf. Wild curls, inky and untamable clinging to his clenched
jaw, eyes gone pitch black and fierce as he takes her. Hips slapping against her arse, cock thick and
dragging, filling her again and again with a force that rocks her to the point of near delirium. Snaps
and sparks of fire erupt along her spine, build to a blazing tide that threatens to drown her.

Jon slides a hand down her trembling thigh, slipping in amongst the slick mess they've made of
each other and finds her knotted nub and presses tight, circling. “Come for me, Daenerys,” he
growls, demands, desperate to fling her over the edge before he plummets himself.

And she does, her cry of release reflecting the blissful ruination he's barreling toward, her cunt
seizing around his cock, vice like and divine.

He roars, blinded and deafened, knowing nothing save the rapture running through him and slams
into her one last time, spilling, convulsing and shuddering, legs left weak and wasted.

Her own legs have went limp in his arms and he lets them go, gently guiding them down. She
mewls and moans, curling heavy limbs around him as he falls over her, needing her kisses to bring
him back to earth.

Words are whispered, hair brushed from sweaty faces, and lips tasted and nibbled before he can
drag himself away to set them to rights.

Dany watches from under lazy lids as her beautiful husband makes his way to the pool, muscles
gliding and bunching beneath porcelain skin, flushed and gleaming from their exertions. He bends
over, his glorious arse on full display, and retrieves the cloths they bathed and dried with, before
coming back to her.

The contented smile upon his precious face sends a healing ache to bloom within her chest, his
eyes, lovely, dark and deep show only his heart and all he feels for her, and it's all she can do not to
weep from the utter joy she feels.

He cleans them both up, her first, gentle and thorough, then himself before climbing into bed with
her.

Arms wrap around her, their babe lovingly cradled within them, and she’s pulled back against his
chest, kisses trailed over her neck, bristly and cherished.

“You’re perfect, Daenerys,” he breathes into her ear.

“We’re perfect, Jon,” she whispers back, turning to catch his lips with her own.

---

The decision is made the next morning to send the Dothraki–along with a regiment of Westerosi
men South as soon as they can be prepared. All the rest of them–he and Daenerys, their counsel,
and the Unsullied–will sail together a week after seeing them off.

The time between is spent having countless meetings, answering ravens, and catching snippets of
rest.

Viserion’s bones arrive just before they're set to leave White Harbor and though Jon is eager to get
to his sister, he wants his wife to have as much peace as she can where her lost son is concerned.
They'll go home to Dragonstone to see him put to rest before going further South. There's enough
time, their armies won't make it to King's Landing for at least another week.

The air still holds a chill, the salty sea spray adding another layer of cold as they stand together at
the bow. Other than the crew, they're alone. The sun is barely up, bathing the world in brilliant
pinks and yellows. After a long fitful night–they were too eager to reach home to sleep well–it’s
beautiful to see. Even more beautiful is the sight of their home looming on the horizon.

Jon chuckles to himself beside her and it's such an odd occurrence her curiosity must be appeased.
She raises an eyebrow at him. “What is it?”

He turns around and leans back against the railing, gathering her into his side for a hug. Noting her
displeasure at not being answered quickly enough his smile grows and he presses a kiss to her
temple in apology. “I was just thinkin’ of the first time I sailed to you and what a nervous wreck I
was.”
“You, nervous? I don't believe it,” she teases, delighted to see the blush it brings to his smiling
cheeks. She strokes her fingers over his bearded jaw. “I was too, you know?”

He looks at her, a bit shocked before his eyes narrow and he shakes his head. “No, you weren't. I'd
never seen anyone more sure of themselves in all my life than you were that day. Still haven't.”

“I was sure of most things, but not all, especially once you walked into my throne room.”

“Why? You weren't the one that had to convince the other of a dead army out to kill us all.”

She smiles for a moment then drops her eyes to the dragon sigil on his chest, her fingers gliding
over the red stitching, his sister's exquisite work. “No, I suppose I wasn't. But I sat there as
Missandei gave my titles and you had to listen, and I was terrified of how you would see me, what
perceptions I would have to overcome. I knew you were a king, could see it in you. I'd never faced
a king before, not a true one.”

He scoffs, capturing a blowing tendril of silver hair and tucking it behind her ear, his fingers
trailing down to blue scars. They're fading, though slower than she'd wish. His eyes flick to hers. “I
was just a man.”

“And for a moment, I was just a woman.”

His head tilts, brow creasing. “I don’t follow.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but their captain comes forward then and they untangle themselves
from one another. “We'll be droppin’ anchor in another league, Your Graces. Have your boat
already prepared.”

Jon gives him a nod. “Thank you.”

The captain leaves and he looks back at his wife ready to hear what she had to say, but she's turned
her face skyward to where her sons cut through wispy clouds. Something haunting has settled in
her eyes and he doesn't like it. He takes her hand.

“Are you alright, love?”

His touch and soft query pulls her to the present and she steps closer, laying herself against his
chest in a moment of girlish weakness, a pent up breath leaving her when his arms take her in their
hold.

“Daenerys,” he breathes, a hand smoothing down her hair.

She shouldn't make him fret, he does it too often. “Do you think…” She looks up into his worried
eyes. “Would our cave be a good place?”

“Our cave?”

“For Viserion. He would be safe there, protected from the winds and—”

His hands come to cup her face, his own having gone soft and full of understanding. “Aye,” he
husks, “I think that's a fine idea.”

---

She insists on staying at the beach until it was done. The task takes hours, and half her Unsullied,
but they get him laid to rest, sheltered safely within their home. It isn't easy on them, their bones
still not quite healed, but Jon takes her to see him once he is. She tells him stories of Viserion when
he was a hatchling, how he always wished to be close to her, was never as fierce as his brother's,
but always sweet, the opposite of his namesake.

He listens, staying close, wiping away the few tears that fall and holds her until she feels ready to
finally let him go.

It’s dark by the time they leave the cave, all the others having left for the castle as soon as the pair
entered. Drogon though is waiting for them on the beach, Rhaegal apparently already gone to roost
for the night. They climb upon his back and let him fly them home, saving Dany's ankle from the
countless steps.

The castle is quiet, only guards about and as they approach their chambers Jon's heart is
hammering almost as hard as it did the first night he knocked upon her cabin door all those months
ago. He isn't sure if his gesture will be received as well as he had hoped when the idea came to him
back at White Harbor. Her day has been full of grief, it could very well only cause her more.

He almost curses the golden glow of the torches on either side of the hall, he might have gotten her
inside without her noticing had they been burned out, but the bright red paint is impossible to miss
and soon enough she freezes, full mouth falling open as she stares at it wide-eyed, trembling fingers
sliding over the smooth wood.

Still such a fool.

He shifts his weight, fists clenching with want to touch her. “I should've asked first, I'm sorry. I
just thought…” She turns to him and there's so much within her eyes his stomach does an odd
twist. He breaths through it. “I know it's not the one you had, but I hope… I hope this can be a true
home for you—”

Tears suddenly spill over her long lashes and down her pale cheeks, cutting off his babbling and
ripping at his heart.

He gives into his need and gently grasps her face, wiping at her tears with his thumbs. “Daenerys,
I'm sorry. Please don't cry,” he begs. Her full lips press together, chin trembling and she shakes her
head, tears still falling freely. He takes her into his arms, it hurts too much to see the pain he's
caused her. “I'll have them put it back the way was, first thing in the mornin’, I promise.”

“No,” she refutes him, clutching at his tunic. “Don't. Leave it, please.” She looks up at him, orchid
eyes glistening and dancing with tears and torchlight. “I love it. And you, you foolish man,” she
whispers, breath catching. She tugs and pulls at him, shakes him. “Do you know how much, do
you have any idea?”

The sickening worry and tension leave him in a rush and he takes a great breath and gathers her up
before opening their door and getting them locked away inside.

“Jon, ribs,” she fusses.

“Hush woman.”

She presses a hand to his chest, pushing herself away to give him an offended glare. “Did you just
shush me?”

“Aye, I did. You worry too much.”

“Jon Snow,” she proclaims with a bubble of teary laughter, “You dare to scold me for worrying?”
A wry smirk tugs at his lips as he settles her on the bed, laying her down gently, fluffing the
pillows behind her. “I am an expert at it, I should know if you're doin’ too much of it.”

Dany shakes her head again, another flood of love and gratefulness and tears rising up within her
and she pulls him down on top of her, holding onto him as if he might disappear if she doesn't.

His black curls tickle her face and she buries her nose in them, soaking him in–the smell of him
and the sea, his strong arms around her tight.

“I love you, Jon.”

He pulls away and she lets him, reluctantly. A war torn hand caresses her wet cheek, tucks a stray
strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you too,” he husks, his smile sweet enough to cause her pain.

“Why did you do that? When did you do it?”

He shrugs, a bit timid. “Not long after we made it to White Harbor. You know how my mind
wanders when I can’t sleep. Missandei helped, sent a raven ahead of us to have it done. After
hearin’ your stories… I just thought—” He heaves a small sigh, his hand rubbing at her hip now,
those big dark eyes full of his heart, swelling hers full to bursting. “I want you to have the home
you want, and it's a bit of a promise as well.”

“A promise?” she whispers, her throat too strangled by tears for more.

“Aye. I'm going to find us a place one day, once we get the mess cleaned up here and they don't
need us so much,” he tells her. He leaves her side and she nearly whimpers at the loss, but he's
back soon enough, a soft piece of linen in his hand. He wipes at her face, trying to soak up the
constant stream of tears. “It'll be far away from it all, with a red door, an’ lemon trees outside, quiet
and peaceful. A home just for us and our little ones, however many we have. Would you like that?”

“More than anything,” she chokes out, grabbing his hand and pressing his palm to her cheek. “I
don't deserve you.”

“Aye, well, I think the same about you, so I guess we're even,” he whispers, his beautiful face
pulling into a fretful frown. “Please, love. No more tears. I can't stand it.”

“I’m sorry,” she blubbers, “I can't seem to stop them.” She takes a great shuddering breath, but it
does nothing to staunch the flow. ”I don't know what's wrong with me. I just…” She throws a hand
out, helpless.

Jon smiles at her and rubs a hand over their babe. “I think our little one might have somethin’ to do
with it.”

Her eyes widen, hands going protectively to her stomach. “What, why? You think something’s
wrong?”

He bites back a chuckle, she would not appreciate being laughed at. “No, love. Sam said you might
get weepy for no reason. Gilly told him she did, and most of her sisters too.” He brushes a tear
away with a knuckle. “It's normal I think, an’ you've had a day.”

She collapses back into the pillows with a shaky sigh. “And we have another tomorrow. I'm sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’, it's alright,” he soothes her, practiced fingers going to work on the catches of her
dress. “Let's go to bed, we have a capital to take tomorrow.”
At his teasing smile she sits up and undresses him as he is her and soon their bodies are as
entwined as their hearts, all tucked beneath warm furs, the crashing waves around their home
lulling them to sleep.

---

They had flown in at midday, their armies surrounding the city. Though Lannister soldiers still
stood upon the walls and the Queen's Guard at the gates of the Red Keep, there was no resistance
of any kind. Not even from the common folk. They stayed close to their homes and their shops,
wary-eyed and silent as Drogon and Rhaegal circled above before landing in the gardens either side
of the throne room.

The figure that stood singularly waiting–tall, golden hair shorn, dressed severely in black walked
slowly into the keep, and they had followed.

He’d been torn between hugging the life out of her and strangling her when they'd found his sister
all alone and sitting on the Iron Throne, wearing Cersei Lannister's face.

Jon knew what she was capable of, the assassin she was, had tried to prepare himself, and Dany,
but decided rather quickly nothing could prepare anyone to see an enemy with your eyes while
your ears and heart heard only the words of a loving sibling. And when that enigma pulls their face
off…

Needless to say, he was left as fixed and frozen as a stone, mouth agape, knotted stomach stuck in
his throat, his wife in no better shape at his side.

“Enough with the looks already, you both knew it was me,” Arya mutters, shedding the gold and
ebony dress, revealing her usual tunic and trousers beneath.

Jon stalks towards her, his scowl fierce. “I might've hoped, but I didn't know,” he snarls, an
accusing finger precariously close to his sister's nose, weeks of worry having risen up to take him.
“Cause you didn't tell us! Nothin’ Arya, for weeks. Not a word, not a raven, nothin’. As if worryin’
for years you were dead wasn't enough, you go and do this.”

“Did you do any better?!” she snaps back, hands flying out. “None of us knew where you flew off
to. His army might've fell like flies around us, but we didn't know what happened to either of you. I
couldn't wait, she had to die whether you two survived or not. Leaving her alive wasn't an option,
and by the way, you're welcome for that, Your Grace!”

“Alright you two, enough,” Daenerys insists, her queenly tone bringing them both back to
themselves. They stare at her wide-eyed for a moment, before shame takes them both and they
wind up throwing themselves together in a tight embrace.

Emotions once again calm and a proper reunion had, they insist she tells them everything. She
wouldn't get a word of their story until she did.

“I made a pact with Jaime Lannister, before we left Winterfell.”

“Jaime?” they ask as one, neither quite believing.

Arya nods. “If he fell in battle, I could take his face, use it to trick Cersei, get close enough to kill
her. He said it was the only way, she'd never let anyone else get close enough. If I died, he swore
to keep his promise to you and end her himself. I lived, he didn't.”

“And you couldn't tell us this? Before the battle?” Jon challenges her.

His sister rolls her eyes. “You would've locked me up at home if I had and you know it.”

Dany gives him a look, obviously remembering the conversation they had right before going to
war. Jon lets out a sigh of defeat and doesn't bother with giving them anymore satisfaction by
admitting it out loud.

“Who else knew?” Dany asks her.

“Gendry and The Hound, but only after the battle. No one but me and Jaime knew before.”

“Did she fight you at all?”

“No, not even a little,” she tells him, shaking her head. “It was like she knew it was her time and he
was the one that would do it.” Her grey eyes go distant and dark, staring past them. “'I've been
waiting for you, brother dear.’ she said, then she took my hand and put it to her throat.” Arya
shakes her head, seems to bring herself back to the here and now. She shrugs. “She asked me to
end her madness, so I did.”

They’re flabbergasted by her tale to say the least.

“And you've what? Just been ruling Kings Landing, assumin’ we'd get here eventually?” Jon asks.

“It wasn't that hard. I just sprouted nonsense to keep everyone on their toes until the rightful rulers
arrived,” she says, as if it was the easiest thing she'd ever done.

Knowing they'd probably gotten all they would out of her, they asked after Gendry and Sandor,
fearing the worst, but soon found out Gendry had been playing jailer as she played queen, keeping
a watchful eye on Qyburn in the castle cells. She thought it best to leave them at least someone to
deal with and figured he'd have plenty of secrets to spill.

While Arya had no remorse for slipping away, Gendry was awash with it from the moment he saw
Jon and Dany. He’d joined them not long after, begging forgiveness and much to his relief they
gave it. They both knew no one was capable of reigning Arya in. She did what she wanted.

The pair of them told of finding the Mountain and Sandor lying in bloody pools not far from
Cersei's rooms. Sandor had gotten his revenge, though it had nearly killed him. It would take
months, but he would eventually recover from the injuries his monstrous brother had inflicted upon
him.

As promised Jon and Dany recounted their own tale, Arya and Gendry an enthusiastic audience full
of questions. They answered them all, the telling blessedly becoming easier each time they told it.

And now the four of them stand there–two dragons, a wolf, and a stag–eyes wandering around the
throne room, each one brought to silence by the enormity of it all. The distant, and not so distant
past hangs in the air like a horde of haunting spectors, taunting them, whispering of the failings and
false deeds of their families, many wrought within that very room.

Will they be better than those that came before them? Have they learned from their mistakes,
become strong enough to carry the burdens without bending so far they break? Without letting the
power turn their minds to madness. Or will they follow in their footsteps and fail as well?
Gendry lets out a heavy sigh, drawing all their eyes to him. His feet shuffle under the scrutiny, face
going a bit red. They wait for him to find his voice, eyebrows raised. He rubs a hand over the back
of his neck before throwing it out in a helpless gesture. “Well, now what?”

Arya rolls her eyes and mutters something about a stupid bull while Jon just grins at the pair before
turning his eyes to his wife.

She's smiling softly, but it quickly turns to one of steel as she looks up at him and takes his hand in
hers. “Now we do what kings and queens do, we rule.”
 Epilogue
Chapter Summary

The happily ever after that was promised.

Chapter Notes

Well, here we are, at the end. *sniffles and sobs* I can't believe I'm actually doing
this, that it's actually done.

I want to give a huge shout out to all of you who have stuck with me and this fic to the
very end, you are all near and dear to my heart. And to my friends, Ashley, Frost,
Meisie, Jaq, AC, Meg and Mel, Shayl, Jenna, and Allegra. I love you all to the moon
and back!!! Thank you all for giving me so much love and support, and friendships
that mean the world to me and I hope last a lifetime.

I hope this ending gives you hope for our loves. I'm sure it won't happen exactly as
I've written it, but I feel certain we'll get something very close. May this bide you over
for the next few weeks. Love to all!!!
The mist from the spring rain blowing in through their window cools his heated skin. He leans
forward, resting his hands upon the frame, catching all the breeze he can. Who would've ever
thought he'd miss the cold? He hates to leave their bed, but he has yet to adjust to the new weather,
or his wife's changing body.

Sleeping beside her these days feels as if he’s baking within a oven.

Not much longer.

Anytime now, Sam says. For her sake he prays to all the gods he’s right. She's so miserable. Let's
him know it too. Loud and often. For the last few weeks he's no longer been the grumpy one. He
can't help but feel guilty for putting her through it, but Dany fusses at him about that too.

Our babe will be in our arms soon, I’ll suffer anything for that.

She moans and shifts behind him and he turns, watching her wrestle with the covers in the faint
light, only one small sconce burning across the room. When she doesn't settle, he goes to her side
and lifts the blankets off her feet, up to her calves, then carefully tucks a pillow under her swollen
stomach. She relaxes almost immediately. He brushes her silvery mane back from her face and
neck, hoping to cool her further. Anything to help her rest.

As soon as her breathing deepens, he squats down and gently places a hand over their babe and
waits. Sam said she may sleep through the first bit, the tightening of her belly too light to wake her.

Her hand slides over his. “Not yet, my king,” she whispers, her words far away and heavy in
slumber, “but don't leave.”

Smiling softly, he leans over and presses a kiss to her cheekbone. “Sleep, love. I’m right here.”

He places a chair beside the bed once she's resting deeply again, a tankard of wine on the bedside
table, some cheese and bread to soak it up. There he stays, watching and waiting, still trying to
grasp his new reality.

A little more than five months past he knew he was a dead man, his hope for his own survival, for
anyone's, barely a flicker of flame in the darkness. For years he had lived from one tragedy to the
next, each one adding another stifling layer of melancholy to his already gloomy demeanor. But
here, now, with his wife before him, lovely, soft and fierce, swollen with their child, one created
with a raw, desperate hope and untameable love… They were alive, the three of them, and so many
others. Rulers, a king and queen of seven bloody kingdoms. War torn and ravaged, but theirs
nonetheless.

They'd barely made a dent at restoring things, there just hadn't been enough time yet. They would
though. He was still in awe at the support they’d received from every corner of Westeros and even
beyond. The faith their people seem to have in them was overwhelming at times. He’d always had
to struggle to scrape up the least bit of support, but apparently saving them all from certain death
made quite the difference.

Their biggest supporters weren't far away. Tyrion and Varys at the capitol, still working night and
day to bring her hopes to fruition. Finding food and shelter for thousands upon thousands wasn't an
easy task though. Several trips had been made to Essos and her other kingdoms to help ease the
burdens. But with spring truly come to Westeros, crops were growing ripe and plentiful in the
north, south, and everywhere in between.

Many had agreed to leave the city for the surrounding lands with little encouragement. New
settlements were beginning to dot the landscape. Homes, farms, taverns, inns, and smithy's
amongst others. And there was hope in every face as well.

They had spent their two first months as rulers in the capital, much to his displeasure, but there had
been nothing for it. That's where they'd been needed most. Those days and nights were a blur of
tedious and stressful meetings and sleepless nights, with a garish–and unnecessary in his opinion–
coronation thrown in the middle of it all. He couldn't be happier to be here now, at home .

He knew he’d be happy wherever he was as long as she was with him, but he couldn't deny the
bone deep contentment that settled within him here on their island. It still shocked him on
occasion, he shouldn't feel such from a place he'd only lived in for such a short time and he couldn't
begin to explain it, but he didn't much care. After never feeling as if he belonged anywhere all his
life, he wasn't about to question it.

It was comforting and peaceful, the constant crash of waves against the rocks below lulling the
mind and settling to the soul. They were surrounded by their makeshift family too–Davos with his
fatherly guidance and humor and care, Missandei and Grey's quiet and unceasing support, Sam and
Gilly's lighthearted friendship always able to make them smile and forget their worries, and even
the Hound was a wanted presence, despite his snarling and grumbling.

Many of the Dothraki and Unsullied had elected to stay on Dragonstone with them as well, wanting
to protect their Khaleesi and Khal.
The place he'd once called home was in Sansa's capable hands. Tormund, Brienne, and Edd
decided to stay on and be what help they could to the new Wardeness of the North. The Night’s
Watch had been disbanded and the Free Folk were coming around to living in the south. The
stubborn Northern lords that had lived through the war no longer spoke of the mad queen or his
betrayal, all now grateful and willing to answer their King and Queen's beck and call at a moment's
notice. It was amazing how much smoother one could achieve things when others did their part.

There were murmurings there may be a new Warden of the North to stand at Sansa's side soon. For
some reason he had yet to work out, they were keeping it from him. Why they thought he'd have
any issue with Podrick he didn't know. If his sister was happy, he was happy for her. He supposed
she might be with child and that was the issue. Some silly fear he'd kill the boy perhaps. Well, he
wasn't a boy anymore–a man now, a Knight. Either way, Jon wouldn't be killing him. The choice
was Sansa's, not his.

Arya and Gendry were in Storm's End, having taken up his family seat as Lord and Lady
Baratheon. Dany had legitimised him as she'd promised, very shortly before Sam had performed
their wedding ceremony. They sent his sister on visits, representative of the Crown, as often as
possible to appease her adventurous nature, Gendry by her side of course, the formidable pair
easily impressing compliance on those who thought to step out of line or wanted to make things
difficult.

Everything was going as smoothly as he supposed it could, and he was thankful for it. His wife was
pleased with the progress, as were their advisors, but gods was he tired. And to think they had years
more worth of work to do. He should be going through the stacks of parchments on his desk
instead of wasting time sitting there and doing nothing, too. Especially with the babe coming any
time now.

“You’re not brooding again, are you, Jon Snow?” her warm, sleepy voice asks, laced with mirth.
“We've talked about this.”

He smiles and straightens himself from his slump, his eyes finding hers gazing back at him through
the dim light. “Aye, an’ we've also talked about you gettin’ enough rest.”

She rolls her eyes closed and groans, an arm wrapping around her burgeoning belly as she struggles
to sit up. “Let's put a wild baby dragonwolf inside you and see how well you sleep,” she grumbles.
“Night or day, your child thinks my insides are targets for sword practice.”

Jon pulls his lips between his teeth, dropping his head to hide his smirk as best he can as he jumps
up and helps her to her feet.
A dainty hand comes out of nowhere and smacks his stomach with considerable force. “Shut up,”
she snarls.

He laughs then, he can't help it, but he cuts it off as quickly as possible. “I didn't say anythin’,
love.”

He gets an elbow in the ribs for that one. “I can see you smiling,” she retorts, biting back one of her
own.

They get her steady and she stands there a moment, eyes closing again, breathing slowly through
her nose. Her face is calm and free of any pain, so he doesn't let his worry stir, just rubs gently at
her lower back. It ailes her worst than anything else they've found. With a sigh she leans into him,
her head resting against his shoulder, and he holds her close, pressing his lips to her forehead.

“I'm sorry, love. Not much longer now.”

“You keep saying that, and it keeps not happening,” she bemoans, sounding so pitiful his chest
aches. “I'm beginning to believe you're actually capable of lying.”

He smiles against her hair, but it quickly fades. “You know I'd make it happen right now if I could.
I hate seein’ ya so miserable because of me.”

Her head tilts back and she reaches up and strokes a soft hand down his cheek before kissing the
other. “I know you would. Now help me to the privy?”

“Course.”

---

She wakes well before dawn, the pains in her hips and back just too much to sleep through
anymore. They've plagued her since midday, coming and going with no rhyme nor reason, just
painful enough to add to her misery.
Another week has crept by, each day, each hour longer than the one before. Her body and heart war
with one another, one ready for surrender, the other unwilling to give up the fight. She's a
conqueror after all, surely she can do this.

She struggles upright with a low moan and the aching grows, a deep pulsing running down her legs
and around her belly. She has a sudden urge to relieve herself, so she gets up as quietly as she can.
Jon for once is sleeping soundly. One of them should get some rest at least. Rising on wobbly legs,
she waddles to the privy and takes care of her needs.

A bit of relief found she makes her way to the balcony. The fresh sea air is always soothing, the
crashing waves and constant cool breeze calming.

She sits in one of the plush cushioned chairs Jon had made for her and adjusts her cumbersome
body to catch the breeze and still have a view of her husband.

Her mind wanders as she watches him sleep, a thought that will not leave her coming back to make
itself known once again as it has many times over the past few weeks.

She's home, happier than she's ever been, but something still isn't right. A shadow lies over it all.
Jon is tired, drowning under his duties, their duties.

He works tirelessly to keep their kingdoms running, she helps of course, but he's taken on much of
her work as of late, insistent she rest. The job of bringing their babe to the world more important
than anything else he tells her every time she complains.

And he was right. But he was also wrong. It's not just their babe that's most important, but the three
of them together. Not crowns, not kingdoms, but their family. She never truly lost sight of it, the
dream always a beacon to reach for.

She had believed his promise of giving her a house with a red door would be years away, they had
so much to do, but it just felt wrong to wait, to keep heaping burdens on Jon's shoulders that he
never wanted, nor asked for, but endured because he loved her and it was what she wanted.

The guilt had been building day by day, leaving her as tired as he was. Surely they have done their
part by now. They'd achieved what she set out to do all those years ago and more. They had saved
the kingdoms, brought peace to them, restored their name to the glory it once had. Wasn't that
enough? Her heart had only one answer for her and that was yes .
It was time to lay down the burden of ruling, to pass the duty to others, and live for themselves.

As if the gods have heard her thoughts, a great tightening grips her middle, building in strength
until it takes her breath then ebbs away just as the waves do below them.

She waits, calming her racing heart by slowing her breathing, rubbing hands over their restless
babe as it tumbles within her. But soon enough another comes, as strong as the first. And another
follows, only short minutes between them. She stands, the instinct too strong to ignore, and braces
her hands upon the railing of the balcony and waits. Gilly said they could start and never stop until
the babe came, or begin and end one day, and come back the next.

The want to wake Jon is nearly overwhelming, but she won't until she's sure. It doesn't take long.
More come, the same as the ones before, strong and steady, stealing her breath.

It's truly time.

Excitement fills her, but dark fears claw at her heart as well. So many mothers and babes don't
survive. Her own, Jon's...

No, I will not give it thought. We will have our happiness, our home, our babe, alive and well in
our arms.

Feeling she can wait no longer, she makes her way to his side of the bed and eases herself down.
She almost hates to wake him, but knows she must, she needs him.

“Jon.”

“Mmmm.”

“Our babe is coming,” she whispers, running gentle fingers through his hair.

“What?” His voice is still groggy with sleep, his northern burr thick, rounding off and cutting the
small word even shorter. He sits up with a start. “It's time?” Even in the dim light of the sconces
she can see his beautiful eyes are owlish and full of anxiety.

She bites back a grin and strokes his cheek, brushes down his wild curls. “Shhhh, it's alright. Gilly
says it could take the whole day. The pains are still far apart and not so bad yet.” Maybe if she can
focus on keeping him calm she can better ignore her own fears.

“When did they start?” He’s up and hopping into his leathers already. Soon he's running toward the
door, no doubt going to summon Sam and Gilly, Missandei too. But he turns right around and
rushes back to her side, kneeling beside the bed. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

She can't help but smile then and reaches a hand into the thick curls at the nape of his neck. She
pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his plump lips. “I'm fine for now. Don't wake them yet,
please. Stay with me for a bit.”

He takes her face in a gentle grasp, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “I don't plan on leavin’ your
side. We’ll do it together.”

---

Jon keeps his promise. Through the night and long into the day, only leaving her side for a few
moments at a time, and only when he absolutely has to. When the pains leave her, they talk. Soft
and quietly about their babe. Will he have her eyes? Will she have his curls? But every time her
body is gripped by another contraction he’s there, with a cool rag at her brow, expert hands on her
back, or soothing words whispered in her ears.

They walk for hours, nearly wearing grooves into the stone floors of their rooms. With every
contraction they stop, him holding her up, swaying back and forth until it leaves her. His hands
began to cramp before midday, but he never complains, never stops rubbing or kneading her back
and legs. When they aren't walking they lie in bed either catching snippets of sleep between the
pains or distracting themselves with more talk. Once the sun began to set he had their tub brought
in and filled with steaming water. He climbs in with her, bathing her, easing her tired muscles as
best he can as she moans through pain after pain.

The fear comes back and takes her in its vicious hold toward the end.

They've moved her to the bed again, she barely remembers it. She’s never known such exhaustion.
Gilly and Missy are at her sides, both quiet, faces stoic as they wipe her down with cool cloths.
Sam sits sweaty and pale between her spread thighs, his eyes wide as saucers, nodding and
blathering words she doesn't hear. Only screaming. Nothing but screaming.

The pains never cease, each one stronger than the last, all threatening to rip her asunder. She’s
burning from the inside out. Every muscle strained to the point of shattering. Her strength draining
from her bones as blood does from a mortal wound. No matter the hells she's faced, the fires she's
walked through, this fear seizes her like no other ever has.

Her faith has abandoned her.

She's going to die, and so is their babe.

“You will not die,” a warm, beloved voice breaks through the terror. Strong familiar arms lift her
trembling body up to rest within their hold. “And neither will our babe.”

Jon.

A great wrenching sob rips free from her chest, but her king does not falter, intent to pull her from
this vicious fear's grasp and defeat it. “You have survived too much for death to take you now, do
you hear me? You're a dragon, death fears you.” His lips graze her ear, his breath blowing softly
over her flushed cheek. “Hold onto me, love,” he orders, taking her hands in his, gently shaking
them until she squeezes back tight.

“I don't think I can do this, Jon,” she gasps. “I can't.”

“You can,” he insists, “I know you can. Your dreams come true, remember? Just a little more and
we'll have our babe in our arms. I'm right here with you, love,” he promises, pressing a kiss to her
temple. “We'll do it together, alright?”

Tears stream down her cheeks as she nods. His faith in her lighting the way for her own to rise up
from the ashes just as another surge of pain overtakes her. A keening wail fills the room.

“Deep breath, love, and push!”

She bares down with all her might, ignoring the searing agony that licks at every inch of her. Fire
cannot kill a dragon.

“That's it, Your Grace! Push!” Sam hollers, Missandei and Gilly joining in excitedly.

“Push, Dany!”

“Push!”

With one more ungodly wail their little one finally slips into the world, and her cries are lost to
another's.

“A son, Your Graces! You have a son!” Sam exclaims, holding up their squirming, screaming babe
for both to see.

Clenched little hands like rumpled roses, dimpled and dear, flail about. His tiny face pinched and
pink and plump as he lets them all know his displeasure at this business of coming into the world.

Another sob is wrenched from her throat. Jon shakes behinds her, his hands trembling as they brush
back wet hair from her face. “You did it, love,” he whispers, words strangled and breathless. “Look
at him, Dany. Look how strong our little dragon is.”

She reaches for him, desperate to have him in her arms. Sam quickly passes him over and she
settles him against her bare breast. His fierce cries fade to sweet whimpers, then awed silence as he
stares back at them with eyes of grey, both of them weeping with joy, barely believing he's finally
in their arms.

“Gods Dany, he's perfect,” Jon breaths out against her sweaty temple where he's pressed his lips.

His hand cups their son's head as her fingers run over his pitch black hair, stubborn curls still
obvious despite its wet and matted state. “Yes, he is. He looks just like you,” she whispers.

“No, look at his nose, that chin,” he sniffles, more kisses peppering her cheek. “That's all his
mama.”
Hope fills her, spreading through every nook and cranny of her heart, no longer so fragile a thing it
could be knocked over and shattered with a brush of a finger, but strong and solid.

Jon had told her she wasn't like anyone else, and maybe he was right. She'd always been sure
something laid within her, something magic, something that made her dreams come true. She was
surrounded by her dreams right then. Surrounded by the ones who loved her the most, her husband,
her child, and their family.

And she never wanted to leave.

Aemon, Elaena, Saera

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