A.N.: Thank you so much for the AMAZING reviews I received on the last chapter! I'm glad you all enjoyed it. Final update for the weekend (and the half-term holiday). Please don't hate me by the end of this chapter!
Valyrian Steel
31
Wolf Girl, Dragon Boy, Wolf Boy, Dragon Girl
In the mountains of west Dorne, a gleaming white castle with a pale tower guarded the mouth of great frothing river as it rushed heedlessly to the Summer Sea, a pale tower glimmering like a sword thrust toward the skies in the dying sunshine that stained the skies blood-orange, fuchsia and purple, and the mountains surrounding them a rich, burning red. Starfall.
Legend told that the castle had been built where a magic stone struck the earth after hurtling across the heavens. From that stone was forged not just a legendary sword, and warriors who wielded it, but the castle, to commemorate its landing-place.
The Daynes had been the power in western Dorne long before Nymeria ever sailed across the seas.
Recent history had documented that Lord Eddard Stark, after discovering his sister dying in a modest tower in the Dornish mountains, had returned Dawn to House Dayne, here at Starfall… He had slain Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and brought the sword home in place of he who had wielded it.
A noble act. Lord Varys could not help but think of Lord Eddard Stark's greatsword, Ice, melted down for two obscenely gilded blades claimed by House Lannister.
Ashara Dayne had plummeted to her death after flinging herself from Palestone Sword into the sea, and rumour had it that she had taken her own life after the birth of a stillborn daughter…or having her children taken from her…or because she had been dishonoured at the Tourney of Harrenhall…or out of grief over her brother's death.
None of those things had ever been proven, and there were none now to ask the truth of the thing.
One thing was irrefutable. A wet-nurse from Starfall had accompanied Ned Stark north to Winterfell, nursing the twin babes he had fathered during the Rebellion. She had nursed the twins, and accompanied a simple casket containing the bones of Lady Lyanna, draped with a Stark banner and a wreath of winter roses. That wet-nurse had later returned to the south, when the babes had been settled in the nursery of Winterfell, with a Northern wet-nurse, and Lord Stark awaited the arrival of his lady-wife and their newborn son and heir, Robb Stark, who had become the Young Wolf, the first King in the North in three centuries.
Until now, it had never been in Varys' interests to pull on that particular thread.
In the balmy warmth and delicate sea-foam of the Torintine, Lord Varys drifted among the hibiscus, finally following the thread, from the bowels of Starfall's kitchens to a modest dwelling of white stone with a kitchen-garden overflowing with herbs and a small harvest of early-winter crops, to a small hearth, at which a grandmother sat, contentedly sewing.
He had had it confirmed by those who had once been young during the Rebellion: Ashara Dayne had given birth to no bastards, living or otherwise.
Lord Eddard Stark had arrived at Starfall with the twins, the casket, and the sword of House Dayne. The wet-nurse had already been with him; but she had been a servant of Starfall, as generations of her family had been before her.
He saw it in her face, as he was shown to the hearth by a woman with a toddler in her hip, children tugging at her apron-strings and gazing with unabashed curiosity at him. The daughter chided her children, sent them out of the small parlour, so that Lord Varys and her mother might have privacy. The older woman squinted at him in the firelight, lowering her embroidery.
"So… You found me."
"Oh, I never lost you," Lord Varys assured her, folding his hands in his sleeves. "My little birds trilled their songs to me over the years, keeping me informed, and yet until recently, I had no reason whatsoever to wound you by digging into your past. I am sorry it will not be a more pleasant conversation."
"It's never pleasant, telling ghost-stories," sighed the woman. She gave him a shrewd look. "Those babes nursed at my breast…I swaddled them, cared for them…what d'you intend to do with them?"
"There is now nothing more that can be done to the daughter," said Varys quietly, and the woman winced. "The True North claimed her years ago. She is safe now in the memories of those who had loved her… But the son. The son lives. He thrives."
"We've heard the stories. The White Wolf, who protected his sister's inheritance - and defended her honour - and laid waste to their family's enemies upon the moors of Winterfell," said the woman, with quiet awe.
"Yes," Varys said softly. "The babe you cared for is a tired warrior, and a fine young man. A great leader, intimidating to nobles and queens alike, and he inspires great trust and admiration and love in the smallfolk."
"And what are you going to do to him?" It was a seething glare, hostile - the glare of a mother-bear sensing danger to her cubs.
"It is my hope to put his father's crown upon his head," Lord Varys said softly.
"His father never wore the crown," the woman said, sighing, and something broke, Lord Varys saw it. She shook her head, and set her needlework in her lap. "The Stag gored the Last Dragon at the Trident…" She shook her head, and fixed her pale eyes on Lord Varys.
"Please tell me everything."
She sighed heavily, but sat up a little straighter, and nodded. "It was Lord Dayne himself who summoned me up to Starfall one evening. It was past the hour of the wolf… And there he was, the Sword of the Morning. I had grown up at Starfall, I knew his face, though he did not wear his white cloak, only simple clothes, a brigandine and gorget - not the full armour of the Kingsguard that he wore later… His broher was in need of a midwife and wet-nurse, milord said, someone who could be trusted: I had helped deliver and nursed Lord Dayne's son, you see… We left Starfall within the hour, on horseback, with a small company of Dayne guards; they left us as we reached the tower. Joy, the Prince had called it, and I could feel it, as I entered the tower. It was a happy place; it was in the very stones and the air… It was a place of joy and great love… The Princess met me in the little parlour."
Varys waited, and the woman gave him a sad, shrewd smile.
"Princess Lyanna," she said softly. "Lord Commander Gerold Hightower of the Kingsguard introduced her himself. I still remember her to this day. Tall and slim and queenly. Oh, she was a beauty. Not in the way of the songs and tales with their golden heroines…she had a solemn beauty, like moonlight and shadows. But it was her eyes…they were kind, and warm, in spite of her stern face. Grey eyes, dark hair to her waist, simply braided, and her gown was of fine wool, nothing spectacular, nothing a princess would have worn… Her belly was big when I arrived, bigger than she should have been - she had counted the moons since she last bled, but she was carrying low, and the maester thought her time was near; they sent for a wet-nurse in preparation. It was Lord Dayne who thought of me, being a midwife as well as wet-nurse… The Princess was relieved at my arrival. Her maids were one thing, as company; I had experience as a mother… I was brought to Starfall as much to give the Princess advice, for when her time came, and what to do after, as to nurse her babies if she needed me to. She was determined to nurse them herself…"
The woman sighed, shaking her head. "It was my privilege to stay at the tower of Joy in those weeks before the babies came. Prince Rhaegar had gone off to fight the Rebels, but in that little tower… It was a family. A family. Princess Lyanna, and her brothers, the three of them - though she was most deeply bonded with Ser Arthur Dayne. She told me once, he reminded her of her younger-brother, though they were nowhere near in age. Benjen, his name was, I still recall his face, he looked so like her… She said he wanted to be Kingsguard himself… They love each other deeply, I believe, as brother and sister, Ser Arthur and Princess Lyanna…
"A raven came, from the Trident: Ser Arthur delivered the news himself, though I could see that he had died upon hearing of his best-friend's death… The sound of her scream will haunt me 'til my last breath. She asked only whether her brother had dealt the killing blow; Ser Arthur confirmed it had been Robert Baratheon… Her grief started her pains… Ser Arthur never left her side, as she laboured. He stayed with her, and held her hand, and brushed her hair from her face as she silently wept and struggled… She gave birth to her daughter. Any midwife or maester will tell you, babies are not born pretty. But I cleaned up the babe, and she was a beauty; soft dark hair like her mother's, and eyes so big and so blue they were like violets… They were already open, as if eager to explore everything around her, she was so animated… I placed her at her mother's breast…when the Princess's pains began again, we knew there to be another…the boy had not turned. Ser Arthur took the child from her mother and cradled her himself, gently rocking her as she fussed and whimpered, and she gentled and curled up against him as he kissed her soft hair. He held her mother's hand, as I attempted to turn the other child… If the son's birth had been like the daughter's, the Princess might have lived… But she laboured too long…she bled, as we finally freed him. He was perfect, as his sister was, born frowning as if he wasn't ready to face the world… I still remember the way he smiled, when his sister cooed. The way she whimpered, until they were swaddled together, and they cuddled up to each other, as they had in their mother's womb. Ser Arthur held them both, as I tended to the princess. He cried, I remember. His best-friend was dead, but he had given them joy even after he was gone, in those two little babies. The Princess was bleeding… The Prince's death, her children's birth…it took the strength from her. She drifted, for weeks; in and out, sleeping… But the babies - they were strong. The little girl had bonded with Ser Arthur, perfectly content to be cuddled by him; the boy was only content when he was with his sister, else he frowned and fussed.
"When the Princess was situated in the bed, cleaned up, the babies swaddled in their cradle, the other men appeared. They witnessed the babies themselves, examined the sex of boy and girl, confirmed with Ser Arthur which had come first… Prince Rhaegar had already had the official royal documents already drawn up in preparation. The documents confirming the birth of Prince Rhaegar's true-born children. Princess Lyanna woke long enough to sign her name on the grand, illuminated parchment, beside that of her husband… Each of the Kingsguard lent their signatures, and their seals, witnessing the children's birth, and recording their names…
"The Princess had told me what she and Prince Rhaegar had decided to name their child. They had the names ready, for boy or girl; both were used, as it turned out. Her daughter she named Princess Aella Alarra, to honour her grandmother, and the Stark who served as lady-in-waiting to Good Queen Alysanne, her friend…and her son… Prince Aegon Torrhen, after Prince Rhaegar's great-grandfather who died the same day he was born at the Tragedy of Summerhall, and the King-Who-Knelt, Torrhen Stark, who sacrificed his crown for his people."
The woman sniffled, and dabbed at her eyes with her needle work.
"What happened to the document?" Lord Varys asked, and the woman smiled wryly.
"They didn't only lose their prince at the Trident," she said. "They lost brothers, cut down in their white cloaks… A rider was despatched, with guards. Guards wearing the sunspear sigil of House Martell."
"Prince Doran," Varys said softly, and the letter he had secreted from a hidden place in the bowels of the Red Keep seemed to burn in his sleeve. Grand plans gone so tragically awry.
"I imagine the documents reached Prince Doran at near enough the same time news reached him of King's Landing," said the woman grimly. "We heard about the Lannisters sacking the city…what happened to Prince Rhaegar's former wife, their little babies… The Kingsguard knew that soldiers would be on their way, seeking the Princess," she sighed, looking overwrought. Twenty-odd years was a long time to keep such secrets to herself.
"And seek her they did," Lord Varys sighed, and the woman nodded.
"The Prince's death, the strain of her children's birth…I believe it was watching her brother cut down her friend who had loved and protected her that finally broke the princess," said the woman hoarsely. "We watched the skirmish from the tower window… There were only two survivors, Lord Stark and the little crannogman… When Ser Arthur was cut down, the Princess howled…I settled her into the bed, and that was where they found her, the last of her strength gone, clutching the dead petals of the roses Rhaegar had picked for her before he went off to war… She was fierce, though, fierce in her last moments - she had his promise, his oath - to protect them. She gave him the children's names - Aegon and Aella Targaryen… I've never seen anyone so shocked. The Lord Stark knew, in that instant…it had been a lie, everything he had been fighting for… His sister had never been snatched and dishonoured; the Prince had wed her, and given her children his name…
"Lord Stark gathered us in the parlour. There were none left who could fight, but it seemed to me the fight had gone out of Lord Stark. He simply told us that if we breathed a word of the children's true parentage, Robert Baratheon would not stop until he had hunted down and slaughtered them. We had heard of Princess Rhaenys and little Prince Aegon, and we had loved Princess Lyanna… Lord Stark knew he needed no threats to keep us silent. We kept the lady's secret; we kept her babies safe. Lord Stark claimed them as his own. He kept the daughter's name, Alarra, but changed the boy's, for his own safety. He tore down the tower, built cairns as grave-markers for those who had died defending his sister…he carried Dawn back to Starfall, and we made our way North.
"We sailed to White Harbour, to quicken the journey to Winterfell; it took us three weeks, and I was set up in the nursery with the babies. Lord Stark's younger brother - Benjen, the one who wanted to be Kingsguard - came and visited often, cuddling the babies, just talking to them, telling them stories about his sister… The babies were five months old when Lord Stark's wife arrived from the Riverlands, her own newborn son at her breast. He was six weeks old, but nearly as big as the twins. They had been small, of course, sharing the womb. She took one look at them, and I swear, I knew in that moment I'd have died for it, but I would never have let her lay a hand on them…
"When she pestered me for the truth of the baby's birth, I went to Lord Stark. He filled my coin-purse, and sent two guards to escort me home. Here, to Starfall. I've been here ever since, and never breathed a word of it. 'Til you."
She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and glared stubbornly at him.
"I hope whatever mess you're about to drag that boy into is worth it."
"It may yet…for all of us."
He bowed to the woman, and made his leave of the modest home with a token of his gratitude to the daughter in the form of coin, and stepped out among the hibiscus, their scent tantalising, and a warm breeze caressed his face, which was drawn into a thoughtful frown.
With surprising grace, Lord Varys mounted his horse. He draped a scarf around his head, concealing his face, and to any observer he looked like just other Dornish merchant. He was nothing if not a master of disguises and theatrics. They had served him well, for many years.
He glanced up at the stars, and gently spurred his horse into a neat trot, heading for the famous Water Gardens.
There was much he would discuss with the Prince of Dorne.
Viserion raged. He screamed, confused and wrathful, screaming and vomiting fire into the air, causing the waves crashing into the stony shore to hiss and bubble.
He had flown as if in great pain. The shard of the Night King's ice spear had been dislodged, or melted by Viserion's own heat, but it had hurt him, and it was evident with every flap of his wings - he screamed, and whimpered, and he struggled to flap his wings together, one of them not quite unfurling properly. And yet he had been determined to keep up with Drogon. The dragon knew, to stay North was to invite his own death. Dragons were not stupid.
It was absurd, really, how quickly the dragons had flown back to the Wall. The great black one's ease carrying them all - all but Gendry, and Jon, who he had to lift off the green dragon's back, unconscious but still breathing, his furs frozen solid.
In the time it had taken the dragons to appear, and save them, and return them to the Wall, Yaskier had only just arrived, having run flat out through the day and most of the night, and was still shuddering in the Commander's bed, piled with furs and quilts, with good strong broth to warm him as Ser Davos tried his hardest to write a legible scroll to Daenerys Targaryen. The scroll was abandoned, and Yaskier's soup slopped over his hand, as the three dragons landed beyond the walls of the great fortress, screaming and bellowing, Viserion belching fumes and fire.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened - then Ser Davos upset his ink-bottle in his haste to leave the room, and Yaskier suddenly found himself following, the furs and quilts abandoned - his soup bowl still cradled in his hands - and they met Karsi at the external door, her spear raised, her eyes wide in awe.
Dragons.
As the great, monstrous Drogon landed on the battlements, lowering his wing so they could descend directly into the training-yard, a third dragon landed just beyond the gate, carrying two large men.
People clambered down off Drogon's back, until finally, Ser Jorah peeled a pale, limp figure off the great beast's steaming back. Ser Jorah carried the girl - for she had long, pale-blonde hair that looked white in the snows that drifted gently around them - hastily to the rickety stairs, pushing past them to get her to the roaring hearth as Karsi and Yaskier gaped at the dragons. Drogon shook himself, snarled, and took off.
Dickon stood with his hands on his knees, his legs trembling; Obara Sand leaned heavily against her obsidian spear. Lord Tarly still looked thunderstruck, his eyes wide and horrified. Tormund looked grim, and helped the Hound carry a snarling, twitching thing away from the startled horses, to throw it in a deep ice-cell. A bellow came from beyond the gate, and Lord Barahir and his men reacted swiftly, unbolting the gate and prising the frozen doors apart to admit Gendry, who carried Jon over his shoulder.
"He fell through the ice!" Gendry called, carrying Long Claw in his other hand. Between them, he and Lord Barahir carried Jon inside as the white-and-gold dragon thrashed and screamed, swinging his long tail, and demolishing an outbuilding.
"We've got to get them warm!" Karsi declared, raising her hand to Daenerys' brow, examining her dark-blue lips, the ice on Jon's eyelashes, touching Jon's frozen furs, Daenerys' soaked coat.
"Carry them to the Commander's chamber," Ser Davos said. "We've kept the fire going in there; it's a smaller room, it'll heat up faster. Karsi, you tend to the Queen; Gendry, help Jon. Tormund, tell me what's happened…"
Jon and the pale-haired girl were carried to the Commander's chamber, where a great box bed had just been vacated by Yaskier. Another straw mattress had been dragged inside by the hearth, piled with furs and quilts; the men had taken this room, while Karsi had been adamant about staying beside the hearth with her dagger in her hand, unused to such luxuries as straw mattresses.
The girl was laid tenderly on the bed by Ser Jorah, who looked torn, even as Karsi ordered him away so she could strip the girl. He put bricks among the embers to heat, so they could be wrapped in towels and tucked between the linens and quilts and warm them, and turned to help Gendry, who was tearing Jon's frozen furs from his body, and Yaskier appeared, to claim the clothes and hang them up before the great hearth to dry.
"There's hot food," Yaskier said. "The elk we hunted when we arrived; Karsi made a rich stew."
"You go," Gendry said, nodding to the door. "Get some soup to warm you. I'll stay with Jon. Tell Ser Davos what's happened."
"You must strip and climb in beside him also," said Karsi, and Gendry turned, startled at the sight of her nakedness; she merely climbed into the bed beside the unconscious Queen, gathering the smaller girl to her, and tucked the furs and quilts over them both, rubbing the girl's back. "Rub his chest to warm his heart. It will warm the rest of him."
Gendry did as he was told by the one who knew better than he ever could how to treat intense cold; he stripped off, after gathering blankets and furs and quilts, and tucked himself under their weight, inhaling sharply at the icy cold that emanated from Jon's skin. Slowly, he warmed, and some of the others appeared, to bring firewood - parts of the outbuilding Viserion had destroyed with his tail - and mead for Gendry, who was quickly sweating and overheating under the furs and quilts.
"How's she doing?" he asked, glancing over at Karsi.
"The cold has its claws in her, deep," Karsi murmured, sighing, as she cuddled the queen closer, as she would any of her own children. "And Jon?"
"He's probably just relieved to sleep," Gendry grunted, sighing heavily, wiping the sweat from his brow, uncomfortable in the intense heat. He didn't know Jon Snow well, but he thought he understood the King. And he was exhausted. And yet…and yet he kept fighting. Even as they knew they would be left behind, to give the others a chance, hopeless and exhausted, Jon had still fought, slaying every wight that attacked them… The cold had caught Daenerys worse - foolish girl, she was not dressed for true winter weather, only her fanciful dreams of what she thought winter was, not what it truly meant. Winter meant death, as it always had, and Jon knew that. Every Stark and Northman knew that.
The Starks had been warning them for thousands of years. Winter is coming…
What they meant was, Death is coming. Death. The Night King and his hordes.
When Jon was hot to the touch, and relaxed under the furs, Gendry gently touched his hand to his brow, felt him sweating, and told Karsi; she said this was a good sign, and told Gendry to go and get some cool air and some stew.
Gendry dressed, and met some of the others by the great hearth, relieved to be out of the suffocating heat of the room.
"How are they?" Dickon Tarly asked.
"Jon's sleeping," Gendry said, accepting a bowl of thick venison stew with a grateful smile. He had never had venison before, and couldn't help but think of Hot Pie, and all his various recipes for venison suet-puddings and pies. Arya had talked of Winterfell, and her family: Hot Pie had talked of food, and it had taken all Gendry's patience not to bludgeon him as they trudged through the Riverlands, starving, while he talked about baking, his true passion. "I think the Queen will be alright."
Ser Jorah sighed heavily, relieved, and he nodded.
"What's going on out here, where is everyone?"
"Organising provisions. There were barrels of pitch left behind," Lord Tarly said. "Food in the larders, good steel in the forge, likely recently traded for. The Watch travelled light when they abandoned the fortress. We've the means to transport what's of use to Winterfell." Gendry nodded.
"And the wight?"
"Thrown in an ice-cell, gagged and chained," Obara said, polishing her double-ended obsidian spear. It had been tricky to make, not because obsidian was an unfamiliar material, but because it was so finicky to get the obsidian to the right temperature - he had to look for the violet flame, Lord Tyrion had told him, translating a flowery High Valyrian text.
"Yaskier's searching the storage vaults for a suitable crate to transport it," Lord Tarly said, finishing his stew. "Can't have the wretched beast getting loose aboard the ship."
"That's the last thing we need," Gendry agreed, rubbing his face tiredly. Karsi joined them, not long after, declaring the Queen warm and resting peacefully, her colour returned.
They sat quietly before the hearth. What was there to say? They all knew what they had seen with their own eyes. They knew what they had narrowly escaped. They realised what Jon Snow had been fighting, for years.
It was an uncomfortable thing for Lord Tarly, who scowled into the flames, second-guessing everything he had ever thought about his firstborn son, with a sinking, hot feeling that anyone else might recognise as shame…
He jumped, the delicate kiss of snow startling against his sweat-slick skin, which seemed to be on fire. Through his lashes, a curtain of palest silver-gold shimmered in the firelight. Disoriented, he squirmed and fought against the furs and quilts burying him, his eyes bleary from exhaustion and sweat dripping into them, and the gentle kiss of cool, soft skin drifted from his brow to his throat to his chest.
"Shhh," someone cooed gently, and his body tensed as the delicate touch lingered on his chest…traced the curve of his wickedest scar, the one that had plunged a dagger through his heart. Breath caught in someone's lungs, and he frowned, still half-asleep and disoriented, as the furs were pulled lower. Cooler air sighed over his sweat-slicked chest, and he felt he could breathe properly - but he clenched his jaw and shuddered, reaching out to swat at the hand, catching slender fingers tightly, as whoever it was traced their fingers over his scars. Those scars. Scars they had no right to see.
He scowled up through his lashes, his eyes pained by the light, and slowly, blinking the sweat and sleep from his eyes, Jon realised… Daenerys. He blinked. Where had she come from?
And why was she naked?
She sat curled beside his hip, her legs tucked elegantly beneath her, her long hair tumbling in a thick braid over her shoulder, swaying temptingly in front of her succulent breasts as she leaned over him on one stiff arm. She had been caressing him with her other hand, now snatched in his. Unabashedly naked, she sat beside him, her skin cool against his hip where she leaned so delicately, and as Jon scowled up at her, bemused, her eyes glowed in the firelight, warm and tearful.
He woke up a little at that, frowning up, ignoring her nakedness in favour of the curious vulnerability in her eyes - a deep sense of sorrow and regret. "I didn't believe you," she whispered hoarsely, looking deeply upset. "You had to see it… Now I know…"
"Aye, now you now," Jon agreed grimly, and he blinked…and his eyelids grew too heavy to lift again, and he sighed, drifting off to a sleep that was rich and deep and restful.
Hours later, Jon sighed, and woke, fully conscious all at once, his exhaustion shed like a blanket. He frowned, attempting to stretch - only to realise…there was a soft, supple body tangled beside his. Daenerys lay alongside him, her back to him, with her head on his shoulder, her hand curled delicately over his bicep, and she sighed softly as he stilled. He could see the dimples of her lower-back, the curve of her tiny waist, and her bottom, her unblemished skin glowing…her long curls whispered against his skin, glittering softly silver in the intense firelight.
How to free himself, without waking her? Carefully as he could, Jon tried to disentangle himself from her.
But she was not asleep. She sighed, and rolled over to face him, leaving her body utterly exposed to his gaze. Her eyes glowed in the firelight, and she smiled softly, reaching out to rest her hand over the scarred skin above his heart. All he could see was her eyes, her soft, earnest smile, her vicious determination as she told him, "We are going to destroy the Night King."
We. Not 'you'. The two of them. Jon closed his eyes, not wanting to show the true depths of his relief to hear it…
He jolted, as her delicate hand dipped beneath the furs, and exhaled sharply as she reached for him. She bit her lip, her gaze intense on his lips as she stroked him.
"Daenerys," he warned, clenching his jaw.
She rose over him, still gazing at his lips, still stroking, and whispered, "And we shall do it together."
She leaned in, and Jon winced, her hand increasing pressure as she stroked, and inhaled sharply, moving his head to the side - her kiss landed delicately at the corner of his mouth, not full on his lips.
Daenerys gazed into his eyes, her hand stilling. "Your vows…" she realised, her eyes widening. Then they softened, and she leaned in again, attempting another kiss, as she smiled, "You've never broken them."
He dodged her kiss, and told her bluntly, "I've broken them. It did not end well."
Daenerys stared down at him. He reached for her wrist, and she glanced down between them, turned her gaze back to him, read his face. Seemed to understand.
"She died… You loved her," she said softly. Jon gave one brutal nod. He had loved Ygritte. Daenerys' soft smile faltered, and she gave Jon a sad, almost accepting look. "And you do not love me."
"No, I don't," Jon said honestly, and to her credit, the Queen did not balk or weep. Just gazed mournfully, yearningly, at him. "I can't give you what you want."
"I disappointed you. I lost your respect…I never had it, did I?" Daenerys asked, with a faint bitter edge to her soft laugh of realisation, her eyes glimmering with tears of understanding. "I ruined it, the day you arrived at Dragonstone."
"You didn't ruin it," Jon told her softly, but his tone was grim, heavy - exhausted. She had ruined it that day, with her appalling arrogance - but he didn't want her to know she had ever had a chance at impressing him. His father, his sisters, had simply set the standard far too high for anyone to ever measure up.
Daenerys sniffed delicately. "Not that day, then, but…the 'Lion Culling'. I heard people, my people, on Dragonstone, that's what they're calling it. In the ash meadows…a lion culling… The Dragon hunted lions and snow fell in the meadows…not snow…ash…" Daenerys blinked unseeingly, her eyes glimmering with tears in the firelight, her expression lax - the most open and vulnerable Jon had ever seen her. She gazed into Jon's eyes, horror slowly swelling, "I…murdered families. Mothers and…little children with perfect golden curls… I see them in my dreams. That isn't…" She sniffed, reached up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "I promised to be better. I burned them. I came to Westeros…to free people. To fight…to save people…" She closed her eyes, and fresh tears tracked down her cheeks. Jon's hand twitched to reach and wipe them away. Daenerys opened her eyes before he could, and she gave him a mournful, tremulous smile. "Now I know. All my armies…they are yours."
Jon sighed heavily. It was all he could have ever hoped for… But… "Daenerys…"
"I pledge you my armies, Your Grace," Daenerys repeated, her tone unyielding as he knew her to be.
"You send your people North, they will die," Jon said, propping himself up on his elbows, meeting her gaze intensely. This was serious. "If not all, then most. It would mean sacrificing your war. Could you bear that?"
"How can I claim to fight for the freedom of the people of Westeros if I refuse to use my armies to protect them?" Daenerys retorted fiercely. "I came to Westeros to save its people, not to…burn children…"
"Daenerys…" She leaned over him, nipples brushing against his chest, and took his face in her hands. And Jon…could not turn his head away as she kissed him, full on the lips, slowly and sensuously. She took his hand, and cupped her breast, moaning softly as she slipped her tongue between his lips, dominating and seeking. Jon shuddered, and fought the instinct to cup and squeeze her breast, her soft skin, her hard little nipple insistent against his palm. He broke away from her kiss, from her breast. She was panting softly, her eyes heavy-lidded as if drunk from her kiss. He looked grimly into her eyes, annoyed and flustered that he was in this position, that she had invited herself into his bed, knowing exactly what she wanted - and all too well the full implications of what it would mean after. "It won't be enough for you."
Her armies…for one night with him? Because he knew, he would never give her what she desired. How could he? And yet, here she was, in his bed, naked and insistent, and…how did he say no? How did he say no, without risking her ire?
Without her going back on her word, taking back her oath to help him?
And if he gave in tonight, what did that mean after?
Daenerys faltered, wincing for a heartbeat, understanding with great reluctance the truth - even if she ignored or forgot it later… He did not desire her in his bed as his lover, nor did he admire her as a woman he respected, a queen he would yield to.
Daenerys dipped her head, and gave him a long, plundering kiss. Her eyes were dazed when they broke apart, and she gazed at Jon, overwhelmed with desire, "If tonight is all I shall ever have from you…then lie to me…for I cannot bear the truth… Let me pretend I have not made the greatest mistake of my life in losing your respect and your trust…" Shame and regret poured from her eyes, and Jon saw it; the great illusion was shattered, the true Daenerys revealed - but far too late. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "That I have not dishonoured all that I strive to be, that I am no better than those I would wage war on. That I am my father's daughter." She grimaced, squeezing her eyes together on a soft sob, and leaned forward, stealing another kiss, cradling his face in her hands, trailing her fingers down his neck. She gasped, and gazed at him tearfully. "Tonight, let me be Daenerys…who cared when people were hurt…she did not inflict it…"
"Shhh…" Jon sighed, and tucked her against him. The agonising truth was finally starting to sink in - far too late, he thought; but it wounded her - as well it should - but he was no heartless sadist, to enjoy watching her fracture and weep. He sighed heavily, tucking her head under his chin, and gently stroked her arm. She turned her face against his chest, cuddling close.
"How have you done it for so long?" she asked hollowly, tracing her fingertip over his scars, those scars he hated so much. The last person to touch them had been Nora, and with her he knew, he had been utterly relaxed, able to trust her. He did not trust Daenerys. He did not like her tracing his scars, or inviting herself into his bed, putting him in this position.
His honour, or her armies.
Could he save his people, without having to fuck her?
Would she remember his rejection, after the battle, when her people were decimated, and he still refused to yield the North? She was the last of a long list of people committed to fighting the dead; what right did she have more than them to claim any part of the North, to demand their fealty?
Daenerys sniffled delicately. "This life? All you have endured, the fighting, the wars, the…the choices…the loss?" She gazed up at him, her eyes damp and glittering, and genuinely seeking. She was struggling, he could see it. And she genuinely appreciated his wisdom, in a way she rarely did her own advisors'. "How have…how have you not lost yourself?"
Jon frowned softly, "You're not lost."
She gave him a tremulous smile, finally sitting up, to lean over him, gentle and unaccountably sweet. "You reminded me who I am." She gave him a tender kiss on his lips. "I wish…the girl I was before is the one you met on Dragonstone. You would have liked her…respected her, even… Perhaps you would have desired her, even loved her. I was proud of her." She gazed at Jon, as if awed. "She would not have believed a person like you even existed…couldn't possibly be real…" Her hands gentle on his shoulders, she straddled him.
"Daenerys -" he warned, as she reached between them, and without warning, took him into her body.
"Jon," she sighed, and he inhaled sharply as she rolled her hips, taking him deeper. He shuddered at the feel of her, slick and hot and silky soft, and she placed his calloused palms over her breasts as she had before, dipping her head to snare a deep, savouring kiss. He groaned, and squeezed her breasts, shoving down his uncertainty, his dread, to play with her nipples, breaking their kiss - too intimate, he thought, far too intimate - to nip and suckle her nipples, as she rode him.
She draped her arms over his shoulders, tangling her fingers in his hair, tugging, to force his face to hers and kiss him. He clapped his hands down on her hips, grasping her backside, and Daenerys gasped as Jon grabbed her and thrust up, hard, as she rolled her hips down. She threw back her head and moaned.
She rode Jon, hard, demanding everything from him, and he met her fiercely. She raked her fingernails down his chest as she rode him, catching on his scars; Jon growled, and slapped his hands on her backside in warning, thrusting hard into her, and snatched her hands, pinning her arms behind her back, clasping both wrists in his hand. She writhed, and whipped her hips back and forth, and thrust her breasts out, whimpering softly. He kissed and sucked her nipples as he pounded into her, and with his free hand he sought between her quivering thighs.
"Are you going to behave?" he growled breathlessly, nipping her shoulder, her throat, and Daenerys gasped, nodding eagerly, her eyes alight with ecstasy. She slowed the pace of her hips, and Jon sighed, giving in, just for this moment, releasing her hands, to trail his own from her breasts to her waist - and flipped her off him, onto her back.
Arms stiff above her, he thrust into her with a deep groan, making her gasp and shudder with delight, and Daenerys wriggled and writhed beneath him, and spread her thighs wide for him, moaning with every deep thrust, her lower-lip trembling as she clutched at him, his muscles bulging, and he rode her, until she was breathless and shaking, and he pushed up, to kneel before her, and took her hips in his broad, calloused hands, and thrust up into her, his thumb delicately teasing her, and she cupped her aching breasts and moaned with abandon, thrusting her hips to meet his, the firelight swimming in her eyes as he pushed her body, taking her ruthlessly, until she knew nothing but him inside of her, and the intense pleasure burning through her. She panted, and moaned deliciously, smiling breathlessly as he continued to thrust inside her, gentler now, almost as if soothing her descent.
His face drawn, his gleaming muscles rippling, Daenerys knew - and he…pulled out - tried to - she locked her legs around his waist, shoving her hands above her to brace against the headboard, grinding her hips hard against his, locking her thighs on him.
He warned, scowling, even as he thrust and clenched his jaw, "Daenerys, I'm going to -"
"Don't pull out! I want all of you!" she cried out, fingernails digging into his skin as she gripped his backside, thighs locked around him, and for a moment, he looked agonised, still thrusting, as if he knew he should stop himself, and could not bear to. She thrust to meet him, and moaned, and shook her head. "You can't get me pregnant - I'm - "
She gasped as he gave one last, brutal thrust, his head thrown back, his chiselled chest gleaming, every muscle tensed, rippling, and he grunted, panting, gentling his weight on her, stilling inside her.
For a second, he looked stunned - then utterly relaxed, and then…shocked, guilty… And so much younger than she had imagined he was. He was always so grim and serious; but he was a young man.
He pulled out of her with a shaky, stifled groan, and Daenerys lolled, luxuriating in her pleasure, her body throbbing deliciously, aching from him, as he slumped against the furs, panting. She saw his hand shake as he reached up to push his dark curls out of his face. His slender, muscled body was heaving as he panted, a thin film of sweat coaxing her to lick him from his head to his toes, if she could but find the energy to lavish on him as he deserved. She could still feel him inside her - she would feel him for days, she knew. She was slick between her thighs, from her pleasure, and his seed, and she preened, delighting in the feel of it, the ache, the delicious slick heat burning through her.
"I shouldn't have spent inside you," he said hollowly. She managed to push herself up onto her elbows, and smiled as she lifted a foot to gently poke his thigh. She smiled warmly at him, though she felt the cut deep in her heart the same this time as she had every other, admitting the truth.
"I can't have children," she said softly. Her son had been pulled from her, monstrous and deformed, and dead.
'When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child… Then he will return, and not before.' Hateful words, from the woman who had taken her sun and stars from her, and murdered their child growing in her belly… A cunning, vengeful woman - Daenerys was glad she was dead. With her sun and stars, the witch was the first she had burned…
And now Daenerys burned small children.
She raised a hand to her head, suddenly overwhelmed, bristling with shock at her own thoughts.
"How do you know that?" he asked quietly.
"It was…prophesied, by the witch who murdered my husband and our unborn son… You don't look convinced."
Jon scowled, spitting the words, "I don't put any stock in prophecies."
"You are not my first lover since my sun and stars was taken from me," Daenerys admitted, almost bashfully. She had never been ashamed of her appetites, the gods knew Drogo had ruined her for other men, but… Jon was so different. His opinion of her mattered. And she was struggling to show him the true Daenerys, the one she wanted him to know, not the one the world was coming to dread. "And in all the years since… I am barren. My dragons are the only children I shall ever have." Silence descended on the room as Jon frowned at her, but for the flickering fire; and beyond the sweating stone walls, they could hear them. One of the dragons, screaming. "One of my sons is out there, crying…"
"Viserion was hurt," Jon told her. Daenerys blinked, and her hands shook as she raised them to her head, caressing her long braids as if for strength.
"Lord Tyrion warned me, I keep…they keep getting hurt because of me," she whispered hoarsely, staring at Jon in horror.
Jon frowned. "Why did you come North?"
Daenerys gulped, dread coursing through her at the memories, true fear gripping her tight. "Rhaegal flew off… Drogon and Viserion followed. I was on Drogon's back, I - I convinced myself that I can control them," she said wonderingly, staring at Jon in growing realisation. "I commanded the destruction at the ash meadow…but that day, flying above Dragonstone…our flight here through the storms… It was like they had forgotten I was there…or didn't care. They are my children, and yet they are their own masters." She frowned thoughtfully at Jon. "They…followed some intuition, perhaps. They knew you needed them."
"I'm glad they came," Jon said earnestly. He gave Daenerys a chiding look. "But you need proper furs if you're going to be flying about in all weathers."
"You're always so sensible," Daenerys said, her tone gentle, fond. "Tell me you were successful, at least. Did you capture a wight? I can't quite recall what truly happened, only…the sea…" She frowned at him. "The sea of the dead."
"We captured one. Last time I woke, Gendry said they'd loaded the wight onto the ship," Jon said, frowning to himself. He sighed, glancing around the chamber. Their clothes had been brought in, folded onto chairs at the end of the great bed. "We had better hasten to King's Landing. I don't know how long it'll last…whether the magic of the Wall will somehow affect the Night King's influence over it…"
"Surely you don't intend to leave now?" Daenerys blurted, startled.
"We need to leave here as soon as possible," Jon said, climbing out of the nest of furs and quilts, reaching for his small-clothes and leather trousers, climbing into them, as Daenerys gaped, her eyes dipping hungrily to his groin, and Jon turned away, hiding his scowl, his cock twitching in spite of himself. "I dislike that the Night King…seemed to be waiting for us. I just hope that bringing the wight beyond the Wall has not…has not compromised the spells that keep the Wall standing."
"You think the Wall may be corrupted?"
"I think that it's corruptible," Jon said darkly, frowning, after a moment's thought. "It was made; it can be unmade. And the Others have had thousands of years to work out how to bring it down. I need to get to King's Landing as soon as possible; I need to get home as soon as possible."
Daenerys stared at him from the furs, bare-breasted, hair tousled from their tumble, and stunned - that he did not wish to luxuriate in the furs with her, most likely. That he was so…sensible, so unaffected by what had just happened.
Jon wasn't; he was shivering with shame, as he tugged on his shirts, the ones Sansa had sewn for him.
He had fucked Daenerys, knowing she had wanted it more than anything: He had fucked her, in spite of his own dread, the warnings inside his own mind that…he had no choice.
He could not give her what she wanted in the long-term, which was everything: Nor could he deny her that which she had wanted from him just now.
He could not give her what she wanted: And yet he had to give her what she had needed from him in that moment.
Or…or she would have become the brittle woman he already knew, who burned women and children and destroyed entire armies without a second thought… But it wouldn't be the army of the dead she warred against; it would be him. His people. Winterfell. The North.
So he'd fucked her, knowing she'd wanted it for ages, knowing that it didn't matter what he wanted; it was for the good of the North. He couldn't say no, when denying her might mean their deaths.
He dressed, quickly, his back to her, clenching his jaw and trying not to show that he was shuddering with shame. He did not want her: He knew no way out.
He couldn't save the North and deny her this one small thing.
What was a quick tumble in the furs, even if shame had consumed him in the act, compared to the lives of hundreds of thousands of his people?
She'd taken what she wanted. He'd given it to her, because the alternative - denying her - was so much more dangerous.
He was still dressing as he left the Commander's chamber, his hands shaking, and stopped short at the sight of Gendry, who had been reaching for the door-handle.
"Jon, you're - " He broke off, frowning at Jon, and his eyes slid beyond Jon, over his shoulder, into the room, to Daenerys, flushed and bare-breasted in the furs laid out for Jon.
He reached past Jon, grabbing the door-handle, and tugged it closed tight behind Jon - who was shocked to see a dark scowl on Gendry's usually cheerful face, a dangerous look the Queen undoubtedly had seen.
Gendry eyed Jon shrewdly. "Thousands of the dead descending on us, your hand never shook once," he observed, as Jon pushed his curls out of his face, feeling…haggard, exhausted. Jon raised his eyes to the other man's face, and Gendry let out a deep sigh, frowning at the closed door.
"She's committed her armies to fighting the dead."
"Mm," Gendry grunted thoughtfully, his vivid eyes narrowing. There was no accusation or humour in Gendry's face, or his voice, when he said, "And was fucking her part of that arrangement?"
Jon grimaced, rubbing his hands over his face. "If I didn't -"
He broke off, flushing hotly. But Gendry just stared back at him, his expression even. Almost knowing.
"If you didn't, what?" he prompted gently.
"We need her armies," Jon said, almost pleadingly, and Gendry nodded. He sighed heavily, giving the door a scornful look that might have blistered any varnish off it.
"She didn't get where she is by thinking about other people," Gendry frowned. "She's here because she took what she wanted, everyone else be damned."
"Or burned," Jon corrected.
"Jon…she doesn't get to just have whatever she wants," Gendry said quietly.
"If I don't -"
"If you don't, and she goes back on her word, that's entirely her doing," Gendry said, his voice sombre but gentle. There was a wisdom in his voice, which was deep and rumbling - yet he was young. Younger than Jon. There was a grit to him that Jon recognised: He had not had an easy life, at all. "What is it you're truly afraid of?"
Jon stared at him.
"I'm afraid that if we win this war against the Night King, she'll feel entitled to the North. And when I refuse to yield it, she'll set loose those beasts of hers," Jon said. "She'll slaughter my people. She'll murder my family."
"Fucking her won't change that," Gendry said bluntly. "You already know deep down what she's capable of… No matter what you do, what you give her, she'll do whatever she wants." He sighed, shaking his head. "I saw how she was with people at Dragonstone. She's a bully. She likes picking on people she thinks are less than she is. I've seen it my whole life."
"So what do I do?"
"Two things I know. It's not you who should be feeling ashamed. And the only way to stop a bully is to stand up to them."
A.N.: Hmm… Did Jon consent?
There's a difference between a dominant partner and a sexual predator.
Precarious situation our boy's in there. And I purposely wrote it that way: Jon's very conscious of the repercussions his actions may have, either way, if he rejects her outright or sleeps with her only once. But they're in no way in love - or at least, Jon is not in love with Daenerys.
I enjoy developing this bromance between Jon and Gendry. And I can't not hear Henry Cavill's Geralt-voice while he's speaking these lines in my head! When I was writing that snuggle scene, I had two thoughts: That would make one delicious sandwich to be in the middle of… And, Damn, Jon and Gendry together would be unnnnhhh! Hot.