She is not sure what it is that compels her to lower Drogon to the ground, but she does it nevertheless. The largest of her children lands with a flourish, his dark wings pushing against the air — he bends trees and she bends knees.
Dany smiles at the thought and gently slips off of her dragon, landing with grace having ridden him so often lately. He is her child. She lays a hand on his snout, feeling his dark scales under her fingertips.
"Your Grace."
It is Grey Worm, walking toward her at a steady pace. He does not look alarmed, but grim. "Tyrion has returned with the northern people."
Dany nods and allows him to lead her back to the horses. They ride back to the encampment. Dany loves the feel of a horse beneath her; it is more freeing than riding Drogon, but at the same time it is not as grand, and it forms a sort of restraint around her.
They have taken The Antlers, which Dany has decided to rename Dragon's Wing. She feels the name is fitting, as it is just in the shadow of her castle. However, the Red Keep has been burnt. It will take time to rebuild.
Grey Worm dismounts first. Dany follows him. They walk purposefully to the keep, which is large and simple. It has become a home of sorts in these recent weeks. They pass children and soldiers alike, and Dany greets all that approach her.
She will not be her father.
The Great Hall of the keep is empty, save for a group of six standing around a table. Dany sees Tyrion first. To her own surprise she feels a rush of happiness at the sight of him; her loyal Hand, who did not fail her. Perhaps she is not as inhuman as she thought.
The next person she sees is a young woman, with braided red hair. She wears a cloak of blue wool and grey fur, and her eyes are ice, though she speaks warmly to those around them as though she is surrounded by kin.
Then there is a grey-haired man, older than Jorah even, who stands beside him with a young girl who could not be more than eleven. Her hair is dark, and her features are sharp. She seems to know Jorah, and so she grows on Dany instantly.
The last person is a young man, of whom she has heard a great many things. He lives up to the reputation of a strong warrior; his build is that of a soldier and his face is marred with faded scars. His hair is dark, tied back in a northern fashion similar to the way Viserys used to wear it. Her heart stops for a moment, for suddenly she sees a shadow of her brother in this stranger; not madness, or hate, but the good things about him that she can recall. How he used to tell her stores and smile at her.
Their smiles are the same.
Dany blinks, and then the memory of Viserys is gone. There is only this dark-haired man, wrapped in furs with a wolf emblazoned upon the leather straps that hold it upon his body. Dany recovers, and approaches the band of strangers and friends alike.
"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons—"
"That won't be necessary, Grey Worm, thank you," she smiles at the captain of the Unsullied to assure him he has done no wrong and turns back to these people. "You all know who I am."
"Aye," says the grey-haired man. He is frowning, though he was frowning even before she announced her presence and so she takes no slight, not yet sure that his mood is directed at her. Not everyone can be smiling, anyway. "We do."
Dany raises an eyebrow and fights down her amusement. "And you?" She asks, looking at him.
"I am Ser Davos Seaworth," he tells her, shifting a little. "Some call me the Onion Knight."
She nods, and gives him what she hopes is a smile of trust; these people have come here as her allies. Willing friends. Tyrion has assured her that the northerners bear her no ill will. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Ser Davos."
"And you, my lady," he says. There is the first insult. She attempts to brush it aside as a mistake, but all the same her ire grows.
"What about the rest of you?" She inquires patiently.
"I am Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell," says the red-haired woman. She lowers her head in a show of submission but does not curtsy. Dany is both glad and irritated at once.
"Lyanna Mormont," says the dark-haired girl quickly. Her hand is around Jorah's, and she angrily glares at Dany, though there is no reason to. Dany will have to talk to her at a later time; assure her that she means the girl no harm. She never means a child harm. Especially not the great-niece of her oldest advisor.
And then Ser Davos speaks again, "My lady, you stand in the presence of Jaehaerys Targaryen of the House Targaryen, rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar, and First Men; King in the North, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, former—"
"Ser Davos," says the man, "that's quite enough."
But Dany has not registered this. She stares at him, at the echo of Viserys she had seen in him, and then she circles around the table, from which everyone is watching her, unsurprised. His eyes follow her. He seems almost amused. "And why am I to believe this tale? Who's child are you meant to be?"
"Rhaegar Targaryen's," he tells her, "and Lyanna Stark."
She blinks, having expected something different. "You mean to say—"
"Lyanna was never kidnapped; she went willingly," he tells her, before she can even ask. "They married at the Isle of the Faces on their way south."
"So you are legitimate," Dany says, playing along. "Convenient."
"Aye."
Tyrion clears his throat, reaching for the wine. "It is true, Your Grace," he says. "We have discussed the matter at great length. I have seen the proof myself and deemed it more than enough evidence."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Dany begins quietly, now very annoyed, "how it is that I have never heard of you."
"I didn't know the truth myself until a few months back," admits the man, leaning back a bit when she draws closer. "My brother — or cousin, now, I suppose, was the one to tell me what he had Seen."
Dany disregards this. "But where were you?" She asks. "Why am I only hearing of you now? How am I to believe you? Surely you have prepared more than vague replies and a tale that little children could have made up?!"
He smiles. "Good questions," he says. "Which shall I answer first?"
He is amused, she realises to her fury. Her eyes widen and she scowls. "Who are you?"
"For a long time I was Jon Snow," he says, and suddenly a few pieces fall into place. Her mind begins to work as he speaks. "Then Jon Stark. And now I'm Jaehaerys."
"The supposed son of my brother," she says quietly, "who has been dead for twenty-two years. Please, Jon Snow, explain to me why it is I should believe what you say."
And so he does. He goes on for nearly twenty minutes about names that are foreign to her ears, others that are familiar, and others she knows like the back of her hand. He speaks of Robert's Rebellion and even before it, of his own childhood, of the trials he has endured throughout his unfortunate life. She cannot help but think that it is much like her own; exiled and alone and then reborn.
He tells her of the true threat that lies in the far north, he tells her of the War of the Five Kings from the perspective of a man who lost is brother, unable to help him because of his vows. His cousin Sansa chimes in every now and then, and even Tyrion has a few things to say.
And at the end he sets a satchel upon the table and pulls from it an old, worn cloak with the sigil of her house hastily sewn into the back, a pile of bound, unsealed letters, and... A harp.
She fingers the cloak gently, feeling a great sadness grip at her heart that she had previously believed was lost to her. Now she is feeling, truly feeling, for the first time in so long. Her hands run over the wings of the three headed dragon. There is a bit of mud on the bottom from where Lyanna must have kicked some up on her way to Dorne.
The harp is out of tune. It's strings are worn and one is snapped, but it is made of the purest silver she has ever seen. In the corner there is her sigil, pressed into the metalwork for all to see.
In silence, she pulls a letter from the top of the stack and unfolds it. This one does not have an envelope; the handwriting is bold and yet graceful not unlike her own, and the signature at the bottom makes her lip tremble. She bites down on it. Rhaegar Targaryen.
"It is true, then?" She asks of all of them.
There is a gentle chorus of affirmation. Jorah nods to her when she looks at him. There is not a drop of doubt in those old eyes.
"Jaehaerys," she says, turning to the man who must be her nephew. "You are older than I."
"I am," he says, "but I don't want the Iron Throne. I only want the North. The Riverlands, too — Sansa insisted I ask. I don't want to fight you. I have no reason to. I just want the lands of my father — of Ned Stark — to be at peace before the Night's King attacks."
Dany frowns. "How big is his army?"
"It grows bigger every time a man dies," said Jaehaerys. "Better to make peace with you than to give the bastard another advantage."
Dany nods, gently re-folding the letter and setting it down upon the cloak. "You can have it then," she says to the surprise of everyone including herself. But she means it. "A Targaryen in the north and a Targaryen in the south. And the north will follow you easily, having already named you their King."
"As have the Riverlands," Ser Davos reminds her, "seeing as Jon saved 'em from Lannisters and Freys alike."
"Better for Sansa to rule them though," argues Jaehaerys. The Lady of Winterfell beams at him.
The doors burst open, then. A young woman stands there, a sword strapped to her side. She is wearing riding leathers, and a cloak like that of Sansa Stark's. "There's a dragon outside," she says loudly, approaching them. "It's very big, and it's startling the horses."
"It's only Drogon," Dany assures her gently. "He will not harm them."
"They don't know that," she counters bluntly. Then her eyes narrow. "Are you Daenerys Targaryen?"
"I am."
She nods. "I'm Arya Stark." She does not bow or curtsy or incline her head in the briefest notion of respect, but Dany doesn't care. She realises that she likes this girl already. She is strong, Dany can see. "Do truly have three dragons?"
"I do," Dany says. "The others are called Viseron and Rhaegal. They're somewhere over the Sunset Sea, I believe."
That had been where Dany had left them last.
"Viseron after Viserys and Rhaegal after Rhaegar." She nods as though this makes the perfect amount of sense. Dany loves that.
Tyrion chokes on his wine, suddenly, and Sansa gently pats his back. There is something affectionate about the way she assists him. Dany recalls that they were once married. "Are you alright?" She asks her Hand, grinning a little.
Tyrion waves her off. "Went down the wrong pipe," he manages. He coughs again.
Arya laughs. "You have any more wine and you'll be sweating it, Tyrion," she says. Dany has forgotten that the Starks know him; forgotten that they are all familiar with each other. Jaehaerys laughs as well and Sansa sends them both admonishing looks.
Her Hand grins at them both once recovered. "I believe I am already there," he says, gesturing to the wine stain on his front. "If you will all excuse me, I must change my clothes."
He retires, and soon after so does Davos, and then Jorah and Lyanna to reacquaint themselves with one another. Lyanna pulls him out of the hall. She can see no resemblance between the two of them, but it is amusing to watch Jorah trying to manage this wild, bold girl.
Now it is just her, Jaehaerys, and the two Stark girls. Grey Worm stands by the door as her guard, but Dany thinks that it is not necessary. "I suppose I must thank you for accepting my alliance," she says to him. One of the terms was marriage. She does not know if she will still go along with it, or not.
Jaehaerys only nods. "I don't want you to feel as though you only have the Throne because I make no claim to it," he says. "You're the one with the dragons and the army. You deserve it."
Did she?
Or was she just as mad as her father?
AN: Hello, all! If you want more like this, go and read my story Winter Is Here!