Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, settings or constructs from G.R.R. Martin's books. I'm simply having a little bit of fun with his toys.
Foreword: The utmost of apologies to all you. I know some of you are probably curious why I haven't updated in a while. Truthfully, I've been run ragged between work and the subsequent binge drinking involved with working so much. But, we hired some new folks at work, so maybe (fucking hopefully), I'll actually get a chance to begin writing again. I'd also like to thank Selena Dobrev from the bottom of my heart. You've written a fantastic story (and continue to) with Caged Bird but also thanks for giving me that last push to actually get something out. Without any further ado, Chapter 4 awaits. Enjoy y'all!
Dany stiffly wandered the halls of Winterfell, desperate to put her mind on anything that would fix her hangover. She had taken a flagon of wine as her bedfellow the night before, a choice she had never made, and likely wouldn't repeat so readily. The soft red glow of the rising sun courted her from the window, like an overbearing suitor. And her headache assailed her still, pounding in chaotic reaction.
The day stood still. The Queen held her breath as the dark figure clinked through the hallway before her.
Visions of silver bells assailed her eyes, pure white framed against the darkest of nights. If only the fucking hangover would go away.
The unruly, uncut hair of invincibility coupled with the dull thud of metal armor clacking together drew lilac eyes more quickly than a magnet, before the vision passed into the next corridor.
(-=-=-=-=-)
"Lord Snow! If I may have a word!"
Jon turned, filling his eyes with silvery strands of hair and flawless amethysts boring into his bastard eyes. He dropped to his knee. "Your Grace."
"Sit with me."
"Your Grace."
Dany looked at him and laughed, "I think I may have met the most morose man in Westeros. I'm not that much of a beast!" She watched the left side of his mouth droop into a contrite frown. Jon shifted in his seat uncomfortably, eyes focused directly upon his goblet.
As Jon silently stared at his goblet of deep crimson wine, Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaeryen poured her goblet into Jon's, holding back her retching and cursing alcohol. "Water," she choked out.
The sunlight tickled Jon's nose as he nodded his head and rose to fill her goblet with water from one of the intricately carved, stone pitchers.
The queen greedily drank, eyes slamming shut like a portcullis during siege. She was silent for a time, before she set her cup down, exhaling evenly. "A word, Lord Jon Snow."
"Your Grace, I am no Lord. I am not even nobility. I do not suppose to instruct your Grace in addressing others, but I am not worthy of such titles."
"Drogon dropped you in the courtyard of Winterfell." Daenerys waved away Jon's attempts at humility. "I dare say I've had occasion to see you once ravaged by fire. The word Lord cannot hurt so much as that." Her eyes flashed with… something. She wanted an answer, but she didn't want to have to ask the question.
"Your Grace, I'm a bastard." Jon's long face made the Queen want to punch him. "I do not profess to be the most fluent… or the most knowledgeable…" Jon lifted his gaze, locking slate with violet. "If you ask how I live after my duel with your dra- Drogon, I know not." He averted his eyes, and stared North, "There are many things of which I know not. I only know the Wall."
"I truly have met the most morose man in Westeros." Daenerys laughed, her voice carried across the hall like thousands of silver bells, spilt upon a sheet of ice. "If you're so fond of your doom and gloom, Lord Commander, pray tell me the story of your scars." She motioned with an open hand towards the man, a sly smirk surging as a wave up her face. The young woman was growing irritated of his carefully crafted façade. Jon Snow, steadfast and courageous, polite, slow to anger, righteous of judgment, cautious and perfect speaker… Daenerys could not fathom a man such as that, especially not one with a body so scarred as the Lord Commander's… No, there was a catch. There is always a catch.
"A group of my own men accosted me. I was… thinking rashly. I was going to use my power as Lord Commander for my own personal agendas… Arya… My men tried to kill me." Jon stood up and bowed slightly. "Your Grace."
The Queen eyed his retreating form. He had tensed up. There was a chink in the Wall. "Jon! Lord Snow!" When the man turned to meet her gaze, slate grey washed over her, an icy, unyielding grip like the last vestiges of winter before the turn of spring. "What did you do with those men, my lord?"
"I passed the judgment." Daenerys could have sworn she saw Jon's eyes flash red – blood red, as crimson as the burning eyes of his direwolf – for just a moment before the young man seemed to grow gaunt, immeasurably old, like a statue of a great hero, stoic and unrelenting. "I swung the sword."
(-=-=-=-=-)
"Yes, I know… I'm not sure how I feel about Her Grace…" Jon ruffled Ghost's fur before combing it out thoroughly as the white wolf tilted its large maw to the side, letting his tongue loll out. "She's… different. I suspect that she does not particularly appreciate the way we met… If I must tell the truth, I don't particularly blame her."
The Lord Commander made a face at Ghost, and gave him a playful shove before brushing out more matted chunks of white fur. The wolf nipped his hand playfully and whined, a low whistling sound. "I know you like her, traitor." Jon patted his companion on the head one more time, pensively toying with him. "She's definitely a queen. Sometimes one can simply tell. I'm afraid it's a bit overwhelming for a person such as I. I'm not used to all the… She reminds me of…" Jon smiled poignantly, "… of someone else you liked." The direwolf licked his face again.
"Everyone failed to mention that the Lord Snow also had a silver tongue in his possession." Dany stood there, in the doorway, fiery sun blazing down on her gossamer hair, painting the typical silver a fierce auburn. Ghost rumbled happily as Jon's breath caught in his throat.
"Your brother Bran said that I would quite like you, Lord Snow." She punctuated his title and name with two bold steps towards Jon, whose veins froze solid. She had been eavesdropping. She leaned forward, shifting her weight to her toes, eyes honing in like a burst of purple sunshine behind an alabaster grin, lacquered with mischief. "Amidst that beautifully delivered compliment, Lord Snow, you didn't even fancy me pretty. A queen could find herself taking offense to that, especially a vain one. Perhaps I should also be unsure of you."
Jon couldn't muster strength in his vocal cords for a few minutes after the queen had left, quietly chuckling to herself after stopping to commandeer a few playful gestures from Ghost. His eyes were glued to the quirky dragoness as she retreated, a mixture of curiosity, alarm and allure swirling through him. "I didn't say she wasn't beautiful…" he mumbled to Ghost. It was then that he realized why she had even sought him out in the first place.
Longclaw gleamed, leaning against the door frame, the worn leather grip refurnished and re-oiled. She had returned his sword.
Author's Notes: Fuck. My bad. I'll try to get this stupidity going somewhere. I swear, I'm going to work back to violence and battles and HOPEFULLY figure out a plot as well. I know this is a paltry attempt at a chapter, but I'll try better next time!