A.N.: I'm back! I had hoped to update a tonne over the holidays - didn't write a single word! I'm so annoyed. I hope everyone's New Year has been going well!
This chapter is dedicated to Procrastinator1, because we have the same view on Daenerys' "faith" speech.
Valyrian Steel
14
Bad Blood
It was all carefully designed, of course, to intimidate, to set him on edge, to put his men in discomfort. To undermine his power. Effectively, trying to strip it away: To make him impotent.
Jon had expected it.
He remembered Ramsey Bolton snidely muttering that he'd heard rumours: That by the way people spoke, Jon was the greatest swordsman to ever live… Long Claw was not his only weapon: Sansa had hammered it into his mind before he left Winterfell. He had the benefit of an education. And a purpose greater than satisfying his pride.
This was what Maester Luwin had spent so many hours assiduously tutoring him for. Him, and Robb, and Larra, and Theon, the four of them cloistered in the schoolroom during snowy afternoons after drilling in the courtyard under Ser Rodrik's hawk-eyed instruction. Geography and economics and the histories of Westerosi politics, religious uprisings and civil wars - context and cause and effect - Valyrian sagas, military strategy, patience and reflection, basic medicine, religions, foreign cultures and woodworking… He'd gained a fine education from Maester Luwin. Compounded by his experiences at the Wall. Anyone who knew the Old Bear could see his qualities in Jon's leadership - consistent, and fair - and from his father… As King in the North, Jon emulated the example Ned Stark had set as High Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North: Winterfell was strong because Stark leadership was consistent and fair, as the Old Bear's had been, as Ned Stark's had been, as now Jon's was. Consistent, and fair, and inspiring loyalty and love.
He'd left the North relieved that no more talk of stripping lands and castles from ancient Northern families had been grumbled around the Great Hall. With the recent animosities between Stark bannermen and their neighbours, the civil uprisings that had cost Robb the War of the Five Kings as much as Lord Frey's betrayal of guest-right had, Jon needed unity in the North more than ever, he needed to put their disagreements to rest. He needed the Umbers and the Karstarks especially, and the men loyal to them, to remain focused and loyal to his cause: To their very survival.
Soon, they would all appreciate that Jon was right, no matter their personal feelings about his leadership.
He fought for the privilege of their lives.
Sansa had told Jon that he had a skill with people. He built relationships with them - bastards, Free Folk and lords alike - and treated them as equals, as if they mattered to him.
Because they did, Jon had thought, when she'd told him that over a rich stew one windy night, just the two of them together in Father's solar with a fire blazing, Sansa's needle glinting in the light as Jon scratched out yet another raven-scroll and discussed inventory of the grain-stores and success of the root harvests from Winterfell's great glasshouses. They do matter.
He would have given in long ago, if he didn't believe that. He was a bastard: And while she lived, Lady Stark would have ensured Jon never had anything to do with any position of authority at Winterfell or in the North that threatened Robb's inheritance - so, it was the Night's Watch Jon had committed his life to. Until he lost it.
Now he sat in Robb's seat, in their father's seat, and he alone could do anything to stop the coming storm from wiping out the world of Men. Because he had looked the Night King in the eye. He knew what was coming. And he'd fought tooth-and-nail to reclaim Winterfell and piece the North back together, consolidating power to put himself and Sansa in a position of strength - to make a difference: To be in a position to fight the coming storm, not just endure it.
They couldn't just wait it out and hope the White Walkers marched on past Winterfell.
The Night King didn't want resources. He didn't want gold. He didn't even want power.
He wanted the end of all Men.
He wouldn't ignore Winterfell because its people were poor, and tired, and had little political power because of both those factors. He wasn't going to head straight to King's Landing and take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister or Daenerys Targaryen or whoever found themselves sitting upon it. The Night King saw them all as meat for his army, to erase their world.
Jon knew they - lords and low-borns and Free Folk alike - were the only way to stop the Night King.
And after looking the Night King in the eye, after fighting and killing some of his lethal commanders - well, was a girl on a jagged throne truly all that intimidating?
The dragons whorled and careened and spiralled outside, and perhaps Jon could hear their great wings flapping in the corner of his ear, because no other sound echoed through the dank halls of Dragonstone. The fortress forged from Valyrian spells and dragonfire was as impressive as Maester Luwin's books had always promised, but something felt…wrong. He was used to the hustle and bustle of Winterfell, the pleasant murmur of noise even in the topmost towers, the ring of steel from the forges and the scullions singing in the pantries of the cavernous kitchens, the small halls where the old women spun and dyed wool and worked industriously on tapestries as small children played at their feet and tugged their sisters' long braids as they sewed tunics and hose and gossiped and flirted with the stableboys who snuck through the laundry to steal a kiss behind the sheets of linen.
Their footsteps echoed off the dank stones, and for a second, the torch-light flickering, Jon couldn't help but think of Shireen Baratheon, perpetually kind-hearted, gentle and young…this had been her home. A Baratheon stronghold, a backhanded gift from Robert Baratheon to his younger brother for failing to intercept the last Targaryens as they fled this very fortress so many years ago. How had that sweet girl grown up so content, so sweet and kind, in this wretched place?
Was there a person in the world who had deserved her fate less than Princess Shireen?
Strange where his mind went to, perhaps it was Ser Davos' nearness, or perhaps it was passing stonemasons removing Stannis' personal sigil where it had been engraved in the wall over a three-headed dragon motif, perhaps it was his first glimpse into the throne room and a cluster of young girls around a stout older woman, but Jon thought of Princess Shireen, and found himself angry enough to raise his chin, set his shoulders, and stride into the room as if he owned it.
Never forget what you are, Tyrion had advised him, so many years ago. Jon knew what he was. Bastard-born twin of a sister he missed with every beat of his heart, a tried-and-true warrior, a brother of the Night's Watch, their Lord Commander murdered in cold blood, avenger of the Red Wedding, fierce protector of what was right and good, friend of the Free Folk, King in the North.
King in the North. He hadn't inherited the title, hadn't taken it by the edge of his sword, hadn't declared it: He had earned it in his own right.
He had nothing to dread from meeting this self-proclaimed Queen.
Her court was small, mismatched: golden Tyrell roses and the sun-spear of the Martells glinted in the candlelight. On a jagged throne sat a small woman with long silvery-gold hair, hands resting neatly in her lap, back straight, expression imperious, bordering hostile. The Queen's advisers took their places on the steps leading to her throne, Missandei again wearing that benign smile, Lord Tyrion looking rather uncomfortable as the Dothraki and Unsullied took their places lining the walls, blocking the heavy doors that were closed behind the last of Jon's men.
Jon saw the Tyrells; he noted the little girls clustered around the Queen of Thorns. He supposed the elegant olive-skinned woman might be Ellaria Sand, paramour of the legendary Red Viper of Dorne, and beside her two of her many children by the prince. Sands. His cousins.
He saw the Queen on her uncomfortable throne.
He ignored them all.
Because Jon's gaze was fixed solely on the one person he had vowed he would beat to death with his bare hands if he ever saw him again.
Missandei's clear voice echoed off the dank halls as Jon stared at Theon Greyjoy, heralding her queen. Jon didn't hear a word.
The details of his brother's murder whispered through his mind, Grey Wind's head sewn to Robb's body after both were riddled with arrows and butchered: The fate of Robb's wife, and their unborn baby. Even Lady Catelyn, her throat slit to the bone, her body dumped into the river. His siblings' mother. Northmen butchered by their thousands.
Sansa, brutalised by the family that had betrayed theirs.
Larra, fleeing the very same place, with a simple giant, a broken boy and a tiny feral brother - fleeing Theon.
Sansa, escaping Winterfell, the one place she was entitled to feel safe - guided by Theon.
Theon Greyjoy met Jon's gaze hesitantly. Tension crackled in the throne room, but Jon didn't look at the Queen, nor did he give false apologies. He did not bow to her. Did not acknowledge her, too consumed with the rage that roared in his ears, clenching his jaw, as he stared at his family's betrayer. Robb, Larra, Brandon, Rickon and Sansa.
Robb may yet be alive had Theon fought beside him, rather than betray him.
Larra would never have ventured beyond the Wall with their crippled brother and a simple giant.
Rickon would not have been shot through the heart mere feet from Jon as he galloped to save his little brother.
Sansa…
Sansa may be alive because of Theon.
But Larra… a voice whimpered in the back of his mind, a tiny voice Maester Aemon had coaxed him to silence forever, the voice of his childhood, a tiny heartsick moan of the little lost boy Jon had always been, seeking the love and devotion and companionship of his twin, his equal in every way, his friend, his fiercest love. Larra…
When Ironborn had taken Winterfell and the North was no longer safe, Larra had taken their brothers beyond the Wall…
Who had lit the bodies, to stop Larra and Hodor and broken Bran from joining the Night King's legions? His heart cracked like a great fissure in the ice-meadows of the true North, depthless and devastating.
He wished there was some way Larra and Bran may have beaten all odds and survived the most hostile place in the world. He wished it, when he allowed himself to dwell on it: The truth was, it hurt too much to linger on his sister's fate, the fate of Bran who he'd last seen comatose in his bed, his harridan mother telling Jon it should have been him lying broken…
He didn't linger on Larra's fate, when thinking about her put him in danger of breaking under the weight of the knowledge that everything he had fought for, ever since he left Winterfell, had been for nothing. Larra was dead. Because their family had been betrayed; and Lady Catelyn would rather he had died at the edge of the world than let him be near his family, be useful, be Robb's fiercest ally and protector and soldier, defender of his sisters…
Theon Greyjoy gulped as he stepped forward tentatively, until he was barely a foot away from him. "Jon… I didn't know…you were coming here… Sansa, is she -"
Jon forgot he was strapped with weapons. He forgot soldiers and savages lined the walls of the hall, would skewer him in a heartbeat if their Queen gave the signal. He forgot Ser Davos was beside him; he forgot that his men were behind him.
All he saw, in that instant, was an image of Larra, dead and rotting and icy blue-eyed in the snow.
His long, clever fingers wrapped themselves around Theon's throat, and he squeezed, his body on fire with rage and grief and guilt.
Jon didn't notice that he had shot over a whole head taller than Theon Greyjoy, or that a grim-faced woman in kraken-emblazoned leather lazily gripped the hilt of her dagger as she watched Jon strangle Theon with his bare hand.
He only noticed the grief and guilt in Theon's eyes, and only barely registered that Theon was not fighting him off.
He recalled strangling someone in the crypt before he had left Winterfell.
Littlefinger had sold Sansa to the Boltons.
Theon Greyjoy had saved her from them.
"What you did for her - is the only reason I'm not killing you!" he promised Theon, seething with fury, roughly releasing him, and he thought Theon nodded as he staggered away, massaging his throat and coughing.
"Lord Greyjoy, you know this man?" asked a cold voice. The Queen, trying to insert herself - tired of being ignored.
Wheezing, never breaking eye-contact with Jon, Theon said quietly, sorrowfully, "He's my brother."
Jon clenched his jaw, his veins throbbing with pain as fire raced through them, fury, itching to strangle him again. "Robb was your brother. Bran and Rickon were your brothers." His voice reduced to a whisper as he seethed, "Larra was your sister. And you betrayed them."
Theon had the grace to look ashamed as he admitted, "I did."
"Larra…she was the she-wolf you told me about, wasn't she?" The woman in the abused leather looked thoughtfully at Jon. Her voice was soft, grim, monotonous, but laced with the irony Jon remembered in Theon when they were boys. "She killed three Ironborn with her fangs and claws and a cleaver."
Theon glanced from the woman to Jon, and corrected quietly, "It was a meat-hook."
Yara Greyjoy looked fondly at her brother, and then gazed at Jon, not quite a smile on her face. "What we do to protect our little brothers."
"She sounds like quite a warrior," said the cold voice. "A wonder you did not bring her south with you to protect you."
Jon's gaze did not leave Theon's face as he said bluntly, "She's dead. Do I need protection, Your Grace?" Finally, he turned his gaze to Daenerys Targaryen.
"It seems not; you still bear your weapons," she said coolly, and Jon scoffed softly. He was still strapped with his weapons - and had gone for the kill with his bare hands in spite of the dozens of soldiers lining the halls. "Did my advisor not ask you to hand over your weapons?"
"She did; I refused. I won't leave my men unable to defend themselves, Your Grace," Jon said. All this effort, for one man, he thought, and Sansa's voice murmured, She's threatened by you.
"To whom am I speaking?" the Queen sniffed, as if she did not know.
"This is Jon Snow. Son of Lord Eddard Stark, brother of Robb Stark, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch," said Theon Greyjoy, and there was something new and unfamiliar in his voice when he added, "He is King in the North."
Almost like respect.
Jon had never heard it before.
"Thank you for travelling so far, my lord. I hope the seas weren't too rough," said Daenerys Stormborn, and Jon's eyes lanced to the Queen. That's the way of it, is it? he thought, sweeping his gaze slowly from the tip of her silver-gold head to her leather-covered toes, and not hiding his disdain. He had parleyed with Free Folk with more manners.
"He's not a lord."
Jon glanced at Theon Greyjoy. He had spoken quietly, but clearly, and Theon Greyjoy was staring defiantly at the Queen, his chin raised. "He is King in the North."
"I never did receive a formal education, Lord Greyjoy," Daenerys Targaryen said coldly, and continued with a condescending air that would have immediately put Larra's back up, itching to verbally slap her fiercely back into her place. "But I could have sworn I read the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life, and the lives of the Northmen, Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?"
Glancing away from Theon, Jon said politely, "I wasn't there, Your Grace."
"No, of course not." A cold, condescending smile. "But still, an oath is an oath…and perpetuity means… What does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?"
The old woman in black exchanged a moue with the eldest of her rosebuds, the kind of look Larra might once have given Jon, and the look Sansa had described to Jon when she had told him about the Queen of Thorns. Lord Tyrion grimaced a little, as he remarked, "Forever."
"Forever," Daenerys Targaryen repeated, with a poisonous smile. "So I assume, my lord, you're here to bend the knee."
Theon Greyjoy's eyes danced from the Queen to Jon, as his grim-faced sister frowned; across the throne room, the elderly Tyrell raised an eyebrow at the veiled Martell woman.
"I am not." Jon knew his face was grim, implacable. The face of every Northern king who had come before him.
"Oh. That is unfortunate," Daenerys Targaryen said. "You've travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"
At that, Jon laughed outright, his earlier rage at Theon swept aside, rankled by this tiny woman with her condescension and arrogance. Jon had allied with and advised and betrayed kings before: And Daenerys Targaryen could have learned much from Mance Rayder, and from Stannis Baratheon. She could have learned from Ygritte, and Tormund, and Lady Mormont, and Sansa, and Princess Shireen, Samwell Tarly and Gilly.
He wondered what Sansa would make of her - and knew, in his heart, that Sansa's teeth would be set on edge by her - reminded all too vividly, though they shared no physical attributes beyond an untouchable, polished beauty, of Cersei Lannister.
Jon remembered the look on Cersei Lannister's face as Larra was untied from the post where she had been flogged - for no other reason than because Cersei had taken it as an insult to her beauty that Larra possessed so much of her own, and the King had noticed.
Vicious, cold beauty. Arrogance.
Jon had half a mind to coax her North simply to watch Sansa shred her to pieces.
In her absence, the task fell to him, Larra's voice echoing in his ears, memories of their debates in the schoolroom with Maester Luwin filling him with warmth, and humour, and sorrow.
"Any Northern oaths sworn to House Targaryen went up in smoke with the bodies of Rickard and Brandon Stark as your father burned them alive. Any bonds of fealty were broken when Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark," Jon declared bluntly, and Lord Tyrion winced. Daenerys Stormborn did not react. "House Targaryen broke faith; and the North remembers." Theon Greyjoy smiled sorrowfully, eyes distant as he gazed at the floor. The words of all Northerners, ever since the Red Wedding. Daenerys Targaryen's pretty features became unpleasant as her face twisted with anger. Jon glanced at Theon, who had been there when Jon had been forbidden the privilege... "And the last King in the North was not Torrhen, the King Who Knelt. The last King in the North was the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, who was undefeated on the battlefield when he was murdered. I'm not certain when Lord Tyrion came into your service, Your Grace, however, I find it difficult to accept he wouldn't forewarn you of the state of things in Westeros. How else could he help you plan your conquest of the Six Kingdoms?"
"Six kingdoms?" Daenerys Targaryen blinked. "The Iron Throne rules over seven kingdoms."
"It did. For three hundred years, House Stark honoured its oaths to the Iron Throne. Until the cost of fealty proved too high. The price of our freedom from the iron Throne was paid in fire and blood," Jon said, and Lord Tyrion's lips twitched toward a smile as Jon used the Targaryen words against her. "From the time Robb Stark was named King in the North until the end of time, the North will remain a free and independent kingdom, as it was for thousands of years before the first Targaryen conquest." A bald man near Missandei gave Jon a shrewd look.
"Our Houses were allies for centuries. And those centuries were the best the Seven Kingdoms have ever known," Daenerys Targaryen said, and Jon thought he could see a glimmer of the woman who might have inspired Tyrion Lannister to become her Hand. Her face started to soften, her eyes widening, a gentle coaxing smile on her lips. Jon saw the smile, and remembered Cersei. Remembered Larra's back shredded, and his sister's sluggish, pain-drenched murmur that the Queen wanted new ribbons… Jon saw that smile and remembered cruelty. "Centuries of peace and prosperity, with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Warden of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it."
Jon stared at this Targaryen girl, this self-proclaimed Queen, frowning. What he had expected, he didn't know… After the Night King, nothing seemed to measure up, of course, but…he hadn't expected to be so…disdainful. He thought of Mance, inspiring the Free Folk; he thought of Stannis, who had abandoned his fight for the Iron Throne because he had known the true threat to Westeros came from the North…a righteous man, if poorly advised… This woman…he didn't know. He was not impressed.
She was either poorly educated, or ignorant by choice.
"I am not beholden to my ancestor's vows. You say you'll name me Warden of the North. The Northmen have already made me their king: The Northmen, who united to protect themselves from those who would destroy our country," Jon said, and he couldn't keep the scathing condescension from his own voice, that she thought a pretty face and her offer would ever touch him. He couldn't help narrowing his eyes, and sneering softly as he continued, "And you talk of peace and prosperity under Targaryen rule: Was that when Maegor waged war for decades on the Faith Militant after taking his six Black Brides, wives he tortured and butchered? When he murdered the thousands who toiled to build the Red Keep, in order to preserve its secrets? When the Dance of the Dragons saw the country burned and broken as Targaryen fought Targaryen and their dragons bathed the Seven Kingdoms in fire? When Daemon sacrificed tens of thousands of lives to keep a hold on Dorne? When the Blackfyres rose in rebellion after Aegon the Unworthy caused discord by favouring his bastard over his trueborn son? When your father bathed good men, honourable men, in wildfire?"
As he spoke, Daenerys Targaryen's face grew colder and colder; those Westerosi around her exchanged speaking looks, that they, too, knew their histories, and remembered. And did not respect her for ignoring the truth of the past.
"The only fair reigns of Targaryen monarchs were those of Jaehaerys the Wise and Aegon the Unlikely - Aegon built upon the laws Jaeherys wrote centuries ago, to protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms. Your Hand will tell you his father unworked everything Aegon fought for when he became Hand to your father," Jon said, nodding respectfully to Lord Tyrion, who was not his father in spite of their shared brilliance with strategy - according to Sansa. Daenerys Targaryen narrowed her eyes as she observed this indication of respect, glaring at Jon as he said, "You've been reading revisionist histories, Your Grace, no doubt written intended to flatter you."
"Clearly you have no intention of flattering your rightful queen," she said through gritted teeth.
"I might, if I had one," he said bluntly, and Daenerys Targaryen's face leeched of expression. The Queen of Thorns exchanged a smirk with the sultry Dornishwoman across the chamber. "I will not apologise for wounding your pride, Your Grace: I will do whatever I must to protect the people of the North. No Northman will ever kneel to a Targaryen again… Will you burn my people to get what you want?"
The bald man draped in unusual robes flicked his gaze from the Queen to Jon, giving him a measuring, thoughtful look, before glancing at the Hand of the Queen, who was wincing thoughtfully, but staring at Jon as if mesmerised.
"Surely you did not come all this way to insult me."
"You can take my truth as you wish, Your Grace. You wage war on Cersei Lannister, on the Iron Throne: The North has declared its independence from the Iron Throne, and will defend it - no matter who sits on the Throne," Jon said, with a fierce bite. "If you truly wish the best for all the people of Westeros, as your people claim, you would be wise to begin your conquest by respecting the sovereignty of House Stark over the North, from Hard Home to the Neck, from Skagos to Cape Kraken. Devote your time to those in the south who do need you. You came to Westeros to war against monsters; don't take the North from just rulers for the sake of your pride."
If Daenerys Targaryen could have snarled in anger without it looking undignified for a Queen with a trailing name, Jon supposed she might have. If she might have exposed her teeth as a threat, she would have.
Her reception of him, and her reaction to him, told Jon all he needed to know.
She was here to take the Iron Throne, and would not stop until she had it, and everything she believed belonged to it - including the North.
Daenerys Targaryen would destroy anyone who stood in her way…no matter that they were defending their home, their people - from her.
He sighed heavily, glancing around the chamber.
"It's been a long journey, Your Grace," he said, tiredly but politely. "I request food and drink for myself and my men."
"You did not bring your own?" was the cold, tart reply.
"Oh, I've supplies enough on my ship, if your army overextends your own provisions," Jon told her, meeting her eye. With a sharp, unyielding bite, Jon met her eye and challenged, "It's guest-right I want for my men."
"Guest-right." Her eyes darted to Lord Tyrion, whose lips had parted, and Jon raised his eyebrows. She had to consult her Hand about guest-right? When he knew it was observed in Essos just as much as Westeros - even the Dothraki had their rules about weapons in their sacred city. He exchanged a grim look with Ser Davos, and saw Theon Greyjoy watching the Queen closely, exchanging a look with his sister that had Jon's stomach aching for Larra, the way they had silently communicated with each other with such ease.
"The only common custom among Westerosi people, Your Grace, irrespective of rank or gods, honoured all the way from the most southerly point of the Arbor to the icy wastes far beyond the Wall," Lord Tyrion explained. "Guest-right is respected by all."
"Except the Freys," Jon said, with a pointed look at Lord Tyrion, whose father, it was widely known, had orchestrated the massacre of the Red Wedding, without getting so much as a speck of blood on his own hands. Grimly, threateningly, Jon said, "But winter came for them."
"To violate guest-right is to incur the wrath of the gods," Theon Greyjoy said softly.
"Superstition." A tight smile from the Queen, dismissive.
Jon narrowed his eyes at her. "They say you stepped into the fire with three stone eggs, and stepped from the ashes with three new-hatched dragons," he said coldly. "And you sneer at the wills of gods?"
Outside, they could hear the shrieking of the dragons. Jon glanced from the windows to Daenerys Targaryen. "Think they came into the world again to put you on a throne?"
She levelled her gaze on him, but Jon did not so much as blink. He had warred against giants, killed White Walkers, assassinated men he admired, seen his brother shot through the heart feet from him, held his lover in his arms as she died, his name mixing with the blood on her lips.
This Queen was so much more intimidating by reputation.
In person, well…
"What do you think they came into the world for, Jon Snow?"
"As we speak, White Walkers lead an army of the dead upon the Wall," Jon said quietly. He didn't have to raise his voice: He wondered if the others had stopped breathing, the better to hear him spar with their lady. "You and Cersei Lannister are children engaged in a game, screaming that the rules aren't fair."
The Queen's expression turned colder. She glared at her Hand. "You told me you liked this man."
"I do."
"In the time since he's met me, he's refused to call me Queen, he's refused to bow and now he's calling me a child." She sounds like one, Jon thought, watching her carefully. How long since anyone had denied her?
"I do not deny your rightful place on the Iron Throne, Your Grace, only your sovereignty over the Northern kingdom," Jon corrected. And he would keep reminding them all that the North was no longer under the sovereignty of the Iron Throne. "And a king does not kneel to another monarch. I'm calling all of you children, Your Grace, all of you who are engaged in the game of thrones."
"A figure of speech, Your Grace," Lord Tyrion said, giving Jon a careful look.
"Everyone you know, everyone we love, will die before winter's end if we cannot defeat the enemy to the North."
"As far as I can see, you are my enemy to the North." Cold and curt and stubborn. It was no wonder he'd heard rumours she burned what did not yield.
"I am not your enemy. Nor shall I ever be your subject. We will all - Stark, Targaryen, Dothraki, Lannister, Free Folk and Summer Islanders - be dead before winter's end if we do not unite to fight the incursion from the True North," Jon said vehemently. "White Walkers march against the Wall, and they will find a way to breach it. Their armies of the dead will march south and destroy the world of Men."
"The dead," the Queen said, her voice devoid of anything except disdain. "Is that another figure of speech?"
"The army of the dead?" Lord Tyrion frowned at Jon.
"You don't know me well, Lord Hand, but do you think I am a liar?" the King asked, and Tyrion felt a subtle thrill at being referred to as Lord Hand - and was reminded of their shared time at the Wall. Of his advice to Jon Snow - and of his uncle's grim words to Tyrion regarding the North. "Or a madman?"
"No, I don't think you're either of those things, Your Grace," Tyrion demurred: In truth, he had a healthy respect for Jon Snow. There was a reason he had risen from steward to King in the North, and he had no dragons to do the work for him. Many of his brothers had died beside him - not for him: They defended the Seven Kingdoms, and they would do it - Tyrion remembered Benjen Stark's words - so plump little lords like you can enjoy their summer afternoons in peace and comfort…
"Grumpkins and snarks, you called them, do you remember?" Jon Snow's lips twitched with a sad sort of irony that did not touch his grim grey eyes. "You visited the Wall and spent weeks combing through rare texts in the library - you listened to my brothers' stories about their Ranging parties… You spoke with my uncle about what lies beyond the ice."
"I remember… He gave me an excellent nugget of wisdom handed down by your father, I recall…" Lord Tyrion said, remembering, anything after the word 'but' is horse-shit… "He warned me I could not know what he had seen, what he had endured…"
Jon sighed heavily, gazing around the throne room. This had been Stannis Baratheon's home for years. His daughter had been raised here. Ser Davos had served Stannis here, first as Lord of Dragonstone and then as King…
"A long while ago, now, Stannis Baratheon abandoned his claim on the Iron Throne - because he knew the greatest threat to Westeros lay beyond the Wall," Jon said, glancing at Tyrion, who had fought Stannis' forces at the Battle of the Blackwater, and according to Sansa, had received his scars there. "But it wasn't the Free Folk gathered under one king for the first time in generations… He gave the Watch his ships; we headed to Hard Home to bring the Free Folk south of the Wall to safety. Some we saved; thousands died on the shores when the White Walkers came, commanding their legions."
"Did they ride on giant spiders pale as ice?" Tyrion couldn't help it; White Walkers were from myth and legend, and therefore comfortably far-off.
"No. Horses, my lord, icy-eyed and rotting," Jon said solemnly. "When they breach the Wall, the North will fall first. And thousands more soldiers will be added to the White Walkers' armies of the dead." The King in the North levelled Daenerys Targaryen with a look, a stern Northern look that set leaders apart from the rest - the intractable, unyielding looks of men who had been forced to make horrific decisions to safeguard their people, at the cost of something very precious. "They say you're a liberator, you want to help those who cannot protect themselves: Your dragons will help you take the Iron Throne, I've no doubt. But you'll not sit long on the Iron Throne if you do not help win the war against the White Walkers."
A moment of silence, Jon Snow's words settling into the heart of everyone who had been brought up to dread the myths and legends of the White Walkers. It was the earnestness with which Jon Snow spoke that had such a profound effect. He spoke from the heart; he spoke with absolute truth.
And they all knew it.
"I was born at Dragonstone. Not that I can remember it. We fled before Robert's assassins could find us," Queen Daenerys said offhandedly, rising from her jagged throne. She gave Jon an accusing look, her tone snide as she said, "Robert was your father's best-friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best-friend sent assassins to murder a baby-girl in her crib?"
Jon's eyes narrowed, and his words made them uncomfortable: "When Stannis Baratheon's fleet approached Dragonstone to murder your remaining family, my father was in Dorne, seeking the sister Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped. His sister, who died in his arms."
Daenerys Targaryen may choose to be ignorant of the truth of the destruction of her family's dynasty - how it had been entirely of their own making - but those gathered in her makeshift court were not: They understood the truth of the Rebellion.
The bald man with his hands lost in folds of rich fabric spoke for the first time. His voice was pleasant, clever, and devoid of any accent: "Lord Stark resigned his position as Hand of the King when King Robert sent assassins to murder you and your unborn child. On his deathbed King Robert knew Ned Stark had the right of it; Lord Stark asked preparations for your assassination be cancelled. My little birds had already flown…"
The Queen's eyes narrowed cruelly. "Yet I lived."
"By the will of a Northman," Jon Snow said: He had heard enough from Tyrion on their painful walk from the quay that it was a Northman, a Mormont, who had stayed by Daenerys Stormborn's side since her first marriage. Lord Commander Mormont's only son.
Daenerys Targaryen ignored his quiet remark. "I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me, I don't remember their names. I have been sold like a brood mare, I've been chained, betrayed and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing, through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen."
Jon inhaled, and let out a heavy sigh. As she had spoken, her features had morphed, eyes widening, lips thinning, colour hinting at her pale cheeks, making her look almost mad.
All he could think of was Larra. Of Sansa. Of Ygritte. Of Gilly-flower. Of Arya, and even of Lady Catelyn. He looked carefully at the other women in the room - at Lady Olenna Tyrell; at the Red Viper's whore, Ellaria Sand - last tenuous connection to Elia Martell, who had endured torment beyond imagining; at Theon Greyjoy's grim-faced sister, a hard captain of even harder men in a society that distrusted and abused women. He thought of Lady Lyanna Mormont; of Fat Walda Frey whom Sansa never truly spoke of, except to say she had been a kind lady undeserving of her fate - herself and her newborn son ripped apart by hounds…
Jon was not impressed. Perhaps Daenerys Targaryen believed she alone in this world was the one woman who had endured brutality, and emerged from it stronger, capable, fierce and unrelenting.
Jon thought of Sansa in her fierce new gowns, the steely glint in her pretty blue eyes - the iron beneath her beauty.
What had Sansa had, to survive unknown horrors, but her mind, her own agency?
There was a danger in believing too much in oneself, to the detriment of compassion toward others' struggles.
He caught Theon's eye, and knew they both thought the same thing, the same name. Sansa. He glanced at Lord Tyrion, and knew the Imp realised it.
Realised Jon was not impressed by this small woman with weapons of fire made flesh, and an army of savages at her command, not when Lady Mormont had led her sixty-two men into battle at the age of ten, fierce and wise far too early in her life; not when his sister had traversed the frozen North in nothing but a cloak to escape her sadistic husband, after surviving court with nothing but her wits and her courtesy; not when Gilly had been wed and bred upon by her own father, and fled, fighting off White Walkers, to protect her newborn son in the most hostile environment in the world, knowing that fleeing south meant certain death just as staying in the North did, because she had been born a wildling. Not when Jon had fought side-by-side with Karsi against the White Walkers, leader of the Free Folk in her own right, picking up the pieces after Mance's army had been routed, protecting her people, making hard choices for their future.
"I've had the privilege to know many women who've endured all that and worse, Your Grace, with no great name to cling to, and no dragons to kill for them," Jon said, looking down at the tiny, arrogant woman who had approached him. She had seemed larger when sat on the throne; in person, she was almost two whole feet shorter than him, and angry. She was very beautiful, yes: But Jon couldn't look at her without seeing Sansa, and Gilly, and Lyanna Mormont, and Lady Brienne, and Larra. "As far as I can tell, the only thing that separates you from every woman in this room, in this world, is those three beasts circling the island."
Anger twisted her otherwise pretty features. Coldly, defiantly, she almost hissed, "The world had not seen dragons for centuries until my children were born."
Jon levelled her a look, and asked her grimly, "And what would you be without them?"
A.N.: Because, seriously, would she have even have survived the Garden of Bones outside Qarth if the Thirteen hadn't been curious about the dragons she had with her?
I'm also working on a Court of Thorns and Roses and a Gossip Girl fanfiction - the Court of Thorns and Roses story will eradicate Feyre as the main character; and the Gossip Girl one is inspired by the announcement of the reboot this year. If anyone has any ideas/requests, please PM me (or leave a note in your review!)