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The ancient fortress of Dragonstone towered in front of the bow of the ship, a splotch of darkness amid the glowing sunset. It was large and grandiose, made of polished black stones that seemed to glow in the weak sunlight-and every square inch of it, as far as Jon could see, was covered in the carved statues of dragons. Little dragons smaller than dogs, dragons three times his size, dragons with spikes, dragons with horns, dragons roaring, dragons resting, dragons flying, dragons of every description seemed to stare out of their walls and directly at the approaching ships. It looked like a Targaryen stronghold in every sense of the word-regardless of the three headed dragon standard waving at its top. It was extremely impressive, nearly taking his breath away with its sheer ferocity.
The island itself was filled nearly to bursting-the port was filled with ships jostling for room at anchor while tents of all shapes, colors, and descriptions covered the spaces around the castle like a rippling patchwork quilt. He couldn't imagine that with all these families and soldiers at her back, Daenerys had any real opposition to the Iron Throne. How could the Mad Queen, who had managed to make enemies with all of Westeros, possibly be able to mount a defence against her?
Said dragon queen stood next to him, eyes also fixed on the castle in front of her. He'd barely seen her at all for the entire trip downriver; she'd been ensconced in meeting after meeting with Yara Greyjoy or one of her other advisors-and he knew that would only get worse once they made landfall. He couldn't say he was used to it though; for the last fortnight he'd grown used to being roused at odd hours of the day and night to ride by her side or teach her to swordfight or simply talk to her while they took a meal in the almost eerie silence of her tent. Of course, he had Arya-and they had plenty to catch up on-but he still had the strange, uncomfortable feeling that he simply wasn't needed until they reached King's Landing. However, unlike most days when she was talking to dignitaries or making alliances, Dany seemed genuinely happy-no mask today. He supposed there was no need for it; everyone was excited. Why shouldn't she be happy too? "You seem especially thoughtful today, your Grace."
She raised an eyebrow at him, the way she always did when he called her by title. He wouldn't have, normally-it had taken some time but he now felt comfortable calling her Dany at least when they were in private. But they were in an open space and he wasn't sure who could overhear them-and the last thing he wanted was someone asking questions, making assumptions, and spreading rumors. He was only a commander after all-he knew the fact that he even spent half as much time with the Queen as he did was apt for suspicion. "This is where I was born-in a terrible storm, a year after Robert's Rebellion. My mother died soon after-my brother always told me that she was never able to even hold me in her arms." She cleared her throat, as if trying to cover up such a personal disclosure. "I've always wondered if that's why he was so cruel to me-because she traded her life for mine and he highly preferred one over the other."
Jon looked at the fortress, trying to imagine a baby being born between those imposing black walls-a small child with the power to raze cities, though no one would know it at the time. An orphan, like so many in the Seven Kingdoms, with only a brother left to her name-and from what she'd told him about Viserys, not a very good one at that. "No one ever said family would be perfect." He knew that better than anyone; he was also an outcast. But at least he'd had five siblings and a father who acknowledged him-even if he was always the odd one out.
That seemed to remind her. "How's Arya?"
"She's settling in. She explores the ship most of the day and stands on deck to watch the sailors at work. They don't know who she is-they call her Shadow of the Deck because she's always there, standing just out of the way." He still couldn't get over the sheer unbelievability of her story-how she'd served at Harrenhal and met Tywin Lannister, spent time traveling with rogues, assassins, and people worse than that, and even lived in the Free Cities for a time. But here she was-alive and well, for all intensive purposes. His family, back from the dead. He wanted to send Sansa a letter, but no ravens were being sent out until they reached Dragonstone for logistical reasons-though it appeared he wouldn't have to wait too much longer. "She's indebted to you. Thank you for not turning her away."
"She's your family-how could I do anything but wish you the greatest of happiness?" she replied simply as Dragonstone drew ever closer.
"Admiring the view?" They both turned to meet Yara, who strode across the deck with the gait of an experienced seaman. Jon couldn't imagine being on a ship long enough to be that comfortable-although he wasn't getting sick constantly, like the majority of his men, he knew he'd be happy enough once the land beneath his feet wasn't liable to float away. She had to have crossed over from one of the other ships; he'd seen the rope ladders the islands constructed that they could raise between ships at a moment's notice-and then the precarious game of balance it took to cross them. He was lucky for his high rank to have given him a place on the royal standard; it wasn't a game he particularly wanted to play. "I was hoping we could finalize landing plans, your Majesty."
"Of course. Do your ships know where to dock?" They drifted away a few paces, engrossed in talk of strategies and people he didn't know. That left him staring out at the choppy water, eyes flicking back towards the two women every now and then almost habitually. Dany's blonde hair was braided as always; apart from that time in Winterfell's great hall, he didn't think he'd ever seen it down. It sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight, making her stand out among the browns and blacks of the other ships with a kind of confidence-she controlled the island, the fleet, and the army and she knew it. She was a queen, that much was plain; she'd been preparing for this invasion for years. He could only imagine how it felt to see all of her plans coming to fruition and her wildest dreams well in reach.
Yara left to give the orders to the rest of the crew and Dany returned to his side. "We'll make landfall in about ten minutes." she said almost reverently; the fortress was drawing close and the dragons peering down at them seemed particularly intimidating. For the first time, Jon realized what she'd meant at Winterfell about how she felt she didn't belong; he was a wolf among dragons and even he knew he wasn't exactly welcome. But for her, this was her true homecoming.
He leaned against the railing, shoulder brushing hers, and the docks drew nearer.
~FAS~
Daenerys felt that her return to Dragonstone was nothing less than triumphant.
Nearly her entire table of advisors had turned out to meet her: Tyrion, Jorah, Daario, and a bald man she assumed must be Varys. Tyrion had told him about her before-how he was called the Master of Whispers and had gone to Westeros to create alliances for her among the great houses. Her Unsullied lined the docks, standing silent sentry at regular intervals. The rest of the island was a hive of motion; even from her perch on the deck of the royal standard, she could see the Dothraki far in the distance and the castle swarming with servants and soldiers alike. They looked like a proper army: organized and prepared for the inevitable march into battle.
She scanned the gigantic fortress, carved of cool grey stone and fashioned into the shape of dragon after dragon, and wondered if she should feel any stab of recognition. This was her home, after all-her true birthplace. This was where her very first ancestors-Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives Visenya and Rhaenys-had made their stronghold before the invaded Westeros. And yet, she felt nothing that told her she had been here before-just another reminder of where she had come from and what she had to uphold-as she walked down the roughly hewn wooden gangplank and took her first steps onto Westerosi soil.
"Welcome back, Khaleesi." Jorah said, bowing reverently. Her oldest, truest advisor-who she still didn't know if she could trust, even though she had banished him twice and he always managed to come back to her. Daario also cut a mocking bow, though his eyes glittered with mischief. She could already tell he would want to sleep with her tonight; she would need to talk to him about how things like that simply could not be done here. This wasn't the Bay of Dragons, where no one cared who their rulers slept with-Westeros was far more traditional, and there was simply no place for her to have a paramour. She had considered leaving him in Meereen to help with the transition of power, but he commanded the Storm Crows and was influential to many leaders of other sellsword groups as well; the fact that he was standing here bowing to her was not due to any personal feelings on her part. She knew he loved her, but he had never been anything more than a vacation or a distraction-certainly nobody serious. She wondered, briefly, if this should concern her-but there were other things to attend to at the moment.
"Your Grace." Varys said with a low bow.
"Master of Whispers." she replied. "I trust you were successful in Westeros?"
"I am pleased to say I was. Cersei Lannister made some very powerful enemies when she burned the Sept of Baelor to the ground-the Dornish are more than willing to treat with you, and the Tyrells are traveling to Sunspear as we speak. You will command a formidable army by the time we set our sights toward King's Landing, your Majesty."
He bowed deeply and she tried not to smile. Five of the great families would support her claim; how could the Mad Queen possibly hope to stop her? "Thank you, Lord Varys."
"Of course. Anything to see you restored to the throne that is rightfully yours." His voice was perfectly pitched, and perfectly flattering-it was clear he'd spent time among the nobility of King's Landing and had learned how to play their games. He would be a formidable ally-that is, if she could trust him not to betray her.
That left Tyrion, the Hand of the Queen pin she'd had made for him glittering proudly at his lapel. "Next time I should hope you would give me a bit more notice before going away to fight a battle, my Queen." In spite of his words his tone was light, as though he had already forgiven her.
"It was a short battle-and it earned us more allies. Is that not beneficial?" she replied, glancing at the dozens of ships at anchor in the harbor-each flying a Targaryen flag. "I would like to call a small council meeting in three hours' time, once the Northerners have been settled in. It seems we have much to discuss." She glanced back at Jon and Arya, who were still standing on the ship's deck looking horribly out of place. "That is Jon Snow, son of the late Eddard Stark of Winterfell and commander of the Northern forces, and his younger sister Arya. I trust that they will be given accommodations befitting their rank."
"Of course." Tyrion said, glancing at Jon as he gestured towards a servant dressed in red and black livery who rushed forward instantly. "Your Grace, if I may take a few minutes of your time there is a matter I would like to discuss with you."
Instantly she remembered the pretender he'd mentioned in his letter: the imposter who was soiling the name of her murdered nephew Aegon. "As you wish." The crowd dispersed around them; the Unsullied stood at attention until she had passed by and the Ironborn oversaw the unloading of the Northerners. Her small council dispersed in the doorway: Jorah to check on the Dothraki, Daario the Stormcrows, Varys the ravens, and Jon and Arya to be taken to their rooms.
Though the day outside was hot, Dragonstone had a definite chill in the air as its great front doors swung open. The entire castle was made of the same dreary grey stone, with small sputtering candles set in wall sconces every few feet the only illumination. The dragon motif continued indoors, from tapestries on the walls to carved statues of dragons acting as bookends, cloak hooks, and even end tables. It was massive-every hallway they passed branched off into dozens of smaller passages and doorways; Daenerys knew she could easily become lost, and marveled at the way Tyrion knew where to go almost instinctively though he hadn't been here much longer than she had. It seemed as though they walked for an hour-climbing staircase after staircase and passing through door after door, heading steadily upwards. Finally, Tyrion stopped in front of a simple black stone door and pulled a key out of the pocket of his jerkin. "He's through here, your Grace."
"Is there anyone to vouch for him?"
"No one alive. There was a man with him when he came to meet us, but he had greyscale and soon died. His name was Jon Connington; he was a friend of your brother Rhaegar's before the rebellion. However, any testimony he may have given us as to the boy's true identity died with him."
Of course it did. "And what does this false prince say he wants? The Iron Throne?" Was there anyone who didn't?
"I assume so-but he says he will settle for a formal acknowledgment and your hand in marriage."
"Do you believe he is a true Targaryen?"
"I was quite young when Robert seized the throne. I certainly never saw Prince Aegon or his sister-and he was just a babe in arms then, so I cannot say if he looks like a true claimant."
She nodded simply. "I will test him with fire. If he is a true dragon, he will not burn." With that, she opened the door.
Immediately her eyes were drawn to the figure seated at the window, a book lying forgotten in his lap as he watched the hive of activity taking place in the harbor. At first she was struck by how much he looked like Viserys-and like Rhaegar, at least how she'd always imagined her older brother would look. His hair was light as corn milk, brushing just past his shoulders-and his eyes, when he turned to look at her, were a startling shade of green and violet. When he saw her looking he smiled broadly, revealing a mouth of perfectly white teeth. "Daenerys." he said, nodding a respectful acknowledgement as she hovered just inside the doorway uncertainly. "Please, come in."
She took a couple of steps forward so she could get a better look at him. "My advisor tells me that you claim to be my long dead nephew, Aegon the sixth of his name."
"That is correct, except for one fact-I do not claim to be your nephew, Daenerys. I truly am Prince Aegon-and I am ready to help you reclaim the throne that is ours by right." She didn't miss the way he said ours, not yours-though he didn't say mine. Not yet, at least.
"You may say that, and for all I know you may very well believe it-but I need evidence. Follow me." He fell in step beside her without question or complaint, while Tyrion kept trying to catch her eye as if begging her to reconsider.
The lawns were swarming with people but she walked past them all-walking towards the dragon pens, which were largely abandoned. Although they were nothing compared to the Dragonpits in King's Landing, which could hold thousands of people if need be, they were more than substantial for Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal-and the dragons landed there whenever they came back from a hunting trip, as though they could sense those who had come before them. Drogon and Rhaegal were nowhere to be found-probably still hunting-but Viserion was waiting for them, mutilating a sheep carcass with the sharp edges of his knife like teeth. She saw Aegon tense next to her as he realized what she would ask him to do, but she didn't allow herself to stop walking. The Targaryens had tamed dragons for centuries; if he was who he said he was, he would walk out alive. And if he really was simply a mummer's farce, Viserion would recognize him as an enemy and burn him to ashes. "This is Viserion." she said quietly, stopping about ten feet away from her reptilian son-who looked at her and gave a soft trill, as if in greeting. "Have you ever seen a dragon before, Aegon?"
He looked shocked, eyes larger than dinner plates as he took in the marvel before him of scale, bone, sinew, and muscle. "Not until today."
"Surely you must be intrigued? Why don't you take a step closer? You are a Targaryen, after all-he should be your birthright."
Aegon's adams apple rose and fell but he stepped forward, feet sinking into the worn grass. Viserion's large golden eyes swivelled to watch him, fixing him with a pointed stare. Instantly, the prince stopped moving and waited; Dany could tell he was shaking as the dragon lumbered forward, golden sunlight from the setting sun glimmering off golden scales. Three steps, then four-slowly but steadily closing the gap between them. Though Viserion wasn't the biggest of her children, he was still more than formidable-especially when he was at least thrice the prince's size.
For a moment they just stared at each other, man and beast locked in silent connection. The air was practically singing with tension, waiting for a roar that would shake the ground and char flesh to ash as easily as drawing oxygen...that never came. Instead, Aegon reached out a hand tentatively and rested it on one of the golden scales on the dragon's flank, breathing heavily-though he'd stopped shaking so hard. Viserion simply waited quietly, eyes calculated but intelligent. He huffed quietly, smoke streaming from his nostrils and singeing the sleeve of the prince's (extremely finely crafted) red tunic-though even from her distance Daenerys could see that the skin beneath remained untouched. Finally he turned and took off, not sparing even a glance back as his powerful wings took him high into the air. Slowly, Aegon let his hand fall. "Seven hells." he muttered quietly.
"Roll up your sleeve." Daenerys replied; he did so haltingly, as though afraid she would stab him right there. The skin of his lower arm was still unblemished; a shiver ran down her spine, though she couldn't tell whether it was one of dread or excitement.
He looked up at her and she was surprised to find her own expression mirrored in those startling eyes of his: halting reverence intermingled with disbelief. "They told me about you-my aunt across the sea, who would never set foot on Westeros or face risking the wrath of the Usurper. I've heard the stories-the dragons, what you did to the masters in Qarth and the slaveowners in Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen, the Unsullied...contrary to what you might think, I do not wish to take away your accomplishments or deny you what is yours just as much as it is mine. I merely ask for your hand in marriage. We are Targaryens, the last of our lineage; it is our duty to stay together, to preserve our family name and inheritance for as long as we are able."
She considered it for a moment for nodding, tentatively. "We will do what we can to confirm your birthright...but I will see to it that you are given freedom to roam the castle rather than spending every day locked in that cell."
Another smile-so much like Viserys's, but lacking any of its malice. "Thank you, my aunt."
Despite her best intentions, he managed to coax a smile out of her. "I never said you could call me that. Daenerys will more than suffice." She turned to go back inside, waiting for him to fall in step beside her, mind spinning. Aegon Targaryen was dead; all of the history books said so. And yet...if it was true, who was this man who had been spared a fiery death and remained unburnt, as she herself had been when faced with the same test?
If he truly was Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, his claim to the throne would be better than hers-and she would have no choice but to marry him, to cement not only her own rule but their family name as well. If he truly was her nephew, that meant she had another family member. She wouldn't be the last Targaryen.
She couldn't decide whether that knowledge made things better or worse.
Aegon cleared his throat, startling her out of her reverie. "I have a gift for you as a token of goodwill, Daenerys, to show you that we are on the same side." For now, at least.
"And what might that be?" She glanced down at his hands; they were noticeably empty.
"My forces are not many, but they are courageous-and they have captured Storm's End. The Stormlands are yours."
~FAS~
"Fencing? For old times' sake?"
Arya looked up quickly, barely catching the sword Jon threw her in midair. "Don't you have to meet with the Queen?" It seemed like he always had to meet with the Queen to discuss something-the Northerners' accommodations, their battle plans for King's Landing, or who exactly would be accompanying the royal standard to Dorne for final negotiations. Jon wouldn't be going, thank the gods.
He rolled his eyes. "She's in a meeting with her small council-which, unfortunately, I am not a part of."
"Yet."
"Arya, it's not like that-"
"It isn't? Really? You've had me fooled." She wasn't a little girl anymore; she'd seen enough in Braavos to know what affection looked like. "And everyone else too, I would think."
"When we reach the Seven Kingdoms, the Queen will have to marry someone advantageous from one of the great houses to forge a strong alliance. You and I will go back to Winterfell and that will be that. I'm never going to be a king, you can be sure of that."
"Why not? I'm sure you'd make a very good one."
"I'm sure the great houses would take very kindly to a bastard king."
"It's happened before, in the Blackfyre Rebellion."
"Which nearly started a war. Well? Are we fencing or are you going to continue to stare out that window all day?"
She grinned and jumped to her feet, testing the sword in her hand. It was heavier and less balanced-lacking Needle's castle made quality-but it would serve its purpose well enough. Her swordplay skills had certainly improved since the days when she'd watched her older brothers training under Donal Noye's careful tutelage; who knew, she might even be able to beat him. "It's only been an hour. The sunset is beautiful from here, you know. You can look out to the east and see nothing but water for as far as the eye can see."
"It feels like the loneliest place on Earth. It reminds me of the Wall, in a way. You don't see sunsets like this south of it." Jon replied, beckoning her into the hallway. "Come-we'll use my room."
Arya was skeptical that a commander's bedchamber would be large enough for their needs, but Jon wasn't lying: the room was at least four times the size of her own, complete with a bed, vanity, large double windows that looked out at the night, and an open space in the middle of the stone floor that looked perfect for duelling. "The Queen treats her generals well."
Jon blushed. "Everything else had already been claimed. I just took what I could find."
"If this is what your room looks like, I would hate to see the royal chambers. They must be simply massive."
Running out of things to say they touched blades and began to duel, steel clacking against steel as the blades met and broke apart again and again in an intricate dance. Just as Arya had predicted, she'd greatly improved-and though Jon was still a better swordsman than she was, she found herself winning some of the matches. She used her size to her advantage, the way she always did-moving swiftly and quietly to score on him before his sword could swing up to protect him.
Finally Jon stepped back, laughing as he disarmed her and sent her blade flying across the room. "You've certainly changed, haven't you? I don't believe you could fence like that at Winterfell."
It was her turn to blush. "Father found me a swordmaster at the Red Keep-and I guess I never stopped practicing." Now that she knew how to swordfight, she couldn't imagine living without it; the blade worked as an extension of her arm and the sing of steel through flesh had become as familiar to her as the ballads madrigals used to sing whenever they came to Winterfell to entertain the ruling family. To not practice and hone her skills would be like chopping off her own arm-it would feel decidedly wrong and she wouldn't be the same. "The Braavosi are known for their abilities. And you're not the same either."
"No? How did I change?"
"The Jon I knew would never have abandoned the Night's Watch, not even when he was resurrected. He would be too honorable to take a hint."
He smirked. "I believe my old self would be appalled if he knew about some of the things I've done over the last year or so-many of which are not honorable at all. But at least you're still you-still unwilling to take no for an answer or do anything that is even remotely ladylike."
I'm not the same, though. I've changed too. Arya had the strangest feeling of standing on opposite cliffs, trying to shout at each other from across a great divide. Years of different experiences, different places, and different people had created a distance between them that had never been there in the days when she would follow him and Robb around Winterfell on some grand adventure they created in their minds-the weight of too many deaths rested on their shoulders in a way it never had before: their parents and their brothers. It made her feel uncomfortable; even when she was younger, she'd always known that Jon had been her constant. And she had no doubt that he would still be her constant now, but she knew things couldn't go back to the way they once were. Even though all she wanted to do was take his hand and run all the way back to Winterfell, reunite with Sansa, and rule the North in peace. She couldn't care less about Southron lords and their petty wars; her duty lay with her family. Once, she was sure Jon would have thought that way too-but she wasn't so sure now. Here he was, commanding an army regardless of his parentage; would he be ready to give it all up so easily, just because she said so?
He nudged her with the hilt of his sword, snapping her back to the present. "Arya? Are you listening?"
Her smile came readily enough, but she couldn't help wondering if it was truly genuine. "Forgive me, I suppose I'm still getting used to the time change. Do you mind if we come back to this later?"
"Of course." Jon replied, his smile as easygoing as ever. "Would you like me to walk you back?"
"No, I'm fine. I think I can find my way around well enough. And if I get lost, I'm sure one of the Unsullied would be more than happy to redirect me." The silent sentries were everywhere, looking down at her from under their ridiculous helmets as though they thought she would stab the Queen or do something equally reckless. She turned to leave, tossing the sword onto his bed easily. "Good night, Jon."
"Good night, Arya. I really am very glad to see you again, you know."
"And I you." That at least was as real as it had ever been. "I'm glad you're not going to Dorne." With that she left, finding her way to her bedchambers on silent feet. Her training in the House of Black and White paid off; she didn't get lost once.
~FAS~
The night air was cold and clear. She could feel it, ruffling the fur on her back and casting the forest around her in shades of fragmented silver. It would be a good night for hunting; as the weather grew cooler her food choices grew more varied-from rabbits to men, who spread their cloaks under a tree to sleep and never woke up again. Summer had been lean, and she had always been hungry. These days, everyone in the pack would eat their fill. There were ten of them, and she was the leader. She dwarfed them all, in size, strength, and stealth; she had quickly proven her worth. She had two betas-a long and slender she wolf with silver fur and quick golden eyes, and a male with tawny fur and eyes to match. They controlled the rest of the pack capably and competently; they had never let her down. She always allowed them the choicest parts of the meat: the eyes, the stomach, and the liver mostly. The heart she took for herself, feeling her jaws snap shut and cut through rib cages like they were nothing but soft cloth.
The tawny wolf howled a mile away-prey. She took off through the forest on silent feet, paws making indentations in the soft covering of snow from the night before. It had come out of nowhere, white flakes whirling down from the sky to cover the ground beneath her feet and sending the pack running to the hot springs to shelter themselves from the sudden cold.
He was crouched over the still warm carcass of a man, perhaps only twenty minutes old. Dead through exposure, perhaps; he had become winter's child as soon as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the chill wind, before it had invaded his soft body, coated his nerves in ice, and frozen the blood of his veins. He was young, no older than twenty, with a mop of curly brown hair. She could not tell what color his eyes were; his eyelids were closed, eyelashes frozen to his skin and to each other-but for a brief moment he reminded her of Robb.
The pack stood around her, silent and waiting, as she placed a paw on his still chest and closed her jaws around his thick neck corded with muscle. Her teeth, sharp as knives, cut through all the blood vessels and sinew fibers holding his head intact, sending red blood gushing down his front. She tasted it in her mouth, staining the fur around her jaw. Bone crunched and broke as she ate, letting his broken body fill hers.
Winter had come; the wolves could tell. They could smell it in the water and feel it in the air, from some part of their brain that had originated long ago-a primal instinct left over from the last Long Night. Yes, this winter would be difficult-the pack would be lean and hungry by the time it was over, if any of them remained alive at all. So she ate with relish, knowing days would come when she wouldn't be so lucky.
His eyes were still staring into hers, a piercing and staring blue, long after she awoke in Dragonstone with the coppery taste of blood still filling her mouth. For a moment, Arya lay still and watched the dragon in the tapestry across the bedroom, trying to take stock of her surroundings. It had been years since she'd had a wolf dream-and she'd certainly never had one that felt so real. She shivered, even though the air off of the harbor was only slightly chilled. If the wolves-strong, powerful, and suited for survival better than perhaps any other creature alive-feared the coming winter, how much worse would men fare?
There was something coming...something terrible. The wolves had sensed it-and for a time, being inside their heads, she had sensed it too.
But she was beginning to feel that she was the only one who could.
~FAS~
Jon's world became a busy rush of meetings with people he barely knew, talking about places he'd never seen and plans he'd discussed not twenty minutes ago with a different advisor. As he'd suspected he didn't have as much time to talk with Dany-in fact, he was lucky if he saw her once or twice a day. It almost made him miss the days on the road, with thousands of men to keep in line and no idea where they would set up camp for the night-even that seemed easier than the mess of people his life had become now.
Not to mention the newcomer, Aegon. No one would dare to call him Prince Aegon-his legitimacy was still open to debate, though Daenerys permitted him to sit at the high dais with her for mealtimes and sit in on her war councils. The threat of what he promised hung over the camp in a barely discernible tension: Jon didn't know much about Targaryens, having only met one, but he knew Dany wouldn't just hand over her birthright and he felt Aegon would feel the same way. If they were ever to split banners...it would be like the Dance of Dragons all over again. The last time two Targaryens had fought over succession, the entire realm had trembled and bled.
"The might of five of the Seven Kingdoms rest behind us." the so called forgotten prince said, moving carved wooden pieces around a map of the continent. "The North has sworn allegiance, as have the Iron Islands and the Stormlands. The Reach and Dorne will be with us soon, and the Vale has pledged to remain neutral in the conflict. That leaves the Westerlands-and one great house cannot stand against seven." Jon had to admit that he looked almost regal, standing beside his aunt with determination in his eyes and the grace of a warrior in his bearing. "My forces will arrive within two days and, when the Tyrells and Martells have negotiated their terms of alliance, we can invade King's Landing within a fortnight. The Lannisters will not last long."
"Your assessment of the situation will be complete only when the harbor is swollen with ships from Sunspear and Highgarden." Tyrion replied, unimpressed. "We have the numbers, certainly-but Cersei Lannister sits on the Iron Throne with nothing left to love or lose. And that makes her dangerous. The Faith Militant tried to gain power in King's Landing too quickly-but even their gods could not save them when the Sept of Baelor was burnt to the ground."
"We will proceed with the utmost caution, of course." Jon could already tell that the Lannister and Aegon didn't get along. "But I cannot see why the Martells and Tyrells would abandon us now when they have already lost so much to the Lannisters."
"Lord Varys has spies in King's Landing." Dany cut in. "They will inform us of anything the Queen is planning. Aegon and I will go to Sunspear as planned, along with Lord Varys." There were many people on Dragonstone who were disappointed not to be going with the Queen; Ser Jorah Mormont talked with her every night and it was common knowledge that he was trying to convince her to let him go by her side, while Jon had to catch flack from the Northerners. "While we are gone, preparations for battle will be ongoing-overseen by Lord Tyrion. I want soldiers training, food and water supplies being replenished, and weapons being sharpened. Once the Tyrells and Martells have sent their ships, we will move quickly-if the Tyrells cut food supplies to King's Landing in protest of the Lannisters, in a week or two the crown will be weakened even further and the city will be ours for the taking." She turned to Yara, who commanded the majority of the Targaryen fleet. "When will the ships be ready to leave?"
"As soon as you need them, your Majesty." Yara replied.
"Very well then." she said, cutting Aegon off before he could start speaking again. "We will leave for Dorne tomorrow." She adjourned the meeting and everyone filtered out to return to their duties-the Targaryen camp was nothing if not efficient, now that their goal was so close at hand. Jon tried to catch her eye but she was distracted by Jorah, who had obviously come to try and reason with her one last time. Reluctantly, he turned to go back to Arya; he needed a little fencing to keep his mind off of things.
"You're Jon Snow-commander of the Northerners, correct?"
He looked up to see Aegon at his side, looking at him with his oddly piercing gaze. "Yes, I am. How may I help you, my Lord?"
"I've just been taking the time to get to know the men who will be leading the battle for the city. My aunt has helped me adjust as best she can, but she is a very busy woman." He cleared his throat. "She is very beautiful, don't you think?"
The question caught Jon off guard. "Of course."
"Has she talked of a marriage alliance once the throne is ours?"
"No. It's never come up." He knew she would need to marry, of course; she would need ties with the great houses if she was going to cement her claim to the throne. "I assumed she was planning to marry you."
"It's certainly an option-we're the last two Targaryens, and the bloodline must be kept alive. Unfortunately, not many of the great houses have young sons of marriageable ages." He looked Jon over almost appraisingly. "In fact, if times were different and we didn't already have the Northerners' support you could have been in the running."
"My place is at Winterfell, not running a kingdom." The mere thought of it terrified him; he wasn't meant to be a ruler, he knew that for certain. And he couldn't even begin to consider the thought of being married to Daenerys Targaryen, of all people.
"Perhaps." He looked almost disappointed. "I've heard people say that you have grown very close to her."
"We've had a few conversations. Nothing serious-certainly nothing intimate. Why?"
Aegon shrugged, looking out at the quickly falling dusk. "I don't know. I suppose I'm just looking for a kindred spirit-I know what it's like, feeling as though you don't have a place in the world. Or even worse, knowing what your place is but not being able to claim it because it's too dangerous." He spit out the last word, digging his fingers into the stone railing. "The Lannisters had my mother raped and murdered. They funded the war that killed my father and grandfather. They said nothing when my older sister, just a small child, was dragged out from under her bed and brutally killed. They kept me from my birthright for years. When I get to King's Landing, I will kill the queen myself-and I will not make her passing easy." He stormed back through the doorway; Jon heard his footfalls on the stairs as he descended.
A kindred spirit...That could come in handy, perhaps, if he really was talking to his next king. If Aegon truly was who he said he was-and how could they ever know for sure?
As he walked back to Arya's bedroom he looked for Daenerys, hoping he would have a chance to say goodbye to her before she left. In a way, he wished he could accompany her to Dorne-though he knew his place was with his men, orchestrating their takeover of King's Landing. Of course, she had her own security detail of Unsullied who were ready to defend her with their lives-but he still worried about her, every now and then. Dorne was a land of poisons-would the Unsullied be able to recognize a rare poison if it had been poured into her drink? Would they know the antidote?
He hoped Arya wasn't about to hate him forever.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the rolling black sea and polishing her sword. Needle, he remembered. He'd given it to her so long ago; he had no idea she'd still held onto it, all this time. "Hello, Jon."
"Hello." he replied, sitting down next to her. "Arya, I have to ask a favor of you." It was no use trying to talk around the subject or make small talk; his younger sister was much too smart for that.
"What is it?" she replied, regarding him curiously. She wouldn't stop polishing her sword; the cloth wiped in endless circles, almost as if she was feeling a desperate need to make sure her hands stayed in motion.
"I trust you. I trust you more than I trust anyone in the world. You know that, of course. But...I feel you've been keeping something from me-and I think I've managed to put together the pieces. Arya, you said you've been in the Free Cities for the last year. But you never told me where. Were you, by any chance, in Braavos?"
He'd expected her to look away or try to deny it-but instead her sharp eyes found his and held his gaze, head on. "How did you figure it out?"
He smirked. "Not many other places would teach you how to swordfight like that-or move silently up and down the stairs like a cat, or memorize the layout of a confusing castle like this in the darkness. If you don't want to tell me the specifics, I won't pry-but I need your help with something. I need your abilities."
"Would you spit it out already? You're terrible at prefacing these things." She grinned at him and for a moment it felt like they were children in Winterfell again, planning an adventure with just the two of them (Robb had lessons, Sansa was too ladylike, and the boys were too young).
He couldn't find it in him to grin back. "I would like you to accompany the Queen to Dorne, posing as her handmaiden-though your real purpose would be to protect her from assassins."
Arya's eyes narrowed. "You want to get rid of me so soon?"
"No, it's not that. It's not that at all." He scrubbed a hand through his hair nervously, feeling bile churn in his throat. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. "It's just...you're the only one I trust."
"Daenerys has her own security guards."
"Yes, but they weren't trained in Braavos as you were. They aren't...women. They won't know women's ways and women's poisons the way you do. It's only for a few days and I would feel better if you were with her. If you don't want to go I understand completely and I won't try to press you or force you-but I beg you to consider it."
Arya was silent for a long time, staring down at her sword. The cloth had finally stopped moving. "You care about her, don't you?"
"Yes. I'm choosing you because I trust you to keep her safe-no one else, just you." It felt strange saying the words, but they needed to be said-otherwise he was afraid he wouldn't be able to convince her to leave. "And yes, I care about her. I care about her because she's the only claimant for the Iron Throne who seems to give a shit about anything other than money and intercourse."
"She acts like it-but how do you know she's like that on the inside? Plenty of people are one way in the eyes of the public but completely different behind closed doors."
"She hasn't destroyed a sept yet."
"You know, I haven't known her for very long but Daenerys Targaryen strikes me as someone who can take care of herself and resents being told she can't."
"And I'm not saying she can't. All I'm saying is that I trust you...just in case. I'll talk to her about it. All you need to do is dress up in a fancy dress for a few days and be bored out of your skull."
She shook her head, but the smallest of smiles had appeared on her face. "I can't believe it. I never thought you'd ever fall for somebody-much less a girl who is so completely out of your league that she'll probably discard you as soon as she gets tired of you."
"It doesn't matter." It did, but it wasn't a matter that was worth thinking about. "I don't want her dead. She's probably the best chance to defeat the Lannisters we have."
"Jon, this isn't about the Lannisters is it?" Her grin widened. "I'll bet she fascinates you. You've probably had a deep and meaningful conversation. Maybe you've even kissed. You just don't understand how someone like her can exist-strong willed, defiant, and unwilling to take no for an answer but also just as gentle, kind, and tender. You hear all the legends that surround her and you have no idea which ones to believe because they all seem equally likely. You've never met anyone like her-and now you're determined to be her knight in shining armor, even though you know you'll never mean a thing to her."
"She also happens to be one of the saviours prophesized to save us from the eternal winter."
That made her laugh. "Gods. There's more than one? I suppose a girl can't have dragons and be a queen and save the world."
"I'm the other one."
"We're all doomed, aren't we?"
"Funny. Now, will you please tell me whether or not you're going?"
"Fine. I'll go-not because I think either of you are heroes or because I think she's the right person for the Iron Throne or even because I care who you bed. I'll go because you asked me to and because even after everything that's happened you're still my brother. Although I'll be wearing pants under my dresses."
He laughed and stood, ruffling her short hair. He was still getting used to seeing her without her customary brown locks. "If you insist, my lady. And thank you, Arya. Truly."
She grinned. "I still think you've turned into a ridiculous sap."
"Perhaps I have-but no one else needs to know."
"Of course. They'll find out for themselves soon enough."
~FAS~
Daenerys was only slightly surprised when Jon came to find her later that night. Usually he stayed away from her unless she specifically asked for him. She supposed she should be happy he was staying with his men-he would probably be happier with them rather than spending his nights teaching her how to wield a sword. Still, she wished he could come with her-even if it was just to see how a white wolf reacted to the hot sun. But his place was here with everyone else-as she'd had to explain to Jorah and Daario half a dozen times each.
"Isn't it a bit late?" she asked as he stood in the doorway, looking past her to the fire roaring in the grate and the hastily made Targaryen banner flying proudly above the mantel. It was the royal suite, last occupied by Stannis Baratheon-and the gods knew what happened to him. "I didn't think you were still up."
"Do you ever sleep, your Grace?" he replied with a teasing smile. "No matter how ungodly the hour is, you always seem to be awake."
"I could say the same about you." she said. "What do you need, Jon?"
"My sister Arya desires to accompany you to Dorne as a handmaiden. She's been in Braavos for so long that I'm afraid she's quite forgotten how to be a lady." Or she never really cared to learn.
"And you want me to teach her? I'll be very busy, you know-I can't exactly be teaching her how to curtsy…"
"She's an extremely quick learner. You'll like her, I promise."
"If she's your sister, there's a good chance I will." she replied. "Very well then-but she'll need to entertain herself when I'm in meetings."
"I'm sure that won't be a problem for her. Shall I tell her to pack a bag?"
"Yes-we leave tomorrow morning." He was almost out the door when she called him back. "I apologize-I've been so busy that I haven't asked how you have been settling in."
"It's not your fault. I can see you've been very busy yourself. Besides, there's not much to ask about. The Northerners are settled in-we're just waiting for your signal." It didn't take long for the sudden silence between them to turn awkward. "Do you believe Aegon really is who he says he is?"
She sighed; if it was anyone else she would have said yes because it would make things so much easier-but because it was Jon, she felt better confessing "I don't know. Viserion's fire didn't burn him, as the fire didn't burn me when I walked through my husband's funeral pyre to hatch my children. But...the story he tells is impossible, and if he really is my brother's son, his claim to the Iron Throne is better than mine."
"Bearing all of that in mind, do you want him to be real?"
Again she shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. There are some in the Seven Kingdoms who may rally to my banners more readily if a man rules beside me-and the Targaryen lineage will be secure, at least for another generation. He seems kind enough-though it really is too early to tell. There's no one to vouch for him; he could easily be another usurper, for all that we know about him. But if he is a Targaryen, he could mount banners to his cause and try to fight me-losing countless lives. How can I turn him away, unless I have proof? How can I afford to underestimate him as a threat?"
"What if he doesn't betray you and you find you can consider him a friend?"
"I think that's even more unbelievable. Everyone is a threat, in one way or another." She hadn't been able to let her guard down enough to really trust someone in years-and every time she thought she was getting close, something would happen that would strengthen the walls she built around herself even further.
She knew it was only a matter of time before Jon betrayed her too.
And even so, she found herself embracing him- even more surprising, he quickly moved to embrace her back. She stayed there for a few minutes, safe in the circle of his arms and feeling his heartbeat under his short leather vest (he was finally starting to wear some cooler clothes, but the change was gradual). "I know I haven't thanked you properly for everything you've done the past few weeks. You made the journey south much smoother than it could have been-especially because you could easily be the King in the North right now, instead of getting ready to fight another battle."
He chuckled into her hair, still holding her close. "There are always battles to fight, my lady-and the worst are still to come. Besides, Sansa deserves Winterfell more than I do. My father's bannermen would not rally around me as a bastard-and even a legitimization wouldn't change that. Not really, at least."
"You're still a Stark. His blood runs in your veins-I'm sure that, after a time, they would see that."
"Perhaps-but I'm better suited to a battlefield than I am to a palace. And you don't need to thank me for anything. If you hadn't come to the Wall I may have lost both my home and my sister for good. I'm merely paying back what I owe you. You'll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms someday; like the rest of us, I am yours to command."
Coming back to her senses, she gently disentangled herself-though she couldn't help but realize how much she missed his warmth, and the feeling of his hair tickling her skin. "That was extremely unprofessional."
"I suppose I didn't help things, did I?" His grin faded for a moment and he cleared his throat, meeting her gaze before she could turn away. "I hope you won't work yourself too hard while you're gone-Tyrion Lannister is a capable advisor and the army will be in good hands. And...I hope one day I might be able to convince you that I am not your enemy, and I wish to help you in whatever way I can."
She squeezed his hand, for once not caring if anyone was watching or what they might think. "I know." she replied. With that she turned away in silent dismissal; she wasn't quite finished packing yet, but she couldn't afford to waste another day. They didn't need the element of surprise, but they couldn't waste too much time either.
By the time she finished, the doorway was empty and Jon had taken his leave.
So I know in the books Targaryens aren't fire proof but the show seems to be doing things differently so I'll take artistic license.
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