Winter is here. The days in the south were already so short and the nights wore on longer.
Jon Snow breathed in the scent of the cold, salty night air. The winds were strong, which was a good sign. If each day was like today, they could reach White Harbour sooner than expected.
The Long Night.
We can't lose any more time, he thought to himself, I've been away for too long. Who knows if Eastwatch has already been breached?
He thought of Tormund and Beric Dondarrion and wondered if they were even alive. Jon drew his thick cloak around him. A shiver ran down his spine, but it wasn't the cold that made his bones shake. The Night King's stony blue eyes with haunted his dreams on nights when Jon even dared to sleep. How long has it been since he had a good night's rest?
Probably not in the last few years, at least.
It had only gotten worse after coming back from the dead. If it wasn't the Night King, it was the silent darkness that kept him from closing his eyes, wondering if he would ever wake again. He took a few more deep gulps of the bitter cold air to calm himself. He leaned unto the wooden railings of the ship, staring blankly into the dark horizon. The moon was barely out tonight, hidden behind dark grey clouds yet he could still make out the chaotic waves of the sea breaking against the ship.
Death is the enemy.
He already faced death, too many times to count, and yet he didn't feel any better for it. If anything, Death only stripped away pieces of him that he was desperately trying to hold on to.
His gloved hand was balled into a fist and he thought of his family instead. Something, anything, to remind him, to give him strength to push on.
Bran… Arya… Sansa…
Jon closed his eyes picturing their faces, smiling and happy. Summer days long gone.
Rickon… Robb… Father…
Even Theon crossed his mind. Despite what he had done, Jon meant every word he had said to his Ironborn brother.
You are a Greyjoy and a Stark. He had said to him. And I? Who am I? Father said that I had his blood, but I'm only half a Stark, aren't I? At least Theon had a sense of who he is, of who his family is. But I… I don't even know if my mother is alive. And with her is half of who I am. Will I ever know?
Jon chuckled weakly under his breath. And people wonder why I brood so much…
Jon wondered about the last time he felt truly happy. His mind wandered back to the day Sansa came to Castle Black, how relieved he was and how protective he became over her. Her return reminded him of things he had long thought to have given up.
It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children, I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. For this night and all the nights to come.
But he did give his life. And he was crowned King in the North. He came home to Winterfell and the North placed under his protection and care. And yet, he didn't feel completely free of his vow. He thought again of Beric Dondarrion, and their conversation beyond the wall.
I am the shield that guards the realms of men.
Maybe we don't need to understand any more than that. Maybe that's enough.
Jon frowned deeply. It may be more than enough for Beric but he wasn't entirely confident it was for him.
I want to fight for the side that fights for the living.
You will be fighting their wars forever, Lord Snow.
I'm tired of fighting. It's all I've done since I left home.
Jon instinctively gripped Longclaw's hilt, feeling the impression of the wolf on his fingers.
May it serve you well… and your children after you.
Children…
Ser Jorah's voice was the last one he heard in his trail of thoughts. Jon had never even dared to dream about children. He was a bastard, and he knew that the life of a bastard was not a life he wanted his children to live. He thought about the time when he longed for a son of his own, a trueborn son. A family of his own.
But that will never be. Jon shook his head. "I'm a bastard and I will always be a bastard. Snow."
Wear it like armor, Lord Tyrion had told him, and it can never be used to hurt you.
But it did hurt him. Not because people used it against him to demean him or tarnish his honor. He could care less about that. He cared because it set him apart. He cared because all his life, he just wanted what everyone wanted, and got.
A family. A home. A place where he belonged. A place where no one looked at him as if he was anyone special or different. He found that briefly in the Night's Watch.
Jon looked up to try and see if he could make out the stars in the overcast skies. He thought of his Night Watch brothers who had passed on and wondered if they found a way out of the darkness. But they were long gone now, like so many others. Grenn and Pyp.
He thought of the free folk and felt he could have found the life he wanted with them perhaps, if they had not been on opposing sides from the start. They didn't care about him being a bastard. They cared that he was nothing but a crow. And they were right.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
Jon smiled softly at the memory and then immediately felt his heart clench when he thought of her. Ygritte. Her red hair, her cocky grin, her soft lips and her hands that could caress as well as kill.
We should have stayed in that cave.
Yes. We should have stayed. But we didn't.
He let the memory of her go into the cold night. And when he did, so did the memories of all the dead free folk. He thought of Mance Rayder and his obstinate decision to never kneel to anyone for anything. Jon hoped that his own decision to declare fealty might produce a better outcome.
Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
He remembered when Stannis was at the Wall and the chance to be named a Stark was at his fingertips.
It was all I ever wanted…
But not anymore. There were greater things to think about. Life and Death. Winter and the fight for the Dawn. Or at least, the hope and promise of one. Will he even be alive to see the Spring?
Another reason to forego any thoughts of heirs or offspring. Would any of them even make it through the Winter?
Children…
The dragons are my children… they are the only children I will ever have…
And there it was. Without invitation or warning. Her voice. She crept into his thoughts and stubbornly lingered there. It wasn't the first time it happened. He didn't know when it would be the last time. It was much harder to stop thinking of her once she found her place in his mind.
Perhaps because she was … something else entirely.
You're not like everyone else.
It's true. She wasn't like anyone he's ever met or ever seen. He thought of her long, silver hair that tumbled gracefully down her back, in braids of intricate design. Her lavender eyes that could pierce through your soul like a hot blade. But he knew what they were like when she gazed at him with such softness and relief like when he awoke to find her at his side many weeks ago.
She was as much a dragon as she was a queen. Fiery and awe-inspiring. Severe and precise. What she lacked in age and stature, she made up for in the ruthless determination of knowing what belonged to her.
But, just a few nights ago, he saw a different side to his queen. She knew what it was like to lose something precious to her. She knew what it was like to be broken and have someone she loved taken from her. She knew what it was like to be alone.
I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow.
I can't have children.
Leave me…
He remembered how she looked just a few nights ago in the War Room, when she had summoned him. The orange glow of the firelight dancing on her silver hair. How her tears betrayed her and fell over her pale, white cheeks. How he longed to take her sadness away, perhaps acknowledging that her grief was there because of him. How without thinking, he had brushed away the tears from her cheek and drew so near that when she turned, he saw the tears on her long lashes. He could still remember the dampness of her tears on his thumb when he walked away.
That night, she wasn't just a dragon queen. She bore the pain of a mother, of a young girl thrust into a position of power that would have scared the wits off of even the most adept of monarchs. He heard her true voice in the softness of her whispers.
She has a good heart.
He wondered whether –
"May I join you?"
Jon turned at the sound of her voice. A simple question, yet she always knew how to make an entrance. Two of the queen's Unsullied guards stood behind her.
A dark grey fur cloak was draped over her small frame. Her hair tied back in one long loose braid, but a few stray silver strands blew wistfully in the wind. Even in the darkness, Jon could see a rosy tinge on her cheeks from the cold and the intent gaze in her lavender eyes.
Jon gave a small nod of his head. Even after all this time, just looking at her still had the ability to render him speechless.
"Henujagon īlva." At her command, the Unsullied soldiers bowed and took their posts at the other end of the ship.
The queen walked towards the wooden railings of the ship and stood a few feet from him, looking into the distance. Jon could see that her arms were bare underneath her cape.
"It's a cold night, Your Grace."
Not looking at him, she responded with a small smile, "I'm warm enough."
It reminded him of his conversation with Melisandre on the lift at Castle Black. She said the Lord of Light's fire was in her. He wondered if perhaps dragon fire flowed through the queen's veins as well. Was that what kept her warm? He was not sure what other garments the queen had underneath her furs.
The thought made Jon's face burn and he was grateful for the cover of night.
It had been almost a week since their private meeting at Dragonstone. They had not shared a conversation outside of formal pleasantries and military logistics in council meetings. Even then, when she did address him, she kept her tone guarded and impassive – every inch the dragon queen.
"Are you happy?" she asked, turning her head slightly to face him.
He gave her a puzzled look, unsure of what she was asking.
"To be returning home?" she continued.
Jon lifted his head slightly and took a deep breath before responding, "I don't think happy would be the right word. There's still a war to fight and… I'm not sure how much time we have left to be ready for it."
Dany shook her head, wondering why she was expecting a different answer. The King in the North was never a jovial conversationalist and yet… that's what stood out to her about him. How simple and real his outlook was on people and situations. There was nothing trivial or gaudy about his approach or demeanor. He always seemed to know what he wanted and that was all that mattered to him. But was it really all doom and gloom for him?
Dany chuckled softly.
"What?" Jon asked. He didn't recall saying anything that could even be close to humorous.
"Nothing." Dany replied amused, not looking at him. It had been so long since she last laughed or smiled genuinely that the feeling felt a bit foreign to her.
Home.
"I thought I'd be happy too, when the prospect of coming home became a reality. And yet, I haven't felt anything even remotely close to happiness since I arrived." What little amusement she had felt started to fade and gave way to a longing sadness.
"You're at war, my queen." Jon stated quietly, "Not exactly a time to be happy."
Dany breathed deeply and gathered her cloak around her, "I don't remember praying for anything else other than home. Hmm, except maybe for my dragons. My brother told me that home was Westeros and the 7 Kingdoms and the only way we could come back was with an army. Well, here I am with my ships and my armies and my dragons. But being here… it still doesn't feel like home."
Her lavender eyes met his somber gray ones.
"Maybe home isn't Westeros." He commented.
"No," Dany sighed and looked back to the dark sea, "Maybe not."
Maybe home is Braavos, in the house with the red door and a lemon tree.
Maybe home is family.
But I'm the Last Targaryen. I can't have children. There's no one alive who shares my name.
I'm the last of us.
They both stood gazing out into the darkness in silence. The icy, salt-laced winds whipping through their thick cloaks and the sound of the waves and the wooden creaks of the ship the only noises accompanying them.
Jon turned his head slightly to look at his queen lost in her thoughts. The moon crept out from the clouds and its pale beams glistened in the dark, open waters.
Looking at her in the moonlight, she didn't seem real to him. Her silver hair, her pale lilac eyes, her lithe figure, her clear voice that could command armies and tame dragons. He was certain she was a faery of some kind, a mythical creature from Old Nan's bedtime stories. How could she be real?
Yet here she was. Flesh and blood and standing right next to him.
And here he was. A Northern fool in love with the dragon queen.
In Love?
There's no time for that…
He had said as much to himself the last time he was alone with her. But was it love? He thought that word was lost to him. Thought that it had died along with Ygritte. He didn't think it was possible to feel that way about anyone again. Not even remembering or knowing how or when it happened.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
Perhaps not. But if there was one thing he did know. It was that he may be a Northern fool for falling in love with the dragon queen but here he was anyway.
And the memory of her tears on his palm came again to his thoughts.
"Your Grace, when we last spoke. At Dragonstone. I-"
"Don't." she stopped him, her voice quiet but firm. "I know what you're going to say. Don't."
The look she gave him when she said that last word took his breath away. His left hand clenched the bannister and he swallowed hard. It was almost the same look she gave him back in the dragonglass cave, when the only light came from the torch in her hand and her pale eyes glowed in the darkness. Only at this moment, her gaze was far softer and more intimate.
Dany stepped closer to him, the furs of her coat almost touching the tips of his. She knew that she shouldn't be doing this. She knew she was vulnerable. Should she be really doing this inadvisable thing? In the middle of a war and just when the Throne was almost within reach? But looking at him, his somber face and dark gray eyes, it didn't feel wrong.
She didn't know how or why, but she felt safe with him. The whole army of the Dead could be waiting for them the minute they get off the ship, but it didn't matter.
They're not here right now. But he is. And right here and now, he is the only thing that matters.
"I didn't mean to upset you." He finished in a whisper.
Dany smiled with a hint of sadness, "You didn't. It was wrong of me to send you away when I know you were just trying to comfort me."
Jon didn't know what made him do it, but he had lifted a gloved hand to her face. To his surprise and hers, she didn't pull away.
"I want—"
"Yes?"
His voice, husky and low, "I want to do more than just comfort you. If you allow me to."
Dany felt a tightness in her stomach and her heart started to race. He was so close. She wasn't entirely sure what she was feeling, only that she didn't want it to end. She was scared before, when he had once again found a way to a side of her that she kept only to herself. But not this time.
Dany leaned into his hand and allowed him to caress her cheek, wishing she could feel his skin instead.
"Will you allow me to?" he asked firmly. She could hear an impassioned plea in his tone.
Jon Snow and his damn honor.
Dany tilted her face up to his and his scent filled every breath she took.
Jon closed his eyes but just before his lips could touch hers, she drew back.
"Good night."
Jon's eyes opened and the queen had already walked away from him and was a few steps behind him. He turned to look at her, questions in his eyes.
Was this a game?
As if hearing his thoughts, Dany stopped and looked over her shoulder at him, "You weren't at all what I expected, Jon Snow." A small smile touched her lips, "You never needed my permission before. Next time. Don't ask."
And with that, she disappeared below deck almost as quickly as she arrived.
Jon took a deep breath and faced the sea.
"Fuck." He cursed under his breath as he pounded the railing with his fist. Recovering himself, he knew that he was past the point of no return. He wasn't sure what the next step was but he knew that he wanted – no, needed – to be with her.
He felt something cold and damp land on his forehead. Looking up, another soft drop on his cheek. It was snowing.
He felt exhausted and confused. Perhaps it was time to turn in. Attempt another night of rest and perhaps it'll be all sorted out in the morning.
Jon Snow turned and headed towards the stairs leading to the cabins below.
Yes, just one good night of sleep. And tomorrow will be better.
As the Northener's shadow disappeared from view. A silhouette of a figure in a dark corner of the ship emerged from behind some crates. It had not stirred during the encounter between the dragon queen and the Northern bastard. But once both had gone, the sound of liquid against metal was heard.
The Hand of the Queen took a long draught of wine and licked his lips once his cup was drained. A foreboding look crossed his scarred face as he looked out into the murky waters.
Now we're really fucked.