AN: What happens when you are on 16 hrs worth of flight? Flying over Dubai a few minutes ago I thought to myself that this gem, which looks like so much gold and diamonds from the sky, is what a futuristic Dothraki Sea would look like, and caught myself for being a nerd ;)

Part 11

"Bran," he had pleaded with his brother multiple times in the last day. Daenerys and Arya had been lost in the crypts for two days now and the endless hours he had spent scouring the crypts yielded no results. He had gone to the coldest, deepest levels he could go, down to the centuries of kings even Old Nan never found time to tell tales of. But the crypts of Winterfell had always been a series of labyrinthine mazes that would take weeks to explore. In the thousands of years since it was built none of the Starks had been able to map the mysteries laid out right under their feet. "Bran, I need your help."

Yet every time that Bran looked into the heart tree and searched, all he could find was darkness.

And when Bran returned to them, his brother assured him, "They will come out, Jon. Daenerys Targaryen has no place in our crypts."

Just as there was none laid out for him.

Every Stark, every one of Ned Stark's blood, had been laid to rest in the Winterfell crypts and would be laid to rest there when they die, to guard the ghosts, to make the monsters remain inside. Every last one of them. Except him.

He was not a Stark after all.

Jon could not feel the exhaustion, even if there had been no rest since Karhold. While in the day he joined in the underground search, at night he found himself changing skin—this overwhelming, frightening, exhilarating thing that he had only discovered with his brother Robb—deep in the mind of his direwolf Ghost as he did before, this time running down the corridors under the watchful eyes of the kings that had passed, searching.

The shattered ironwood that had been the door was removed now. In its place the remaining craftsmen wrought a heavier door to seal the crypts. Now the crypt yawned open, inviting Jon again to explore, to take back what was his.

Back with the living an old abandoned keep hummed as the smallfolk worked tirelessly to turn it habitable, living spaces for the family in the wake of the fire that razed the great keep. The smallfolk had remained safe, by miracle it was that the Night King had headed straight for Winterfell and ignored Wintertown. Not a hair on the smallfolk's head was touched, and in their fortune still the villagers decided to pick up their tools and help the Lady of Winterfell set her home to right.

It was there that Lord Tyrion had last insisted that Jon join, there that Jon stalked away from the the handful that returned from defending their own, and leaders of Daenerys's host. Having taken his place in the makeshift council was Ser Jaime Lannister, and his presence inn a place of honor was absurd to Jon until he was reminded again at the sight of Ser Jaime's wounds. The man fought bravely, allowing his family to flee the onslaught. All while he tarried, held back by rules and cautioned from riding off alone.

He wondered how long he had been staring at the entrance of the crypts, because across the godswood Jon saw his sister Sansa walking towards him, her face as always set and grim. This life had not been kind to Sansa. Once she had dreamed of marrying a king, of being queen of her own castle. With her Tully face and Stark heart Sansa had been made to be a lady of a grand and proud name. Now she was a lady to the ruins of her father's greatness.

She stopped before him now, her head tilted to the side. "You know they are alive," she told him.

"How would I know that?" he asked in return, his voice, he found, a mere rasp. Dozens of men had fanned into the various corridors of the crypt. He himself had wandered into the lowest levels he could find. Inside Ghost, Jon had gone ever farther, into corners and vaults he never knew before.

"If they were not, I trust that we would have known. We would have felt—something," Sansa stammered.

He nodded towards the crypt, and told his sister, "I am about to go in."

"Jon," she started.

"You know you can't change my mind, Sansa," he said as a matter of fact. "Not when Daenerys is in there. Not when Arya is lost. You would waste your breath to try."

~o~o~

There was light.

Many times in the endless hours that had passed, Daenerys had thought that she was near breaking. At times Arya would fall to her knees. The girl had been brave, leading them to the farthest corner to be saved. Daenerys was certain that by now her army had cut down the wights. By now Jon had arrived with the host, and her husband would have destroyed the Night King.

They ascended each level, and by the time that break of light appeared, Daenerys broke into a run pulling Arya behind her. The girl was still so quiet, so rocked by the experience of being lost int he crypts.

"Arya," Daenerys said gently, stopping before stone statues they had certainly passed on their way down. There was a tingle that crawled like fingers from her scalp down to her nape. Daenerys could swear the stone statues looked back at her with bright blue eyes.

Bright blue eyes in her mind's eye, and she would not know why.

She drew Jon's little sister close to her, at first uncomfortable with the gesture. Daenerys had not spent much time thinking of family, much less having one. Of course she had seen the way families moved in every city she had conquered. Daenerys gingerly wrapped her arms around Arya in assurance, and gasped when the girl tightened her embrace.

"I will get you out of here," she swore in her firm voice.

Arya merely looked up at her, her eyes large and round. "What is happening?" Arya asked, the gaze on her was searching, disbelieving.

The girl acted oddly, but Daenerys supposed after getting lost in the crypts, Arya had the right to be shaken.

Daenerys drew Arya towards the light, until finally they reached the familiar stone steps leading upwards. In those crypts Daenerys had felt the surge in her blood that allowed her to be quicker. With every step she slowed, her limbs growing heavy, her mouth going dry and her head seemed to full, painful. When she emerged out of the crypt, the brightness sent sharp pain shooting into her eyes. She shielded her eyes with her arm.

"Daenerys!" His voice rang, warm and familiar, a caress of flame after what felt like a lifetime in the cold.

Immediately she could feel a sob catch in her throat. She looked up to see him, and he was beautiful to see after so long in darkness. Across the lichyard, past the gravestone markers, she found the strength to rush to him. And then she could see his legs eating away at the distance between them, no matter how fast she moved she could not make it to him quick enough.

And then his arms were around her as soon as she stumbled. "Jon," she whispered, her throat pained.

Her lips were cracked and dry, but when Jon's lips caressed hers they parted with familiarity, coming home into his kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut. When their mouths parted, his forehead rested on hers for a thousand heartbeats it seemed. Finally, she opened her eyes to see warm gray ones studying her. Daenerys smiled tearfully, and held his face with her hands.

"I missed you, Jon."

And then the world around her slowly sank into place. The edges of her vision formed, and she could see the empty heart tree where they wed, noted how Sansa had greeted her sister on Arya's return. And then behind Jon, over his shoulder, Daenerys's smile faded when she saw Lady Brienne looking towards them, her eyes wide, her mouth slack. And then the lady knight shook her head and turned her gaze away.

Daenerys turned to find next Lord Tyrion stopped with a hooded figure, right at the path towards the crypt. Her hand appeared triumphant at her return. The figure took the hood off of his head and let it fall.

Ser Jorah.

The most loyal, the most devoted of any of them all. He loved her. Many times she knew it.

The knight lowered his head to the ground, took a breath so deep it was a release, and then slowly he raised his gaze to hers again. And then with a nod, he continued towards his queen and the warden of the North.

At her side, Jon grasped Ser Jorah's arm in greeting. Ser Jorah reported then, "Deepwood Motte suffered casualties, my lord. The ride was long and hard, and the wights were crawling all over the village when we arrived."

Jon nodded in acceptance.

Daenerys's brow furrowed. "Deepwood Motte? You were farther west, Ser Jorah?"

"At the lord paramount's command, I took a portion of the host with me to defend that keep against the wights." Ser Jorah regarded Jon, and admitted, "It was a decision that saved countless lives."

She could imagine that siege, in a keep without the protection that she had. It would have been much worse. "How many did we lose?"

"A third, your grace."

Her hand closed around Jon's. "Then more than half of them live because of your actions and Lord Snow's decision." She noticed how Ser Jorah's eyes flittered over to fingers that entwined. "Thank you for your service, Ser Jorah."

"Always, khaleesi." The knight leaned forward slightly, in a casual bid to leave.

Instead of the permission expected, she told her loyal knight. "A favor, Ser Jorah."

"Anything, khaleesi."

"Perhaps by now we can put Drogo to rest and with him the name I received for being his wife." Daenerys glanced at her husband, and then continued to her knight protector. "We are in Westeros now. Here, I am queen, not khaleesi." She no longer waited for a response. She knew what it would be. An acknowledgement, without objection. Gently she gestured her leave of him.

She turned to Ser Jorah's abandoned companion now, and Daenerys looked at the injury with concern. "Glad you are alive, Lord Tyrion, after such a foolish move." She looked up and around, and asked, "Where are the men who held Winterfell? We must honor them. They are heroes." To her hand, she asked, "Will you send them to the bailey, Lord Tyrion? Their queen would like to thank them."

Behind her, she noticed Arya walking to her brother. She turned and saw how Jon had embraced her fondly, and Daenerys was glad that she managed to keep the younger sister alive. And then Arya whispered to Jon—secrets, perhaps, or answers.

Daenerys saw when Jon looked up from Arya to her. His dark brows drew together.

She turned her back to the siblings, and allowed Lord Tyrion to lead her to the bailey. There, the group of men gathered. Daenerys called to Grey Worm in Valyrian, and the thick words that came in response woke something inside.

"Where are the rest of them?" she had asked. "Those installed to protect me when you rode."

"Dead. Dead save seventy lucky ones, your grace," Grey Worm had replied to her.

From her gut, to her arms, to her knees she trembled. Daenerys wondered if this was what Viserys felt overcome him each time his dragon woke.

"Seventy men stand before me," she said loudly for all to hear. "Seventy of two thousand brave souls survived." She glared at the sky, saw her children fly and roar above her. "You have given your life to me and mine, and I swear to you in return I will fight for you. I will not let this stand!" she cried. "We will make them pay for taking your brothers."

One by one, each lieutenant came to stand at Daenerys feet, her chin high as she listened to every name of the men in the company that fell. The pounding of the spears low and stready. One by one the lieutenants read them, and once they were finished Daenerys easily switched tongues to Dothraki, repeated the same request. With every horselord that had risen to the stars, a burst of piercing scream.

Hours. It only took hours to speak names of lifetimes lost.

When the last name was said, Daenerys turned her back to the host. She struggled to fight back tears, sucking in deep breaths to calm her. Jon stood away from her, watching her. It was the first time he had seen her lead her people, and all he saw were promises and mourning.

They had survived in Essos, crossed the Narrow Sea, and turned to ash in Westeros.

Daenerys wiped her tears away with trembling fingers. Once composed she turned around and made her way across the bailey, past the portcullis until she reached the clearing outside the gate. Loudly, she called for her dragon.

Not long after that she was gliding in the sky, leaving Winterfell behind, her largest son taking her across distances she would have not comprehended before. She was focused on the vast whiteness of the ground. Her eyes narrowed when finally, she saw them like little bugs beneath her. Her lips curled, burning inside.

She lowered herself, lined up along Drogon's neck. "Dracarys!" she screamed her command. Gone was the measured way she instructed her dragon. The burst of flame that flew out of Drogon's mouth obliterated a hundred at once, she could see. She urged Drogon to turn his breath and watch the broken bodies as they fell and exploded. With cold precision Daenerys and Drogon went through the thick army of wights, felling them as the count in her head climbed.

"Drogon," she said slowly, as she spotted the whitewalker at the back of the thick lines. Daenerys flew Drogon up and above, and then held firmly as she and Drogon made for a dead drop, the heat of the flame she could feel as Drogon burned the white walker directly from above.

"Four thousand," she said in grim satisfaction as the wights that walker had made were destroyed along with him. For every man that fell of hers, she would take two. And then tomorrow, she would take four, then eight, then sixteen. And it would never end until the last walker fell.

Daenerys soothed Drogon, knowing her child would be too exhausted now. She was thirsty and hungry and exhausted, but the names of her men repeated over and over again in her head.

That was when she saw him.

Drogon padded across the snow, closer to the Night King. She slowly transitioned into a run towards the enemy, when suddenly Viserion slammed onto Drogon's much larger body. Daenerys cried out when she lost her grip on Drogon's back, and she scraped on the abrasive scales, tearing a portion of her dress and slicing a long thin wound on her arm. She fell onto the snow and at once rolled as far away as she could from the dragons. It was a secret so shameful to the family, Viserys told her, that no one had ever confirmed it. Rhaenys, Aegon the Conqueror's favorite wife, as pure of a dragon as a woman had been made, died when her dragon crushed her body into the desert sand.

Dragons fighting dragons was unnatural, a twist of nature so perverse the gods decided to instead tear the world apart. And it seemed so then—bastards claiming crowns, vassal felling liege, lone Targaryens lost int he world.

She gasped for breath as she lay in the snow. Daenerys lay her head back as she rested her body flat, her hand resting on her womb, blinking back tears as she willed her child to hold. And then his shadow blocked the sun above. Daenerys could see only his silhouette over her.

The Night King fell on his knees beside her, then tilted his head, looking intently at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could swear that the Night King heard, because afterwards his long nail traced the neck of her dress. And then he stood, looking into the direction of Winterfell.

Daenerys closed her eyes, and her dreams were full of gray eyes vanishing and bleeding into the darkness, then bright blue eyes. Haunted blue eyes.

In her dreams Daenerys woke to find the dark chains holding her down. She struggled against it, and the more it tightened around her wrists and ankles. She turned back towards the snow where he had fallen. Her womb tightened and her spine twisted at the pain. Blood was so hot, she realized, as the pain struck her and the blood sluggishly pumped from between her legs, draining her cold body of the only heat it had.

"Lord Commander!" she heard a frightened cry.

She was thrown into the back of a wagon. Her body curled into itself to keep the pain within. She screamed, a pealing anguished cry. From her position on the floor of the wagon, she looked up outside as he pulled the dragonglass from his chest. They had thought to kill him, only to give him the immortal life she could not give him.

The wildlings reached for him and held him back. He would be stronger soon enough, stronger than those that converged against them. The wildlings in the North and the Starks in the South. His fiery blue eyes held hers as they grew smaller and smaller, vanishing into the horizon.

~o~o~

"We saw something," Arya whispered. "Something in the crypts. Jon, it was horrible."

Jon watched as Daenerys addressed her men, emotional and powerful at the same time. This was what a leader was. This was what a queen should be.

"Jon, she is acting like she had no memory of it. It's impossible. I saw it once and I will never forget it." Arya bit her lip, and turned to look at the queen. "She touched Daenerys."

And then Jon saw her leave the bailey. Jon followed quickly behind her. She had just been trapped for two days without food or water, and still she was unsteady on her feet. But he had heard her in the courtyard and saw what learning of her men's defeat had done to her. Daenerys got onto Drogon and he had assumed she would fly to clear her head. When still did not return, Jon called on Rhaegal to find her.

He had seen the many fallen wights littering the snow, broken parts and smoldering limbs. This was how Daenerys mourned.

When he saw her motionless in the snow, his heart stopped. He jumped off of Rhaegal before the dragon had fully settled onto the ground. Jon rushed to her side and touched her cheek, patting gently but insistently. She moaned, as good a sign of life as any. He helped her to her feet.

The torn piece of her dress lay on snow, fluttering in the wind. An ashy silver caught his eye on the skin of her chest. When Jon moved her dress aside he daw the long discolored mark on her.

She touched Daenerys, Arya had told him.

Bran had been touched too.

The Kings of Winter held their swords on their laps, immortalized in stone, guarding the living from the spirits that lay underneath the crypts.

Old Nan's voice haunted him with stories of old that he had first believed were made up by a fertile mind and a sadistic streak.

"Daenerys," he said, his voice urgently, hoping she would look at him, wishing he would be enough. Slowly, she looked back at him. "You did well." And she nodded, and with him walked towards Drogon.

That night when he took her back to the rooms prepared in the temporary keep, she fumbled on the dress that grew heavy with the snow and soil that had mixed into mud. Her hands trembled inside the crusty gloves, and the ties too easily slid off her fingers. His hands closed over hers. He held her gaze as one by one he took the fingertip of each glove and shook her hand free. When finally her fingers could breathe, Jon pulled the glove off. He then started on the other.

When he held her gaze this way, he was certain she was there.

Jon peeled the heavy dress from her shoulders, and listened to the considerable thud on the floor. His eyes lowered and he ran rough fingers over her pale skin. Gingerly, he traced the mark on her skin. He knew not what could happen or what it meant. But the mark was like a brand on her, or a scar such as the one above his heart.

He kissed the brand, much like she had kissed his scar a million times before.

Gently he moved her so she would sit on the bed. He lowered himself to his knees before her. She was bare now, with her wet clothes removed. Daenerys reached up and back and carefully removed the bindings in her hair until the silver hair that remained curled from the braids that had just been freed.

Still the loveliest woman he had ever seen. The gentle swell of her belly reminded him of the way the moon waxed in the distance when he was high up on the wall and skies were clear. The moon was a goddess then, so mesmerizing and in the black night sky she seemed to be everything. Her breasts were getting larger now, the crowns upon them rosier still. She stirred him still, the mother of his child.

But the fear inside him grew bigger still. Jon removed her boots and set them aside. There was a quiet knock on the doorway, and Jon quietly informed the maid to leave. When he returned he held the warm, wet cloth to use on her.

"Jon, you can send one of the women—"

He shook his head and sat beside her on the bed. The mark on her skin taunted him, but still he used the warm cloth to wipe off the mud that had caked on her chin, the soot that stained her neck. The nights was hers, not his. She murmured her pleasure at his attention, and he allowed himself a small amount of satisfaction that even in this he could make up for the royal fuckery he had caused to her and hers.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that crawled down. "I'm sorry, Daenerys," he admitted, the words falling off his tongue too easily now, as if he had practice, as if he needed to build the skill to say the words again.

Her response was to turn her head and press her lips into his palm.

The night was hers, Jon decided, and gently he laid her down naked on the furs. Perhaps it was the Stark inside her now, but she started to hate the burdensome clothing or even covers when she slept. Jon climbed onto the bed, raising himself over her, fully clothed. Her thighs parted easily to cradle him. When he felt her hands reach for him between their bodies, Jon still her searching by grabbing her wrists. And then he pressed her wrists down to the bed. He moved down her body. She raised herself up on her elbows and watched him settle. She released a sigh and threw back her head when he lowered his lips to taste her. "Jon," she breathed. His name had never sounded so wonderful to him.

He released her wrists to hold open her thighs, felt her trembling under his fingers. When his tongue thrust out to lick her, she collapsed flat on her back. The muscles of her legs tightened, and she grasped his hair.

Her release was quiet. Shaking, limp, Daenerys rolled on her side. Jon pressed himself up on her back and gathered her trembling body within his embrace. The sweat cooled from body without the covers. Jon swore that she cried. From behind he dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. He felt it when Daenerys's body relaxed and she slept.

As reward, he allowed sleep to overtake his body.

tbc