My next project: my take on the end of Game of Thrones, or how I envision Season 8. This first chapter is a little one-shot I felt like writing. It's basically my interpretation of the final scenes of Episode 7x06, from Dany's POV. After this chapter, I pick up where the 7x07 left off.

Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think, and if you want me to keep uploading this.

DAENERYS I

The day was bleak, and such cold was in the air that it seemed almost a tangible presence. It was the inescapable presence of winter. Seven hundred feet above the ground, the wind howled mercilessly through the wood and metal beams that made up one of the many watchtower posts atop the Wall. It whipped at her hair and clothes and stung the exposed flesh of her face like a thousand tiny daggers. Sheets of snow cascaded from the cloudy sky. The canopy of her tower provided little shelter from it, as the wind caused the snow to fall almost horizontally, blowing it under the canopy to alight on her coat and skin. Ser Jorah Mormont, the gruff old bear who had been at her side for years, stood there now, shivering despite the many layers of fur he was wearing. The Dragon Queen herself wore only her white coat and simple black gloves, but she felt no outward chill.

None but the chill in her heart.

She gazed out across the lands beyond the Wall, as far north as north could go. She thought perhaps on another day, in another time, she might have admired the view, perhaps even enjoyed it. But today she could not. Because she had seen the threat that lurked among those frozen forests and mountains of ice. She had seen the army of the dead, the endless mass of writhing and chattering skeletons and half-rotted corpses. She had seen the White Walkers. And she had seen her dragon Viserion – one of her three beloved children, her only children – felled from the sky before her very eyes, pierced by a spear of ice wielded by the leader of the Walkers, the one Jon called the Night King.

Thinking of Jon and her slain dragon sent a pang of guilt and sorrow through her heart so intense she nearly gasped aloud. The frigid air was suddenly too thin, and she found herself struggling to capture a breath. I failed them, she thought miserably. And Viserion paid the price for my stubbornness.

She refused to believe that Jon was dead. The man was as stubborn as her but twice as brave. Dany didn't think he had a dishonorable bone in his body. He had risked so much to help his people, even sailing hundreds of miles south to hold court with a foreign invader who was just as likely to kill him as she was to render aid. He never gave up fighting for his people, never gave up trying to convince her of the true threat from beyond the Wall, but she had never listened until it was too late. She decided it was the least she could do not to give up on him. She owed him that much.

So she kept her vigil atop the Wall since the moment they returned to Eastwatch, until even the extraordinary inner warmth she possessed as the blood of the dragon could no longer keep the cold at bay. Her fingers and toes ached; her coat felt like it was sealed permanently to her body and her face was beginning to grow numb; but still she remained in her perch, scanning the woods below for any sign of movement.

Ser Jorah had tried a few times to convince her to come down. She ignored him. He hadn't attempted to do so for quite some time, instead choosing to remain silent at her side.

For hours and hours she waited and watched, haunted by the mourning cries of Rhaegal and Drogon and the memory of what had happened at the frozen lake. After the strange but touching moment Jon had shared with Drogon, she wanted to believe that her dragons understood her grief for the Northman and shared it as strongly as they did their grief for Viserion. But that was only wishful thinking.

The strength of her despair and longing for the lost King in the North forced her to reconsider her assertion that she was not in love with Jon Snow, and he was not in love with her. But was that really true? Would she be here if it was?

I would gladly risk my life to save any of my people, not just Jon, she tried to reason with herself, but her assertion rang hollow. Her mind inadvertently flashed back through all of her interactions with him, assessing his mannerisms and expressions for a clue to the truth.

She recalled the way he looked at her in the cave, and on the beach as they said farewell: like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, and it was causing him almost physical pain to leave her. Somehow, though he had never said it outright, she knew that it wasn't just her ethereal beauty that had enraptured him. They were kindred spirits, and he had recognized that almost immediately. Dany had taken longer to realize it, but now that she had, she knew that his feelings for her went beyond simple physical attraction.

Looking back on her previous relationships, she understood that Daario had been little more than a distraction. To him, she had been a prize, a conquest to brag about, and his attraction to her was almost certainly skin-deep, nothing but lust. Even Khal Drogo had not truly loved her. And although she had come to care for the Khal, she realized now that she had not truly loved him either. How could she, when the foundation of their relationship was built upon slavery?

It was different with Jon. The other two had always tried to impress her, to gain her favor with gifts or persuasion. Jon did not. He was one of the most humble men she had ever met. He never bragged. He cared nothing for himself. All he wanted was to help his people, and he had been willing to risk his own life by meeting with Dany in order to do so. The extent of his honor and altruism astounded her more and more every day, and part of the reason it did so was because he never tried to astound her with it. In fact, he made every effort to hide the truth of what he had sacrificed for his people.

No, she was not foolish enough to delude herself any longer. She was the blood of Valyria, the blood of the dragon. She knew who she was.

And she knew she was in love with Jon Snow.

Eventually, Jorah touched her lightly on the shoulder. She started at the unexpected contact. "It's time to go, Your Grace," he said solemnly.

No! Dany wanted to scream. I can't give up on him, don't you understand? But she remained calm, and all she said was, "A bit longer."

Jorah acquiesced and stepped back once more. After a few more minutes, Dany forced herself to turn away. Her eyes burned, but no tears would fall. She tried to stay strong, to keep herself composed in front of Ser Jorah. If I look back, I am lost.

But then, as she took the first step onto the stairs leading from the platform she had manned religiously, a horn blast rang out from the Wall, piercing through the shrieking wind. "A rider approaches!" someone shouted out.

Dany's heart leapt into her throat. Could it be possible? Did she dare to hope? She spun and bounded back to the edge of the watchtower. Her nervous hands gripped the railing tightly, causing it to groan in protest. She heard her blood pulsing wildly in her ears as her eyes desperately searched the ground below.

A black shape staggered from the treeline, with what appeared to be a bundle of black furs on its back. Dany squinted, her breath hitching at the discovery. A horse. The horse stumbled towards the gate, struggling under the weight of the burden on its back. A dozen men dashed out from the gate to meet it. The horse collapsed as they reached it, and the men took the mound of furs into their arms. She caught a flash of something pale that could only be flesh. Jon.

"No," she whispered. She turned and began to make her way down the stairs that led to the ground level where the gate was. The wood was slick with snow and ice, but she raced down them as quickly as she possibly could. She wanted, no, she needed to know Jon was alive.

"Be careful, khaleesi," Jorah warned, but she ignored him. He lagged behind, unable to match her frantic pace, until Dany lost sight of him entirely. She wasn't unduly troubled by this. He will find me at the bottom.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally reached the ground. She was just in time to see the men of the Night's Watch carrying Jon through the gate, dragging the body of the dead horse behind them. Ser Davos met her there. He looked more concerned than Dany had ever seen him, and when he spoke, his accent was thicker than usual. "We need to get him warmed up," he said to the men carrying the King, rushing forward to help them. "Now!"

Dany tried to compose herself and take control of the situation. "Take him to my ship," she commanded.

The crows looked at her and hesitated. "Your Grace…"

"This is no time to argue!" she snapped. "The weather is unrelenting, and you have no healers here. We must return to Dragonstone immediately to ensure that he makes a full recovery." Still the men hesitated. "NOW!" she roared, allowing forth some of the fury of the dragon within her. This time, the men scrambled to obey her, carrying Jon down to the docks where her ship, the Silver Queen, was moored.

Jorah finally reached her. His breathing was heavy, but there was no sweat on his brow; the gelid air saw to that. He trailed silently behind Dany, voicing no displeasure or beratement of her, as she followed the men of the Night's Watch to the Silver Queen.

Dany, Davos, and Jorah took Jon from the other men so that they could depart immediately. As soon as they were on board, Dany commanded the captain set sail.

Jon was not a large man, but his garments were soaked with half-frozen and icy-cold water. The three of them struggled to bear him on their own, but they managed to lug him down to his cabin and dump him on the bed.

The two knights straightaway set to work stripping Jon of his sopping clothes. Perhaps it was a foolish notion after all that had happened, but Dany wished to respect Jon's modesty, so she took the time to change from her now-soaked white winter coat and back into her more comfortable black dress. She fastened her blood-red scarf over her shoulder with her silver three-headed dragon brooch and returned to Jon's cabin.

When she arrived, Jon had been stripped to his smallclothes and tucked beneath the warm furs of his bed. As Jorah and Davos lugged his ruined clothing out of the room and shut the door behind them, Dany's eyes lighted on Jon's bare chest. He was lithe but muscular, and despite herself, she felt her heartbeat quicken. But it wasn't his physique that drew her gaze.

Jon's chest was littered with scars. She counted at least half a dozen of them, huge gashes in his flesh and muscle, from his abdomen to his torso. They looked less like scars and more like fresh wounds, raw and bloody. The largest one of all was a half-moon-shaped wound nearly four inches in length, directly above his heart.

Her breath caught in her throat. Davos' words from their first meeting echoed in her head. He took a knife in the heart for his people, he gave his own l- Jon had cut him off before he finished, but now Dany completed the sentence in her head. He gave his own life for his people.

Apparently it wasn't some kind of metaphor as she had first thought. The evidence was plain as day before her eyes, yet still she had trouble believing it. How did he survive wounds such as these? How could he have been standing before her all these weeks if he was dead? These were no insignificant scratches, that much was clear, but until Jon woke, she had far more questions than she did answers.

She didn't think it would have been possible, but she found her admiration for the man in front of her growing exponentially. Here was visible, tangible proof of the lengths he was willing to go to for his people, the sacrifices he was willing to make for those he cared about. Was there no end to Jon Snow's selflessness?

Dany's heart clenched as she beheld him, and tears pricked at her eyes once more. Remorse threatened to overwhelm her. If she had trusted him from the start, Jon would not be lying before her on the brink of death. Viserion would not have perished.

Before her mind comprehended what she was doing, her legs were moving towards his bed. She sat on the furs next to Jon and reached out a hand to trace the crescent-like scar on his breast with her finger. His skin was impossibly cold, and she almost recoiled in shock. But she forced herself to endure it, and flattened her palm over the scar. She could feel his heart beating; it was weak but present, silently reassuring her that he would live. He would be alright. She breathed a sigh of relief. Jon shuddered in his sleep, mumbling incoherently.

Once again, she could barely control the rise of emotions that emerged from within her. She swallowed them down with effort, and stared imploringly at Jon's face, then the steady rise and fall of his chest. Wake soon, Jon Snow. For me.

They were halfway to Dragonstone when Jon finally woke.

Dany was at his side when he did, which was no surprise, since she had remained there through most of the journey thus far. His eyes blinked open, blearily taking stock of his surroundings.

When they landed on Dany, unimaginable sorrow and guilt entered his stormy grey gaze. No, unimaginable was the wrong word. She could imagine it; she knew she would see exactly the same thing if she were to look in a mirror.

"I'm sorry." Jon spoke softly, his voice hoarse and weak from disuse. "I'm so sorry."

She could hear the emotion in his voice, hear the way it colored his words. She shook her head, desperately trying to hold back the flood of tears that was still trying to break through. She hoped he wouldn't continue. She didn't think she could handle any more of his heartfelt apologies.

Jon reached up and took her hand, slowly stroking it with his thumb. "I wish I could take it back," he whispered. "I wish we'd never gone."

Dany was grateful for his attempt to comfort her, and after a lengthy internal struggle, she finally gained some semblance of control of her emotions. It was taking all of her focus not to grip his hand like it was a lifeline, the last lifeline she had left. Instead, she slipped her hand out of his grasp and back into her lap, and shook her head again. "I don't," she said. "If we hadn't gone, I wouldn't have seen. You have to see it know." She smiled sadly, but it was ironic and self-deprecating, bereft of any humor. "Now I know."

Rhaegal's screeches drifted through the cabin window, and Dany was hit with a fresh wave of grief for Viserion. "The dragons are my children," she said, her voice wavering. "They're the only children I'll ever have. Do you understand?" She needed him to understand. She wanted nothing more than to take him into her bed, to express how deeply she had come to care for him in the most intimate way possible. She suspected now that he felt the same way of her, but she wasn't certain. Either way, he deserved to know that she could not give him any heirs should he choose to lie with her. She would not deceive him anymore.

Jon's voice died in his throat. Instead he nodded, his eyes downcast.

But that was not the only thing she needed to tell him. "We are going to destroy the Night King and his army," she declared fiercely. Her voice wavered no longer, fortified by the strength of her conviction, her desire for vengeance for her lost child. "And we'll do it together." She looked him in the eyes, his dark brown orbs that were slowly widening as he listened to her speak. "You have my word."

For a moment, Jon didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed a few times; then gratitude spread over his face, and he nodded. "Thank you, Dany," he said.

"'Dany'?" Caught off-guard at his use of her nickname, she faltered. "I can't remember who was the last person to call me that." She was thrown back in time to Vaes Dothrak, to the day her cruel brother Viserys had received the golden crown Drogo promised him. "Was it my brother?" She grimaced. "Mmm.. not the kind of company you want to keep."

Jon looked suitably embarrassed. "Alright," he agreed. "Not Dany." Then a spark of steely determination entered his gaze, and he took a deep breath. "How about 'my Queen'?"

Dany stared at him in disbelief. It couldn't be possible. Had she misheard him? His next words proved she had not.

"I'd, uh, bend the knee, but…" He half-smiled and gestured towards his bedridden body, indicating his physical inability to do so.

Dany was speechless. She had longed for this moment, longed for the day he would finally pledge himself to fight for her. So why was the taste of her victory so bitter in her mouth? "What about those who swore allegiance to you?" she asked hesitantly.

"They'll all come to see you for what you are," he responded, his voice full to bursting with confidence. He gazed at her with the most loving and trusting expression on his face, she nearly broke down right there in front of him.

She gasped softly, her eyebrows arching, and in a split second, she made a decision. She slipped her hand back down into Jon's, lacing their fingers together and rubbing calming circles on each other with their thumbs. They both stared at their intertwined hands, then she raised her eyes back to his. "I hope I deserve it," she whispered, humbled beyond belief.

"You do," he said, and smiled at her.

It seemed there really was no end to Jon Snow's selflessness.

For a while they remained there, taking comfort in each other's company. Neither spoke, not wishing to disturb the rare moment of peace they had found. After what they'd experienced north of the Wall together, Dany felt like they now shared an inexplicable bond. She had never felt so close to someone before, man or woman, and though the depth of her love for him frightened her, she refused to allow her trepidation to influence her.

Eventually, Dany's gaze found its way back to his scars once more. He caught her looking, and sighed. Dany noticed his reaction, and nodded towards the scars. "You told me Ser Davos got carried away, if I recall," she said dryly. "I assumed it was a figure of speech… clearly, it was not."

He shifted uncomfortably. "No, Your Grace. It wasn't."

Dany frowned. "What happened to you?" she asked quietly.

Jon sighed again. "What do you know of the wildlings?"

"Very little," she admitted.

"The wildlings – the Free Folk – have been in conflict with the Night's Watch for centuries," he told her. "They learned how to survive beyond the Wall, and built towns and shelters with materials they took from settlements they raided on our side. The Night's Watch always saw them as little more than savages, and usually both sides would kill each other on sight."

"The first time I went north of the Wall," he continued. "I spent time with Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall, and the Free Folk who followed him. I lived with them, learned to appreciate the roughness of their culture." His distant gaze suddenly darkened, dozens of emotions swirling within them. Dany knew something else had happened to him there, something he wasn't telling her. "After a while, I came to understand the truth. They're no different than we are; they were just born on the wrong side of the Wall. I was eventually elected Lord Commander, and I knew that if we were going to survive the Long Night, if we wanted to have any chance of defeating the Night King, we needed to put our differences aside and work together."

"I led a mission to Hardhome, a town north of the Wall. The remnants of the Free Folk who followed Mance had fled there after their army was routed by Stannis Baratheon. While I was there, negotiating with the wildlings, the Night King attacked the village, with three other White Walkers and thousands of his undead troops."

A shiver ran down Dany's spine, and she unconsciously clutched his hand tighter.

"I did the only thing I could: I evacuated as many of them as I could to the safety of our ships and returned to Castle Black." He rubbed his forehead. "My sworn brothers didn't like that too much. They saw me as a traitor for bringing the wildlings south of the Wall. So one night, some of them lured me into a courtyard and murdered me."

Dany inhaled sharply. "How… how are you…?"

"A red priestess named Melisandre," he explained. "She brought me back. I don't know how, or why, but she did."

"Melisandre…" She considered the name for a few seconds before realization struck her. "I was visited by a red priestess of that name shortly after I arrived at Dragonstone."

Jon's brows furrowed in confusion. "At Dragonstone? What was she doing there?"

"She advised me to summon you to stand before me," said Dany. "She reminded me of the prophecy of Azor Ahai, of the Prince who was Promised, and told me that she believed we both had a role to play in its fulfillment. Tyrion agreed with her advice."

Jon raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "He spoke in my favor?"

Dany nodded. "Of course. He said he had only traveled with you for a short time, but that you were a good man and he trusted you. Both of them seemed adamant that you were someone I ought to meet. I decided it was the least I could do to present the opportunity."

"Then I am glad I chose to sail south," Jon said.

She squeezed his hand and smiled affectionately down at him. "As am I." As she was examining his face, tracing every contour, she noticed the bags under his eyes and the weary set of his jaw. "You should get some rest," she said, withdrawing her hand from his and patting him gently on the leg.

He nodded and closed his eyes, and within a few minutes, she saw his breathing slow and knew he was asleep. She allowed her gaze to linger on him a bit longer, then stood without another word and left the cabin.