The Storm and the Snow
"Love comes like lightning, and disappears the same way. If you are lucky, it strikes you right. If not, you'll spend your life yearning for a man you can't have." - Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, 'The Palace of Illusions'
I am sixteen when my mother and my brother begin plans to sell me out to another noble house. I have flowered, grown into my body, and other men have attempted to seduce me on their visits to Dragonstone. It is past time, Viserys says. Are you so keen on selling me out that you have no regard for what I want? I ask him. Our father took away every choice you had when he burnt those people, and our brother only cemented your future when he stole that girl, he retorts.
I do not reply, for I know that it is the truth. King Aerys had been just and honorable in his early days, or so Maester Pylos had told me. Duskendale drove him to insanity, along with Tywin Lannister, that greedy lion, had been Mother's take on it.
But Duskendale is now an abandoned ruin and Tywin Lannister is the grandfather to the Baratheon princes and princesses. Father's bones had been thrown into the Blackwater and my brother Rhaegar's bones were probably in the waters of the Trident. Father was King no more; Rhaegar was Crown Prince no more. That was just how it was.
Viserys hates them all. The stags, our cousins, who stole Aegon's birthright away. The lions, who helped them with all the treachery and deceit they could muster. The fishes, who rebelled for personal gain with no regard for loyalty. The wolves, too, but I don't blame them so much. They were a part of the uprising because of all they had lost; all that had been stolen away from them by my family. They were still the Usurper's dogs, though, and for that Viserys holds them in contempt.
Yet he tells me I must choose from between stags, lions, fishes and wolves my age and be nothing more than a womb. There are others of course - roses, krakens and suns with spears through them - but the Crown frown upon me wedding a loyalist house. I am not to choose any of those if I can help it.
"Can't I just marry Aegon?" I ask Mother one day, referring to Rhaegar's son. Rhaella Targaryen is the most beautiful woman I know, and the wisest, too. She answers me honestly, and better that Viserys would have.
"Aegon… Is a Targaryen, yes, but he is cooped away in Sunspear with his mother and uncles. If you marry Aegon they will think we are planning to rebel against the Iron Throne and take back what is ours. They will not think of poor Rhaenys, held a prisoner in the Red Keep and forced to marry that vicious bastard Joffrey. How can we rebel with her being held hostage?" Mother sighs.
"What if Aegon wins me?" I ask innocently, pretending as though it is an off-handed question I am asking.
"How can Aegon win you, Dany?" It is Viserys, who has been listening to our conversation. When I look at him, I see a mad glint in his eyes. He wants to defy the Usurper King, I know. He wants a way to show that Targaryens are better than all Westerosi, even when one of our blood doesn't sit the Iron Throne.
"We… We… A tourney. It's a fair competition. A tourney, where the winner of the joust wins my hand in marriage. It makes perfect sense - Aegon is one of the best jousters in all of Westeros, and he will never cheat. No one other than the Kingsguard stand a chance at beating him, and the Kingsguard can't take wives. Aegon will win, and he will wed me. Fair and final."
It is a month before the Tourney for Daenerys, as it is being called, when an artist comes to me from mainland Westeros. He is no native; a Summer Islander, in fact, who has been sent by my good-sister Elia with sketches of all the lords and heirs to lords that will be competing in the tourney.
I want to see Aegon's portrait most of all. The Falcon Hand of the King decreed before my birth that the Dragonstone Targaryens could not visit the Sunspear Targaryens without explicit permission from the Crown. We were granted permission only once, a little less than a decade ago, and I had only been eight then with no betrothal and no marriage in sight. Aegon and I played together as the little kids we were and then we had gone our separate ways.
After that I only heard of him from Elia's letters and other letters from loyalists on the mainland. We were informed when Aegon won a tourney and when he helped subdue the Yronwood Rebellion as one of the Commanders of the Martell Army. I was told that my seventeen nameday old nephew was now a handsome youth, with flyaway Targaryen silver hair and the signature gleaming violet eyes.
I had tried imagining his look so many times, but what I dreamed does not compare to his real self if the portrait is to be believed. Aegon looks like he has been touched by the gods. He might actually have been, if his father had been speaking truths all those years ago.
After looking at Aegon's likeness, I do not wish to look at other portraits. "Take them away, please," I tell the artist. He picks up the portraits of Robb Stark, Willas Tyrell and Quentyn Martell that are scattered on the floor when a likeness of an unknown man catches my eyes.
"No, wait!" I exclaim. The artist freezes. I get up from my chair and walk slowly to the portrait in question. The man in it is roughly my age, perhaps a bit older. He has dark hair, a long face and grey eyes that seem to conceal a certain sorrow in them. I reach out to touch the painting, feeling the smooth canvas.
"Who… Who is this?" I ask the artist. His eyes light up, I observe.
"That is the Lord Jon Dalestark, m'lady, the young lord of Duskendale and Prince Joffrey's closest friend. He is a generous man, and very kind, m'lady. He did not want this artist to portray his likeness, but the Prince Joffrey told him that he must win your hand, m'lady, and he gave this artist twice the gold dragons required. Lord Jon-"
"What are you doing, man? Daenerys does not need to see portraits of lowborn scum. Leave."
It is Viserys. Who else?
When the artist leaves the room in a hurry, my brother gives me a meaningful look.
"You cannot even think of marrying bastards such as him, pretty sister. You would do well to remember that."
I don't question him; I know better than that. Instead, I ask the truth of Maester Pylos later that day.
"Maester, who is Jon Dalestark? Is it true that he rules Duskendale?"
The Maester has a look of worry in his eyes. "Lady Daenerys, I'm not sure if I should-"
"Please, Maester Pylos," I interrupt. "No one else will tell me. The Summer Islander says he is a Lord, but Viserys says he is a bastard. Who am I to believe?"
I am given another worried look. "You would do well not to talk of Lord Dalestark in the presence of your brother, my lady. Or your lady mother, for that matter."
I nod eagerly. I do not intend to mention him. I just need to know who he is.
Maester Pylos sighs. "Jon Dalestark was born Jon Snow, the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, sired during the war. When he was eight, Lord Eddard sent him out to serve as a page and later as a squire to the Vale with Bronze Yohn Royce. Jon Snow was a very good ward, eager to learn and efficient in his duties. As a reward for his faithfulness, Lord Royce took him to Riverrun for Edmure Tully's nameday tourney. There were going to be knights and squires from all of Westeros there, to compete and win glory. The royal family was to be there too.
"The most awaited competition that year was not the knights and lords' joust, however. It was the squires' joust. Crown Prince Joffrey was to participate, as were the heirs to various lands from all over the Seven Kingdoms. Jon Snow was eager to beat all of them, even his own half-brother Robb Stark, and win glory at this tourney.
"Lady Catelyn Stark, his father's wife, knew his intentions and did not want to see her son defeated. So she told her father, Lord Hoster Tully, the host of the tourney, to forbid bastards from participation. That did not, however, deter young Jon Snow. He rode in the lists as a mystery squire, with a shield engraved with a weirdwood tree of the north with a laughing face.
"When the time came, he defeated not only Robb Stark, but also Prince Joffrey and many other squires. It was time for the final tilt, and everyone was sure that the squire of the laughing tree would win."
Maester Pylos frowns. "You must know Jon Snow's opponent, my lady. His last opponent, before he could win."
I do. I know who it was. The tourney at Riverrun… I know of it. And suddenly, I know why Viserys dislikes this man so much.
"Aegon," I whisper. "It was Aegon who he was to unhorse."
"Indeed," Maester Pylos nods. "It was Aegon Targaryen. Your nephew is many things, my lady, but patient he is not. He must have known that the squire of the laughing tree matched him in skill. He rode to his opponent and jerked off his helm, speaking of cowardice and secrecy. Your nephew did not recognise who he saw under the helm, but Lady Stark did. She hated young Jon Snow. Thus she revealed who really was: a bastard who had lied his way to the lists."
"What happened then?" I ask, caught up in the story.
"Everything that should not have, I imagine. Prince Joffrey has hated your nephew for as long as he has known of him. The young prince's delight manifested in that moment, and he took pleasure in seeing that Lord Aegon had met his match. He said that if Jon Snow being a bastard was making Lord Aegon refuse the joust, then Jon Snow would be a bastard no longer."
"No one can unmake a bastard, though," I scoff. "Not even the mighty Prince Joffrey."
"Ah, my lady, but one can legitimize a bastard," Maester Pylos reminds me. "And Prince Joffrey can make him a lord. That is just what he did: in front of hundreds of spectators, the young prince declared Jon Snow the lord of Duskendale, and conferred upon him the house name of Dalestark."
"And the King let him?"
"The King was only too eager, my lady. Robert Baratheon considers all Targaryens 'dragonspawn', and Jon Snow was the son of his closest friend after all."
I crunch my nose in disgust. "Who won, though, in the end? Was Aegon better, or was Jon Snow?"
"Alas, we might never know. For the sun set early that day and the sky was dark before the joust could be done. The final was declared a tie."
The competitors of the Tourney for Daenerys begin arriving on a stormy night, much like the night I was born. The first to come are those from the lands farthest away: Robb Stark and Jon Umber from the North, and along with them Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.
Mother tells me to dine with them that night. It is not something that particularly interests me, but I do it anyway because I have no other choice. Thus I watch three men getting drunk and japing about things I do not understand. I can see Greyjoy and Umber eyeing me with lust, but I am ever courteous as is my duty. I do not pay much heed to their conversation for the longest time, preferring to eat quietly. That is, until they say something that catches my attention.
"No, but our own Lord Snow is coming, is he not he? He's Joffrey's dog, that's what he is," laughs Theon Greyjoy.
"Jon owes him, Theon, I do not blame his loyalty to the Prince," Robb Stark argues.
"Your father would have given him a holdfast after being knighted, Robb, if that's what he wanted. Joffrey did not do anything Lord Stark could not have." Jon Umber sides with Greyjoy.
"A holdfast, yes, but not Duskendale. Father would not have legitimize him in any case; my mother hates Jon enough as it is."
"Jon Snow wanted to be a brother of the Night's Watch, Robb. He wouldn't have wanted legitimization or a holdfast," Theon Greyjoy points out, and I feel my heart sink.
He wanted the Night's Watch, I hear a voice whisper in my head. It sounds awfully like Viserys. He does not want you, not like you want him. He is coming to win your hand only because his Prince commanded him to. Do you really want to be someone's duty, Dany, rather than someone's love?
I ignore Viserys' voice. The three heirs are still talking of Jon Snow, but I zone out of the conversation. Despite what I've heard though, I wonder about this man who has captured my thoughts. What is it that you see in him, Dany? He is the closest friend of that little shit of a prince. That's the kind of person he is.
The artist adored him so much. Surely he is a genuine man, this Lord Jon Snow-Dalestark?
You don't know that.
Ah, but you don't know that either, brother.
When all the competitors finally arrive at Dragonstone, there is a feast held at Aegon's Garden to celebrate the night prior to the start of the tourney. Mother has herself organised it all, and it is an impressive task in itself. Many praise her, though neither I nor Viserys pay much heed. Both of us suspect that it has to do with currying favor by flattery more than them actually being impressed.
It is a black gown I have chosen to wear; simple yet elegant. It is made of fine Myrish silk and lace, and brings out the purple in my eyes. Mother tells me that it is far too plain a dress for the occasion, but I do not let her dissuade me. Black is not meant to be worn for events such as these, she says, but I tell her that black is one of my house colors and I mean to be a proud Targaryen. She lets it slide, eventually.
My brother escorts me to the garden on his arm. All my suitors are lined up respectfully, and I identify them by the sigils on their clothes. Westerling, Mallister, Vance, Tully, Royce, Royce, Waynwood, Tyrell, Hightower, Dalt, Frey, Frey, Frey, Umber… I lose track of the men. They do not lose track of me; their eyes follow me. I observe women, too, beside their brothers or sons, their expressions unreadable.
Once we have reached the end of the line, the guests occupy their seats at the round tables that have been set up. They are split according to the region for most part. Subconsciously I search for the Crownlands table, and tug Viserys towards it. He gives me a warning look, but I don't care much.
Prince Joffrey has not turned up, and neither has anyone from the royal family. I feel relief course through my body, but my heart falls again as I realize that there is an empty seat; that reserved for the lord of Duskendale. Jon Dalestark has not come to Dragonstone, after all.
Nevertheless, I smile and greet the lords and knights at the table. Massey, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, Celtigar. Sunglass, Rosby, Stokeworth. Do these men really believe they can win my hand?
Viserys escorts me towards the Dorne table next. "And why would you go to the Crownlands table first, sweet sister? Surely you do not believe any of them can win your hand?" He whispers.
I do not respond.
I see Aegon sitting between Quentyn and Trystane Martell when we reach. Good-sister Elia is sitting with her brother Oberyn near them, but my eyes don't fall on her at first. The artist has not done my nephew justice. Aegon does not look like the gods have touched him; he looks like they have become one in him. He is Aegon the Dragon come again.
There is a nagging feeling that I get, though, concerning a certain Crownlands lord that I manage to ignore. It's Aegon who has come to win my hand, after all, not Jon Dalestark.
"Daenerys," my nephew greets. "You look beautiful."
I beam at him. We do not speak more, however, as I speak to the other people on the table. Elia looks frail; more delicate than the last time I had seen her. Yet there is a beauty about her that I can't help but admire.
"You are so beautiful, Dany," she says, close to tears. "You look just like your mother."
The rest of the evening passes by amicably, with Elia and Viserys by my side. Mother, too, joins us for a while. We move through Aegon's Garden and speak to nearly every highborn gathered there, and rarely anyone catches my eye. Most of them are handsome, young and respectful - even a Frey knight - but they don't hold my attention for long. In the end my thoughts go back to a man sitting between two Martells and a man who is not at Dragonstone at all.
That is the fate I am resigned to: craving for someone I have never seen and never spoken to, only heard of. I know what you are, Lord Jon Dalestark, I imagine myself saying to this man if we ever meet. You are the bastard of Winterfell and the squire of the laughing tree. You are the Crown Prince's confidante and the overlord of Duskendale. I do not wish to know any of that.
Lord Jon, tell me about you. Not of you, about you. Tell me about your life. What are your darkest fears? What are your deepest desires? What do you love above everything else? Who do you love above everyone else?
Lord Jon, I think of you at dusk and at dawn; at midnight and noon. Do you think of me as much as I think of you?
After the feast is over, I go back to my quarters in the Stone Drum keep and ready myself for bed. Sleep, however, does not come to me easily. It is past midnight when I take my high harp from the chair by the fireplace and walk outside my room. The guard outside, a Kettleblack knight, has dozed off. I make a mental note to tell Mother of his sloppiness and walk to the Wyndwyrm tower with my harp in hand. The castle is silent for most part, and I am fortunate enough to not cross anyone on my way. The maids would surely have prattled to Mother, and the male-servants to Viserys.
At the top of Wyndwyrm is a balcony open to the skies. It is here that I go, and settling myself on the lowest parapet, I begin playing. 'Alysanne' is first, with its haunting tune and lonely words. 'The Night That Ended' follows, and then I sing 'Two Hearts That Beat As One'. I am inspired to play more; the weather is quiet and I feel alive at the top of the Wyndwyrm with my harp in hand.
There is a song I had composed myself a year or two ago, called 'The Other Woman'. I begin fingering its chords and slowly my voice joins the music.
"The night was all you had, you ran into the night from all you had. You found yourself a path upon the ground, you ran into the night and can't be found," I sing.
My eyes open as I finish a verse and the first thing I see is two large, bright red eyes staring at me. I panic and get up, lifting the harp with me and using it to shield myself from this creature that has decided to come at me. I should have known that roaming the keep alone at night was dangerous, I should have taken a guard with me, I should have -
Before I can finish that stream of thoughts, however, I hear a voice in the dark.
"Ghost," it says. "Stay."
The snowy white creature backs off and lets out a tiny whine. It looks behind, where I see a man approach. I slowly walk backwards, thinking he wishes to come to me, but I am wrong - it is the creature he goes to, and gently pets it like it were a household pup. I shake my head in disbelief.
"I apologise, my lady," the man says. "Ghost is my direwolf. He did not mean to scare you, he is only rather wary of people he has not met before. I sincerely hope you are not terribly frightened."
I swallow, still staring at the white-haired, red-eyed direwolf. I do not voice my forgiveness. Instead, I find myself ask the man, "I thought direwolves are not found south of the -"
But I am interrupted. "The Wall, yes," the man says. I suspect that he is grinning, but I cannot know for sure - the night is far too dark for that. The light of the lanterns in the corridors do not illuminate the balcony.
"Yet my siblings and I found a dead direwolf near the wolfswood, with her pups still alive. Each of us took one as our own. Ghost was the runt of the litter," the man says, a hint of pride in his voice.
I look at Ghost again, and I see that his head is tilted - as though he is examining me. Judging me. Turning to his master again, I say, "I would say that he was well-mannered, but then there is the matter of scaring me when I was singing."
The man laughs. It is a light sound, masculine and yet it is music to my ears. I ignore the strange feeling I get and hear what this stranger has to say.
"He was listening to you. He liked your voice," the man claims. "He loved it. But not as much as I did."
I scoff. So he is another of those rotten suitors of mine, showering false compliments to get in my good books.
"Did your mother never tell you that you mustn't be dishonest, ser?" I ask sweetly in response.
The man shifts his weight from one leg to another. I can feel the hesitation and discomfort in his voice when he says, "I am no knight."
That does not deter me. "The wastrel of a second son of a minor lord, then? I do believe that is worse."
"Ah, my lady, you speak of lies and dishonesty with contempt and yet make assumptions about someone you do not know."
I feel my cheeks heat up. How dare this stranger speak to me such? I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen!
"And now you have lost the words to defend yourself," the bastard says. He walks away from me, and towards the door to the corridor. Ghost follows his master faithfully.
"Wait!" I exclaim. The stranger glances back.
"Yes, Lady Daenerys?" He is polite in his speech, I give him that. Shame that the words he says must be so laced with arrogance and ego. He speaks as though he is pleased with himself and smiles as though he had an inside joke with himself that was delighting him so. Our conversation may have been short, but this man infuriates me.
"I know who you are. You're... You're Robb Stark," I say, though I know that is not true. Robb Stark does not speak like this man does. Robb Stark is not so rude as him, and I have ever seen any direwolf of his.
The uncertainty must have shown in my voice, for the stranger, not-Robb Stark, laughs again. "I assure you, my lady, I am no half-Tully. Only a wolf without his pack on this barren rock of an island."
With that I am left alone at the top of Wyndwyrm, my harp forgotten near the balcony parapet. My eyes are still trained at the back of this man until he disappears from sight.
The next day dawns bright and early, and with it starts the tournament. The Tourney for Daenerys. Oh, how objectified it makes me feel!
Mother, Viserys, Elia and I sit in the royal box though we are no royals, not anymore. We spend the morning watching the first rounds of jousts; most of them rather easy contests. A Patrek Mallister facing off against the Knight of Lemonwood; Ser Raynald Westerling and one of the Freys. A Vance and a Florent. Ser Donnel Waynwood against Ser Edmure Tully. The contests go on, each less entertaining than the last. Aegon's joust is in the afternoon, and until then I have to feign joy and merriment at watching mostly incompetent lordlings and newly-anointed knights breaking lances against each other.
The morning is dull until perhaps a little before noon when my mother's page, Monterys Velaryon, proclaims the next pair of jousters. "Ser Perwyn, of House Frey of the Crossing, and Lord Jon, of House Dalestark of Duskendale!"
Viserys stands up in outrage beside me. Aurane Waters, young Monterys' bastard uncle and Viserys' friend, stands with him.
"Bastard!" Viserys spits towards where Jon Dalestark is standing.
I thought you didn't come, I imagine myself telling this man. Where were you at the feast? If you were not there yesterday, why are you here?
Are you going to win me, Lord Jon?
I look down to my lap and fidget with my fingers. Viserys is boiling beside me.
"I will not have my beautiful sister wed lowborn scum such as you!" Viserys shouts. I do not dare look up. That is the irony - all of the previous evening I searched for him, and now that he is here, I am too scared to look up. What if he doesn't find me beautiful? What if he thinks I am a shy, timid girl who -
"And does your beautiful sister have any say in who she is to wed?"
I freeze. I know that voice. My heart beats against my ribs, and I feel my feet go numb. There might even have been some sweat on my forehead that was not due to the heat. The jousting arena is silent, waiting for what Viserys has to say. Or what I do.
Then there is a sudden bravery I feel, and I look up from my lap. In front of the royal box, staring into my eyes is a man with a fine helm and a worn old shield, one with a tree carved on it. A laughing tree, I think. The squire of the laughing tree, or the lord of it.
I feel Viserys' glance on me, as well as Mother's, Elia's, and that of every other spectator.
"My sister -" Viserys begins, but I hold up a hand to stop him from saying more. My eyes, however, never leave Lord Jon Dalestark. Oh, Dany. You say Aegon possesses beauty of the gods themselves. Then how does your bastard lord compare to him? It is Viserys' voice again. Like all the other times, I ignore it.
"Lord Dalestark, who is your father?" I ask clearly, keeping a straight face.
The man before me answers with a familiar voice. The voice of the stranger who had so insulted me only a few hours ago. The voice of red-eyed, white-haired Ghost's master. How dare he show up like this, ready to joust for my hand in marriage?
"Lord Eddard Stark, my lady."
I nod. I am aware of that. I proceed to my next question. "And your mother, my lord?"
There. I have hit the right chord. Now he would know, this Jon Dalestark - no, this Jon Snow - just who he had challenged the night before.
Jon Snow's eyes flash with fury, with contempt and condemnation before he gives me a look of pure hatred. My heart skips a beat when I see him, this man I had so lusted after, ride his horse away from the royal box and toward the exit to the stables. There is still tension in the air, and Ser Perwyn of House Frey sits atop his horse alone in the corner of the arena. Finally, Viserys instructs Monterys Velaryon to announce the name of another jouster to compete against Ser Perwyn. I zone out as Ser Perwyn starts riding against a Harry Hardyng, heir to the Vale.
Oh, Viserys, I answer my brother's voice inside my head. Aegon possesses beauty of the gods, that much is true. But Jon Dalestark has the beauty of this earth; the beauty of the rivers, the snow, the mountains, the seas and the meadows. And you should remember this: Elenei was the daughter of the gods, and yet she fell for Durran, who was as human as we are.
And you think yourself Elenei? Viserys' voice calls out.
Perhaps I do, I retort. And perhaps he is my Durran.
disclaimer: I do not own any of the character or locations illustrated in the above story. They belong to George RR Martin, DB Weiss and company. The plot is adapted very loosely from the book The Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, from which a quote is mentioned above. The book in turn is an account of events in the Indian epic Mahabharata. All credit goes to the respective authors and compilers.