A.N.: Hi everyone, I hope you're all well and avoiding the worst of the winter bugs! I'm back at school, and obsessing over A Court of Thorns and Roses (which I am currently planning a fanfic for - I can't stand Feyre, so you know what that means!) but it is the season of giving, so - a new chapter for you!

Valyrian Steel

13

Never Forget What You Are

He was glad to be off that fucking ship.

On solid footing at last, the crashing waves at his back, Jon could almost have dropped to his knees and kissed the worn stones of the tiny, paved quay.

"Don't know how you've lived most of your life on the water, Ser Davos," Jon moaned, grimacing, and the older man chuckled good-naturedly, climbing up onto the jetty beside him. A handful of their men had rowed them to shore, the first Stark ship built in centuries moored in a choice area Davos trusted to shelter their ship from the worst of the elements. Davos was surprised where the Targaryen girl had anchored her armada: One foul storm and she would lose half her ships.

Jon wondered why no-one had warned her.

It struck Jon again, as it had when they first anchored, that the tiny town flirting hesitantly with the unpredictable coast should have been more active. Winter had come: Ser Davos had told Jon that the island of Dragonstone relied on the winter shoals migrating past to warmer waters to feed themselves. There were fewer than a handful of boats in the docks, including Jon's little dinghy, and only one of them, Davos said, was a vessel built for the open seas, able to withstand the additional weight of net-fishing the shoals. The other boats were simple little dinghies intended to navigate around the island to the other hamlets when the water levels rose and drenched the paved walkways between Dragonstone castle and the port and villages.

"You get used to it," Ser Davos said cheerfully. "Makes you truly appreciate the times you have solid earth beneath your boots. There are those more poetic than myself who wax lyrical about ships as the embodiment of freedom."

"Tell that to the slaves transported across the world by them," Jon grumbled; he was in a foul mood, and had been ever since they had set sail from White Harbour. He'd sent Sam and Gilly and Little Sam south by ship and would never be able to apologise enough. A horse or his own two feet were all Jon needed.

"You're in a pretty temper," Ser Davos teased, his eyes glinting.

"Everything's…still swaying," Jon moaned, closing his eyes as his vision span, and he ignored Ser Davos' chuckle as he inhaled slowly, the disorientation subsiding. It wasn't nausea he suffered from. He opened his eyes, frowning around the small port. "Where are all the fishing boats? Surely Stannis didn't leave the island unable to provide for itself through the winter?"

"No, Stannis was prudent; and there's been no-one here since the Targaryen girl arrived," Ser Davos said, frowning in the weak sunlight. It was still brighter and hotter than anything Jon remembered - except that one, rare sunrise as he mounted the Wall after a long, terrifying climb. "There should be a small fleet bringing in the fish to preserve for the winter. The first true winter storm and the shoals will be gone."

"So where are the ships?"

"Likely, they've been commandeered," Ser Davos said darkly. "This Targaryen queen won't want anyone smuggling news to the mainland about her invasion."

"So the islanders must starve?" Jon frowned. Ser Davos did not answer: He was looking up the hill. Dragonstone, the island, was volcanic: Its earth was rich and arable due to the volcanic soil, Winterfell's library had told Jon, when he'd cared to investigate with Maester Wolkan's help. Ser Davos had told Jon that the crops grown on Dragonstone were plentiful - but the fighting men, who would plough and work the fields, had rallied under Stannis's banners and died for him, either at the Battle of the Blackwater, or outside the gates of Winterfell during Stannis's failed charge against the Boltons. How were the people of Dragonstone supposed to survive the winter while Daenerys Targaryen played out her invasion? "A poor precedent she's setting."

"Jon," Ser Davos murmured warningly, and Jon followed his gaze. A small party was approaching, led by two pretty girls, one with rich amber-coloured skin, wide eyes heavily lashed and dark reddish hair, the other pale-skinned with high cheekbones, slanting dark eyes and a rosebud mouth, and long, silky black hair. They had been chosen for their beauty, Jon knew: They were both young maids on the cusp of womanhood, and several of the men surrounding them eyed them hungrily, as they carried banners emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Both wore their hair in elaborate braids, dressed similarly to a tall, dark-skinned woman taking care not to stride ahead of a familiar, stunted figure.

Tyrion Lannister.

It was the last note in the Imp's letter that had had Jon believing its authenticity, as was Lord Tyrion's intention. And here he was, dressed richly, his hair longer, darker, curling wildly, his face almost cloven in two by a deep scar, but smiling irreverently all the same, just as Jon remembered him - a curious mixture of rare human decency and arrogance.

"The bastard of Winterfell," he said mockingly, and Jon gazed fondly at him, knowing he was mocking those who condemned Jon for his birth. Never forget what you are. Other people will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you… In Jon's memory, Lord Tyrion had not been nearly as short as he seemed, standing before him for the first time in nearly seven years.

"The dwarf of Casterly Rock," he responded grimly, and felt his face unfreezing as he smiled; the Imp grinned, and they reached out to clasp hands.

"I believe we last saw each other at the top of the Wall," Lord Tyrion said, and Jon nodded. That had been a very long time ago. Before Uncle Benjen had ventured beyond the Wall on his last, ill-fated Ranging. Before the Night King, before Mance…before Ygritte…

"You were pissing off the edge, if I remember right," Jon said, and Lord Tyrion grinned. It made the scar slashed across his face more pronounced. "You've picked up some scars along the road."

"Well, it wasn't all feather beds and fine port by the fireside with ancient scrolls to peruse, I assure you," Lord Tyrion said grimly. "But, we're both still here."

"In spite of people's best efforts to make it otherwise," Jon said, remembering what Sansa had told him of Lord Tyrion. "It's good to see you again, my lord. Sansa will be pleased to know you're safe and whole; she told me of your kindness toward her." Lord Tyrion didn't hide his surprise. "Ser Davos, this is Lord Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tyrion, my adviser, Ser Davos Seaworth."

"Ah, the Onion Knight," Lord Tyrion nodded, reaching to clasp Ser Davos' hand. "We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater Bay."

"Unluckily for me," Ser Davos said quietly and simply. He never spoke of his losses, though Jon knew his son had been killed fighting for Stannis. Jon's gaze flickered to the dark-skinned woman waiting with her hands clasped, watching. There was a beguiling smile on her face, her dark eyes twinkling. She had froths of tight curls shaping her pretty face, and stood slim and tall.

"My lady…" He gave her a respectful half-bow.

"Ah… Missandei is the Queen's most trusted advisor," Lord Tyrion said, introducing the young woman.

"Welcome to Dragonstone. Our Queen knows this is a long journey; she appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf," Missandei said blithely. "If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

He did mind. Lord Tyrion caught his eye, briefly. Jon sighed deeply, glancing away from the woman to the shore.

"Where are the fishing-boats?" he asked, flicking his eyes back to the woman.

"Pardon?" She blinked at him, bemused.

"The fishing-boats. Ser Davos has spent many years at Dragonstone, he tells me the villagers rely on shoals of fish migrating south, to sustain them through the winter," Jon said. They wanted his weapons; he would not give them. They intended to unnerve him, to make him impotent by disarming him. He had Sansa sitting on one shoulder, Larra's ghost heavy on the other, both murmuring advice in his ear. "There's not a single boat out on the water fishing."

"The ships have been incorporated into Queen Daenerys' armada, in preparations for her invasion," Missandei said coolly, a well-practiced smile never slipping from her face. "They were happy to contribute to Queen Daenerys' war efforts."

"I'm sure the threat of a few hundred thousand Dothraki has silenced a good many complaints in the past," Jon said darkly.

"We have been expecting you," said Missandei, and repeated, "If you wouldn't mind handing over your weapons."

"I do. I'm sure it's within the realms of your two-hundred thousand Dothraki to put me down if I pose a threat to your queen," Jon said, his gloved hand resting comfortably around the hilt of Long Claw. "I did not come all this way to provoke war with her."

Lord Tyrion did not insist.

He could not have expected that Jon would hand over his weapons, or leave his men defenceless. Missandei clearly had: The brutish men accompanying her, the beetle-like faceless soldiers flanking her did, but it was Lord Tyrion who broke the tension, brushed away the issue. He did not press that Jon give up his sword, or that his men remain unprotected. This was how things were done in Westeros.

And Northerners were notoriously stubborn. The Queen could walk her sorry arse down all those steps to treat with Jon at the quay if she felt so inclined; Jon only needed the source of the dragonglass mine, and Ser Davos would take care of the rest. He had come to meet Daenerys Stormborn as a courtesy.

He was not going to tell her that he had no other choice. To let her have the power to destroy all he held precious, just out of spite.

"Come, it is a long walk to the castle, believe me," Lord Tyrion said, grimacing. "You must tell me of your journey."

They were flanked by the scuttling soldiers and swaggering wildmen from the Dothraki Sea, but Lord Tyrion gestured to the biggest of the Dothraki and he muttered something in a guttural tongue to his men, and they turned and headed back through the tiny, empty seaside town, to a paved path accessible only due to the low tide, which led straight to a walled path that wound up the side of a mountain to Dragonstone castle. The walled, fortified path looked almost like fangs cut into the side of the mountain, jagged and sharp.

"That's a lot of steps," Jon said wearily, though he was glad of the walk: He had been cooped up too long on that ship. Jon glanced down at the Hand of the Queen. "How are your legs, my lord?"

"Better now than they will be at the top," Lord Tyrion grimaced, and he gave Jon a small, appreciative smile that Jon had remembered how awkward it sometimes was for Lord Tyrion. This world was not fashioned for cripples, bastards or broken things.

"Consider yourself lucky. At least there's steps," Jon sighed, gazing out at the jagged walkway.

"You've scaled worse?" Lord Tyrion asked, glancing up at Jon, who nodded grimly, his stomach hurting as a flash of red hair glinted in his mind's eye, the billowing gold-limned clouds parting to reveal a blazing sun over fresh green seas as far as the eye could see.

"Aye."

"The Wall?"

"Aye," Jon nodded, and their boots splashed subtly in the puddles along the paved walkway to the castle. As natural fortifications went, the Targaryens who had fortified Dragonstone as Old Valyria's most westerly outpost had known what they were doing: In high tide, the castle itself was accessible only from the air - the steep, jagged cliffs of the island were impossible to climb, and the sandy beaches were few and far between, protected by impassable bays and submerged rock-formations that had wrecked armadas, their corpses rotting eerily, and haunted by sharks and other monsters of the deep. Every point of the walled path up to the castle was easily defended: Jon recognised the work of genius that was Dragonstone. "Up and over, and all the way down again. Nothing but pick-axes, spikes on my boots - and a lot of rope."

"I hope that marvellous contraption did not break?" Lord Tyrion said, looking startled. Jon almost smiled: Then he remembered…and the smile died prematurely.

"I wasn't at Castle Black," Jon said ominously, and his grim tone was enough that Lord Tyrion, however curious, did not ask for details.

After a moment, Lord Tyrion said thoughtfully, "You have had an interesting journey."

"My sister tells me you quelled the riots in King's Landing when the smallfolk were starving, provided for the people," Jon said, to change the subject. He never dwelled too long on Ygritte…a name that sounded far too much like regret. Better to think of other things. Of a living girl kissed by fire who was relying on him… "That was autumn, after the longest summer in living memory… White ravens have been sent from the Citadel."

"Winter is finally here," Lord Tyrion said, with a thoughtful, amused little laugh.

"As my father promised," Jon said heavily. He frowned at the Hand of the Queen. "It seems a simple blunder to actively prevent the smallfolk from being able to provide for themselves, my lord."

Tyrion gave Jon a meaningful look, murmuring, "It was not my decision to commandeer the vessels."

"Surely a Hand's role is to prevent a Queen from making unpopular decisions?" he asked, aware as he did so that he had made an unpopular decision - but one that was necessary for the survival of his people.

"Did Ser Davos advise against you journeying south?" Lord Tyrion asked.

"Vehemently," Jon said, his lips quirking with irony.

"And yet here you are."

"Yet here I am," he sighed, his legs starting to burn; he slowed his pace to match Lord Tyrion's, and their honour-guard had to slow down.

Lord Tyrion narrowed his eyes at Jon. "Because whatever you're here for is more important than the risk to your life." Jon sighed heavily, and gazed ahead, at the featureless soldiers in beetle-like shell armour of pristine black leather, at Missandei in her neat overcoat and boots, and the two young girls who may never live to womanhood if he failed.

"Is your Queen's invasion worth more than the lives of the smallfolk of Dragonstone?" Jon asked quietly, glancing back at Lord Tyrion. "They were once her family's people to provide for and protect… How did a Lannister become Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen?"

"It's a long and bloody tale - and to be honest, I've been drunk for most of it," Lord Tyrion grinned, with a hint of his old impishness, but there was a solemnity in his eyes now that Jon did not remember. "I shall share it with you, of course, Your Grace - at some point, I should also like to hear how a bastard steward in the Night's Watch became King in the North."

"It's a long and bloody tale," Jon echoed, and Lord Tyrion smiled. Jon told him grimly, "My bannermen think I'm a fool for coming here."

"Of course they do," Lord Tyrion said lightly. "If I was your Hand, I would've advised against it."

"Everyone advised against it."

"And you ignored them," Lord Tyrion said, giving Jon a measuring look. "General rule of thumb: Stark men don't fare well when they travel south."

"True," Jon agreed. There was no arguing with the horrors his family had so recently endured. He thought of Sansa, sewn into her armoured gowns at Winterfell, swathed in heavy fabrics and all but telling the world to keep away…he worried about her for the thousandth time, alone at the castle with Littlefinger lurking and plotting and lusting… "But I'm not a Stark."

He had never heard such a sound as exploded through the sky - in the North there were few reptiles but even in his marrow, Jon heard the shrieking, reptilian birdlike scream that threatened to shatter his eardrums, heard the crackle and flapping of great armoured leathery wings like the rumble of nearing thunderstorms and knew, by the fire that sparked in his blood and the dread that turned his belly to jelly…dragon.

Jon had battled giants, had fought off wights and killed White Walkers.

He moved to block Lord Tyrion, hand on the hilt of his sword, that monstrous scream igniting every drop of rage boiling in his heart, frustration and anger and desperation, fire dancing along his veins, stubborn and terrified and courageous to a fault, and Jon's lips parted, and his anger dissolved, and he gazed in heartbroken awe and wonder and dread as a monster from legend soared and whorled and dived for him, monstrous and reptilian, onyx and blood-red like the banners carried before him. Enormous wings beat the air around him, making even the Unsullied stagger in the momentary gale, and Jon gasped, eyes on the enormous creature flapping its great wings as it soared through the air.

"Not the usual reaction," Lord Tyrion said, gaping at Jon, his cunning eyes narrowed. "For a moment there I thought you may slay the dragon to protect me."

"For a moment, so did I," Jon panted, staring at the dragon.

"You've impressive reactions, Jon Snow. I wonder if even Drogon may have thought better of provoking you, the look on your face. It would have made a comical song. The King in the North defending the Imp against Balerion reborn," Lord Tyrion mused. The thought seemed to tickle him; he chuckled happily to himself as he waddled up the steps beside Jon, who stumbled several times, turning to watch the dragon wheel and turn overhead. "Do you know, you've quite given me the inspiration I needed for me evening's entertainments! I shall write the song tonight, luxuriating in Qartheen silk sheets and getting steadily drunk on fine Arbour amber wines while my whore licks my cock!"

Jon grinned in spite of himself, remembering Lord Tyrion's time at the Wall, bemoaning the lack of female companionship. "Sansa told me you had given up your favourite pastimes, too busy ruling King's Landing."

"Ah, Sansa… Does my elegant wife pine for me?" Lord Tyrion asked, grinning, his eyes twinkling. "Don't worry. T'was a sham marriage - and unconsummated."

Jon winced. "I didn't ask."

"Well - it was," Lord Tyrion asserted. He frowned. "Wasn't."

Jon gave him a sidelong look. "You wanted it to be. I'm not blind to Sansa's beauty. And nor is she ignorant of men's desire for her."

"Doesn't matter, either way."

"Sansa told me about your marriage," Jon murmured. She had told Jon, but he didn't want the Queen's soldiers whispering in her ear. "Your wedding-night."

"Truthfully, I don't remember much of it!"

"She does."

"The North remembers," Lord Tyrion quoted. "She's much smarter than she lets on, Sansa."

"She's letting on," Jon said grimly, because he worried. Cleverness could only protect her for so long. At a certain point, swords would be drawn, and then she would be powerless. And he was hundreds of miles away from her. He had to trust she could keep herself safe until his return… He dreaded what Littlefinger plotted in his absence. He worried for Sansa. They had never been close as children; and had been separated for years - yet Jon could not abide being apart from her now.

"Good."

Jon sighed, glancing down at Lord Tyrion. "Separated from your wife and you embrace the luxuries you once enjoyed…"

"Licentiousness, I have found - through devoted research - is the keystone of my brilliance. You cannot have one without the other," Lord Tyrion mused, and Jon's lips twitched. "I endured a brief period of sobriety, Jon Snow, I have no wish to repeat it. Others will agree I am far more useful as a drunken little lust-filled beast than a browbeaten bookkeeper. You must meet my whore! She has a very fine voice. When I have finished your song, I will send her to sing it to you."

"Thank you for the offer, my lord, but there is no need," Jon said, hiding his laugh, and his blush.

"Come, winter is here - surely you must have a woman warming your bed?" Lord Tyrion suggested. "There were no women at the Wall."

"There were more than you'd think," Jon said shrewdly, and Lord Tyrion turned his lecherous grin on him.

"Ah, one of the ghosts from that long, bloody tale you've promised to tell me."

"You've ghosts yourself, my lord?"

"Far too many, Jon Snow," Lord Tyrion sighed heavily. "Join me for a cup of amber wine from the Arbour, at the very least. I did often think of you while I sat to feast in the sultry warmth of King's Landing."

"I thought of you, too, Lord Tyrion, remembering your wisdom," Jon said honestly, and Lord Tyrion gave a small, sad, satisfied smile.

"How did the lads fare? What were their names…Grenn," Lord Tyrion squinted in thought, and Jon's smile died. "What charming nicknames did Ser Alliser bequeath him?"

"The Aurochs," Jon whispered, gulping.

"That was it. What was the other's name - the runty looking one?"

"Pyp," Jon blurted, pained. "He had a fine voice for songs."

"That's the way of it, is it?" Lord Tyrion said, noting the pain in Jon's voice, his face. "How many brothers have you lost?"

"Hundreds."

"Myself, I have lost one."

Jon frowned down at the dwarf. "Ser Jaime was always your champion, was he not? You have great love for each other."

"The bond between brothers is complicated…but I don't need to tell you that," Lord Tyrion said, giving Jon a wry smile that did not touch his eyes, which remained dark and haunted. Angry.

"No…" No, Jon didn't need reminding that brothers were complicated. He had lost three of his own blooded brothers, and his bond with Robb had always been…what it was.

Lost in thought, Jon gazed at the dragons - three of them, one cream and gold, one green and bronze, the other, the largest, black striated with blood-red - and found himself, unbidden, drawn into his memories of childhood, of Robb and Theon Greyjoy, of pretty Sansa sequestered away with her septa and her sewing, of wild Arya, and impish Bran, and tiny…tiny Rickon. Listening to Larra tell stories of Targaryen dragons that kept the little ones still enough to have their baths before the roaring hearth, mesmerised.

"Jon?" Lord Tyrion said kindly. He sighed, gazing at the dragons too. "I'd say you get used to them…but you never really do."

"What my sisters wouldn't have given to see this," Jon admitted what was at the forefront of his mind, the agony it cost him to voice what he barely entertained thinking about. His sisters. "Arya would've loved it. And Larra…"

"Ah…beautiful Larra," Lord Tyrion grinned, eyes twinkling. Jon had forgotten the Imp was fond of his twin-sister. "Do you know, I have lived some number of years, and the memories do tend to merge together - especially when one considers the perpetual state of drunkenness in which I prefer to spend my days - but some memories are clear as crystal. Alarra Snow, her hair curling to her waist and bedecked with wildflowers, fearfully drunk and arguing the complexities of symbolism in ancient High Valryian odes while soundly thrashing me at dice. Do you know how rare it is to find a beautiful woman who can coherently argue their views on obscure ancient poetry after drinking Arbour strong-wine?"

Jon smiled, heartbroken. "She'd be pleased at least that's your lasting memory of her."

"She thoroughly seduced me, without revealing an inch of flesh," Lord Tyrion grinned lecherously. "Quite the accomplishment… Come, their mother is waiting for you." He nodded at the dragons, and Jon kept climbing.

He had dealt with worse than dragons.

He had outlived worse than Daenerys Stormborn.

A.N.: This chapter was going to be a lot longer, and I have it drafted just not edited and ready to upload! So I thought, as a pre-Christmas gift, another chapter for you all! Because who doesn't adore Tyrion and Jon together?