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45 follows for one chapter? You guys rock!
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Without further ado, here it is - chapter two :)
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.
The morning had dawned clear, cold and crisp. A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate, stirring the white banners of House Stark. Above the walls of Winterfell, grey direwolves raced once again across an ice-white field, while visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of black and red. Ahead of them, Jon recognized the stunted little man.
Tyrion Lannister. Hand of the Queen.
For those able to see past the jester, the drunken dwarf was an intellectual force to be reckoned with. Jon had known him, briefly. He'd thought him clever and charismatic, far more than what people gossiped of him. He'd even called him friend. Now, as he watched him approach, it was hard to believe the little man had had it in him to murder his own father.
"So ... bastard," Tyrion began with with a jaunty grin. "King in the North is it?!"
A slight smile broke across Jon's face, remembering their previous encounters.
"Life is full of little ironies, isn't it?" Jon replied and their laughter steamed in the cold air. "It's good to see you've arrived safely my—"
Suddenly, a shadow swept over the castle yard, blacker than any passing cloud and a hot wind whipped across their faces. A loud roar boomed in the sky, silencing every single man. They all looked up, uneasily, none daring to speak. A dragon had come. Drogon, the black scaled, and on its back the young Targaryen woman - Daenerys Stormborn.
Her beast flew high above, awaiting, and soon an answering roar shook the very foundations of Winterfell. Two more winged shapes appeared: the white Visarion, and his brother Rhegal, green and bronze and fierce. The sight of the three dragons took the very heart out of most men. But not Jon.
He watched unblinking, his eyes going from one majestic creature to another. The unmounted ones circled low before coming to rest on top of the castle's battlements, spreading their wings wide and glancing down knowingly. They held a savage beauty and a power that filled him with awe.
Finally, urged on by its rider, the black beast landed with a crash amongst them. Razor-sharp talons raked the frozen ground and Jon could see the hard scales of it's chest, the strong muscles moving beneath. Smoldering eyes studied him for a moment, and then the black shadow stretched out his neck to sniff at him.
"It seems you captured his attention too."
The small voice caught him by surprise and Jon's attention turned to the young woman. Short of stature, but very beautiful, she had the silver-blonde hair and purple eyes of House Targaryen. Ygritte had been pretty, in her own way, with the red hair and lively smile, but this woman did not need to smile. She would have turned men's heads in any court in the wide world. The realization twisted in Jon like a knife, while she stood still and careless, as if she had been carved of stone. Yet she looked warm and soft with snowflakes melting in her hair and on her cheeks.
"Your Grace," he said with chilly courtesy, slightly bowing his head. "We've been expecting you."
Some time later. Winterfell's council room.
"The northerners are proud people," Jon argued, looking down the council table, "Let them keep their pride, Your Grace and they will love you for it." For the last hour, Jon had been trying to reason with the dragon Queen. But it seamed pointless. Daenerys would not listen: neither to him, nor to her Hand.
"I do not desire northern kisses, Sire," her purple eyes fixed him with an obstinate defiance, "Only northern submission." Damn her! Jon's hand opened and closed, flexing the burned fingers beneath the leather glove. Careful now, keep calm. "You ask too much, my Lady."
"Ask?" Danys' brows rose incredulous, "I do not ask, Lord Snow. I demand your yielding," she corrected, pushing her hair back. Everything about her screamed arrogance - from the stiff back and proud angle of her head, to the insolent air in which she trailed her eyes.
"My yielding?" Jon glared angrily, yet when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and cold. "Your Grace," he said, managing to leash in his temper, "I have welcomed you here. Housed your men and fed your beasts, but do not take my hospitality for meekness."
The Queen listened, her face still behind the emotionless mask of politics. Despite his cold ways, this wolf-king had an edge to him. It was hidden underneath the surface, waiting to come out.
"I am King because my bannermen put their faith in me," he continued unwavering, "I never asked for it, never wanted it. If I fought, I fought for my sister's honor and our home. Nevertheless, the northern Lords chose me. Bending the knee would not only be an insult to them. It would be an insult to the very idea of choosing a King out of free will."
For a few moments, the two rulers silently studying each other. He is bold enough, Dany realized. And smart. Silence hung between them for another moment, then Dany spoke, in a measured voice:
"I understand the importance of choosing a leader, but..." she stopped and fixed him with those eyes of hers, "If the people of Westeros see you as an alternative to my rule, they could rally behind you."
"An alternative?!" Jon was dumbstruck. Was that Iron Throne all she thought about? "Your Grace, my duties are here in the north. I have no wish to—"
"—that's irrelevant!" Dany cut in hotly, "Whether you wield it yourself or not, your claim could undermine mine." That was the final drop. Jon's face grew dark with anger and for a splitting second Daenerys saw what lied beneath the calm surface. Something fierce.
"Keep your bloody throne!" his voice blazed, "Do you think I care about the squabbling of a few houses, while the true threat gathers beyond the Wall?!"
"True threat?" Daenerys snapped around to her Hand, "What is he talking about?"
"I can show you!" Jon replied before Tyrion had time to speak, "That is, if you're not afraid to follow me."
For a moment Daenerys hesitated. Was he setting a trap? Did he wish her harm? No. Not under his roof. The Old Gods would curse him… So she rose her chin and met his glare defiantly, "Afraid?" disdain tainted her lovely smile, "A dragon is never afraid."
"Good," came the reply. Short, simple, unimpressed. Jon kept his face a mask, ignoring the fiery girl and her very bad temper, "Sansa?!"
Beckoned, the young Lady Stark entered the council room and Jon pushed himself to his feet. Her blue eyes quickly scanned the place and rested upon Tyrion's in a silent greeting. Sweet, soft-spoken Sansa. He'd hoped to see her again. To see her well.
"Is is done, sister?" The willowy redhead nodded discreetly. "It is all prepared."
"Your Grace," Jon glanced back at Dany's face, before turning around, "If you'd follow me!"
Tyrion rose to join them too, but Sansa reached his side and whispered. "This is between the two of them. But rest assured. No harm will come to your Queen. You have my word."
Another woman would've thought twice before following him into the dark corridor, but not Daenerys. She walked boldly by his side, her head held high, fearless. Were it not for her arrogance, he might have even considered her appealing. But her sense of entitlement was off puting. They stopped in front a wooden door. Slowly, Jon grabbed the handle and pulled it inward.
The creak of the hinges sounded almost ominous to Dany. And the cold... When had it gotten so cold?
Inside, heavy drapes obscured the windows. A small candle burned by the door, but it's flickering light could not push back the darkness. Dany stopped in the doorway, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. She felt her heart pounding and, for a few moments, she even considered turning back. Foolish weakness. I am blood of the Dragon!
So she stepped inside. "What is the meaning of this?" she asked, turning around. At this point, she was trembling, violently. Why is it so cold? she kept asking herself and then she saw it. A shadow among shadows, sliding toward them. She backed away involuntarily, staring at the ... at the ... By all Gods! What is that?
She felt Jon's hand close roughly over her upper arm as he steered her aside. Then the man threw himself forward, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. The steel bit deep and hard, shearing through skin and bone, slashing an entire arm. But the sound that filled the room was wrong. Deeply wrong.
Dany watched in horror as the slashed arm kept writhing on the floor, fingers opening and closing. The abomination lurched forward and Jon slashed at it again, unwavering. His sword cut it open from cheek to neck, but there was no blood. No blood. One-armed, face nearly cut in half, it seemed to feel nothing. It kept coming for them.
"Kill it!" she commanded, with terror, "Kill it at once!"
"But, Your Grace!" the northerner turned and watched her for what felt like the longest moment "Can't you see?" his tone was mocking, "It's already dead!" When realization hit her, Dany tried to shout, but her voice was gone. He was right. He was right! The arm thrashed on the floor, wriggling toward her. Lifeless. Decayed. Dead! "Jon!" she finally manage to shout.
Registering her fear, Jon reached for the lamp and threw it into the wight. Metal crunched, glass shattered, and the monster lit up in a great whoosh of flame. The heat of it felt sweeter than any kiss Dany had ever known.
"Are you well, Your Grace?" with a swift motion, Jon slid the sword back into it's silver-banded scabbard.
"A dead man tried to kill me." Daenerys stood reactionless, watching the flames. "How well could I be?"
Gone is her mighty arrogance now. Jon lowered his head somewhat amused, but immediately felt petty for it. This is a frightened woman, he chided himself, a girl. She had somehow softened in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way she reacted that made her seem less of mystical conqueror and more human.
"As I told Her Grace," he continued, "the real threat lies beyond the Wall."
Getting a grip on herself Daenerys turned fully to him. "What happens if these monsters cross the Wall?" Her lovely eyes searched Jon's ardently and he noticed they held genuine concern.
"They will kill," he answered, "by the hundreds and thousands. And then the dead will rise, with black hands and pale blue eyes..."
"...to come for us all," she finished.
Soooo? How was it? Good, bad, meah? Let me know if I got anything wrong. Also, is anyone interested in being my beta for this story?
I could use the help, so let me know if you're interested. Until next time,
XoXo
Roheline