A Dream of a Red Door

by MCorey1317

(EXPLICIT) This is a VERY kinky story of Daenerys and Jon in a post-GoT world in which he changed his mind at the last moment. Consensual bedroom fun, an adventurous twist that you probably won't expect, an attempted non-consensual encounter, and what I'd like to think is an ending that blends plot and feelings with erotica. I have decided to add the (tonally different) epilogue.

6. Epilogue

As the months went by, Daenerys's condition soon rendered certain activities either impractical or unwise, and thus Jon had indulged her whim and swapped their sturdy oak bed for one with a golden filigreed headboard. A headboard to which he had promptly tied her wrists with the finest scarves and proceeded to work his tongue and fingers below her growing belly in a number of very interesting ways. Still, while it was enjoyable, she found that she much preferred Jon's original methods, and she looked forward to when her body would once again be hers alone.

She discovered she had not nearly the taste for such play as Jon did, but Daenerys did delight on occasion in the sight of her husband on the bed, straining against the ropes, as she teased him … particularly if he'd been especially irritating that day. Often, however, she found herself wishing she was in his place instead, and it was not terribly infrequent that they took turns, both amusing themselves in seeing who could draw the other's pleasure out the longest, until they pled for release. Whatever shame the queen had once felt at such pastimes had long since vanished. Unbidden, the words of her treacherous handmaiden would rise from the depths of her memory.

We are as the gods have made us.

The familiar game of her kneeling and staring into the fire had largely lost its luster with the compulsion lifted, though Daenerys and Jon did revisit old habits from time to time.

When her belly had grown uncomfortably large and their child's arrival appeared imminent, she asked Jon to have the door to the royal quarters painted red.

The years to come were kind to Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Eddard Targaryen was born healthy and hale, and the realm rejoiced that the shadow of tragedy and cruelty which had seemingly poisoned the queen's soul her entire life had finally, at last, been lifted. She smiled more easily, laughed more readily, and she appeared to have found peace. Prince Aegon ... she had insisted on at least one proper Targaryen name for her and Jon's children ... followed some years thereafter, and finally, when both of their sons had left behind their toddler years, their final effort at a daughter had resulted in Princess Lyanna arriving, squalling and red-faced, to greet the world.

At forty, the queen could still pass for a woman of thirty, and at fifty and five years old, people whispered that she had been blessed to remain as thin and fresh-faced as a woman still of four decades. Daenerys long suspected that this was somehow her husband's doing, but she had never inquired on the topic, and he had never broached it. She watched her children grow to the fullness of adulthood in peace, then have children, and eventually grandchildren, of their own. The Seven Kingdoms prospered, and over long years, wounds were healed, ruins were rebuilt, and cities repopulated.

For Jon, the decades did not touch him at all, and he looked much the same at his end of his reign as he had on its first day. Whispers of wonder at his youthful appearance eventually became questioning murmurs and then, ultimately, fearful mutters as first his children, and then his children's children, saw grey creep into their hair and lines etch upon their miens while his face remained unchanged.

Fairly early in his reign, Westeros gave him a new name, Aegon the Undying, which many felt had a lyrical symmetrical with certain prior Aegons, namely, Aegon the Unworthy and Aegon the Unlikely. At first it was used entirely in jest, due to his youthful appearance. Eventually, towards the end, few found any humor in the title, least of all Jon, who did his best to ignore it entirely.

Jon was devoted to his queen, some men said beyond all reason, and was loathe to leave her side for any meaningful stretch of days, but while their reign proved one of peace and prosperity, any kingdom had its share of troubles. The odd squabble between houses, the trading dispute turned ugly on the high sighs, and occasionally … something more.

A decade or so after the Night King's Wroth, strange tales began to come out of the North, of dead men who rose at night, only to fall again at the break of day, of a ghostly white figure with bright blue eyes who would sit deep within snow-flurried woods, and flocks of crows who moved together with no discernible purpose. Winter winds rose in the dead of summer, and men barred their doors as fear took hold.

And Jon knew. He didn't fully understand why or how he knew, but he knew. As the occurrences appeared to be centered on Winterfell, he had flown there first to treat with his sister, Lady Stark. Lady Sansa Stark, while not pleased to see a brother with whom she had grown somewhat estranged, was at least polite as to his surprise visit via dragonback, but when she was informed of his suspicions as to the source of the depredations stalking the North, and his plan to remedy the issue … namely via the armor he wore and the use of the sword at his side … Lady Sansa's rage could not be quelled.

It was not the first time Jon had quarreled with Sansa. Their relationship had become strained when she learned he was in love, and intended to marry, the woman who, although she had played an instrumental role in saving the North and ending the Night King's Wroth, had burned down much of King's Landing, murdered many tens of thousands in the process, and was generally considered to have gone insane. That strain had grown to bitterness when Jon had refused to support Winterfell's petition for secession, and the bitterness had become a deep and gradually widening rift when Jon had not so subtly hinted that once he and his wife's rule had been consolidated, and he had finished pulling the Twins down to their foundation stones, he would not hesitate to turn north if Sansa declared herself Queen.

While there was no friendliness between them after the day Jon had hinted at his willingness to march his armies north, there had at least been polite cordiality. That ended when King Aegon told the Lady of Winterfell that Brandon Stark had become a foul creature polluted by the Night King's touch and that he intended to personally end their brother's nascent reign of terror. That day, their relationship had shattered beyond all hope of repair. Sansa's words rang in Jon's ears for many years, namely that Jon had found it in his heart to love the mad queen who had unleashed fire and blood upon King's Landing but would not even try to help his own brother.

When Sansa had barred him from Winterfell, a pronouncement he respected despite her having no right to issue it, he had continued his search, and after long weeks of following every trail of corpses he could find, he finally located Brandon Stark. As he suspected … no … as he had known, the Night King's touch had infected Bran. If he had waited even one more year, the king of the White Walkers would have returned in truth. He had drawn Longclaw then, set it ablaze, and done what needed to be done. Bran thanked Jon, and begged him to keep secret his fate, just before he brought the sword down. Jon had given his word to Bran, and much like the keeping of such a secret had cost his father dearly, it cost Jon, as well.

Deciding that he had ignored the needs of his Stark kin for too long, Jon devoted himself to a long and often frustrating search for Arya. While it took several years, he finally received word that she had been frequenting opulent drinking and gambling establishments along a particularly exotic stretch of coastline bordering the Jade Sea. Given they had three children to raise and a kingdom to rule, Queen Daenerys had not been happy when Jon asked her consent to fly across the world in search of his long-missing sister, but eventually she agreed, if reluctantly. Such consent, however, was conditioned on an explicit assurance from Jon as to the maximum number of days he would be absent. Jon had given her such an assurance in a cavalier fashion, but secretly, he assumed that his wife would understand that he would be gone as long as was needed to find Arya.

Jon had a great deal of insight into his wife's nature, but on the above point he was gravely mistaken.

The search was long. Much longer than Jon had thought it would take. He saw amazing wonders of the Jade Sea during his months flying to one town and city after another and might have enjoyed them more if he had not been pestered at every stop by hordes of onlookers fascinated by Drogon and frustrated by Arya's apparent devotion to itinerant travels. Eventually, at last, he found his sister in a particularly expensive leisure establishment crammed with pillows and curtains and odd smelling smoke that caused the lobes of his ears and his lips to go numb and his head to become fogged with confusion.

His sister looked much the same, though the features of her face had hardened, and she'd grown whip-strong and lean. Jon knew that she immediately recognized that he had not aged, but she did him the courtesy of not mentioning it. Arya had been touched by Valyrian magic, as had he, and she had insights beyond those of normal men or women … and he suspected she had some inkling of what the magic inside him was doing.

By the time, at long last, that he had located Arya, Jon had grown worried about the length of his absence from King's Landing. He did not wish to be rude and cut short their reunion, and thankfully, before he could broach the subject, Arya had informed him that she had business to attend to three days hence that could not be delayed, but she would very much like to spend those three days with him. Deciding that three more days after so many long months could not possibly matter, Jon resolved to spend them with Arya and then return to King's Landing immediately.

They had shared the stories of their lives, he had told her all about his family and their mutual friends and relations, and within minutes it was as if they had never been parted. Jon loved all his siblings, but it had always been with Arya that, in many ways, he felt the most understood.

Arya's business partner, with whom she apparently shared living quarters, was a striking, lively, and dangerous appearing woman with short raven black hair, a hawk nose, and a knowing leer. She stood at least half a hand taller than Jon, but it was Arya who appeared in charge of their business … and their lives. The two of them earned a rather impressive living tracking down ship captains inclined to barratry and individuals who had mistakenly believed that significant debts need not be repaid if the debtor merely relocated a sufficient distance from the creditor at issue. Apparently, their success rate and steadfast and unwavering principle that they would bring criminals back to ports of jurisdiction, but would never be assassins, made them much in demand.

So lucrative was the profession that Arya and her partner often engaged in long stretches of indulgent idleness or curious adventure. Arya, without boasting, told them of amazing discoveries in Sothoryos, and Jon had been much impressed. Upon seeing the manner of the two women during the telling of these stories, and in particular the easy way in which they finished each other's sentences or casually touched a shoulder or knee at a particular energetic recollection, Jon quickly reached a conclusion about the true nature of Arya's relationship with the beauty at her side, but as his sister did not discuss that part of her life, he did not pry.

One morning at breakfast, when the hawk-faced woman had worn a black leather jerkin with no shirt beneath, Jon had noticed a set of red, puffy bruises that encircled the entire circumference of the woman's wrists along with her upper arms, just above the elbows. They had faded by lunchtime, and were a subtle detail to spot, except to one who has seen such a thing many times before. Jon had smiled, and the thought did occur to him yet again that, of his kin, Arya was the most like him.

Jon had decided that he would not keep secrets from Arya she had a right to know, within the limiys of his promise to Bran, and on the second day of his visit he had asked to speak with her alone. Arya brusquely informed him that she had no secrets from the woman with whom she shared her life, and thus he began.

First, he had begged Arya's forgiveness for what had happened with Bran, about what the Night King's touch had done, and what he had to do. She had looked at him with sad gray eyes and said, "Magic has a terrible price. I understand."

Next, he revealed to her his arrangement with the Faceless Men, namely that Arya would take their secrets with her to grave and not become a competitor, and in return they would leave her and her loved ones in peace. Arya had grown very still and asked him to explain further, and he obliged her.

The Seven Kingdoms owed a great deal of money to the Iron Bank of Braavos at the beginning of his rule, Jon explained, and the cost of rebuilding required the extension of even further loans. After a number of years of regular, on-time, repayments, accompanied by enthusiastic promises that the Targaryen dynasty would honor all debts, he had arranged for a meeting with men he had been informed held sway in Braavos. Time was of the essence, as he knew that Arya was fleeing from city to city, and had been for years, always one step ahead of Faceless Men.

At the meeting he had informed the men from Braavos that he was horrified to learn that their legendary guild of assassins continuously hunted his sister, a young woman half his size who was no threat to anyone. When they feigned ignorance, he had turned to the man who cast a shadow that did not match his body and said that he would tolerate no lies in his presence. The man had made a single gesture with his hand, and in unison, every other Braavosi stood and left the room.

"To murder the sister of a king would be a grievous crime," Jon informed the man with the mismatched shadow.

"A girl has stolen our secrets," the man replied, "and a man cannot play favorites. A girl knew the penalty for the choices she made."

Jon had informed him that he didn't care. He knew the Faceless Men honored their vows and considered them sacred, so they would reach an accord that day, or the repayments to the Iron Bank would cease immediately.

The man had sat silently, and then finally he had shrugged. "A nation would then pay the price for not honoring its debts."

The torches in the room had guttered and darkened, and Jon had leaned forward and made his shadow loom large on the wall behind him, as he replied, "Arya does not want to be your enemy, and neither do I, but if she dies, there will be fire and blood, and if you think your temple houses the only men in this world who know the secrets of old Valyria, I will teach you otherwise."

By that time, a threat from Aegon Targaryen VI was not something to be easily ignored.

The man had tilted his head and asked for Jon's proposal. It was simple, the loans would continue to be repaid, at a mildly higher interest rate … Arya had gasped in shock when she realized what had been paid for her life … and Jon would swear not to make the Faceless Men or Braavos his enemy for the entirety of his reign, so long as in return, the Faceless Men would inform Arya of the parts of the deal that she needed to know and then leave her alone.

The man from Braavos had considered, and said, "A girl must promise to never speak of our secrets, to not write them down, and to swear, by gods both old and new, that she will not be a deliverer of the gift of death. If a girl will promise these things, then a bargain has been made today."

Arya then interrupted Jon, and breathily informed him that when the Faceless Men had finally found her, she'd by that point resigned herself to death. When they offered her peace in exchange for certain promises, she had accepted immediately and wondered what god had intervened on her behalf. Arya had thanked him for what he had done and said that it meant a great deal to her that Jon had told her this directly, without prompting.

The three days Jon spent with Arya along the coast of the Jade Sea, even though they ultimately proved to be the last days they ever spent together, were among the happiest of Jon's life, soured only by his increasing worry at the length of his absence from King's Landing. It did not occur to him until after he was flying home that Arya had never inquired after Gendry, although there had never been a time that Jon had spoken with the Lord of Storm's End when the man had not asked for word of Arya.

Not so happy, however, was the day of Jon's return to King's Landing. He had been gone months longer than he had anticipated, and more importantly, months longer than he had promised his wife. Drogon had been spotted well before Jon's feet began to tread the halls of the Red Keep, and only cursory nervous greetings, and no celebration of any kind, met his return. The king had long had a habit of ordering that no disruptive gatherings of homage, obeisance, or pomp were to greet him as he moved about the city, but if asked, he would have admitted to having been somewhat hurt by the rather indifferent and cold reception given by those from whom he expected otherwise.

When he reached the Great Hall, it was entirely empty, save for Daenerys, waiting for him on the Iron Throne while wearing Aegon the Conqueror's crown. Jon, whose sense of foreboding had grown with every step he took after Drogon landed, realized at that moment that he should have taken more seriously the conversation he had with his wife prior to his departure.

The queen's litany of grievances, which commenced as soon as he was within earshot, was unrelenting, and the volume of her pronouncements seemed, in defiance of the laws of nature, to continuously increase every second that she spoke, until finally Jon began to puzzle as to why the windows in the room had not yet shattered from the force of her words. While the details of the complaints she offered were varied and detailed, the gist of the matter was simple: her husband had been gone for months, had broken his promise as to the duration of his excursion, and he had left her no answers for three children who needed their father, including an answer to the question of whether Jon was even still alive.

That same question had also been on the mind of the entire realm. The Seven Kingdoms had long behaved as though they had forgiven, or at least forgotten, Daenerys's reign of terror in the first days of her rule, and it was true that their opinion of her had steadily risen as her disposition and demeanor had improved, but it had always been made clear in ways both subtle and explicit that the realm greatly preferred that she rule jointly with her husband, Aegon Targaryen VI, as Jon was considered one of the most trustworthy, honorable, and dependable men in Westeros.

As Daenerys continued, she drifted from topic to topic, each more personal and wounding than the last. The barbs that sunk deepest were those pointing out how indifferent Jon had been to his wife's safety, and how callous she considered his lack of consideration for her long, deep-seated fear of being deposed or outright murdered by any number of people whose grudges were of such a nature that no amount of time would ever diminish them.

Daenerys also reminded Jon that she had once been kidnapped, in these very walls, right from under his nose, and that if it had happened again, he and Drogon would not be available to help search. Many doubts did she utter as to whether, henceforth, he was entitled to call himself a man after abandoning his wife, children, and royal responsibilities in such a way. Some of the strident criticisms Jon would admit were fair, others, particularly those referring to the unimpressive size of his manhood or its inability to function properly in the matters of the bedroom, he felt were unwarranted and inaccurate.

Jon, in truth, did not believe his wife was at any real risk of being assassinated or kidnapped in his absence, or he would never have left at all. It is, however, a hard reality that horrors which visit a person in their youth create fears that are difficult to extinguish, and just as a full-grown man might still shy away from spiders, Daenerys was cursed to fear villains stalking her from the shadows every day of her life. In her mind, she had enemies in Westeros who were biding their time and merely staying their hand for fear of Jon delivering to them the same grim fate he had dispensed to the criminal nobility of Casterly Rock, the Twins, the Dreadfort, Pyke, and numerous other houses, both great and small, whose crimes he considered beyond pardon, and with the king gone for so long and his return uncertain, who knew when she or her children might be assassinated.

As the queen repeatedly reminded Jon, he had known about her feelings, and he simply hadn't cared.

To Jon's credit, he did not attempt to defend himself. He admitted to his wife his shame, and his guilt, but profuse apologies did not seem to have any effect. Daenerys's anger continued to rage unchecked, and eventually, Jon suspected that perhaps there was a fear of a different kind that she was not voicing and had kept long hidden from him.

She was growing older, and she feared for what that might mean.

It must be said that for men, and Jon was no exception, to look upon the face of the woman you loved was an experience unaffected by age, as in the ways that matter, their beloved would remain ever beautiful no matter what might come. Daenerys was, in truth, still beautiful and graceful of both limb and body, but while the effects of birthing three children had been far more tender on her than it had been on many other women, the reality was that she was aging, and her husband was not.

Jon's heart broke when he realized that his wife, in roundabout ways, was screaming at him to tell her whether he would continue to love her as he had in the past, or if his absences would grow ever more frequent, his touch ever less tender, and whether he would turn his attention elsewhere. Her seemingly casually delivered comments about him likely being distracted by the exotic beauty of the women of the Jade Sea suddenly seemed to represent rather carefully chosen words as opposed to random aspersions.

Something in his face must have finally given her cause to cease the unending criticisms of Jon's recent performance as a husband and as a father, for she fell silent and waited to see what further account he might give of himself. Jon climbed the steps to the Iron Throne, held her hand, and told her that it had simply taken him far longer to find his sister than he had anticipated, that this was not an event that would be repeated, and that it meant nothing more than that he had been a callous idiot. Then he had told her that he loved her just as much now as ever, and that he grieved that he had given her cause to doubt that, but in short order, he would put things to rights between them. Then he leaned in to kiss her.

And Daenerys had turned her head away and once more begun berating him for thinking that a few half-hearted, empty words would mend the damage he had done. Jon had sighed then and realized that the task of improving his wife's disposition towards him would be far more difficult than he had hoped.

While the room was seemingly clear of people, he sensed the shadows of a few Kingsguard lurking about. He called for Brienne … who pretended not to hear his summons … and then Jon requested that she please not make him perform the mummer's farce of walking over and pretending to find her.

Brienne, sheepishly, emerged. Daenerys had not been pleased that her order to keep the hall empty had been ignored, and thus she began directing her vitriol at the Lord Commander, who seemed to shrink within her armor with each passing second. Jon did his best to hide his relief that at least the queen had ceased screaming imprecations at him. The king had pulled the knight aside, tried to ignore the calamitous outrage emanating from the throne, and gave certain instructions regarding the Royal Tower that Brienne had not received for several years. She had blushed, but nodded, and Jon felt assured that interloping children and official business would not disturb him and his wife until tomorrow morning. Brienne hastened off to do as he asked.

Trudging back up to the Iron Throne felt a task on par with marching into battle, but Jon knew it had to be done. Daenerys attempted to push him away when he leaned in again, but this time he was not offering her a kiss, but a warning that she could either come to their chambers to discuss this matter further in private, or the entire Red Keep would watch him carry her.

Her jaw fell agape, and she told him that he would never dare.

"I will," was his only reply.

In truth, Daenerys knew in her heart that Jon would never have done such a thing, for he had never forced her in that way or shamed her publicly, but the indication that he cared enough to make such a threat did more to assuage her anger than anything else he had said up to that point.

The queen had regally composed herself and followed him to their rooms. After they had maneuvered to their bedchamber, he had barred the door. His apologies were long, they were heartfelt, and the assurances he gave her were exactly of the kind she needed to hear, most importantly that nothing like this would ever happen again and that she need never fear his eye wandering to another woman.

She had been mollified, but still not completely won over. In a further attempt to goad him into anger, she haughtily informed Jon that beginning the very day after he was late to return, she commenced with playing 'tickle the valley,' as he so vulgarly liked to put it, and that she had continued to do so whenever the notion struck her. She then inquired as to whether her husband cared about her defiance of his explicit instructions on the topic, or if, since he had been gone so long, the needs of her body were no longer a concern of his? Even though Jon had, in fact, long abandoned his objections to the activity Daenerys was referencing, he had an inkling as to what she wished from him, and thus he proceeded to demonstrate, at great length, over the course of the night, that his devotion to his wife had remained unchanged.

The next day Daenerys sat the Iron Throne with a half-smile and a fully soothed heart as to her husband's affection towards her. Many did, however, note it quite odd to see the Iron Throne bestrewn with pillows.

While all understand Daenerys's feelings, the events of that day undoubtedly changed the course of history, and not for the better. His desire to never again see his wife so aggrieved likely was the determining factor in Jon's steadfast refusal to leave King's Landing for any extended period, regardless of need, for the remainder of his lengthy reign, even when all agree he should have. That was not to say Jon never left King's Landing again, for he did, as the necessities of state cropped up from time to time, but his days of war and travel were largely over … though perhaps one other incident is noteworthy enough to bear repeating.

With Viserion's skull mounted on the throne room wall, and Rhaegal lost to the sea, Drogon was the only living dragon in the world … but if one dragon had awoken from an egg thought dead, many felt, surely another could. Jon did what he could to search Dragonstone, the Dragonpit, and anywhere else his senses led him, and on occasion he did find dragon eggs. Not many, but enough to concern him. He spread them throughout the deep, hidden treasuries of King's Landing, and believed them safe, but they were not.

Astapor had never forgotten, or forgiven, Daenerys's time in the city. They considered themselves to have been victims of lies and treachery, and they ceaselessly lusted for the dragon they believe they had bought. Since they could not have Drogon, they decided that they would have dragon eggs. Careful planning and secret passages, long a bedeviling irritant to the monarchs of Westeros, resulted in two of the eggs being stolen. When Jon realized the theft had occurred, an investigation by the small council led to the conclusion that the Great Masters of Astapor were responsible.

His wife had long ago conquered the rage and anger in her soul, but she recalled her time in Astapor with even less fondness than did the people of Astapor, and she proceeded to become as wroth as Jon had seen her in many years. At one point he had smiled briefly and asked, given the threats of violence she was recommending, if he would need to search beneath their bed for a large trunk that they had seldom found the urge to open as of late. At that comment, the queen had blanched, composed herself and calmly given him insight into the best course of action.

In a concession to the reality that, typically, her instincts for statecraft were far better than his own, he had followed her suggestion to forego diplomacy, or reason, or humility, and instead personally send a message. Aegon Targaryen VI … Aegon the Undying … ruled Westeros with his queen for roughly six decades, and in all those years, save for the day of his coronation, no living soul had seen him wear a crown but for the time he flew to Astapor.

The ruby set in Aegon the Conqueror's crown sparkled in the sun from atop Jon's head as he landed Drogon outside the gates of Astapor and proceeded to wait. First the men inside scrambled for safety while they sent their slave soldiers to form a phalanx in front of the gates and to man the walls, and then, eventually, a few of the Masters had haltingly made their way to him in order to attempt a parley.

There would be no parley. He had smiled at them, drew Longclaw, and then set it ablaze with a glance. He eyed a large gleaming statue, that of a harpy, standing tall above the city wall, and though he briefly considered having Drogon bathe it in flames, he reasoned that dragon breath would likely set the city on fire and kill innocents who had no hand in the treachery of their rulers. He settled on a different strategy.

Instead, he pointed Longclaw at the statue, concentrated, and shifted a small portion of the fire within him that had grown greater with every passing year. The use of magic created a sickly-sweet current of intoxicating, but also disorienting, sensations that raced through his veins. He felt his power envelop the statue, he concentrated further, and Jon smiled in satisfaction as the metal of the Harpy turned first a dull orange, then a blazing yellow, and finally a gleaming white. As the molten metal dripped upon the stones below, they smoldered into dust-covered lumps and ripples of heat rose from the dust. When Jon was satisfied that the message had been sent, he released the magic, breathed deeply to hide the wave of exhaustion that washed over him, and turned back to the cowering, screaming Masters.

Jon informed them that they had until sundown to bring him the two dragon eggs, and he ignored any pleas of ignorance or further entreaties on the subject. Eventually, they had slunk away and done what he had asked, and also in a show of apology proffered several bags containing a multitude of severed heads that they claimed were those responsible for the theft. The sight disgusted Jon. He had tucked the eggs away and left wondering if the world might not be a better place without cities like Astapor in it.

Men of every nation had seen the display outside Astapor, and in the years to come, news arrived from nervous lips that in far corners of the world, places where old beliefs still held sway, bonfires not lit since the days of the Night King's Wroth had been kindled once more, and that around the flames men and women swayed and danced and burned the symbols and books of other religions in the name of Aegon the Undying.

The small council of the time had thought little of the matter, the world was always breeding one superstition or another. Jon had then reminded them in his quiet way that any religion that started by burning books would, if they were not stopped, eventually burn people, and that he should perhaps do something about this.

Jon's half-uncle, who by that time went by the name Lord Tyrion Hill, father of two and happily wed to a woman from Braavos who had brought to the marriage a daughter and a scandalous reputation that she had been a courtesan, sensing Jon's thoughts on the matter, had quietly informed his king that flying to temples on his dragon to wave his flaming sword and punish followers of a religion that displeased him would undoubtedly have the exact opposite effect than the one he was hoping to achieve. When Jon realized the truth of Tyrion's counsel, the hearth of the small council chamber had burned hot enough to melt the stone, but the king had gritted his teeth and accepted that not every wrong was within his ability to right.

As much as he tried to hide it, and no matter how much he wished it had never come to him, Jon had drawn deeply on his powers and their growth could no longer be checked. Just as Samwell Tarley had warned him long ago, once unleashed, the power waxed with the years and seemingly on a yearly basis the magic would manifest as some new, unwanted, ability. As the decades of his life grew ever longer there came a day when a mere shift of Jon's brow would darken streets at mid-day or bathe them in light after the sun had set. Jon realized that the existence of a being such as Aegon the Undying was not healthy for the world, but he resolved to take no action while he and his wife's reign endured.

Jon and Daenerys never sought for any of their family to marry for any reason beside love, regardless of where that love had been found, to the great consternation of every member of the small council who ever served them. Thus, when their dark-haired second son, Aegon, had begged for permission to marry his beautiful, silver-gold haired sister, Lyanna, who even as a child he had been closer to than one would customarily expect between siblings, the king and queen had looked at each other and reluctantly decided that they were in no position to judge. That union had produced four healthy grandchildren. Eddard, their eldest, he of the black hair and the Stark gray eyes, had six children with a daughter of Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Vale. Sweetrobin had grown into a tall, strong man who resembled not at all the frail child he once had been.

Jon and Daenerys's children and grandchildren were blessed with youth, with vigor, and freedom from the unlucky accidents and tragedies that regularly befell families regardless of power or wealth. Jon knew it was not luck, but rather his blood in them, and at times he wondered if it would not perhaps have been wiser if he had refrained from risking the possibility that he would bring more beings such as himself into the world. It was bad enough that his ever-growing strength was polluting the lands, that problem would eventually end, but it would be far worse if he founded an eternal dynasty of sorcerer kings. Jon, however, had loved his wife beyond all measure, and the happiness that their children and grandchildren brought her had typically banished any such thought from his head.

It was a thought that he should have given more consideration to.

He watched his family closely, and while a few of them did display abilities and interests that could only have come from his magic-soaked blood, what powers they exhibited were typically vestigial and of little concern. He did everything he could to steer them away from pursuing such interests and prevented them from sharpening what skills they possessed.

One of his grandchildren, however, possessed abilities that were anything but vestigial. Aemon Targaryen, the second son of Jon's second son, Aegon Targaryen, had been named for a kind, gentle man that had never displayed the slightest lust for power and who had lived his life in service to others. Never in the history of the world had there been a more bitterly ironic choice of name.

Aemon Targaryen, it must be said, had not been an evil child, nor even an evil young man. He was polite, he laughed easily, he loved his family. No truly wicked inclinations were ever noticed by Jon, who looked carefully for such things, but Aemon Targaryen combined two traits that, when present together, generally prove fatal to the long-term health of a man's character. He was arrogant and he was entitled. Though she never spoke of it, Daenerys found that her grandson reminded her, in more ways than merely physical appearance, of her long dead brother, Viserys … but while Viserys had been fumbling and weak, Aemon had been brilliant, shrewd, and strong of purpose. Magic did call to young Aemon, he embraced that call, and he considered the powers he sought to be his birthright.

Jon had noticed where the direction of his grandson's life was leading, and when Aemon asked for learning, he had refused. As Aemon Targaryen came of age, he grew angry at being denied, and rather than accept the wisdom of his grandsire, he had sought the knowledge elsewhere. Everywhere he turned, however, whether it was The Citadel, or the great libraries of the realm, Jon had sent word first, and he ensured that Aemon Targaryen did not receive that for which he asked.

Aemon Targaryen eventually realized what his grandfather had done. His frustration and rage began to grow, and his disposition soured and darkened. Finally, after he accepted that the Seven Kingdoms would never give him what he sought, he had boarded a ship bound for Essos and proceeded to vanish for many long years from recorded history. In truth, few besides his family mourned Aemon's absence, for he had grown surly and bitter. Jon had launched a search, but Aemon had expected such an effort and he evaded detection.

Most crucially, however, Jon did not conduct the search himself, despite members of his family begging him to fly to Essos and use his abilities to find and bring back his misguided grandchild. When such entreaties were voiced the queen, whose silver-gold hair had become thick with grey, would look away and pretend to be indifferent as to what Jon might do. Jon, however, had a long memory when it came to Daenerys's fears and needs, and his reluctance to leave her side had only increased over time. Thus, it came to be that he never acted upon his well-founded suspicion that without his counsel Aemon would eventually find, and turn towards, forbidden pursuits.

Although Jon was unaware of the possible consequences at the time, his failure to locate and bring to account, by any means necessary, his grandson Aemon Targaryen, proved to be the most significant mistake he ever made as a king, and perhaps the single most significant mistake in recorded history. Even when, in the last years of Jon's reign, whispers began to speak of a fell power having arisen in the mountains north of Asshai, his attention was steadfastly elsewhere.

It would be more long decades before the true scope of the threat posed by Aemon Targaryen to the worlds of gods and of men was fully understood, and by then his strength had grown great and terrible beyond almost all reckoning. When gods returned to the world of men to lead the fight against an enemy that mankind had no hope of defeating without them, they discovered to their horror that Aemon Targaryen was well-prepared for their arrival. The resulting war to defeat the self-styled God-King of Asshai … commonly called the War of Flame and Shadow … was the bloodiest, most tragic, and terrifyingly destructive conflict the world had ever seen, but the telling of such a tale is far beyond the scope of these pages.

Motherhood and Drogon's increasing size eventually led Daenerys to abandon dragon-riding, for the beast became a monstrous terror not seen since the days of Balerion or Vhagar. The great black reptile became Jon's mount alone, and he flew regularly to Oldtown to consult with his oldest and best friend, Grand Maester Tarly, and dine with Gilly and the couple's two adult children. Occasionally he visited other acquaintances he held dear, and still more rarely, he and Drogon flew to the strange places of the world.

Not every change that came to the lives of Jon and his queen were filled with ominous portent or dramatic consequence. For example, when Daenerys, feeling that certain habits she once had found exciting had become rather silly for a woman of her age, had meekly inquired of Jon as to whether she could perhaps discard one of them, he had smiled and given his consent. Thus, when a matronly, gray-haired Volantene woman with whom Daenerys had been holding private audiences twice a month for nearly three decades appeared for their regularly scheduled meeting, she found that the queen wished merely to converse.

Daenerys inquired as to the woman's husband and children, all of whom were engaged in tending the vineyard and accompanying manse that the woman had purchased utilizing the monies earned from her services to the crown. The Volantene woman, who immediately suspected the eventual nature of the conversation, had sweetly smiled and said that all were well. The queen had thanked the woman for her loyal and unwavering service, and most importantly, for maintaining the utmost discretion. Daenerys had then presented the woman with a sizable pension, informed her that should she ever require any assistance on any matter, the queen would not forget the intimately personal nature of their acquaintance, and that the woman need only call upon her and she would do what she could.

The woman assured the queen that she considered knowledge as to her services sacrosanct, and promised that no one, not even her husband, knew why she had met privately with Daenerys twice a month for years. The woman, in a rare display of talkativeness, admitted that it had long amused her to hear the gossip as to why an ex-slave might have such a relationship with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she had decided that her favorite speculation was that she was the ringleader of a band of spies based out of Volantis.

Daenerys had laughed, thanked her again, and the woman had moved to depart. As she hovered at the door, for the first time that the queen could recall, the woman spoke with a hint of impertinence. With a twinkle in her eye, she had looked at Daenerys and said, "Please do convey to the king that I very much hope my services have brought him enjoyment over the years, and also let him know that, just in case his grace should change his mind, I shall keep my razor well-sharpened." Daenerys had turned beet-red and she clenched her jaw as she searched for something to say in return, but the woman, with a sly smile, opened the door and exited her life before the queen could find a suitable reply.

Ser Brienne, stubborn until the end, participated in every tournament that did not unduly distract from her duties as Lord Commander, even when Jon, in a rare attempt at direct and forceful persuasion, begged her to put aside her love of the lists. An errant lance from a hedge knight in the tournament held to celebrate Daenerys's fifty-fifth name-day, a blow that Brienne even a few years earlier would have flicked aside in contempt with her shield, had pierced her helmet. The maesters sadly informed king and queen that the Lord Commander had been dead before she hit the ground. Brienne's recklessness, given her age, had become well known, and many muttered that perhaps she felt that she had outlived the secret love of her life, of whom she never spoke, far too long.

In the later days of his reign, a man had come to Jon, a man who cast the wrong shadow, and told him that Arya had met her end, not from an adventure in far-off lands as he had always suspected would be her fate, but from a wasting illness contracted in Naath. Despite Jon's grief, he had thanked the messenger for the courtesy of the news, and also thanked him in advance for continuing to keep the Faceless Men in Essos, where they belonged. It did not occur to him until the visitor had left that he had likely been sent because the Faceless Men were worried. More specifically, they were worried that Jon would believe that they had broken their deal and assassinated Arya.

The most feared assassins in the world, a guild with dread Valyrian magic at their disposal, were concerned about the anger of one man on a different continent. It was a sobering realization.

After he'd taken a day to mourn Arya's passing, Jon had flown to Storm's End to inform Lord Gendry, and the Lord's lady wife had most certainly not appreciated the resulting ferocity of Gendry's weeping. Gendry died shortly thereafter, almost as if he'd been living sheerly out of hope that he would once more see the love of his youth, but if Arya had ever stepped foot in the Seven Kingdoms while Jon had been king, he did not know of it. They had buried Gendry, per his instructions, next to Davos Seaworth, his good right hand and father figure through all the early years of his lordship.

Of Tormund Giantsbane and Grey Worm, Jon never discovered their fates, though he made regular inquiries of visitors he thought might know of them. His reach eventually grew very long, but he had his limits, and the red-haired wildling and the morose eunuch had traveled beyond the range of his powers, be they magical or political.

Tyrion Hill, who had been overjoyed to discover that he had no Lannister blood in him, but considerably less pleased to be informed he was in actuality the son of the Mad King and the product of what was most likely rape, spent many decades giving the realm peaceful and prosperous stewardship as Hand. He died, not quite at eighty as he had once wished so long ago, but near enough, after saving his youngest grandson from drowning. He hadn't hesitated to leap from a King's Landing dock into the Blackwater, the site of his great unsung triumph, grab the child by the nape of his tunic, and swim both of them to a nearby ladder.

After emerging from the harbor, he had leaned against a wine merchant's cart and asked for whatever vintage was at hand. Death came for him mid-sip while he was gazing to the east, at what sight, real or imagined, none could say. Daenerys, whose health and vibrancy had been the envy of women across the realm throughout her life, but who had begun her own slow failing, had wept on and off for days at the news of her half-brother's passing.

Of all the accomplishments of Jon and Daenerys's reign, one they had taken particular pride in was that eventually men learned that while he and his wife would tolerate joking nicknames at their expense, cruel monikers such as 'Imp' or 'Half-Man' would not be treated with a similar leniency. Men had learned their views on the matter very well indeed, and word had quickly spread in that regard.

Lady Sansa Stark outlived all five of her husbands. Of the three she had married free of duress and coercion, there had been a Manderly of White Harbor, who she wed out of political necessity, then a Karstark, who she had married in pursuit of peace between their houses, and finally, in a twist of fate that only the most capricious of gods could have ordained, a Frey, with whom she recited her vows for the sake of love. Not a single man or woman of the North was anything other than shocked and outraged by the match, but Jasper Frey, who had left Westeros as a teen and only returned late in his adult years, proved in terms of honor and decency to have been everything his much-loathed grandsire was not.

As the Twins had been pulled down and the bridge declared free for all to use, so long as they did so in peace, Sansa's fifth wedding had taken place at Winterfell. Jon's wife and family, but not he, had been invited specifically by name, albeit in a perfunctory and cool manner not befitting their station. The snubbing of the king, while only implied by the absence of his name on the invitation, did not go unnoticed, and Jon was pained by it, but he understood and ordered that no protest be brooked. His wife had left her days of blood and fire well behind, yet she remained proud and defiant, and she ignored his request. She arrived well early in Winterfell and though Daenerys never spoke of it, Lyanna, a gentle and kind daughter who brought them all much joy throughout the years, informed her father that Daenerys had beseeched and begged openly for many hours, over several days, in an attempt to induce the Lady of Winterfell to forgive Jon. Sadly, the rift could not be mended.

All of Lady Sansa's eight children took the last name Stark. Jon had suspected his sister would walk Westeros long after he was gone, but one night, after commanding that she be given her solitude, the cold claimed Sansa while she rested on a bench within the replanted and rebuilt Winterfell Godswood. Many believed that that the death of her fifth husband, the only man she had ever loved, had been a tragedy she was unwilling to bear, and that she had chosen an end befitting a woman of the North. The fact that she had been found with her coat draped on the bench next to her lent some measure of credibility to the theory.

When Jon learned that Gilly had died, peacefully but unexpectedly, his visit to Sam had been one of the hardest days of his life. Sam had run a hand through his white hair, stared at him with dead eyes, and he had finally asked a question that he had never dared ask before, despite all the many hours they had discussed magic and of the changes that were happening to Jon. Jon had answered, yes, that he would do as his friend asked when Sam was ready to pass from this world.

As Daenerys continued to age, Jon seldom left her side except at great need. The love reflected in his eyes at the sight of her never diminished, and she needed no mirror to know she remained beautiful, for she need only gaze back at him to see that truth in his face. She had jested, as her seventy-fifth name-day approached, that she would not take it amiss if Jon discreetly sought companionship elsewhere on occasion, as he looked still a young man, and likely still had a young man's needs.

She had not seen him angry at her for so long that she found the sight truly terrible to behold. It had been years since the queen's joints had been up to the task of kneeling, but out of old habit she searched for the shape of a familiar round rug. The day of that quarrel, many reported that for a moment the sun over King's Landing had dimmed, and maesters were at a loss to explain if the phenomenon had been real.

Daenerys hadn't joked about the subject again.

The queen's children, grandchildren, and eventually her great-grandchildren filled the days of her reign with joy, and even when her husband had to help her rise from bed, she loved to gather with them on the patio and watch the little ones play. The boys would fight with play swords and the girls would sew, and on occasion vice versa. When Jon had realized climbing the steps had become too difficult for his wife, he moved their quarters from the Royal Tower to the ground floor of the Red Keep.

When the king's visage was of a man younger than the youngest of his grandchildren, the name Aegon the Undying had long since passed from being a jest to a frighteningly real prophecy, and Jon's concern over his effect on the world intensified. As the shock of his appearance began to become a distraction, he distanced himself from all affairs of court and allowed his wife to handle all petitions and matters of state. Though she had struggled in the early years of her reign, Daenerys ultimately demonstrated herself to not merely be an able stateswoman, but an exemplary one. If a show of force was needed, the queen would typically defer to her king, but in all other matters he generally deferred to her deft hand. Many upon meeting the queen over the decades remarked at how charmingly different she turned out to be from her reputation.

While Jon and Daenerys's … arrangement … regarding their co-rule evolved over the years, one mandate never changed: Daenerys never flew Drogon alone into any territory where tensions ran high. Memories of the burning of King's Landing ran deep.

Jon focused on helping raise his children and grandchildren in the manner that he had learned from Eddark Stark, the only father he had ever known. His distrust of magic remained, but he was a dutiful man, and thus Jon studied, and he learned, and eventually, as Daenerys continued to age, he became engrossed in pursuing a singular purpose. Ravens often flew between Oldtown and the Red Keep bearing one form of esoteric lore or another, and thus with the assistance of Samwell Tarly … and one other … Jon spent many years of preparation for a day he knew would eventually arrive.

Jon's magic eventually began to wax beyond anything Sam had found in even the oldest chronicles of the Citadel. It had rooted too deep and had become too strong, Sam had warned him at first, but eventually Sam's warnings were not in regards to the magic, but in regards to Jon's soul. "Power corrupts," the Grand Maester foretold ominously from within his bushy grey beard during one of the many sessions in which Jon had experimented with his newfound abilities in an effort to master them, "and Jon, you are a good man, and you have been a good king, but the finest vintage of wine ever bottled will eventually turn to vinegar. The world does not need the existence of someone capable of grasping for absolute power … it has happened before and has always ended in catastrophe."

"When has it happened?" Jon had asked.

Sam's frame, which had grown lean from years of grief at the loss of Gilly, had hesitated a long time before answering. "The Night King, for one."

Jon had thanked him and then he headed home to his wife.

When Daenerys, a week shy of her eighty-fifth name-day, with trembling words, informed her husband that she thought it unlikely that she would ever rise again from their bed, Jon had wept tears that sizzled upon the stone floor. She had not seen him cry since Ghost had died so many long years before, and it was all her husband could do to keep his pain from blanketing the entire Crownlands in shadow.

He had begged her forgiveness, said that he had to leave, and promised that he would return within a few days. Daenerys had been stunned, but she had seen the desperation in his eyes, and gave her blessing.

"Don't go anywhere until I get back," he said.

She promised, and he told her gravely that he would hold her to that promise.

He had whipped Drogon harder than he ever had before as they flew northwards, and the dread creature's shadow had blanketed the land beneath as they swept beyond what was left of the wall to land near the home of the only man still alive that not only remembered Jon as a child, but who remained as ageless as Aegon the Undying.

Jon made sure all was in order, a task that he felt compelled to personally oversee despite his overwhelming desire to be at his wife's side, and then he flew back to King's Landing with even greater haste. The queen was well pleased that Jon had kept his word as to a speedy return, and though she had many questions about where her husband had gone on such urgency, she let the matter drop. Daenerys and Jon filled the next few weeks with quiet visits with family and their closest friends. When the day came when she could open her eyes and smile, but not speak, Jon had held his wife close and whispered he would not leave the bed.

The following evening, when Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, exhaled her last rattling breath, it was with her husband's arms wrapped around her and with a sobbing clutch of children and grandchildren wiping tears from their faces. Drogon who for hours had been restlessly circling the skies above the Red Keep, raised his head to the clouds, roared in anguish, and issued a blast of red and black fire that pierced the heavens.

Jon's grief was felt for twenty miles in every direction. The ocean darkened and icebergs formed in the Blackwater, streams froze solid, and hearths were extinguished and could not be relit for weeks. Jon allowed himself a few minutes of sorrow, but no more, because the purpose he'd set for himself, one for which he'd been preparing for many years, had to be completed before his wife's body had grown cold.

He had stood with his queen in his arms, ignored the howls and protests from his family, and strode to the Red Keep's Godswood. All who saw his face stepped aside as he approached. The weirwood tree he had planted early in his reign had, with his assistance, grown strong and tall, and the shovels he had ordered laid against its trunk were waiting for him.

By the time he reached the weirwood, not just his family, but the entire Kingsguard and several dozen onlookers had gathered behind him. He ignored them, for there was simply no time. An ancient, soft blanket ... so ancient, in fact, that his children remembered it being old when they were youths ... lay next to the tree. He wrapped Daenerys within its folds, and when the screams of terror that he had gone mad became too irritating to bear, he had fixed the onlookers with his most baleful look.

They all fell silent before his stare, though grey-haired Eddard, who had come from Dragonstone weeks earlier in order to be with his mother, had laid a hand on his arm and begged him to stop.

"You do not understand now, but I will explain when I am finished," Jon had said. He swiveled his eyes to all in attendance. "This will happen."

Crown Prince Eddard had stepped back, still uncertain, and nodded.

Jon dug on the opposite side of the tree from where he had buried Ghost, so many years earlier, and when his shirt had ripped in a dozen places from the exertion, he tore it away. Some of his family had never seen his scars, and they gasped in shock at the sight. Steadily, with the speed and strength of many men, he dug, downwards and downwards, until at last he reached the very tips of the bottom roots of the weirwood. Those roots would live even if the rest of the tree failed ... until the end of the world, if the three-eyed raven could be believed.

When the hole was finished, he had climbed out, though how no one could say, for he had left no handholds. Tenderly, he cradled his wife's body, grabbed a second, much smaller rug, and climbed back down into the hole. When he reached the bottom, he folded the second rug and lay it beneath her head, then he nestled her body deep within the roots of the weirwood.

He needed her flesh for this last part, so he steeled himself for what he had to do, made sure none of his kin were watching, then pulled one of Daenerys's spindly, withered legs free from the blanket, and with a razor of Valyrian steel that he'd purchased early in their marriage, cut deep into the meat of her leg until her still warm blood poured forth, and then he continued slicing until the blade struck bone.

Knowing that the roots would grow and secure themselves, inch by inch, through her entire body in the years to come, he securely wrapped strands within the wound, carefully tied them off, then wove the strength of his power into her blood. The last step had not been truly necessary, but he desired to be sure that his purpose was effectuated, as he had only this one chance. When he saw sparkles of fire begin to slowly course from the roots into his wife, and then circulate back out again in a steady loop, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Slowly and cautiously, so as not to disturb the ritual he had just performed, he packed the soil around her wrapped form. He cursed the necessity of doing this here, rather than north of the Wall, but every scrap of knowledge passed on to him cried out that Daenerys must be laid to rest where she had lived and died. Well, if she must lay in King's Landing, historical site of unceasing wars, Aegon the Undying would ensure that this part of King's Landing would henceforth know only peace.

When he had finished covering his wife in a sepulcher of moist soil, Jon used every scrap of his strength, and by that time his strength had grown vast indeed, to lay a geis upon the body of his queen and the tree that sheltered her. He forged the magic as strong as he could, and then he climbed from the hole and steadily filled in the dirt, stopping every now and then to recast the ward, layering barrier upon barrier to ensure Daenerys would not be disturbed.

Tirelessly he worked, until the hole was filled, and when it was done, he threw the shovel aside, sunk his hands into the dirt, and this time the maesters knew that the sky truly darkened as he lay a terrible curse upon the Red Keep's weirwood. Until the end of all things, a man need only glance at the Godswood of King's Landing with ill intent in his heart to know that a death of fire and darkness awaited any who dared to harm the tree or desecrate one teaspoonful of soil within sight of its branches, and the compulsion to turn away from disturbing the resting place of Jon's love would become overwhelming.

He gathered his stunned and horrified family to him and pointed to a chest tucked away nearby. Inside, he told them, were identical copies of a small book, written in the careful hand of Grand Maester Samwell Tarly at his direction, and there was one copy of the book for each living member of his bloodline. Use all the strength of their house to keep the volumes safe, he warned them, for its secrets were for those for his lineage alone.

He had considered letting the knowledge vanish from the world, but in the end, he had changed his mind, for he loved his children and his grandchildren as much as he loved his wife, and he had no right to deny them their birthright. His soul ached to leave them, but he had lived too long in the world, longer than was safe.

Of Jon's mistakes during his reign, almost all of them were born from love, and his decision to disseminate forbidden learning, after hiding it for so long, proved to be a monumental error. Upon learning of the existence of the books, Aemon Targaryen, his missing grandson, had raged that birthright knowledge denied him had been freely given to those he viewed as less deserving, and whatever remained of the decent and loving child he had once been died in that moment. When a copy came to him, by ways vile and foul, he used the book's contents to construct his Weirwood Throne, a cruel abomination by which he sought to bind the wills of gods and men to his dominion … but as mentioned previously, chronicling the War of Flame and Shadow is beyond the scope of these pages.

To the chorus of questions from his children and grandchildren in attendance, Jon had only one answer, read the pages of the book he had left them. He promised they would speak again, if they wished, for they were of his blood, and as such they could make the same choice that he was making. He had placed his hands on Eddard's shoulders and told him that the crown, along with signed and sealed orders that he be named king immediately, were waiting in his study, that he had always been proud of him, and that he knew he would make a fine ruler. Then he hugged and gave his goodbyes to each member of his family in turn, and summoned Drogon. The world, Jon had decided, needed a riderless dragon about as much as it needed a king who would live forever.

Given the dramatic, and macabre, circumstances surrounding the last hours of the reign of Aegon VI, rumors and suppositions ran rampant. Many voices clamored that it might be unwise to crown the next monarch given, it was said, the possibility that the king was simply mad with grief and might return at any moment. Jon had taken steps, however, and the clarity with which he stated his abdication of the throne in his missives to the small council and key nobles, along with the overwhelming finality of his goodbyes to his family, eventually won the day.

Eddard was crowned, his reign was longer than one might have expected given his advanced age at the time of his coronation, and after several years the realm felt reasonably certain that Aegon the Undying would not be returning … although his mark had been left on the kingdom in ways both great and small. For example, Jon perhaps did not fully consider that men being unable to use so much as a garden spade within nearly a mile of the Red Keep's Godswood without believing they were about to erupt into flames would perhaps present an insurmountable challenge for groundskeepers, but eventually the citizenry adjusted.

As one might expect, Aegon VI quickly became the subject of myth and legend. In the presence of magic, particularly when it involves as heart-rending a tale of grief as a king digging a grave for the woman that he loved while fiery tears sizzled and scorched the ground around him, prophecies will eventually spring up like weeds. Most were ignored, some, the more flowery, became staples of library collections the world over, and a few the maesters of the Citadel thought worthy of study.

The most dramatic, and worrisome, of the foretellings spoke of a day far in the future when a scion of House Targaryen seeking vengeance would return to the Seven Kingdoms, corrupt the tree beneath which Daenerys Stormborn was laid to rest, and bind her spirit captive within his dark dominion. Few gave credence to so dramatic a tale, nor its companion auguries which foretold that the world would be covered in shadow unless Aegon the Undying, called by some the Flame of Westeros, returned to lead the gods and men of the Seven Kingdoms against the dread weirwood legions of his own kin. Yet again, however, we find ourselves straying beyond the scope of the narrative intended in these pages.

Jon, although the urgency he felt was nearly overpowering, briefly stopped to meet with Samwell Tarly. This particular meeting, long in the planning, gladdened both of their hearts. Six months earlier, when Daenerys's health had begun to fail, the Grand Maester, along with a few trusted acolytes who had forged their Valyrian steel links, traveled north and camped amongst the ruins of Castle Black. Samwell had lived long at the Wall as a young man, and he was confident that his connection to the soil and the grove where he'd said his vows to the Night's Watch would be sufficient for the magic to take root. In the ruins of the castle where they had trained as boys, Jon had hugged his friend and asked him if he was still sure about what he was doing.

Sam, whose hair had beard had gone full white, and whose lean, leathery face was unrecognizable from the plump teen he once had been, had nodded and indicated he was absolutely sure, then he handed a large glass vial with a wooden stopper to Jon. No ordinary blade could cut Jon's flesh, so he used the same Valyrian razor that had tasted his wife's blood to open a vein in his wrist. When the fiery, sparkling liquid poured out, he filled the vial and then jammed the stopper home. Within the glass, the red-gold liquid bubbled and smoked. He sealed the wound on his wrist with the sizzling touch of one of his fingers, handed the vial to Sam, and reminded the Grand Maester that he'd best not delay, for if the blood went cold, it would be too late.

"Jon, you're speaking to me as though this has not been planned for many years," Sam said with a rueful smile. "The hole has long been dug."

Jon apologized for not being there to help, but his friend had waved off his concerns and stated that he fully understood.

"I guess this is goodbye, Jon."

Jon had looked at him curiously. "What are you talking about?"

Sam had laughed but gave no further reply.

Jon hadn't tarried at Castle Black to watch Sam and his loyal maesters depart, he climbed back into Drogon's saddle and flew further north, to where the valleys were ringed with blue ice that would never melt, where the thick and unending strands of trees had never known the bite of an axe, and where queer and dark things that haunted the dreams of men still crawled in the last refuge of Westeros left to them.

In comparison to Samwell Tarly, Jon was not nearly as pleased to see Brandon Stark, the three-eyed raven, waiting for him along the rock wall of a jagged valley in which steaming pools bubbled and a waterfall poured into a clear river. Bran, seemingly oblivious to the landing of a gigantic dragon fifty yards behind him despite leaves and debris swirling in great gusts around his body, was staring into the mouth of an enormous cave.

Jon did not even wait to step down from the saddle before he angrily yelled, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be keeping an eye on her."

Brandon looked much the same as he had as a young man, with the exception that his right arm was missing, cleaved off mid-way between shoulder and elbow by Longclaw many years before. The three-eyed raven did not need his right arm to wield power and eventually, when Bran grew strong enough, he no longer needed working legs in order to walk, either.

Odd symbols traced in a substance that looked like blood shimmered with an eldritch light on Bran's pants, and bristled weirwood roots laced with hoarfrost twined and twisted through the rough woolen breaches Bran wore. Jon knew the tendrils had pierced Bran's skin and looped themselves deep into long-atrophied muscles, tendons, and ligaments, until finally the dead, useless flesh of Bran's legs could move by the power of magic.

"Bran!" Jon had yelled when he received no prompt reply to his question. He slid from the saddle and began stalking forward.

Bran shuddered as he seemed to become aware of Jon's presence, then he turned and raised his hand in supplication. "I did as we planned, Jon, and I did speak to her, but she would not listen, and she vanished from King's Landing into some other aspect of the Green." Bran paused a moment to offer a wry smile, then continued. "Your wife is rather strong-willed."

"If she went somewhere else, you follow her!" Jon roared as he fought to control his temper and panic. "Maybe if you didn't look so …" he gestured towards Bran's missing arm and legs, "creepy, she would have stayed put."

Bran had tilted his head and frowned, then said, "I will admit that I did not consider whether my appearance would frighten her." He gave the ghost of a smile. "I do not entertain many guests."

"Why didn't you search?"

Bran's frown intensified. "Jon, while you might know where else besides King's Landing to look for her, I do not."

"Do you even know if she is safe?"

Bran shook his head. "I recommend you hurry."

Drogon was reluctant to enter the enormous, granite-walled cave lined with lichen and columns of stone, but when he saw the steaming springs, he had shambled forward to lay among the smoking stalagmites.

The Children had come then, grey-skinned, green-eyed figures wearing garments made of twisted vines, to help Bran place Drogon into a deep sleep, one where he would age perhaps a day every hundred years, and finally the great black beast closed his eyes. Jon looked, but if the dragon's chest rose and fell, he could not see it. They left the cave then, and the children chanted and wove their hands along the entrance, and Jon blinked a few times when he realized the dragon's color had shifted to match the rocks and pools nearby.

They had entered a much smaller cave then, and the Children, chittering softly, shied away from Jon as he followed Bran deeper and deeper into the rock, until eventually they came to a cavern where the weirwood roots covered the walls and hung like enormous webs in the air. Jon had decided long ago that this particular cavern was as good a spot as any.

When they stopped, Jon noticed that the Children had fallen back from him again.

"What's going on with them?" he had asked Bran.

"They believe you have grown too strong," Bran had replied. "They warn me that all such as you who refuse to submit their flesh to the Unseen World turn to great evil, and with your wife gone from this land, they fear you will now do the same."

"They think that because they do not understand love."

"A love such as what have you known is very rare, Jon Snow." Bran smiled knowingly, the expression a ghost of the boy he once had been. "I wonder, perhaps, do you still allow your wife the delusion that it is you who saved her from losing her soul?"

Jon had not heard his full name for so long that the sound of it shocked him, but the shock was quickly followed by irritation at Bran's comment.

"Anyone ever told you that sometimes you see too much," he said as he glared angrily at the three-eyed raven.

Brandon Stark did not cower before the glare, but he did stop smiling. "Only you."

Jon had long ago decided he needed no temple, crypt, or tomb. If the dirt and the rocks and the tree roots had been fine for his wife, he would not tolerate better for himself. He found a sloping spot of deep, ancient earth, and he pushed himself into the soil and wrapped the roots around his legs and his arms. One of the many unique properties of Valyrian steel was that it could pass into the Unseen World, so he tucked beneath his jacket, against his skin, Longclaw, the Valyrian razor, and a certain small black and red collar of great sentimental value.

When he was done, he reminded Bran to have a cairn built over his body.

"I won't forget," Bran said with a smile. "Just as I said would not forget when you had reminded me yet again only a few days ago."

Jon nodded and took one last look around.

"It has been a long time since an old god such as you has come," Bran mused.

"I really hate it when you say things like that."

Bran's raised his eyebrows slightly, which Jon had come to learn was his equivalent of a shrug.

Jon closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the fire residing in his soul infuse the air around him.

"One last thing to do," he said.

He wove another geis, larger this time, not just about the cave in which he would rest, but upon the valley above. His powers seemed greater here, for some reason, and he set the ward deep within the stones and the trees, and then wove it deeper still, until he had rooted for miles in every direction a compulsion that would turn aside any who might harm the occupants of this place, or to disturb his and Drogon's rest. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was exhausted, and sweat steamed off his skin. The feeling was somewhat novel, and he relished this last gasp of his humanity.

"What have you done?" Bran asked with awe in his voice. "Not since the Wall was constructed has such an enchantment been created to protect a place."

"Making this spot safe," Jon said as he snuggled more closely against the dirt. "I did the same thing for Daenerys and Ghost's graves."

"You have no idea what you have built," Bran said as he gestured upwards. "This valley will be a haven, a place for creatures with no other refuge from the iron of men, and if you have done this in King's Landing, the Godswood of the Red Keep will eventually serve a similar function. Who taught you this?"

Jon was growing very anxious to leave as he did not like the thought of Daenerys growing frightened at what had happened, but he felt compelled to offer at least some explanation. "Bits from you, bits from Sam, and bits from instinct."

"The Children are right," Bran said softly as he knelt and lay his left hand upon Jon's shoulder. The three-eyed raven's legs creaked like tree branches in a strong wind as the roots supporting his body flexed and stretched. "You have waited too long. Do not take what I am about to say lightly, brother, you have grown too strong for this world. Unless all is at risk, it would be best if you not wake again."

Jon cracked one eye open. "I do not intend to." He decided it was time and shut his eye. "I'll see you soon … but not too soon."

"I'll give you a few days," Bran confirmed, "but no more than that. There is much to put right, and I've been stretched too thin for too long. I could never have asked you to leave your wife's side while you lived together in peace, but in truth, I've needed your help, Jon. Needed it desperately. Too much is broken, and I can't set it right alone. Entire continents of this world have been uninhabitable for millennia and the desolation is spreading."

"It'll be good to keep busy."

"We'll be working as hard as you ever did as king, for a much longer time."

"Thank you, for everything.

Bran had laughed, a dry raspy sound that grated on his ears. "What are brothers for?"

He knew the way, had known it for a long time, and as he grasped the roots and focused, it was curiously easy to slip his conscious mind into the trees, and then from there out of one world and into another. When he opened his eyes and found himself standing in the Godswood of King's Landing, in some ways it felt more real than the place he had just left.

As Bran had often warned him, the Unseen World had become a nightmare. Reality shifted and cracked, time did not run properly, and as he watched, people, those with a touch of the greensight, flickered in and out of view … and most were frightened and disoriented.

Well, he believed he knew how to start to put that right.

He stretched, and the shifting stopped. It tired him more than he had thought it would, and for the first time he wondered if perhaps he had set himself to a task too great … but what was done was done, and Jon was not a man to linger over past decisions. As he searched for Daenerys, King's Landing began to appear much as he had left it. The folks who flickered into view while he trod the halls seemed to be less terrified, and in the future perhaps that would make them more likely to share news of the doings in the world he had left behind, or listen to advice, and that was a start … he felt heartened at the sight.

But he had a far more important task at the moment.

He checked the royal bedchambers, then a particular spot along the wall of the Red Keep where Daenerys had loved to watch the ocean, then their old bedchambers, then the throne room, then everywhere else he could think of. At a loss to where she might be, he traveled to Winterfell, the plains of the Dothraki, and every other spot he could think of where Daenerys had lived long enough to perhaps forge a connection with the soil. Jon eventually realized he was overextending himself and would need to rest soon, but with every failed search, his panic grew.

Then, finally, he realized where she had to be, and he cursed himself for being an idiot.

The last shift truly did exhaust him, and he knew that he had better rest for a time. It was proving more difficult than he had expected both to maintain a state of normalcy in his surroundings and to fix himself in a time and place. Still, he knew it would get easier.

The iron band of fear that had been slowly strangling his heart snapped when he finally found her, and the relief that washed over him nearly brought him to his knees. His wife was standing in the garden of a charming house in Braavos, beneath a lemon tree, wearing a plain white dress and slippers. His love wore no jewelry, and a simple braid of her silver-gold hair hung to the small of her back. Jon knew how she would look, yet he gasped, and the sweet pain of faded memory pierced his chest at the sight of her so young again, a maid perhaps in her early twenties. When she saw him, she smiled and walked over. Daenerys's walk was curiously unsteady, almost as though she was surprised that her limbs and joints were working properly.

"Jon," she called out with a smile as she approached. "What a wonderful dream this is turning out to be."

He tried to keep from crying as he stepped forward to embrace her. It would not do to sob and weep now, for she would need to see him strong or the dream that he had been working towards for nearly thirty years might become frightening for her.

When she pulled away, she seemed mildly surprised by the force and vehemence of his hug. Her skin gleamed beneath the dappled sunlight that lay beneath the lemon tree, and her brow had no lines of worry etched upon it. "I was in King's Landing," she said, "but everything was strange, and then I saw Ghost … he licked me, but he ran off." She blanched. Then I saw a one-armed man that said he was your brother, but his legs were strange, and … something seemed wrong with him." She rubbed his arm and looked around. I must say, of all the dreams I've ever had, this has been the most interesting."

"This is not a dream, Daenerys," Jon had replied, his voice thick with emotion.

She had laughed, and the sound was a silver bell tinkling in a moonlit glade. "That's what people in dreams always say."

She smiled up at him as he moved forward, bent his neck, and parted his lips to kiss her.

He had long known that his blood, and other parts of him, could affect changes in others, and so he strongly suspected that when their lips met, it might have an effect on her. The magic he had poured into her body when he lay her to rest whip-sawed from her lips into his, then back again, forging a link that connected her to him in this place. Not nearly strong enough for his peace of mind, but at least he would always be able to find her again.

Daenerys had whispered to Jon over the years that lovemaking with him was not like with other men, and that his essence did something to her. Undoubtedly, she recognized a sensation akin to that experience in that moment, for her eyes opened wide, she pulled away, and then she held her hand to her mouth. He grabbed her arms to support her as she looked around wildly and clawed at his forearms. Her chest began to heave, her body stiffen, and Jon found himself searching for the right words to keep her from descending into raw terror.

"Jon, what has happened?" she screamed. "Where are we?"

"My love," he replied, "everything is fine. Let me explain it to you."

It was as if she hadn't heard him. "The one-armed man told me this wasn't a dream, but I didn't believe him."

She was starting to pull away, but as much as he didn't want to physically prevent her from moving, he also knew that he might not have the strength to follow if, in her desperation, she panicked and shifted elsewhere. He grabbed her arms more firmly and pulled her into a hug. It would be best if he was never far from her in this place, for things that he need not fear might instead try to hurt her.

Daenerys continued, "He said to not to be frightened, and to stay in King's Landing, and that you would be along shortly, but he scared me, and then I was here." She pushed against his grip and raised her chin to look at him. "JON!" she screamed. "What is this?"

He had decided that perhaps reminding her that this was, in fact, not a new experience for her … albeit her last visit had been an extraordinarily unhappy one … might be helpful. "You've been in this world before Daenerys, a long time ago. Except then, you were on the Dothraki sea. Remember?"

She looked at him in confusion, then she gasped when she recalled the tower of the warlocks in Qarth and of having to turn away from her husband and son, and of the nightmare that followed. It wasn't a happy memory in the slightest, but Jon figured that it would at least give her a frame of reference. Her reaction was not what he had hoped.

"Oh no, the warlocks? They have us?"

He shook his head. "No, I brought us here, and unlike Khal Drogo, who was an illusion that foul people used to pollute this place, I'm really here, Daenerys, and so are you."

Daenerys's chest was heaving, and tears were streaming down her face.

This was not going as planned.

He held her close, and this time, Jon decided to simply shut up and wait. That seemed to do the trick, as after several long minutes with her face pushed into his chest, Daenerys's breath began to slow, and he could feel the pulse of her heart return to normal.

Fine," she finally said. "Pretending for a moment that I believe you, and that you're really Jon, please explain where we are."

He put an arm around her shoulder and slowly turned her so they could both look at the city. Its canals, ancient buildings, and gleaming towers spread across their view. While not as bustling as the actual Braavos, Jon did see some activity … sparks in the air, lights in windows … it was good to know at least some other inhabitants dwelled nearby.

He cleared his throat and began the little speech he'd practiced. "This is the Unseen World, though some call it the green dream, and many just think of it as the world of the gods. This isn't the world we knew, but one can live here … and for some, this is the real world, while the one we grew up in is a dull reflection of it."

"Gods live here?" Daenerys said skeptically as she snaked an arm around his waist and clung to him.

"Yes." He smiled at her and rubbed her shoulder. "What do you think you are, now?"

She frowned at him and tried to step away to face him. This time, fairly confident she wouldn't bolt in a panic to who-knows-where, he let her go. She put her hand on her hips, raised her eyebrows, and gave him a familiar look. "Jon, my beloved husband, look at you, talking about me being a god." She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes. "How many times did you send me to bed with a well-spanked bottom for voicing something like that?"

She had him there, and he laughed long and well.

She moved back to his side, and they put their arms around each other. "Let's say for a moment that I believe you, I don't yet, but let's say I do … if gods live here, where are they all?"

"This hasn't been the nicest place for a very long time," he admitted. "Some bad things … like the Night King … tried to take control here, and this world hasn't worked like it should for a very long time. The gods are mostly asleep, or hiding, or worse." He anticipated her next question and was ready with the answer. "You don't have to worry though. I'm staying here with you, and I'll keep you safe."

She clung to him more tightly at that comment, and he could tell she was struggling with what to say next.

"This can't be real," she finally muttered.

"You are you, and I am me," he said patiently, "and that's what's important. This place isn't so different, and you'll probably feel better once we've settled in and explored a bit."

Jon had spent most of his life confined to King's Landing, and truth be told, he was ready to see new sights.

"We won't be alone either," he continued, as he cursed himself for not thinking of mentioning that early.

"We won't?" Daenerys asked. "Oh wait, that one-armed man, he really is your brother? I didn't recognize him."

"Yes," Jon said. ""That was Bran."

She nodded and ruefully snorted. "I didn't recognize him it's been so long. I probably insulted him by getting scared."

"He doesn't mind," Jon assured her. "Sam is here, too. We'll visit him in Oldtown when you're feeling up to it."

Daenerys rubbed her forehead and bowed her head.

"This is ridiculous," she finally said. "We're talking about visiting Sam? Gods? I think I've lost my mind."

"Then we'll find it together," he said flippantly.

She looked at him in surprise with a puzzled expression, then laughed.

He laughed with her.

"Maybe you are Jon," she finally said. Her face grew serious. "Let's try this question. If this isn't a dream, and you're actually my husband, am I dead?"

It was phrased in a neutral tone, but he could see the muscles in her frame tighten.

"No," he assured her.

"Well now I know you aren't telling the truth," Daenerys said with a sigh. "I'm pretty sure the last thing I remember is dying." She patted his arm. "Still, if this is my dying dream, it's not so bad."

He poked her shoulder hard enough that she yelped and rubbed at it.

"Hey!"

"You remember anything ever hurting you in a dream? Do you think dead women feel pain?" He didn't like being blunt with her, but while he would be infinitely patient in almost all respects, the one exception was that he needed to make sure she took their new home seriously, because it posed dangers to those who were unwary.

She was getting scared again, he could tell.

"I remember dying, but I'm not dead?"

"No," he said firmly. "You had some life left, not much, but enough, or you couldn't be here with me, like this." He looked at her with an expression of apology. "You deserve better than the burial I gave you"

"Targaryens aren't buried," she pointed out. Then upon realizing what he had said, her mouth opened in shock. "You buried me?"

"I did," Jon confirmed in a voice thick with apology and pain. "It was the only way to get you here."

She looked down at her body. "Why am I young?"

He scratched his chin. "I imagine because this is how you see yourself."

"My love, I haven't looked like this for a long time," she said as she plucked at the sides of the dress.

"Well, you do now," he said with an appreciative grin.

"Hmm…," she said thoughtfully as she crossed her arms and gave him an appraising stare. "If I am still alive, could I go back to my body, assuming you didn't bury me too deep? See our family if I wanted to? It's only been a day or so, but I will eventually miss them."

Jon's heart froze. This news she would likely not take well. "You cannot return. Your body, what life is in it, it's all bound up with magic, and it can't be undone."

"How about this …" she said as she tapped his chest, "are you alive?"

"The truth," Jon said wearily, "is that you never knew me when I was alive, not truly. That's the truth."

"Jon, or dream-person-pretending-to-be-Jon, you know what I mean. Please, I'm trying very hard to stay calm and not scream. No riddles."

He searched for the right words. "I'm alive, but I'm asleep with Drogon, near where Bran lives in the far North. I can wake myself and Drogon, if I have to, but I don't intend to. Ever."

"If you were to wake right now, would I be here alone?" she immediately asked.

He tried to reassure her, "Like I said, I don't plan on waking up, but if the need arose, we would talk about it together first, and how to keep you safe."

"Yes, I seem to recall you being big on discussion, but here I am, and I don't recall discussing this."

He was ready for her to say something along those lines, and she stared at him in confusion as his smile stretched ear to ear. "Oh, but we did, he reminded her."

She furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "When?"

"I asked if you would stay with me forever."

She waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. "That's a figure of speech!"

He waggled his finger at her. "Nope. You made your choice, and Daenerys, when you make a choice, I make you keep it."

They did not voice it, but they each knew the truth, in their way. Jon had used the words which would yield him the answer he sought, because if she had answered otherwise, it would have broken him.

She laughed nervously. "It sounds nice, in theory, but forever is a long time. Are we trapped here?"

He shook his head. "We can choose to sleep, but whatever we do, we'll do it together. I don't want you alone in the cold and the dark, oblivious to everything."

It was clear Daenerys didn't want to discuss that topic further, as she fell silent.

"Did I at least have a nice funeral?" she finally asked him. "Lots of mourners?"

"Not really, no," he admitted. Daenerys clearly didn't fully believe what he had been telling her, or she wouldn't have asked him such a question, for the memory of burying his wife was a pain he wondered if he could ever fully escape.

Something in his face must have given her pause because she looked up in concern. "I'm sorry, I can't imagine …" her eyes widened slightly as a long-forgotten memory resurfaced. "Jon, did you do to me what you did to Ghost?"

She had always been smarter than him, in so many ways.

"Yes," he said, as he looked around for Ghost. Undoubtedly his direwolf, who he longed to hold again, was running wild near King's Landing. He'd have to find him later.

Daenerys was looking up at him with a bewildered expression. "You buried me beneath the tree in the Godswood? In the dirt? Really?"

"I did wrap you in your favorite blanket," he offered.

She furrowed her brow and scrunched her nose as she attempted to puzzle out what he was talking about. When she did realize, she made a vomiting noise before she replied, "In addition to never growing old, you never grew up."

He laughed heartily.

"Assuming this is not a dream, I don't like that you and I are so far apart," she complained. "You're way up beyond the wall, asleep, and I'm buried in King's Landing."

"Far apart?" he grunted in a mock show of confusion. He darted forward, tucked his hands under her armpits, then picked her up and spun her around. He set her back down. "Doesn't feel that far apart."

"Stop that!" she scolded him as she brushed his hands away. She stiffened as another thought occurred to her, then clutched him and her voice was full of fear when she spoke, "Jon, our kids are going to want to dig me up, they'll think you went crazy." She tightened her grip. "What will happen when they pull me out of …"

He shushed her with a finger to her lips. Her expression informed him that while she might look like a lass of two and twenty, the very old queen she'd been only hours before was not amused by the humorous gesture.

"What is going on with you?" she asked. "You're too playful. Are you sure you're the real Jon?"

"This is the real me," he said with a bit of irritation starting to creep into his voice. "I'll find ways to make you believe that, if I have to."

Daenerys gave him a nervous sidelong glance. "You still haven't answered my question about what will happen when our kids dig me back up."

"My wife, if you trust nothing else, trust this, I made sure that nothing short of the end of the world will disturb our time in here."

"Are you sure? Don't lie to me about this, Jon. I don't want to wake up in the ground, or in some crypt, or back in my deathbed … which honestly, I'm expecting to happen any second now."

"I'm sure," he told her.

She relaxed a little. "Let's say I'm starting to be somewhat convinced. You seem to know a lot about this place, but the real Jon …" when she saw him stiffen, she tried again, "you, never spoke about it at all."

"I've been preparing a long time," he said stonily. "And not just me. Bran has been saying I should have come here years ago, and Sam lately has been saying the same thing."

"Why?"

"People like me, who the magic has gotten into, we don't belong after a while. We're supposed to be here."

"Where does that leave me?" she asked.

"Oh, we'll be busy," he promised.

Doing what? Wandering empty streets? I love you, but we'll get horribly lonely very quickly."

Jon didn't tell her that he didn't foresee a time when he'd ever tire of being near her, but he had always known his wife enjoyed the intrigue, and the politics, and the drama of life in King's Landing far more than him. "Like I said, there are others here, and this world gets visitors, both intentional and accidental, constantly. Once folks know we mean them no harm, they'll probably be more friendly."

"But can they hurt us?" she asked nervously. "I notice you brought your fancy sword, which doesn't exactly inspire a feeling of safety."

He had completely forgotten that he'd tucked the sword into the scabbard slung across his back. Given that he knew about his wife's fear of assassins, he cursed himself for having been so foolish as to not ease her mind by hiding it out of sight. "We'll be fine," he assured her. "Just don't wander off."

"Yes, quite," she said in a sharp tone. "I will do my best not to play the part of a wayward pet."

He began to laugh, then quickly stifled it when she narrowed her eyes at him.

"And our family?" she asked. "I will miss them terribly."

"You'll see them again," he promised. "There are ways, and I left them a book that will explain how to get here, if they want."

Daenerys hung her head and just shook it in confusion. "Every second I think the world might stop spinning, you say something else completely crazy."

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "We don't have to discuss everything right now. We have time."

She laughed, and said, "I suppose we do."

It sounded genuine, and he felt better.

"You've talked about this place for years," he said as he stared at the house in curiosity. The walls were made of stone, it was fairly large, and a large wall enclosed the garden in which they stood.

"I would very much like to see it again," she said in a soft, questioning manner. "Is it safe to go inside?"

He took her hand, dramatically placed it on his elbow as if he was escorting her to an affair of state, and gestured towards the door. "It would be my honor to escort you in, your grace."

She looked at him suspiciously but gripped his elbow and imperiously raised her chin. "Proceed."

The door was unlocked, the inside was warm, and sunlight flowed through the numerous windows. The large room to their left had large beams running along the walls and across the ceiling, and Jon smiled when he saw the carved animal faces his wife had mentioned. He walked into the room and saw the lemon tree outside the window. The hearth was not lit, but firewood and tinder lay close at hand.

Remembering he still wore his sword, he hung it by the open door.

"Should you maybe keep that on?" Daenerys asked.

"We'll be fine," he promised. Realizing he still felt somewhat tired, he added an amendment to the statement. "But stay inside, for now."

He spotted an extraordinarily comfortable looking wide chair and sat down on it.

Daenerys stared at him for a moment, then began to cautiously explore. He heard her murmurs of excitement at discovering a treasured, dimly remembered trinket, and smiled when she laughed. At one point, when perhaps there had been too long of a silence, she had rushed back to ensure that he was still sitting there. He grinned at her.

"Are you hungry?" he called out at one point.

"Actually, yes," Daenerys replied as she poked her head around a corner. "Is that strange?"

"We're going to get hungry," he informed her.

When she reappeared again, in her arms were a collection of curios, toys, and a few leather-bound books that undoubtedly his wife had treasured as a child. Jon began to wonder if they might be staying longer in Braavos than he might have thought. If it would ease his wife's heart, that was fine with him.

"I'll see if I can do something about food," he said. Truth be told, he could stand to eat himself. He hadn't expected to be so tired. He focused on a dining room table nearby, shifted, but not himself this time, and plates heaped with a variety of dishes appeared.

He was pleased that he'd managed the challenge, and not so pleased that it sparked a fresh wave of exhaustion.

He walked over to the table, grabbed a cluster of grapes, then returned to his chair.

Daenerys must have smelled the food, because she walked back in. Ignoring the more extravagant dishes, she grabbed an apple and took a bite.

She turned to him and held the fruit up. "Tastes like an apple."

"I would expect so," Jon said as he devoured the grapes.

Next, she grabbed a large slice of bread with heavy nuts and dark fruits embedded in the grain. "Can I get fat here?" she said absent-mindedly.

"You can if you want to."

She had pulled a face at him for that one.

"Where'd are all this come from?"

He actually wasn't sure how to answer that. "Magic," he finally said.

"That's the best you can do?"

He shrugged. "What can I say."

She took another bite of the apple. "So, if you vanish, I'm just going to starve to death?"

He leered at her. "Best make sure you keep me happy, then?"

He ducked beneath the apple she threw at him.

"I assume you're going to teach me how to do things in this place?" she asked as she picked up an orange and began to peel the skin.

"I can't teach you how to do anything the way I do it," he admitted, "but Sam believes he can. He's been preparing for this."

"Is Sam safe?"

Jon only knew what Sam had told him, so he answered the question as best he could. "The maesters of Oldtown, back when magic was strong in the world, knew about the greenseers, and the Unseen World, and all of it, and they warded the Citadel so that maesters who came here would have a place to live and a way to talk between worlds. Sam will be fine in Oldtown."

Daenerys turned away in a casual manner, but he knew her well enough that she was hiding her face.

"Will I get old again?" she said in what sounded suspiciously like a deliberately casual manner.

He could see her back stiffen.

"No."

She raised her hand, and he suspected she was wiping away a tear. "You have no idea how difficult it was to grow old while you …"

A terrible pain like a knife's thrust lanced into him, and he sprung from the chair and rushed towards her so fast that upon hearing his footsteps she turned around in fright and tried to back away. He grabbed her arms and held her close, "Please, don't talk about that, not now, not so soon after I had to ..." he couldn't finish the sentence, and he realized that he had begun to weep.

Jon suspected that it was at that moment that she started to believe what he was telling her.

All that he'd wanted to do since seeing her was hold her close and fall to his knees and sob that she was here, but that would frighten her, and so he was trying to be strong, but the truth was that the hurt at having to watch her age alone ran so deep he couldn't remember when it didn't crackle and stab with his every waking breath.

She could see the anguish in his eyes, and she reached up to stroke away the tears.

"Oh, Jon, I'm so sorry," she said. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his chest.

As his wife hugged her young body close to him clad only in a thin dress, despite the horrors and stress of the last few days, despite the fact that he was fighting back tears, and the oddness of the setting, an appealing notion occurred to Jon's body, and it responded in the typical fashion that male bodies do when husbands who greatly love and desire their wives are hugged closely by them.

Men, wherever they might be and regardless of circumstances, are still men.

Given how firmly they were holding each other, his wife noticed what was happening immediately. Daenerys looked down in surprise at his crotch, then pushed herself away and opened her mouth with an aghast, shocked expression. A rosy glow spread on her cheeks.

Jon sniffled and used his sleeves to rub his face dry. After he'd composed himself, he decided that the room was altogether too cold.

Shift …

The hearth in the room roared to life within its stone walls. Heat began to spread throughout the house, and given that it seemed night was falling, Jon considered the fire a welcome development, though yet another wave of tiredness had to be fought off.

Daenerys was less concerned about the fire than she was about Jon's involuntary physical reaction to her nearness. "Jon, have you lost your mind?" she asked as she stared at his trousers.

Jon's face was inscrutable as he tilted his head and grinned.

Shift …

When a large rectangular box bearing a large lock that had a bronze key hanging from its keyhole appeared on a table near the hearth, his wife flushed an absolutely adorable shade of pink and hid her eyes in her hands. This time Jon felt so tired that he knew he would have to rest for a long while before he tried such a trick again.

"You cannot be serious?" she scolded him. "Jon, I died, I came to this strange place, then you show up and say a bunch of nonsense I'm not sure I believe, and … and …" she looked at him and spread her arms. "I was an old woman for many years … I have no idea how you could be doing that," she gestured towards his groin.

He held up his hands apologetically. "Maybe it's in bad taste, but to se you like this again ... after so long ..." Abashed, he retreated to the chair and began to sit down. "I know you're scared, and I should probably give you more time." As he sat, something in his coat pocket jabbed at his chest. He reached into the pocket, grabbed the contents, and pulled out the Valyrian razor and the collar.

"You have got to be kidding me," Daenerys cried out. "You kept that" she pointed at the collar. "After all these years?"

Now it was his turn to look at her in confusion. "Why wouldn't I? Lot of happy memories."

Daenerys's blush deepened and she had to turn away.

"We'll need to … soon …" he said quietly. "You know … be together."

"Oh really," Daenerys said in a dry, sarcastic manner. "Men have been saying such things to women forever, and while they always have their reasons, those reasons are usually made of the same manure farmers put in their fields. Still, I'll hear you out. Why?"

"When we kissed, you felt that, right?"

She whirled towards him. "Then that did happen … I wasn't imagining it." She held her hands to her lips. "What did you do to me?"

He nodded. "I … gave you part of myself …" he found himself at a loss for words. "I have to make sure you're tied to this world …"

"Interesting choice of phrase," she said with an arched eyebrow.

"… and to me," he finished. "Until we do that, properly, it's very important that you don't get lost here, not until Sam learns what he needs to learn so he and whatever other maesters dwell here can teach you what you need to know."

She bit her lip nervously as she processed the information, then she gave him a hearty nod.

"Alright," she said. "That was actually pretty convincing."

He blinked. "What?"

She smiled at him. "What do you mean, what? You convinced me." She looked over his body appraisingly. "Besides, if this is my dying dream, why shouldn't I take advantage of it?"

"Huh," Jon said in surprise.

"That's all?" Daenerys asked. "I remember you being better at this, Jon."

She reached back and began to undo the braid of her hair.

Jon's need for her reached a keening, fever pitch, and the honed, razor's edge of desire rasped across his body as he stood up and walked closer.

"Before we get distracted," she said primly. "Anything else I should know?"

"Only that there's work to be done here," he informed her. "Real work. I hope you're fine with that."

"I'll pretend you really didn't just ask me that question," she said in a haughty, insulted manner, "because I didn't spend my life idly acting the part of the little wife, nor do I now desire to exist as nothing more than your captive plaything." Daenerys continued to unwind the braid, her hair was like a cascading river, and Jon's soul ached to see it gleam again. "What is this work, and how can I help?"

"Daenerys," he explained, "you and I ruled together for six decades. If Bran and Sam and I are going to do any good here, I'll need you. I don't know how to talk to people, you always handled that. I can't do this alone."

He was surprised at how much that seemed to reassure her.

When she finished the braid, she reached out and they joined hands on the ancient black collar of Valyrian steel. She smiled at him, and as she raised his hands towards her neck, she said, "I should be honest, I'm not quite convinced that any of this is real."

The collar locked on, and the snick triggered memories that echoed deafeningly in Jon's soul.

"What can I do," Jon asked as he clasped her hands tightly. "To make you understand, to make you see that we have another chance to be together."

She leaned forward, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered into his ear, "Convince me."

Jon's smile in return had an aspect to it that was something other than merely comforting, and a hauntingly familiar frisson of excitement mixed with nervousness that Daenerys had nearly forgotten the joy of raced through her body.

Jon grasped her arm above the elbow to guide her, then realized he had forgotten something.

"Stay right here," he ordered her.

"Of course."

He quickly closed the house's red front door, then returned to his love.