Lips curl in a sensuous smile, silver rivers tumble down naked shoulders, and Daenerys crooks her finger. There is little in way of words that she seems willing to give to him at this point, but Jon doesn't truly mind. The only thing that matters is that they are both alive.
Alive, of course, after a long, gruelling fight. Jon doesn't dare not rejoice. It would akin to spitting on the grave of all who have lost their lives for their countrymen to go on. It is commendable. But more than that it is proof that in the face of great danger humanity is an adhesive factor; it binds all together.
Ghost growls softly, blood-red eyes looking up at Jon as he cards his fingers through his hair. The burnt hand bears faded scarring that gleams in the light of day. Yet the pain is no longer there and the stiffness is but a memory.
"Come along," Jon tells the direwolf, not bothering to turn and glace behind him after he has begun walking. Ghost always follows.
Without one of the Queensguards leans against the wall, seemingly at ease. Jon levels a hard look at the man and his spine straightens as soon as Ghost snarls.
A queen Daenerys might be, he tells himself then, but she has much to learn about queenship.
Lady Hardyng's shoulders slump. It is that drop of relief, that moment of unadulterated ease. It makes her look younger, look like the child he remembers, that girl who adored songs and tales of knights. Sansa cradles a small babe in her arms and another child hangs onto her skirts, innocent eyes gazing up with curiosity.
"I didn't have the heart to send them away." Her own family has been broken. The explanation is met with a little nod. "Jon, there is so much that I–" And there he stops her.
"The past is done with and gone." He himself has come to terms with all the whirlwind revelations, but he won't share them with anyone.
They go to the weirwood together, not arm in arm, for even with all the understanding and forgiveness between them, scars are still here. But the atmosphere does not choke Jon, and he thinks this is enough.
"He is good to me," Sansa says, auburn tresses shining in the slight spring sun. "It seems so foolish of me to have doubted him in the beginning. I always though my lady mother knew best on such matters."
"I am glad he brings you joy." He must by the way she smiles just now. For a brief moment, he wonders what their lives might have been had always been as it is now between them. Foolish notions.
Daenerys sits stiffly upon her throne, not yet used to the cruel kiss of the blades, her form obscured by the heavy robes she wears. "So long as he kneels and swears fealty," she says, eyeing Lady Hardyng, "and provided you and your lord husband see to it that he is raised in the spirit of his vows, I shall be merciful."
It rings odd to Jon's ears. But this is neither the time nor the place to debate with her on the matter. Still, he shall keep this in mind.
"Of course, Your Grace," Sansa responds, courteous to the very tips of her fingers. She gazes at Jon them, a question lingering in those deep blue eyes.
"Are you certain you wish to remain here?" she questions, simultaneously taking away from the oldest girl one of the fine bone combs with silver ornaments. "Harrold and I would be more than pleased if you came within our home."
"There is no reason to worry," Jon says after a moment of consideration. "I wish to stay." He cannot understand her worry and puts it on the shoulders of the many losses she has suffered. "I must stay here, where I am needed."
"Rickon needs you too," Lady Hardyng points out.
"He doesn't," Jon laughs. "He has you."
"Very well. But I expect that at least my ravens shall be answered to." The younger babe lets out a loud cry, effectively dragging Sansa's attention away from Jon.
Tyrion looks up from the parchment. "You are in great fortune I should say." The dwarf and his cutting sense of humour never fail to amaze Jon. "She is right mad the Dornish Princess has yet to arrive."
Dorne is not powerful enough to create anything other than a few skirmishes. Not at all worries, Jon sits down in one of the chairs. "The road is long, the Dornish are slow travellers and the Princess has every right to her comforts."
Not that he much cares. Dorne is no longer an important player. Doran is dead and Arianne is but a pale imitation of the man in regards to political wiliness.
He sits alone beneath the tree and leans his back against it. Ghost has gone off to hunt no doubt and shan't be back for hours yet. The dragons fly as they please and his Queen insists that she must see to some troubles of her Dothraki subjects.
So he enjoys the solitude, from time to time trying to find that trail of consciousness beneath the thick bark. Mayhap remnants of the three-eyed crow are still within, or it might well be that he shall find Bran.
Jon sighs. Thinking of Bran is a double edged sword. There are so many things to be joyful about and at least as many to mourn.
In such moments one is glad for the lack of company, or rather its reduced number. But Daenerys continues to laugh, her voice light, so at odds with the sentiment of it. "I shan't wed anyone," she tells them both after she has calmed herself. "I am the Queen. I have no need for any king."
To Tyrion it might well be about upholding tradition, But to Jon it is not a matter of that. The hurt stems from her rejection.
And yet how could he not understand. Mayhap if she knew the truth, but that Jon won't tell her, nor to any other. So he merely allows Tyrion to continue with his speech, knowing well that Daenerys shan't listen.
"Viserys would tell me stories of Westeros," she reminisces, fingers scraping against his shoulder. "I never truly thought I'd see my home." Slowly, her body rises above his. "Do not ask me to give up what I have fought so hard to gain."
"I am not asking you to," comes his answer, belated, even unsure. Jon himself is unsure of what he ought to do. "I would never ask it of you."
But neither can he kill all the pride within himself. Not even for her.
For the moment, however, he enjoys the feel of her lips on his. There is time enough for other matters to be dealt with on the morrow.