Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.
- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 40.
i.
The first time he sees her, she is on one of her dragons – this one a towering monstrosity of red and black– and looking both a goddess and a beggar.
He's heard about her – this famed Mother of Dragons. Although the whispers paint a portrait of a warrior queen with eyes as cold as winter and wrath as mighty as her beasts; the woman before him is tired, to say the least, in ragged clothes that cling to her like sweat, unkempt and bloody. There is no crown upon her head, but as her beast lands on Castle Black, the men kneel anyway. It is not for her, he knows, but for those she calls her children.
"Presenting Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Queen of Slaver's Bay, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons," a female voice calls. The words echo through the silence, carried by the wind. Jon eyes this so-called queen.
She dismounts her dragon with grace – far too much grace, he thinks – and walks toward him and his black brothers. There are others behind her, not many, but enough. Her garrison, Jon realizes. Of course, she is a queen of sorts.
Her rags do little to protect her from the fierce cold, but she manages to brave it. When she walks, even the snows seem to bow. She is followed by an aged man in mail and three other men, copper-skinned and robust.
Around him, several Night's Watch men kneel; the others stand, awestruck by her dragons and some by her. It is not oft one sees a dragon in their lifetime, he muses, even more so three of them led by a woman.
She comes to a stop in front of him, and Jon cannot help but think how she is still standing in this bitter weather dressed in near-rags. A proper lady (which, truth be told, he isn't sure what is) would have been bundled in as many cloaks as could be. She is not. Her silver-blonde hair is loosely tied back and gently flaps in the wind– almost like a banner.
Her voice is clear and commanding. The voice of a leader. "You are?"
"Jon Snow," he replies. Your Grace? "Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."
Her gaze is piercing, the violet vibrant. "Jon Snow." His name rolls off her tongue hesitantly, as though she is experimenting it. He wonders how much she knows of Westorosi customs – and of bastard names.
Her eyes dart over him and his black attire. "And who do you bow to, Lord Snow?"
Jon hesitates, cautiously eying her garrison and dragons. Will she set them on us if we answer wrongly? The only man he has bowed to was his father, Eddard Stark – but he was now in the crypts of Winterfell. And Stannis, at a point. Who do I bow to now? You?
"I am a man of the Night's Watch, my lady," he concedes at long last, never breaking eye contact, "and I have sworn to hold no lands, no crowns, and no kings. I serve the Watch, and nothing more."
Her displease is evident, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. "I understand," she flatly replies. She looks over his shoulder, to his brothers in their various states. "And these are your men?"
"No, my brothers of black. We are the Night's Watch. Or what is left of it, at least." The Others took the rest. "We welcome you with open arms, my lady."
Her eyebrows rise and for the briefest moment, her steely gaze softens. "I . . . see. Allow me a moment, Lord Snow."
She strides over to the aged knight, and their conversation is hurried and terse. Jon hears voices murmur behind him: "How long does she expect to keep us here? Aye, she's a beauty –a beauty with dragons – but if she thinks she can keep us here as much she bloody likes, the whore's – "
A hush falls over when the Mother of Dragons returns. When their eyes lock, Jon sees the coldness slightly falter, and suddenly she is human, not a fearless conqueror; when she speaks, it is kind yet authoritative, and her words ring through the silence.
"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Snow. We will be needing some warm beds, furs, food, and a bit of wine. And some meat, if there is any to be spared." There is a faint smile on Daenerys Targaryen's lips. "We've travelled a long way, and my dragons are hungry."
Three days into her stay, he is summoned to her chambers.
The past three days have been littered with excited chatter and whispers. Most speak of her unearthly beauty – "have you seen her eyes?!" – others of her fearful garrison – "I've seen 'em guard her room day and night, it's like those fuckers never sleep!" – but all of them bring up the same subject at a point or another – her dragons.
As he walks, brothers swarm him. Some cautious, afraid of provoking their lord, others with zeal. To them Jon is more than their Lord Commander and black brother; he is their friend. (Or was, he somberly thinks. Those days are gone. Kill the boy and let the man be born).
"Do you think she's goin' to show you the dragons?"
"D'you think she'll show you what she wears under 'em horse savage rags?"
"Aye, wouldn't mind lettin' her ride me for the night—"
"M'lord—"
Jon is already ahead of them, and their voices are slowly fading away. As he climbs the rickety steps to the King's Tower, a feeling of dread fills him. The last time he had been summoned here, there was an offer of legitimacy and a title to go with it. What do you have for me, Daenerys Stormborn?
She is deep in conversation with her knight when he enters, and they both turn towards him.
"Jon Snow," Daenerys says. "I was beginning to think you had refused my offer."
"Never, my lady." Long gone are the bloodied rags, the woman before him is draped in a fine crimson dress encrusted with rubies, the neck a deep gash that exposes skin, pale and creamy. Castle Black does not have an array of women's clothing to choose from, and this one is one of the Red Woman's, he notes. His stomach twists at the sight of it.
"Leave us, Ser Barristan," she tells her knight. The old man gives Jon a scathing look as he leaves the room, the door slamming. He doesn't trust me, he realizes. Of course, why would he? He knows what I am.
The last of the Targaryens stand before him in all her glory. Her gaze pierces him in ways no sword could. "Most bow before their queen," Daenerys comments almost innocently. "Although, I have an inkling that I am not yours."
Jon winces; of course, why else would he be here?
"Forgive me . . . Your Grace," he hastily mutters, looking down at his snow-covered boots. "We are sworn to bow to no kings or take any houses. The Night's Watch is – "
"I know what it is," she says, taking a step towards him. There is laughter (or is it mockery?) in her voice. "Although I cannot say I am surprised. Why would a Stark ever kneel to a Targaryen?"
It feels like a slap to the face, a pail of cold water. Taken aback for a moment, he harshly retorts, "I am no Stark, Your Grace."
"No, you're not." She is standing in front of him now, and while they are not of a height, he still feels her breath on his face. She smells of fire and sweetness, he ruefully thinks. There were only two people who smelt of that: one died with an arrow in her heart and the other... "But your father was. And they say sons take after their sires. So tell me again, Jon Snow – are you a Stark?"
. . . when you return, you need only bend your knee, lay your sword at my feet, and pledge yourself to my service, and you shall rise again as Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell . . .
Winterfell. Winterfell with its cold stone walls and snow white grounds; the serene godswood and bustling halls. He can almost hear it all again. The ringing laughter, the clang of swords, the howl of wolves in the night – smiling faces, everywhere, as vivid as they once were. The smell of freshly baked bread, the feel of being tackled to the ground. Arya's shrill laughter, Sansa's shrieks of complaint and how I'm going to tell Mother, Bran, Rickon, Robb— it was home.
And it was no more. The grey tentacles of the kraken writhe and flail, slick and shiny. They crawl through windows, the glass shattering into millions of pieces, and break down walls. The stench of burning fills the air, and the wail of women and children accompany it; like blood on snow, the darkness spreads: slowly, and then all at once. The faces of joy crack like the kings in the crypts. He feels cold.
Winterfell is gone, he remembers. There is nothing left but ghosts and ash.
The words come to him quicker than they should've. "My brothers were," Robb with snow melting in his hair, "and my sisters," Skinny little Arya and prim and proper Sansa, " my lord father," We'll talk when I return, "I cannot say for my lady mother. And my uncle," come north with me, Jon. "There were all Starks, trueborn, with the blood of the First Men. But I am not, Your Grace." The words cut him deeper than any sword could and blood gushes from the wound. "And I have no wish to be."
I gave it all up when I said the words.
There is silence. For what seems like hours, the queen does not speak. She simply eyes him, and Jon returns the gaze. She truly is beautiful, he notices. Apart from her commanding demeanor, her eyes are breathtaking, her body is one knights sing of, and she is as fierce as she is caring. Like Ygritte. "D'you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave, Jon Snow. I told you so . . ."
When she finally speaks, it is soft – as gentle as a whisper and kinder than he could have imagined, and the words she say burn themselves into his mind and light a fire in his heart he had long since extinguished.
"Have you ever ridden a dragon, Jon Snow?"
Largely incomplete but with this being my little brainchild for around 3 years, I've got a fair bit written up and thought it was time to share. Let me know if you want to read more. Reviews are always appreciated.