Daenerys loved Dragonstone. The bones of the island teemed with the power of her ancestors, calling her to stay, to touch down on the island and never leave. Daenerys had never known a permanent home, not as Jon had. When she had first landed on Dragonstone, years ago now, she had been upset by how little it felt like home. She had been born there, but stepping from her ship onto Dragonstone's stony shores for the first time she had felt no different that when she first landed in Astapor.
The sense of Dragonstone as her home had grown as she spent time there. Walking the island, exploring its halls, and getting lost in the tunnels under the rock, and walking amongst the people of the town on its stony southern shores. It had become a place which soothed her. The salt air and acrid volcanic smoke filling her lungs and giving her strength. The natural warmth of the island chasing away the early spring chill that settled in her bones in Kings Landing. The only other place she felt so warm, so at home was in Jon's arms. And when they were both on Dragonstone – Daenerys had to stop herself. Those thoughts while pleasant were a distraction. And she needed to know why the island had called her back.
But there were times when the times the castle and its island felt as foreign to her as the Dothraki sea had. And as she stood before the great carved granite doors to her castle, waiting as her men rushed to open them, she felt that isolation. Like she did not quite belong. And would never. Not even in her ancestral home.
When the doors eventually opened and she entered the court yards of Dragonstone her aged castellan rushed to great her, despite the late hour. Though she had intended to be there earlier, her work in King's Landing had kept her longer that panned. He was a thin, wizened man named Haedyn who had been castellan when Rhaegar had lived there. He said when he looked at Jon he could see something of his father in him. In the way Jon held himself, and the deep sadness and turmoil he carried within him.
"Your Grace, it has been too long." Haedyn said bowing deeply before rising to his full height, just barely taller than her.
"That it has Haedyn." Daenerys took the old castellans hands in her own. "Has there been anything new found on the island?"
During the continued restorations of Dragonstone, treasures hidden by Targaryens in days past were being found, hidden in secret passages and deep withing the dungeons. Not three moons past they had hound the crown of Rhaenyra Targaryen hidden in a chest, which in turn was hidden in a wall. Daenerys had ordered it brought to Kings Landing, to rest with what bones of Rhaenyra were buried in the Red Keep. Daenerys was determined that the first Targaryen Queen to rule in her own right would be given her proper recognition. Which also worked to solidify her own claim to the Iron Throne, which at times remained tenuous. "Unless you marry Snow, they will continue to talk that he should be king of all Seven Kingdoms and not just the North." Tyrion had told her. "The Son of a Son will always come before a Daughter."
But she could not do that to Jon Snow. Could not marry him and take away his chance to have a family, to father more dragon riders. Not when she had seen the wistful look in his eyes when he rocked Arya's son Eddard to sleep. Or the way his eyes had followed the children who played in the streets of Kings Landing and around the Winter Town.
She and Haedyn pressed on towards Dragonstone's keep, and the children of castle servants raced across the courtyard. Watching them she felt that same pang she knew Jon did, and again she saw the flash of the children from her dream. The girl was clearly the older, holding her wooden sword with a practiced ease as the boy sat in the dirt. The girl circled a stuffed mannequin, delivering a series of blows as the Master at Arms called them. She thought she saw herself watching them from the catwalk over the courtyard, her hand resting on the unmistakable swell of her belly. Tears pricked at Daenerys' eyes and she rubbed at them, refusing to cry here. When she looked back the children were gone, and in their place were servants carting goods from the stores into the castle proper.
"Your Grace? Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost." Haedyn asked, a gentle hand resting on her forearm.
Not quite, she thought grimly. She was having visions again in the light of day. But if they were true or a fantasy she could not tell. She almost did not want to know.
"I am fine Haedyn." She gave the kind old man a smile and covered his hand with her own. "Let us continue to the castle."
"Will the King be joining you, your Grace?" Haedyn asked, a hopeful glint in his eye. He had taken a shine to Jon, delighting in telling them both how Jon – or King Aegon as he insisted on calling him - reminded him of Rhaegar.
"Unfortunately not, Haedyn." She said as they continued to walk into Dragonstone's Great Hall. "Just me this time. I need some space to think."
Haedyn patted her arm, the gesture of a father comforting his daughter. "He will come to see the wisdom of it your Grace." He knew all too well the conflict between the king and queen, the deep love that pulled them together, and the sense of duty that drove a wedge between them.
Daenerys gave a thin smile. "I don't think I want him to."
When she had finally made it to the rooms that made up her chambers on Dragonstone she collapsed on the bed. Her chambers and Jon's in truth. There were other chambers, in a different part of the castle that were assigned to him in name, but he had rarely slept there. And the servants on Dragonstone were discrete enough that he did not have to sneak back to his own before dawn cracked. When they were both on Dragonstone her handmaidens knew to expect to find them both tangled in the sheets of this bed. And not to comment on it other than to ask of the King would also be breaking his fast with her.
He normally did. But sometimes he had to leave their bed before then, to train the garrison, or meet with the southern lordlings, each of whom wanted something from the Northern King. To offer up a daughter for marriage to him, or a son for Sansa, or hammer out a part of a trade contract. Or simply to thank him for his role in defeating the Night King and later Cersei Lannister and the Blackfyre pretender she had married. When he had to leave her, he would press soft kisses to her forehead before leaving, sending in her handmaidens to help her dress, and taking her request for breakfast to the kitchens himself.
The memories of their last visit hung in her mind, how they had explored the coast of the island, Jon taking his boots off to walk barefoot in the sand and surf despite the chill, revelling in the novelty of it all. It had amused her to see him running out of the sea as a wave crashed in, barefoot and pant legs pulled to his knees, whooping like a child when the icy water first crashed over his feet. It had made her heart ache, because if they continued their relationship, he would never be able to show his children the joys of paddling in the ocean.
Not that it matters to him, Daenerys thought. She had seen the pain in his face when she asked him if it would really be a bad thing if he got her pregnant. The heartbreak over a child that might be labelled a bastard, the anguish over his childhood. And the fear. Not just for the child and their life but for her. She had been taken aback by the admission that he was scared for her. Scared that she might die birthing his child. It was not something she though scared men; it had not scared Drogo. Women and wives were replaceable to so many men. Daenerys knew she should have expected it, expected his devotion. How many times had he told her he would only ever love her? How many women had he refused to marry because of her?
Death in childbirth was not something she had ever given any great thought, despite the fact her own mother had died that way. With Rhaego she had been too young, too distracted by the Dothraki culture and her brother's betrayal. The thought that she might have died had not had the chance to scare her before Rhaego was stolen from her, in exchange for a life that was not life.
Rhaego. The loss of her son should have destroyed her, and she knew it. So much had happened so quickly then, and she had not had the time to grieve. Not Viserys, not Drogo, and not Rhaego. If I look back I am lost. Her old mantra rang in her head as she wrapped her arms around herself. Jon had been the first to encourage her to look back, told her that if she became lost he would find her, gently wiping tears from her cheeks. He had held her as she wept uncontrollably, huge wracking sobs that made her wonder how she had ever contained her grief
And he had stayed with her. Even when he had grown distant after the reveal of his parentage. So wrapped up in grief and shock that he needed the time to process. He had still been there; all she would have ever had to do was ask. But she had given him his space then, knowing he would come back to her when he was ready. If he was ready.
Drogon keened in the distance, as if sensing her melancholy. He was the only one of her sons to make the trip with her. Viserion preferred to stay in the ruined dragon pit he had made his home, napping, and watching the comings and goings of King's Landing. He had always been the quietest, gentlest of her sons, and he allowed the children of King's Landing to play in his presence, daring each other to go closer.
Rhaegal, she did not know where he was, He did not spend as much time with her as he once had. Mostly he stayed on Dragonstone, but he had been curiously absent when she arrived. She knew her son preferred to spend as much time as he could with Jon, but that he suffered in the northern cold and only went North when he sensed Jon needed him. Not that Jon needed Rhaegal to be imposing, his status as a living legend was enough for most, and Ghost's presence was for those who could look past that.
Sighing she rolled over and pulled a pillow to her chest. Tomorrow she would explore the island and find out why she had been pulled here. But for now she needed to sleep.
The crypts of Winterfell were one place Jon knew he would not be disturbed. They always had been. He could spend hours down there, sitting with the dead, talking to them, imagining the advice his uncles, mother, and Robb may have given him. Thinking through his problems alone.
But more than that, the dead had never wanted him gone.
"Why did you do it Robb?" He asked, staring up at the likeness of his brother. The tomb was no-longer empty, they had found Robb's skeleton when they took the Twins, with Grey Winds skull still wired to his neck. It had been a gruesome scene if you heard Arya tell it. He had been strung up in the great hall, a trophy of the Frey's so-called victory. Jon had not entered the Twins until he had to cross the Green Fork, camping outside with Ghost who hissed when Jon went too close to the keeps. Jon had had to warg into Ghosts body to get him through. And when he had he had understood the direwolf's reluctance. The twin keeps stank of death and rot and something else that could only be described as betrayal. Jon had ordered the towers pulled down to rubble when he returned to his own body, and no-one had argued with him. Rhaegal had just unleashed his flames, hot enough to melt the stone into twisted lumps.
"Why did you marry the Westerling girl?"
Jon let the words hang there, as though he expected Robb to answer. He had always wanted to know.
"Did you really love her? Or were you scared you got a bastard on her?"
The plot by the Lannisters and Westerlings had been obvious to Jon once he saw the whole story. And clever. Any other man it might not have worked on. But Robb had been too loyal, too hells bent on maintaining his honour and the honour of every woman he met.
"You should have left a bastard on her. It's not so bad."
That was a lie, and a poor one at that, Jon knew Robb would have said if he was there. Jon knew the truth. Robb had seen how Jon was treated by Catelyn Stark, he would not let the same happen to his own child.
"It makes me wonder what you would make of me and Daenerys, dancing around the topic of children and marriage."
The stone gave no answer.
"I think you would like her. She's kind, and fierce, and entirely too quick to anger."
It wasn't the first time he had described his belove for the benefit of the dead, and it would not be the last. They didn't roll their eyes or stick their tongues out when Jon felt like his heart would burst from love.
"And she has Dragons."
Robb had never been as taken by Old Nans stories about dragon riders as Jon had been, and he understood why now, the fire in in his blood had been calling out searching for his birth right. Just as the ice had been when they found the direwolves, and he heard Ghost, who had crawled away from his pack.
"And she loves me."
Jon thought he could hear Robb whooping at that. His brother had always thought him to serious, too caught up in his own head. Too avoidant of anything that could have given him happiness.
"And I love her." Jon smiled, thinking about how Daenerys' hair felt when he ran his fingers, the wide smile she saved for him, her laughter, and the way she could cut through the armour he wore around his heart.
"I'm scared for her." He whispered quieter. "Because despite knowing who she is, knowing her strength, knowing what she has done and will continue to do, I'm still scared that my actions will be her undoing. That I will get her pregnant, and she will die. Or some lords will decide a King is better than a Queen and try to depose her in my name. And if we had a son -" He stopped himself. "They might do it in favor of him." Jon was well aware of the succession crisis that caused the Dance of the Dragons. Davos had told him, eyes misty as he thought about the little girl who taught him.
Jon tipped his head up, staring into his brother's eyes, searching out answers from the cold stone. It was a good likeness he thought, though he was no longer sure he truly remembered what Robb had looked like in life. He could remember the flaming auburn of his hair and how it shone in the sun, the blue of Robb's eyes, and the way he smiled when he was about to cause trouble. The angle he held his sword, and always forgot to lift his shield high enough to escape Jon's blade when they sparred. "Is that how you felt? Like you had ruined her life?"
"You aren't going to ruin her life." A voice cut in, and Jon turned to see Sansa walking towards him. "Come, there are lords waiting for your presence, my King." A slight smile tugged at Sansa's lips, Jon grew exasperated when she called him that.
Jon gave Robb one last look and ran his hand over Grey Wind's carved likeness before following his sister out if the crypts, and back to his kingly duties.
Daenerys shivered in anticipation as she walked through Dragonstone's dungeons. Centuries ago, when her ancestors had built Dragonstone, they had carved the dungeons into the deepest parts of the mountain, closest to the liquid rock which had formed it. As a result the dungeons were hot, unbearably so for any mortal man. Any man without the blood of the Dragon. Idly she thought about bringing Jon there, pushing him against the wall and fucking him until the flames within them burned as hot as the rock below.
But today she climbed down wards, alone, walking past corridors of empty cells until she reached the next set of stairs that would take her deeper. She could feel something calling to her begging her to come deeper withing the mountain. She lifted a torch from its sconce to light her way
Come to us Daughter of old Valyria.
She heard the gods of old Valyria calling to her.
Come find us.
And so she continued to walk, shedding layers as she went, as the heat built and made her sweat.
We are waiting for you.
Faintly she wondered if the heat was making her delirious, and if she should turn back, gather up her clothes and abandon this endeavour.
Just a little further Mother of Dragons.
Daenerys pressed on, stripping to just her thin silk shift and underthing's, feeling the heat of the rock through the bare soles of her feet. Sweat stuck her hair to her forehead and neck, and she regretted leaving it loose. She had to be mad to be doing this, listening to voices that called her to the heart of the mountain.
No madder than any other Targaryen.
The words made her shiver, remembering what she had been told about her father, and how paranoia had driven him to burning people alive. People like Jon's uncle and grandfather. How obsession with prophecy had consumed her brother Rhaegar so badly he started a war in his bid to fulfil it, not caring who was hurt so long as the dragon had three heads. How Viserys – She stopped herself. Thinking about her brother would not serve her well now.
You are almost there.
Daenerys turned down another set of stairs and came face to face with a wall of black, glassy rock. Dragon glass she realised as she placed her hand on it. It was hot enough to burn, but to her it felt pleasant as a summer's day. It was impossibly smooth and shiny, and when it met the basalt of the other walls it somehow blended seamlessly together. As though it had been shaped with magic rather than the tools of men.
We are here, Daenerys Stormborn.
"How do I enter?" She asked aloud, fingers running over the rock, marvelling at its smoothness. She was familiar with Dragon glass; she had fought with it against the dead. But this wall felt different, it thrummed like a heartbeat, pulsed with the fires of life.
You already know Daughter.
Fire and blood.
The words rang in her head, the words of her house. Idly she reached for the dagger she wore strapped to her right thigh. Jon had made her promise to always carry a hidden weapon, and this dagger had been a gift from him. A short, thin blade of Valyrian steel he had found while exploring Dragonstone himself.
With a deep breath she ran the blade across her left palm, allowing blood to well up in the cut and trickle down her wrist before she pressed her palm to the dragon glass wall, wiping her blood across it in a wide arc. Then she picked up her torch, and gently touched it the blood which glistened wetly.
It caught fire, and the stone beneath it rippled, melting away to reveal the chamber hidden behind it.
It was even warmer in the chamber, and it was cavernous, all glittering black dragon glass and dark basalt columns, illuminated by the light of her torch and a river of lava that poured down the far wall. It should be too hot even for her and she knew it.
But the beauty of the cavern was not what caught her attention, instead it was the niches recessed into the walls, each containing a large oval object. They shone with all the colours of the rainbow and seemed to drink in the light of her torch.
Eggs, she realised, falling to her knees, heedless of the heat and dirt on the cavern floor. Dragon eggs. This is a nursery.
There were dozens, white and blue and green and black, and many colours beside. And they were beautiful, glittering like jewels, and thrumming with the power of life.
They were hidden here long ago she realised, her bloody left hand resting on her chest, not noticing how the blood stained her shift and dripped to the floor. My sons were never the last.
She knew her ancestors had hidden many great treasures on Dragonstone. And had spent the century and a half after the Dance trying to bring back the dragons. But until her sons hatched there had only been unsuccessful attempts, like the tragedy at Summerhall when Rhaegar was born, or small deformed creatures who died young.
But these eggs felt alive, even without touching them she knew they were not stone as her sons had been when she received them.
Her eyes fell on a bench that sat before the wall of lava. On it sat four eggs, who reflected the light of the fire. These where what had called her here, she realised. She moved next to the bench and picked up one egg, purple accented with black. It was ever so slightly larger than her sons' eggs had been, but the scaling was the same, thin over lapping disks that looked delicate and ethereal, but were tougher than steel. Beside it sat another, dark grey, lined with a pale silver. The grey of Jon's eyes, she realised. The other eggs were a deep gold, its scales edged with a forest green, and a pure, snow white, veined with bloody red. All the eggs teemed with life when she rested her hands on them, the blood she left behind sizzling and popping in the heat.
She did not know how long she sat there, cradling each egg in turn, whispering to it about her sons, and about Jon, and how happy they would all be to know about them. Eventually she left, taking one last long look at them as the obsidian door rippled closed, hiding the eggs once again. As she climbed back out of the dungeon, gathering her clothes as she went and wrapping her hand in a length of silk torn from the hem of her ruined shift, her thoughts turned to Jon. How she wanted to bring him down here and show him.
"Our children will be dragon riders." She whispered aloud as she fumbled with the buttons of her dress, making sure she was sully covered before she rounded the top steps of the dungeon.
When she returned to King's Landing, she would order a raven sent to Winterfell, requesting a meeting with the King in the North to discuss some inane manner.
What she did not know was that when she arrived a raven would have already arrived with the same request for her.
Hello, thank you for reading, and for the sweet comments on last chapter! Sorry this was late, in the words of Jill Bearup "None of this was in the out line!" - I seriously reccomend her 'Fantasy Heroine seried on Youtube and (I assume) TikTok. The estimated length is now also at 8 chapters because some things may need more space. Good news, next week will be on time, it's basically finished.
Last week I did also post a Jon focussed one shot about him being ressurected involving Lady Stone Heart. It's focussed on the book lore a lot more. You could view it as a prequel to this, but its not super relevant. It was heavily influenced by an author banned on this site, so it is on AO3 only, and my name there is ItMakesSenseInContext.