IV.
Jon thought he had seen Daenerys Targaryen angry. That first day he met her, when he tripped over his tongue and called her a child—he remembers the hard look in her eyes, the steel-tipped words she threw at him. And during their many encounters since, when he has denied her what she views as her birthright. He recalls every frustrated hiss, every wildfire burning inside her violet eyes as she looked at him like she wanted to wither him on the spot.
But now he realizes he's never seen her angry—not truly. Her small frame towers, seeming to grow and double on itself until he could swear the shadow she casts is in the shape of her monstrous children. There's fire burning through her, and he's almost surprised that it doesn't ripple from her fingertips. She is a sight to behold—frightening and wondrous just like her dragons.
Davos tries to excuse he and Jon from this conversation—it's not appropriate for them to be there, although propriety hasn't held much sway at Dragonstone. The queen's eyes whip toward he and Jon both, and Jon resists the urge to shrink away.
"You will stay."
And so they do. They stay at the edge of her circle of advisors, while Tyrion tries to reason with her, his small body rigid and his hands held out beseechingly. "Your Grace—"
"All of our allies—gone." Her words are weapons, aimed at Tyrion's heart. "While I sit here on this island, your sister has taken back Dorne, the Iron Islands and Highgarden!"
"We still have a plan," Tyrion answers, his voice a forced calm. "it's the right plan. We'll—"
"No more clever plans!" Her shout rings out over the beach. "I have the largest army—I have three very large dragons. I will take them all to King's Landing and show Cersei Lannister what the Mother of Dragons is truly made of. Unless you don't wish to see her fall?"
Tyrion's face goes dark with anger. "Are you questioning my loyalty?"
"Perhaps you are having second thoughts. They are your family."
"No," Tyrion says, his voice firm and steady as stone. "I want you to win this war, Your Grace—very much. But not at the cost of thousands of innocent people in King's Landing. The destruction caused by your forces—"
"What war is won without destruction?" she demands.
"You can't be different from past rulers while resorting to the same tactics," Tyrion says stubbornly. "Do you want to break the wheel or not?"
"And if your sister is willing to be ruthless while I am not—who will win?"
"We can still win."
She turns away from Tyrion in frustration—and her eyes land on Jon. He's taken aback by the way her rage animates her face; he has never seen emotions ripple through her features like this. Something primal and unnamable echoes within him as he stares into the fury overtaking her. Distantly, he hears a dragon roar.
"You." She marches toward him. Jon keeps his ground, squaring his shoulders and preparing for the onslaught. "What do you think I should do?"
It takes him a moment to comprehend her words. He had expected many things from this storm of a queen—accusations, insults, even threats. But he had not expected this.
"I wouldn't presume to—"
"I'm at war. I'm losing. What should I do?" Her eyes blaze into his. "Answer me, Jon Snow."
He glances at Davos, who gives a slight shake of his head. He can hear the man's curt, unspoken words: Don't do it, boy. She'll have your head no matter what you say. But when Jon looks back at her, her gaze is expectant—and impatient. He must answer now.
Again he hears her dragons call as they swoop and lap around each other over the ocean. His eyes track their flight for a moment.
"You brought dragons back to life," he says finally, eyes finding hers. Where she is fire, he tries to be ice—calm and cool. "You conquered cities and convinced armies to pledge their allegiance to you. But more than that, you've made people's lives better." She listens to him silently, her body still, her eyes steady on his face. "What you've managed to do is extraordinary. But if you take those dragons and those armies who love you, and you unleash them on King's Landing—you won't be better than Cersei or Robert Baratheon or your father. You'll be the same."
She stares at him for a long moment, and he does not flinch. Finally, she looks away, her eyes finding her Hand.
"I will not go to King's Landing, and I will not take all of my dragons," she says finally. Jon feels something inside of him snap and release at her words, at the fact that she listened to him. "But I will fight back."
"How do you propose to do that?" Tyrion asks.
Her body turns toward the sea. She opens her arms wide and says, in a language Jon doesn't recognize, "Drōgon, māzigon naejot nyke."
A dragon separates from its siblings—the largest one, its scales black with streaks of red. It circles around the beach and lands with surprising grace in front of the queen. And Jon realizes what she's doing, a moment before the great beast lowers its wing and allows her to climb up to its neck. He stares in awe as she settles into the space between its neck and shoulder blades, her body tiny against the canvas of red-black scales.
How can something so small control something so large and fierce?
"I will return," she says from atop her giant mount.
The beast roars and takes flight, and with a few beats of its wings, she and the dragon disappear into the sky.
She comes back covered in blood and smelling of smoke. Her dragon lands its great body in the shallows of the ocean, the water sizzling into steam on its scales. It staggers up the beach, releasing a sound Jon has never heard from the beasts before, one that's long and plaintive and deeply furious. And Jon realizes.
It's in pain.
If something had the power to hurt a dragon, what could it have done to her?
The rest of her advisors are on the beach, their expressions a mixture of relief and horror as they watch the return of the wounded dragon and their bloodied queen. The great beast makes it to dry land, and the queen slides free from his back, landing hard on the sand. She goes down to her knees and Jon rushes forward on instinct.
The dragon growls and twists toward him, roaring his disapproval, and panic shudders down Jon's spine. He stares at the great beast, and the beast stares back. Jon can see every scale on its face, can trace the fine ridges and rough skin between them. Small noises echo from the base of monster's throat, and Jon wonders what a dragon sounds like just before it breathes fire. He can smell smoke and singed flesh in the air, and his legs threaten to give way beneath him.
Then—something shifts. Jon feels it inside of him, something lumbering and deep like the change of an ocean tide. The dragon's powerful body goes still, the noises quieting as it leans back on its haunches, eyes still tracking Jon's every move.
For a moment Jon can't move, entranced by the strange link he feels to the dragon—one that the dragon seems to feel in return. Slowly, on instinct, he reaches out and touches the great beast.
It's like palming an ember—only it doesn't hurt. The heat is sharp and searing, all the way down to his bones, but his skin is unmarred.
A small sound from the queen shakes him from his trance, and hurries to her. She is still on her knees in the sand, her hair loose from its intricate braids and tumbling down around her. She stares up at him, her eyes wide. He catches her under her forearms and lifts her to her feet.
There's blood and ash in her hair, on her dress. Her face is smudged with soot, her violet eyes standing out brightly against her soiled skin. Being near her is like embracing a wildfire.
"Drogon—" she gasps out. "They had a weapon—something that had enough force to—to—I removed the spear but I don't know—"
Drogon spreads his great wings, forcing Jon and the queen to crouch or be decapitated. The dragon lumbers to his feet and takes flight, shrieking a cry as a he circles toward the other side of the island. Daenerys shouts, her hands reaching toward the empty sky.
"It's all right," Jon says, with more confidence than he feels. "He—he'll find a place to rest. It's all right, Your Grace—he will recover."
She looks at him, worry etching hard lines into her face, and he realizes how accurate it is to call her the Mother of Dragons—not the Master or the Rider. She loves them as her own. They are her own.
Missandei moves forward, her hands held out to the queen. Daenerys takes them and lets the woman lead her away, their voices a hushed whisper. There's affection in the way they touch, the way they embrace—and Jon remembers Missandei's words.
She'd give me a ship and wish me good fortune.
And perhaps she would.
Jon wants to go with them. He wants badly to make sure she is alright, to check her over for injuries and soothe her fears. But Davos is standing on the beach, and there are hundreds of men still chipping away at dragonglass in the cave. There are rocksmiths shaping and smoothing the glass into weapons, and they require guidance and materials.
"Come," he says to Davos, striding forward. "Let's get back to work."
"You don't want to know what happened?"
He does. Deeply.
"The queen's war is not our concern, Ser Davos. We cannot be distracted."