two falling sparks (one willing fool)

by Mia-Zeklos

In order to defend Westeros from threats coming from two different directions, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the King in the North come to an agreement - a short, uncomplicated one, or so they hope.

2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: This gets a chapter three because this one got too long-winded to leave space for everything I have yet to say (which will take another 15k words). I rarely post anything this long as a sole chapter and am mildly terrified by the idea of messing up the formatting somewhere along the way, but hopefully all is well. This chapter mainly consists of Cersei playing the game and Jon getting played, I'm afraid.

It's another week until Sansa is released from the societal pressure to stay in King's Landing any longer – apparently, it's an appropriate amount of time before a family is left a member short after a wedding – and in that time, he tends to see her about as often as he sees his bride – that is to say, mostly at breakfast and in short enough moments during the day to allow for nothing more than the most superficial of small talk. For the rest of the time, he's cornered by people demanding all sorts of things from every possible direction and by the morning when he's meant to say goodbye, it feels like no time has passed at all. Every word is tense and carefully chosen, given that there's at least one member of the Queensguard still lingering around and they're likely being actively listened in to, but they manage, and he does his best to wave his sister's concerns away as if none of it bothers him at all, hoping that he would send her back home with at least a relative peace of mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the Lord Commander still lingering about – doubtlessly to send him on yet another wild goose chase through the castle as soon as he's done – and gives him a disdainful look as he tries his best to tune in for Sansa's final warnings.

"Jon," she starts at last, eyes straying between him and the Queen's brother. "Do you remember Aneris the cook? The one who ran away to wed that goldsmith in Wintertown?"

"The one who made us sweets shaped like pine trees?" Jon nods, puzzled by the abrupt change of topic.

"That's the one. She never made them for Robb and Theon, though, remember?"

"Sansa, what—" She glances to the side where the Queensguard still wanders about and the question dies in his throat. This is a message, then. But what about? They hadn't been talking of anything of importance – hadn't had the opportunity to – and she'd only seen him talk to Lannister as he'd come in. It had been a tense exchange, but he doesn't know how to have any other sort of exchange with the man in question, so he hadn't thought much of it. His sister, on the other hand, might have if she hadn't seen them talk before. "Yes. I remember."

"Why was that?"

She stares at him so intently that, even though the memory of any of his childhood had been mostly lost to time and all the experiences that had overwhelmed him since then, he recalls the answer rather easily. "She had a dog, didn't she? Theon wouldn't stop messing with it." And Robb had rarely resisted a bad example, no matter who the one setting said example had been, and he'd followed him in this venture, too – he remembers a steak tied to a string as they'd ran through Winterfell's corridors with the dog at their heels. They'd always give it the food eventually, but it had irritated the cook beyond words either way.

"And?"

Somewhere deep within, a glimpse of the connection that she's implying emerges. "And she was never nice to anyone who wasn't nice to her dog." A moment passes. "Oh."

It's a good thing that the Queen's guards had likely been picked for their strength rather than their quick thinking, or him voicing this out loud might have been a smidge too obvious. There's a glimmer of approval in Sansa's eyes when she realises that the message had reached him. "Keep yourself safe, Jon. Make sure to write home." She leans closer, as if to kiss his cheek. "There are as many enemies here as they are beyond the Wall."

He knows, he wants to tell her, and he's not underestimating the human danger lurking here as much as she had seemed to think back when they had still been in Winterfell, but he can't say any of it. For a moment, anger sparks up; anger at having to pretend, at the inability to have even a moment alone with his own sister. He can't let it grow into something worse and he stomps down on it instead, desperate to keep his cool. "Thank you, Sansa." He's squeezing her hand so hard that it must be painful, but he's not quite willing to let go. "I will. Thank you." He's not quite sure what he keeps thanking her for – there's quite a lot of it to consider – so it's easier to rely on her to see the meaning behind the words. "Take care of Winterfell for me." With a little luck, he would be home soon.

It's only a few exchanged words later, when Brienne had wandered by to remind his sister that it's time they leave, that he remembers that he has a riddle of his own, though not one he'd thought up by himself. It had haunted him for ever since his first morning as a married man and, although it's not likely to be particularly important, he's aware that a southerner might be more knowledgeable on the matter than Sansa who, despite her best efforts in childhood, had remained quite resolutely Winterfell's heart and soul.

"Fool's gold," he asks when Lady Brienne gives him a questioning look as he'd leant in conspiratorially. "What is it? Other than the metal, that is." He knows of that one, but unless the Queen has another twin that she'd secretly wed him to, he's quite sure that he'd received what he'd come here for.

Sansa's brows furrow. "Didn't that have something to do with leprechauns?"

Leprechauns. From the few tales Jon remembers, they're some kind of treacherous little beasts in southern faith, and Brienne nods a moment later. "Yes. It's what they keep at the end of the rainbow."

That explains absolutely nothing, not that he had really expected it to. "But what is it?"

"It disappears when mortals touch it. They offer it to strike a bargain and then, before you know it, it's vanished without a trace."

Oh, but of course. Of course it would be something like this. Jon curses under his breath. Fucking Lannisters.

Sansa's eyes flash with alarm. "Jon, what—"

"It's nothing."

She steps closer again, voice lowering as she goes. "What is this about?"

"It's nothing." He hopes so, at least. There's a slim chance that the Queen had meant everyone but him when she'd said that, considering the context of their conversation. They had been talking about rumours, hadn't they? And how the people had thought her fickle? Surely she wouldn't try and prove them right on this specific matter. Their alliance is fragile enough as it is, and built on shaky ground, especially now that he supposedly has a family member marching on the Seven Kingdoms. "I'll see you soon, Sansa. As soon as this has all come to pass."

He embraces her again, quietly coming to peace with the fact that he has to let go before he realises that he won't ever want to, and disentangles himself from her just as fervent embrace when he realises that it truly is time for her to go.

He's still staring after the carriage that takes her away when Lannister approaches again.

"Her Grace needs you in the Throne room, Your Majesty."

Some days, he wonders why the man even bothers addressing him by titles and directing him around the castle. Had the Queen put him up to this? It seems unlikely, but then again, Jon never knows what's on her mind. "You should have said earlier. Women like Her Grace do not like to be kept waiting."

The Lord Commander scoffs, as if in disbelief. "How many women like her have you met, Lord Snow?"

He thinks back to the ferocious glint in Sansa's eyes at the thought of him in danger; of her careful analysis of everyone's every move. At least one. "What would the Queen have me do?"

It had been a long list of demands, ever since they'd been married – he's always being made to jump from one task and onto another, spreading his attention in a thousand different directions. Perhaps it's her way of introducing him to the duties he'll be responsible for until this charade is over or perhaps she just wants to keep him busy so that he'd be out of her hair, but in any case, it's working – slowly but surely, he'd started getting used to the workload.

"I'm sure she'll let you know when you get there." A handmaiden could have easily taken care of getting this message to him, but he refrains from saying so – chances are, his hosts had deemed it easier to just have him spy on Jon's whereabouts outright instead of sending someone to pretend. If that is the case, then Lannister doesn't really make for all that great a spy – he sounds immeasurably bored whenever he has to address him at all, though the deep-seated loathing in his eyes shines through that rather easily. For days, Jon had been looking for a court-appropriate way to tell him that he has no interest of stealing his sister away and that the sister in question has even less interest in being stolen away, but there doesn't seem to be any point in that – the man knows and hates him on principle anyway. The Queen's chambers are not too far from his own and she seems to prefer to sleep – well, not really sleep, as it so happens – with her doors open to the balcony. In result, every louder sound sprawls over to his rooms, and so he has a nightly, disturbingly clear confirmation of the fact that her lover couldn't possibly be feeling neglected, but that doesn't seem to quite help, either. Despite his best efforts to dismiss it all as an exaggeration by the smallfolk, the song he'd heard on his way to King's Landing seems to haunt him whenever the Kingslayer looks at him. She was his secret treasure. It must be difficult, Jon supposes, but he carefully pushes the thought away as soon as it appears. He cannot allow himself even a shred of understanding when it comes to anyone in this castle. That way lay madness, and he cannot afford distractions.

The Throne room, as always, provides a distraction of its own. Up past the stairs and next to the iron monstrosity, there's a new addition – a chair, almost, though still fit for royalty, placed to the right of the Throne itself, being carefully cemented into place under the Queen's watchful eye.

"Your Grace," he greets and she welcomes him with a nod, gaze still fixed on the workers.

"Lord Snow. My brother has chased you away from your duties on the training grounds today, I take it."

"He has." Over the past week, they'd reluctantly exchanged experience, and Jon had done his best to relay his experiences with the army of the dead in order to give the Lord Commander as clear a picture of them without having to take him past the Wall – not that the Queen would ever allow it, of course. Today, apparently, is a day for the soldiers to rest. They aren't actively at war just yet, so they deserve the break, he supposes, and there's still something about sitting around that makes him anxious at the inactivity to the point where he's almost glad that he'd been summoned here.

"Good. I was hoping you would hold court with me today."

Ah. He'd spoken too soon, then. No amount of inactivity could possibly be worse than this. His limited experience with holding court in the North had been messy and chaotic, frequently interrupted by his and Sansa's inability to talk things through before they're surrounded by the Lords and Ladies who had sworn their allegiance today. He cannot even begin to imagine how that would go here.

"It's a good thing; letting your people see you," she continues, encouraged by his doubtful silence. "They trusted me far less before I'd spoken to them. Some don't even require urgent action – all they want to know is that they have been heard. Throw them some gold, promise them security in the near future, and they'll swallow anything else you drop on their plate – even if it's an army of dead men and a dragon queen."

"I've come to understand that none of that should be dropped on their plate."

The Queen offers a tight smile in return – brief and barely noticeable, as always, as if she's afraid that she'll run out of them eventually. "Wars are expensive ordeals, Lord Snow. This is what stands at the foundation of our marriage, I've come to understand. Some of it will be paid with Lannister gold; some of it will be covered by whatever is left after we take Highgarden and send the bulk of their gold to the Iron Bank. The rest of it will come from the people."

He'd been introduced to the idea of the crown's debts and the Queen's plan on how to pay them back only a few days ago, and had promptly been sworn to secrecy. He hadn't broken that promise; not even in front of Sansa. For better or for worse, this time, the Lannisters are right – they cannot afford having anything go wrong. If this means that he has to fight in their wars until the time for his own comes, then so be it. There is a Wall between them and the Night King, for now; there is a narrow stretch of water between them and Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons – a stretch she would soon find a way to cross, if the rumours about Theon and Yara Greyjoy are to be believed, supposedly ready to unleash a fiery hell on the Seven Kingdoms if she's denied the Throne like Jon knows she will be.

Deep down, he hopes that she can be swayed, but even deeper down, he's well-aware that it's a slim chance. She had had a kingdom ready to be ruled on the other side of the Narrow Sea and had still chosen to turn her eyes to Westeros – her decision had already been made.

"The people," he echoes, heaving a sigh when he realises that she won't budge on this. Chances are, it's the truth – it's better if they know him. The last thing he wants is seeing anyone doubt him further, and he doesn't have the time to try and find his way out of the farce that are his royal duties. "So they need to be plied with our understanding before we rob them, I take it."

"A lot of ruling involves more bargaining than you can imagine," the Queen nods, as if this is one of the world's simplest truths. It must be, to her – she'd spent the better part of her life in court, from what Jon knows, and had been readied to become queen still at the cradle. She had been raised for this; the fact that she had blown up the Great Sept to pieces and had seen nary a sign of a rebellion against her, other than the years-long one in the North, is proof enough of that. "You need to introduce them to threats one after the other. It seems that my war will arrive first; in the event that we win it and acquire at least one of Daenerys Targaryen's beasts by the end of it, it'll be all the easier to explain that there's another magical threat on our doors."

It's both terrifying and comforting; knowing that she still hadn't given up on the idea about the dragon. It would be a terribly useful thing to have beyond the Wall, he imagines, though, "You put too much faith in my blood, Your Grace. Even if we do capture one, how are we meant to tame it?"

She turns to him, smile much more sincere this time. "Give me a week more, Lord Snow, and we'll talk about the dragons."

He should have known, of course, that she has this planned out, too. She seems to have everything planned out. "All right." He nods towards the Throne, fighting not to let his tension seep out where she can see it. "Shall we begin?"

~.~

Holding court in King's Landing, as it turns out, is a less intense ordeal than it had been back in the North – or perhaps he feels so because he's not the main attraction this time around, Jon isn't sure. The people are allowed in one by one, some of them clear in their demands – they want permission to build or plant or work, all in places important enough to demand the crown's attention, and they bring credentials when that is the case. The rest consist mainly of complaints about a variety of topics – the cold, the lack of food or gold or clean water or clothes or peace, in places where the Hill Tribes roam, and the Queen offers either solace in cases where there isn't much that can be done other than telling people to uproot their homes and move elsewhere, and gold that the crown barely has, as he now knows. Most leave pacified and the Queen chases away the ones that insist on things that they cannot, at the time, have, as soon as they decide to make a scene out of it. Her demeanour changes with the person, as easily as donning on new clothes – easier, even, given that he remembers perfectly well how difficult her gowns are to take off. She is understanding with some, all smiles and almost gentle guidance into telling her what they need, and she's curt with others, nearly cruel as soon as they begin to presume too much. It's their own behaviour that sways her, if he had to bet, and it's honesty that draws the better things out of her. Flattery, as often as it comes, only makes her more irritable than she seems to be by nature, and outright demands make her stubborn. By the late afternoon when the line finally begins to come to an end, Jon had already started to guess how each of the interactions would go by the first few words alone.

His reception from the public feels like a mixed bag, too – the majority of them greet him as soon as they do the Queen (though the ways they address him vary from Lord Snow to Your Majesty and everything in-between), but he's yet to be asked to deal with anything directly and his scarce input had consisted on offering a piece of his mind only when he had been explicitly asked for it. A woman like Cersei Lannister would not appreciate unwanted pointers, he could tell, and so he spares them both the irritation of interfering fruitlessly.

By the time the doors to the Throne hall finally fall shut, the sunset is painting everything around them in shades of red, Jon feels more exhausted than he likely should after doing nothing but sitting in a chair all day, and the Red Keep has added a new servant to its inhabitants – a woman who had started off by a halting explanation to her issue and had then, to everyone's alarm, given up on any lingering hesitation and had thrown herself weeping on the steps at the foot of the Throne and begged for solace from her home and husband. The Queen had waved her mute guard off when he'd stepped closer, had offered her a place in the castle and had asked after the woman's family. Unsurprisingly, she'd had none.

"The kitchens could always use another pair of hands," she had said, voice as close to consoling as Jon had never heard it – not particularly close, in truth, but apparently, it had been enough for the desperate ears it had been aimed at. "The help will find you a room to sleep in and clothes to wear, I'm sure."

As their visitor had thanked her profusely, Jon had frowned in contemplation. He hadn't been here long enough to truly see things as they are, he's sure, but still, the royal household hadn't struck him as understaffed so far. Only the Queen's personal help has to be about ten different women, the food is always plentiful and ready on demand, each corner of the Keep is clean to shining perfection, and it's not like there are all that many people to take care of, either way – the household in question consists of him, the twins, the Hand, the Queensguard and several other generals and advisors; even with the numerous guests constantly coming and going, he had never sensed any kind of strain within the lines of the help. They are either too well-trained to show it or not, in fact, struggling with the workload at all.

And still, she'd given her a home. Putting on a generous facade for a day is one thing, but a mouth more to feed is for good. There's plenty to go around and from anyone known for their generosity, this would have been an easy decision. Lannisters, however, are not known for their generosity.

"A grateful servant is useful for the same reasons a well-treated singer is," the Queen says with a defensive edge to her tone, as if he had just watched her commit a great sin instead of the first good thing he'd seen happen in this gods-forgotten city. "Outside of the deals we have with cities like Qarth for their silks, servants are the ones wandering outside on the streets of King's Landing, buying us food and drink and fabric. It's a good story to tell; that someone's been saved by the royal family. Word spreads faster than you think in a city like this."

He remembers King Robert, her husband, pawing at serving girls during the feast in his honour back in Winterfell; remembers, better still, the Queen's stony expression as she'd watched it happen. Just like her cold-flushed cheeks at the wedding, this small bit of mercy feels like something he shouldn't have seen; something showing him a weakness he had never wanted to know. He thinks once again about how strange – indignant, almost – her joking during their wedding night had made him feel. He's nothing but a means to an end in her mind, he's sure, and it had become increasingly difficult to offer her the same kindness in the week he'd stayed in the castle. It makes him no less suspicious of her and her brother, but still – on occasion, he finds himself thinking that he might find his stay here not quite as torturous as he'd first expected.

Do you take me for a fool? He'd asked Sansa that on their fifth night in King's Landing – and the third night of his life as a married man. They'd dined with the Queen and her brother again, and Jon had not noticed that his wine had been poured from a different chalice than the one used for everyone else – a grave mistake in the capital, evidently, and one that his sister had pointed out as soon as they'd been alone. He had told her time and time again that he'd kept his guard up so far and had intended to still do so in the future, but she had remained unconvinced, and the question had caused a derisive bout of laughter.

Not at all, Jon. I take you for a man.

He's finally beginning to understand what she'd meant, he thinks now.

"Lord Snow." The Queen's voice is still as strangely subdued, but the usual businesslike edge to it is back, and he knows that a demand will be made of him shortly. "We received a raven today, from an informant in Essos. It does nothing but confirm what we already know: the Greyjoys have offered their stolen fleet to the Dragon Queen. My brother fears that she will arrive sooner than we'd thought – a month at most." Her smile is almost sad, or it would be, if her eyes hadn't been so ferocious. "We'll have to be prepared."

He knows what she wants from him and curses himself for the brief moment of understanding he'd offered her, even in his own mind. She knows, of course – she had seen it on his face, and he cannot refuse her. Not when she had promised him the same in return. "The armies of the North are yours if you ask for them."

"I am asking for them." She nods at her Hand to come closer and, after accepting the material he hands her, holds them over to Jon in the no man's land between her seat and his – a quill and a piece of parchment. "But they will not be delighted to hear it from me, I suspect." The words are soft as silk, and just as frustrating – sliding right in-between his fingers before he can find purchase or an excuse to protest. "Give the order, Lord Snow."

~.~

It's less than a week later that the Queen decides that it's time they talk about the dragons.

It's just them and her brother, this time, as they descend into the bowels of the Keep – even her Queensguard had been left behind and the Lord Commander carries forward the torch that brings the crypt-like space to light, stone by ancient stone. He lights the torches mounted on the walls, too, as they go, and soon enough, the full picture reveals itself to Jon's slowly adjusting eyes.

Here, away from the life buzzing through the Red Keep's halls and sleeping quarters all that way above them, the castle looks its age. The fire throws their shadows far in front of them and Jon's breath dies in his throat when he sees the first skull.

He doesn't have to know what a living dragon looks like to know that right in front of him is one that had been dead for at least a century – it's unlike the bones of any other animal he'd ever seen. It's smaller than he would have expected – a little shorter than him, and it is only a head – but in the darkness stretching out in front of him, he can see the shadows of much bigger ones.

"Moondancer, if my little brother is to be believed – though he rarely is," the Queen says, and the words echo back to them under the high ceiling. She plucks the torch out of her twin's hand and casts its light towards another long-dead remnant. "Devoured by Sunfyre during the Targaryen civil war. It was the beginning of the end for the dragons in Westeros, but they kept their skulls here either way, from the first to the last one they managed to find in the aftermath." Jon reaches out to touch it, but there's nothing but dust left under his fingers. When he looks up, he finds his bride smiling. "Daenerys's dragons cannot be much bigger than this, apparently. Still, our potential defence was built with something worse than Moondancer in mind."

Deeper into the darkness still, there's a long line of weapons pressed against the walls, far newer than anything else in this dungeon. They appear to be oversized crossbows at first, but when he comes closer, he can see that they're much mobile than they could have been, with levers to pull them this way and that towards, no doubt, a fast-moving target. There's only one turned forwards instead to the side and in front of it is the largest skull yet, with an arrow the length of two grown men piercing it from the eye to where its brain had once been. Given the Queen's familiarity with the weapon's mechanics as she stands behind it, combined with the fact that every other menial task seems entirely foreign to her, Jon would bet good money on who had fired that single bolt.

The Kingslayer had already busied himself with studying this new creation and there's a sort of awe in his eyes that would be off-putting if Jon hadn't been disturbingly familiar with the man's seemingly bottomless itch for a fight by now. Even so, he has to admit – they're all impeccably made, and certainly better than anything he'd ever seen. If they could have something like this propped on the Wall's edge, facing North, it would do them a world of good.

Thinking of which—

"We will have to mount them on the city walls," he murmurs, mainly to himself, tracing the arrow with a finger. It's thick but still as sharp as its smaller counterpart; doubtlessly sharp enough to pierce through scales, if not with the same ease it had done so through the skull in front of them. A moving, living target would be significantly more difficult, but not impossible.

"From every possible direction," the Queen nods. "We'll equip the Iron Fleet with any that remain." He frowns before remembering that the Greyjoy forces had been split in two. "Not at first – if we do draw first blood at sea, I'd still much prefer if one of the beasts could survive and serve you in your war – but eventually, yes."

It still sounds as fantastical as it had the first time she had said it – fantastical, and terribly tempting. "I don't know that any of them would serve me, Your Grace. In my war or any other."

"With the right tools, they would serve anyone, I've been led to believe." He doesn't like the glint in her gaze at all, especially when her brother lets out a sigh of profound annoyance. It couldn't be the idea of the dragon – regardless of his many, many flaws, he would know how much of an advantage having one would give them – so it has to be something else, and on a usual day, anything that brings him misery would have been a source of, at least, petty amusement for Jon, but this time around, something about it feels off. In his experience, it's a rare thing; seeing the Queen's good mood not passed off to her twin as well. "Jaime? Any word on our visitors?"

"The Silence was supposed to sail into harbour before nightfall, last I heard."

"Good. Let's see what it's brought us."

The Queen spins on her heel and leaves them in the darkness so that they're forced to watch their step as they make their way back to the courtyard and in the shadows, he hears the Kingslayer sigh again.

"The Silence?" It sounds foreboding, but not pompous enough to be the product of a Lannister's thinking. "Is that your flagship?"

"It's Euron Greyjoy's flagship."

Jon's frown only deepens. "The King of the Iron Islands?"

This is one of the stories he remembers well. The King of the Iron Islands asked for her hand and she refused him, and he still swore to bring her a gift to try and sway her heart. He could no longer do such a thing when she'd gone ahead and got herself married, but he supposes there's no hurt in trying.

"That's the one."

The Queen isn't all too fond of letting him in on her plans, he'd found, so he might as well ask the next best thing. "What is he meant to receive in exchange for his support?"

"It's yet to be determined. Harrenhal, allegedly. Cersei might marry him off to some cousin of ours and let him keep calling himself King if he likes."

He can't argue the merit in the first two, he supposes, but, "Keeping a fictive title you already have isn't much of a reward, is it?"

The Lord Commander turns to him and Jon doesn't need light to be able to tell that he's incensed. "Do not mention that in front of him. In fact, try not to speak at all. Stand somewhere behind my sister and mind your own fictive titles first, Your Majesty."

No one says another word on the way to the harbour. Not for the first time, Jon thinks it's for the best – by the time they catch up with the Queen, blissfully unaware of the goings-on she'd left behind in the dungeons, she's already standing on the edge and talking to a man that, he assumes, must be the King of the Iron Islands. Even if they hadn't been introduced, he can see it in the fashion of the sailors wandering high up on the ship anchored right behind them – it's not too different from the clothes Theon had won, what feels like a lifetime ago.

He can't hear them all the way from here, but the Queen laughs, and it's not something he's heard of her ever before – not the genuine laughter that someone, usually her brother, has successfully coaxed out of her for once, not the hollow one she employs in front of guests, and certainly not the one dripping with smug superiority that only ever appears when she's mocking someone that she knows won't dare to respond. No; it's a strange, wilder sound, and Jon would have barely associated it with her if he hadn't been there to see it. Her gestures are brisk and a far cry from the delicacy that she usually employs with every touch, and a moment later, when several sailors drag a board down from the ship and onto dry land, long and thin, she descends on it with an eagerness he'd rarely seen displayed as she flips it open with some difficulty.

With the right tool, she'd said, any dragon would be compelled to obey anyone. Whatever this is might just be the right tool.

She gestures them closer and as soon as he and her brother are by her side, she drags Jon closer still, letting him stare down at her newest possession – a horn, it seems, almost longer than the one they'd had on the Wall to warn them of danger, glimmering with golden inscriptions on its surface. He doesn't recognise the language, but apparently, the Queen does.

"It's from your ancestral homeland, My Prince," she says, voice inviting as it always is when she knows she'd strike a good deal with some as of yet uncertain Lord she means to make support her. He had not once seen her fail at that venture. "Can you read it?"

He shakes his head. He knows that ladies in the South are sometimes taught the language by tutors in their youth, mainly as an oddity to then present in polite company, but such a tradition had never reached him, ironically enough. "Can you?"

"A little. It's the language of Valyria before it fell. I am Dragonbinder," she says, and by the name alone, Jon can imagine what the purpose of it is, though nothing could have prepared him for what comes next. "No mortal man shall sound me and live. Blood for fire, fire for blood."

"Whoever sounds it becomes the master of any dragon that hears it," Lord Greyjoy supplies, as if the meaning could have slipped from their attention. Jon feels a shudder run through him. Blood for fire, fire for blood. It sounds challenging – hungry, as if the horn is a living thing just waiting for someone to try it so that it can swallow them whole. "It also happens to be lethal to that same person, unfortunately."

"That would be a rather short timespan to make a dragon do your bidding, then, wouldn't it?"

It's the Kingslayer that speaks and the Queen interferes before anything equally scathing can be said in response. "No mortal man, it says. The dragonriders that made this did not mean themselves, I'm sure." Her smile turns mocking. "Until rather recently, they believed themselves to be the spawn of either gods or dragons, didn't they? I believe we've secured you a dragon, My Prince."

She uses the title so rarely – only when they have audience, really – that it takes Jon a moment to remember that it's him she's talking to. "Your Grace, I wouldn't presume—"

Lord Greyjoy's voice cuts him off, and it's just as well – he doesn't quite know how he's supposed to refuse to honour of a horn that might kill him as soon as he employs it. "So it's true what they say."

"It is." The Queen's fingers interlace with his when she finds his hand and there's some pride in her voice, as if all of this had been a plan of her making. "My husband is the blood of Old Valyria. If there is anyone here who can do this and live, it's him."

"I assume he'll be headed for Highgarden rather than Casterly Rock, then."

"Along with my brother, the Lord Commander, yes." Jon has only a vague idea of the scheme that had apparently been conceived sometime shortly before his arrival, but presumes that he'll be filled in on the details soon enough. "In the meantime, you may stay in the capital as our guest, Lord Greyjoy. You'll be repaid for your help in this war, rest assured."

"I intend to." He pauses for a moment, as if unsure how to proceed. "There was some talk of Harrenhal, if I remember correctly."

"Certainly," the Queen confirms. "That, and I'm in need of a Master of Ships."

"Now there's a position I'll enjoy."

On Jon's other side, Lannister grits his teeth. A place on the Small Council had not been in the potential rewards listed before they'd come here; apparently, it's the first time she'd mentioned it at all.

"As we prepare for the attack – and the Dragon Queen's arrival – you'll have a chance to see firsthand what it's like, then. That, along with how successful this plan of yours about Casterly Rock is, will determine how we'll go forward." The Queen beams back at her guest, but there's still the same quality to it – she's bargaining with all the elegance of a fisherman's wife, but the man finds seems to find it charming; the same way she charms the other Lords of Westeros with her usual way with words. If Jon had not spent as much time with her as he had by now, he would have thought that this is just how she is; Lord Greyjoy must think precisely that. He hadn't seen her haunted eyes as she'd looked down at a woman begging for her own life – hadn't seen her wander by the courtyard during morning training and smiling at her brother's (not particularly funny, Jon has to say) jests. He wouldn't claim to know her, but he'd seen her, every once and again, or so he'd allowed himself to think. Sansa might change her mind if she could read his just now – he might really be a fool, after all. "My brother will fill you in on everything you need to know, I'm sure."

"I will, upstairs," the Kingslayer says, leading them up and back towards the castle. When they're at a safe distance from the new arrivals, he mutters under his breath, "This whole place stinks of fish."

It does, but it's not fish Jon thinks of when he listens to the Queen speak to their new ally – his mind wanders back towards Winterfell a long time ago, when a travelling singer had brought a strange little creature with himself and had shown it to the awed children crowding around him. It had been a vibrant green against the man's coat and had shifted to a muted grey when Robb had held it in his gloved hand, slowly warming up to red when Sansa had laid her hair over it, laughing. It's an effective system, the singer had told them, when you are both a predator and prey, as it helps with blending into any and all environments.

Dragons must be fearsome creatures, he thinks, if they require all this preparation, but for as long as he's here, neck-deep in the world that he'd been thrust in quite so suddenly and in the company he's currently in, it's likely better to focus on the chameleons. Unless dragons can do what they can, for now, chameleons remain the strangest beasts of them all.

~.~

In the end, the meeting that the Queen had orchestrated goes about as well as had been expected – the Iron Fleet would sail for Casterly Rock as soon as Daenerys's forces would touch Westerosi soil, and in the meantime, Jon along with the majority of the Lannister forces would head for Highgarden, scorpions and Dragonbinder in tow. Have you ever seen a scorpion? She had asked when he'd inquired after the name they'd come up with. He'd shaken his head. Its stinger is nothing impressive compared to a person's size, but one sting is enough to leave you to your death in the desert. She doesn't want all the dragons dead, he knows, but bringing at least two down would do them all a world of good – well, all of them other than Daenerys Targaryen, he supposes, but he cannot worry about her state of mind. It had been her desire to sail to Westeros, after all; even if she is his kin, he doesn't know her at all, and for now, it's easy enough to say that she should have seen the resistance coming. With Tyrion Lannister by her side, there's no way she doesn't know what his family is capable of – after all, their plan about the ambush of Highgarden hinges mainly on the idea that he thinks that Casterly Rock is the place that they'll defend with all of their might.

"The Rock will be defended by just enough men to keep the soldiers in the dark to the fact that it's a trap," the Lord Commander says when asked, placing several lion miniatures over his family's ancestral home on the map and several krakens in the Sunset Sea right next to them and hoarding the majority of his lions over to Highgarden. He looks up to the Queen and, at her nod, adds the direwolves currently placed at Winterfell to the pile as well – all of them. "As soon as the northern army arrives, of course. It would be a faster trip by sea than by land, should they start at White Harbour with the Iron Fleet. Your Majesty?"

Jon nods. This, at least, he hadn't been left in the dark about when he'd sent his raven. "That's where they'll march to."

"Good. As soon as they arrive, we can leave for Highgarden. We'll need a head start, though not by much – as soon as the Prince's men have rested from the voyage, we can depart. Any objections?"

It's not quite an objection, but the suspicion is clear in Lord Greyjoy's voice. "The men you'll leave in Casterly Rock – it's brave of them to follow your orders, knowing that they're going to die."

Lannister rises to the bait as easily as always. "All Westerlanders are brave."

"And what of Lannisport?" The question is directed at the Queen, this time. "You don't intend on sacrificing the city, too, I take it."

"The only danger Lannisport has seen in recent history has been by the hands of the Ironborn," she rebukes swiftly. "I don't suppose you're particularly concerned for its safety."

The man shrugs. "Should I not be? All your promises lay in the south, Your Grace, and you mean to send me in the Narrow Sea to fetch the Stark army. I can't imagine them coming to fruition anytime soon."

"Can't you?" After a fortnight spent in court, Jon can rather easily detect his bride's patience coming to an end. Still, her cold smile remains frozen on her face. "That's rather disappointing. I expect my enemies to suffer from failure of imagination instead of my allies. We are allies, aren't we, My Lord?" She doesn't wait for a response. "Forget the titles and castles; I've entrusted you with the hand of my dearest cousin."

Jon suppresses a snort to the best of his ability. The Lannisters have about a thousand cousins, aunts, uncles and nephews currently overstaying their welcome in the capital after the wedding and, though it's difficult for him to tell the majority of them apart, he'd remembered Cerelle Lannister mainly for the fact that, other than the length of her hair, she's a near perfect mirror of the Queen. That doesn't mean that it can't be a fair assessment, still – she'd made herself dear to her royal cousin by being offered as precious resource in the Queen's place – but it certainly is a stretch. Their family is so numerous that Jon had thought more than once that if what they say about the Targaryen's looks is true – light hair, light eyes, pale complexion – his own aunt's best chance of taking the capital might be to slip among them and swan right into the Red Keep. No one would notice anything amiss, he would bet, the twins least of all.

Lord Greyjoy scowls. "Do you assume I would put her at risk, Your Grace?"

She had assumed just that, of course, and she'd been right to do so, but Jon had got used to that over time – the fact that nothing goes unchallenged in Cersei Lannister's court and even less of it goes unanswered by her.

"The women in my family have not fared well in the Iron Islands, historically speaking."

"Historically speaking, the men in my family have not fared well with women of your blood either, I have to say."

The Queen laughs, and the malice nearly pours out of her bright eyes. "Do you expect an apology? You won't receive one."

"I would have been disappointed to receive it, to tell you the truth." But he's smiling now, and Jon cannot, for the life of him, comprehend how she does this. "If this Lady of Lannisport is half the woman you are, Your Grace, I'll be glad to meet her."

The Queen leans over the table, her pale fingers curling like claws around the dent that Highgarden makes in her map. "Do what I ask of you, My Lord, and you'll receive even more than just that."

By the end of it all, evidently satisfied with the achieved progress, she chases them all away from the war room rather unceremoniously – all but Lord Greyjoy, whom she calls back in a moment later to discuss some specifics about the potential passengers that his nephew and niece's fleet might carry and the things she wants done to them. This is a story Jon knows – the Martells, or what is left of them, are her daughter's murderers, and he had expected that she would want retribution, no matter how bloody it would be. Surely, she wouldn't be content with having them be killed quickly and painlessly at sea.

It's still difficult to believe that she'd try and sell the man a title that he already has, but the Kingslayer had scoffed when he'd voiced that disbelief. There's some admiration lacing the words when they come. "This is nothing. My sister can sell a river to a Tully. I would advise you against being overly attentive of what she does and who she speaks to." Despite his warning, there's tension in his voice, too, as if he couldn't possibly follow his own advice. From what little Jon knows about him, that might just be the case. "The only reason you're the one she married rather than just about any other man in the Seven Kingdoms was because she knew you wouldn't be a bother. Try not to disappoint her. My sister is startlingly easy to frustrate."

Sometimes, Jon supposes, it's simply easier to concede defeat. It's late either way; he might as well leave Lannister to his foul mood and let him tend to his sister when she's finished with her guest. It's what he's best at, after all.

A door opens and closes somewhere behind him as soon as he turns the corner, and only the usual sound of the Queen's raised boots echoing through the corridor follows, with no one at her heels. By now, he's familiar enough with the way the castle is built to know that if she'd come out alone, she'd sent her guest out through the entrance on the other side and, since the door to the wing where the royal family's sleeping quarters are is locked for the night, there is no way for anyone else to have come here unnoticed. For a moment, Jon stops dead in his tracks, careful to not be heard with every breath he takes as he listens to what the twins have to say when they think they're alone.

"All is well, I take it?"

"Surprisingly, yes." A sigh follows, somewhere between exhausted and frustrated. "A seat on the Small Council and Harrenhal should be a decent consolidation prize when compared to a single marriage, but no – Cerelle had to be lumped with a castle and a title, too."

Jon can almost see the Kingslayer shrug. "She's willing, isn't she? Uncle Tygett can't stop you from marrying her to a Lord Paramount; you're the Queen and she's marrying up either way." Uncle Tygett, he remembers vaguely, is the Lord of some minor branch of their House that rules over Lannisport, and not to be confused with Uncle Tygett, their actual uncle who had died some years prior. With this many relatives, he almost can't fault the Queen for laying with her brother – perhaps any blood connection had simply stopped mattering at some point. "All she's ever wanted was to get out from her father's grip and travel the world. You've given it to her."

Another sigh. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire. No matter; it's done. The Iron Fleet will leave for White Harbour in the morning. By the time they return, I can arrange for a wedding. Let Olenna Tyrell pay Cerelle's dowry, since she's so intent on going against the crown."

Her brother doesn't sound particularly interested in his cousin's dowry. "Is that all you promised him?"

"What do you mean?"

"That horn— what did you call it? Dragonbinder. How do we know it works?"

There's a moment of silence and Jon inches closer to the corner he'd stopped behind, irrationally curious for a look at them. The Queen's voice rarely tells him anything of interest, but her face is another matter. "There's only one way to find out, isn't there? You won't be the one using it; my husband will be."

"That's just the thing. How are you so sure that even someone with his blood can survive it?" When she doesn't respond, he finally finds it in himself to elaborate, it seems. "This could easily be a plot to make a widow out of you again."

"A rather ineffectual one, if it happens." Jon does peek into the corridor this time, and sees the Queen smiling, one hand on her brother's chest. "If Lord Snow dies, I'll just marry you." She considers it for an instant. "In fact, I might marry you either way. Aegon the Conqueror wed both his sisters, didn't he? Why can't the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms do the same thing?"

Lannister grins his insufferable grin, pleased, and crowds her against the wall opposite from Jon's hideout. It's just as well – he shouldn't want to see, but a part of him does, more than he would ever admit. "You shouldn't joke with such things, Cersei." He reaches behind her and the sound of the strange contraption that holds her dresses in place opening carries over to the corner just as the Kingslayer leans down until his lips reach the Queen's throat, leaving a trail of kisses there when she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, her hand in his hair keeping him in place. That explains the marks, at least. Even the way he says her name is somewhere between a bite and a caress. "It could make a man greedy."

"Oh, be as greedy as you like, brother," she says, smile widening when he starts to push her gown down from her shoulders. "I'd like to make you greedier, if anything."

"And I'd like to see you try." He pulls her heavy skirts up until she relents and takes hold of the bunched fabric and Jon does his best to look away when he sees the Lord Commander's good hand disappear under it – tries all the harder when he hears her moan. It's their own fault, really, and anyone could come in, but they think they're alone and he knows it. It makes it worse than any old spying, somehow, and his mouth goes dry when the man falls to his knees and deftly pulls her leg over one of his shoulders, looking up again. "Did you lose your words, sister?"

The Queen freezes for a moment, her face flushes with desire, eyes foggy with it in the most enticing display he'd ever seen. He needs to go and he needs to do it now, only...

"Jaime—" And suddenly, clearly in response to his question, she's pushing him away, as if something sobering had snapped her out of the moment. "There's something I need to tell you."

"Now?" He sounds particularly displeased, as if he'd meant to take her right outside the door to her rooms, but gets up to his feet, to Jon's surprise. "What is it?"

Jon disappears out of her potential sight just as she checks their surroundings to make sure they truly are alone and then – once he allows himself to inch towards the edge again – he sees her pull her brother's face down to her until she can whisper something in his ear; something that makes him step back, startled, his wide eyes frozen upon her.

"Are you certain?"

"Would I say anything if I weren't?"

He embraces her in response, so tight that it looks like it might hurt, the Queen's arms wrap around him in response. Jon feels the uncomfortable urge to look away – this isn't something meant for him to see, no matter what she'd told him, and it's surprisingly brotherly, the way he holds her; tender, too, until that song that haunts Jon's mind whenever he looks at them together begins to haunt him again. He's not quite sure about shame, but she certainly is his bliss.

"Come," the Kingslayer says, dragging his sister by the hand as if they're children and she laughs as he unlocks the door and pulls her into her chambers. She laughs, and the sound of it echoes in Jon's mind long after he'd gone to his own apartments; long after they'd disappeared out of his sight.

~.~

The next fortnight trudges along painfully slowly. Jon writes home and receives information on Winterfell's inhabitants in return; laughs at the image Sansa paints of the wildlings's debates when they'd decided whether they'd sail south and had decided to do so, then shudders at the thought of the wildlings in question and the Ironborn in the same living quarters, no matter how short the voyage is. He tells her about the food and the way court is held here, and about his life in the Red Keep, likely so very different from what she had experienced in those same places he visits every day.

He doesn't tell her about Casterly Rock or Highgarden or Dragonbinder, or about the new Targaryen armour he'd been measured for the day before. He supposes his correspondence might very well be read before it's sent, and even if it isn't, he has no desire to be the weakest link in an otherwise decent plan. More than that, there are things he cannot explain – things he doesn't want to, worse still.

The castle's grounds provide for ample distraction when he has little else to do – he wanders down to the Godswood, more a garden than a genuine forest here, but still good enough for the connection with his gods to be felt. Often, he brings a tome or two along with himself. The Queen had suggested, not particularly subtly, that he could stand to learn more about the history of his ancestors. He uses some of it to find places in his surroundings where his predecessors had left their mark, good or bad, and one day, when it takes him deep beneath the surface of the Keep, he doesn't realise that he'd stumbled into a place he had had no idea existed until he'd come face to face with Gregor Clegane.

His presence only ever means one thing and Jon takes a step forward, startled when the mute knight holds a hand out to keep him from going any farther. The clang of his armour stirs another figure wandering about and a torch comes into view, followed by its carrier – one of the Queen's handmaidens, straightening her dress out into place when she sees him.

"Your Majesty!" She's polite but resolute. "I apologise; I should have sent someone to tell you. Her Grace wished not to be disturbed."

"Ah." He can hear running water somewhere in the cavern behind the Queen's constant companions, and lifts a hand in surrender as the likely reality of the situation reaches him. "Perhaps later, then."

A voice floats up from somewhere behind her, sounding particularly annoyed, though whether it's at him or at the fact that someone had come at all is beyond him.

"Let my husband in, Jocelyn."

The maid falters, but nods, as if to herself, and steps out of his path. "This way, Your Majesty."

The knight's arm falls back into place without another word of command. His presence is unnerving on the best of days – he doesn't seem to react to any voice but the one of his charge, and sometimes, the Queen only has to look at him before he fulfils whatever it is that she needs done. Secretly, Jon suspects her Hand is behind it. The majority of the unexplained goings-on in the Red Keep seem to have his touch all over them.

The cave he enters is warm, steam rising out of the small basin that sprawls out in front of his sight, a small, seemingly manmade, waterfall splashing into it from one side. It's uncomfortably familiar; a reminder of a different life and a different woman, but it also feels a little like Winterfell's hot springs and the warmth they bring, no matter how unforgiving the cold gets.

The Queen's eyes are closed, her head propped against the stone behind her even though her entire body is submerged. She doesn't make the effort to face him, and it's just as well – he tries to keep his gaze fixed on her face, but it doesn't quite work. He wonders, briefly, if she does this on purpose. It couldn't be – if she'd wanted to seduce him, she would have tried something of the sort already, and it's not her fault that his appraising eyes slide down her body on their own accord, drinking her in. All the stories on that had seemed to be mainly talk, though given that she's willing to speak to him while as bare as she'd been on her name day, he can see where the talk had come from.

"Aren't you cold, Lord Snow?"

She'd heard him enter, no doubt – every sound seems to be magnified tenfold here, and his boots make rather a lot of noise. It is colder, he suddenly notices, and narrows his eyes at the way the water pours out of its niche and flows down through an exit in the rocks. When he gets closer, an unfortunate, but by now familiar aroma floats up to him. "Does this go all the way down to Blackwater Bay?"

"This deep into the castle, we're closer to Blackwater Bay than we are to the Throne room, but yes." The Queen settles more comfortably into place. "One of the trickles of Blackwater Rush meets its end here. Some decades ago, someone had the bright idea to carve out a furnace somewhere right beneath this cavern, file the rock until it's thin enough to transfer the warmth up, and light a fire. It's certainly more spacious than a bath." She opens one eye to watch him where he's still studying his surroundings, standing by the edge of the pool. "I asked you a question, Lord Snow."

He knows what she's asking him, but there seem to be no right answers from what he can see. "I wouldn't want to disturb you."

"Would I have invited you in if you disturbed me?"

Not one to leave a challenge unaddressed, Jon shrugs off his shirt and then the undershirt that follows, studiously avoiding the Queen's eyes as he rids himself of the rest of his clothes. His boots go just before his breeches do and it's an uncomfortable affair, fighting with those ridiculous courtly clothes, but Jon does not intend on giving her the pleasure to watch him squirm. He lowers himself into the water on the small staircase carved out from the stone and for a moment, he forgets about anything but the all-compassing warmth that surrounds him. It does feel a lot like home and the bone-deep ache in his muscles – one brought along by both his daily training and the terribly tense posture that the cold always forces upon him – begins to uncoil bit by bit, to his pleasure.

The Queen's voice floats over to him. "You have something like this in Winterfell, if I remember correctly, though it's natural there."

"Aye, we do. It's a relief for any soldier after a long day."

"Keep it to yourself when the soldiers do arrive," she advices him primly and Jon looks over at her to see her reach for a small vial on the rock next to her and pour some pleasant-smelling substance into her palm before rubbing it into her wet hair. This reminds him of home, too, for reasons unknown – it's a heavy, sticky sweet scent, and it has an undertone of sadness that he can't quite place in his memories. Some flower, no doubt; one that had grown in the North as well as here. "The castle can only take so many people. This place is too small for the entire northern force to follow you here."

"You have nothing to worry about, Your Grace," he laughs, feeling far too comfortable, all of a sudden. It's a difficult thing; remembering how dangerous she is when she washes the foam out of her hair under the waterfall and speaks of things mundane enough to fit into any of the complaints brought by the people to the Throne each day. For a single, fickle moment, she's made herself only a woman, sitting across from him and smiling at the thought of his soldiers in her castle, as if she hadn't bathed in Stark blood for years now. No, he amends a moment later – it isn't her doing; he's the one who keeps forgetting. That is dangerous, too, in its own way. "A decent bit of them are wildlings; your girls won't need to prepare warm baths for them. They're used to places much colder than King's Landing."

"Wildlings?" If she's worried, it doesn't show, but it's best to elaborate anyway.

"Their leader is like a brother to me. I trust him completely." He cannot ask – not as bluntly as her Hand had advised him – but he can deliver a blow anyway. She's unlikely to care, but if it gets him an explanation – any at all – then it'll be a victory, no matter how small. "It's easy to resort to them, with no warriors of my own blood remaining."

It's only once the words are out that he realises how entirely alone they are. She could drown him and push him down the river and no one would know a thing unless he washes up at the city guard's feet and for a moment, he's convinced that she'll call her guard in and have him do just that.

She doesn't, of course. He should know better by now than to expect her to do anything he's determined she could possibly do.

Her voice is as soft as the wind in the Godswood as it whispers through the trees; neither a promise nor a threat, but an effort of understanding from a world he had barely tried to comprehend. "The warriors of your blood rebelled against the crown."

"They did," he allows. "For the sake of the truth."

"Tell me, Lord Snow," she says, and her eyes flash at him in the near darkness. He's seen wildfire now, when Qyburn had shown it to him, and it's a near enough thing. She only needs a single spark to bring a fiery inferno upon the world, too. "Who did your father's truth ever help? Did it help him keep his head? Did it save your brother or his wife? Did it keep my family off the Iron Throne?"

There's little he can say to that. "No."

"No." She's at an arm's reach now and really, she's a better swimmer than he is. If she were to drown him, this might just be the time for it. "Do you think I wanted this? When your ever so noble, ever so generous father came to warn me to gather my family and flee Westeros because he would tell my husband that same truth, do you think I planned to murder him? No. I wanted to name him a traitor and send him to live his days out in the wasteland the Starks call home and never hear from him again. Why would I want to fan the flames further when I could simply rid myself of my husband instead? But no, it couldn't be that easy, of course. Ned Stark had to serve the truth – more specifically, he wanted to serve it to the man who hit me hard enough to bruise right in front of your father, as if he wouldn't find me and tear me limb from limb no matter where in the world I had chosen to hide."

She could be lying, Jon thinks, but no – for once, there's no pretence in her voice. It's almost jarring. "You might have not wanted him dead," he manages at last, though it doesn't sound particularly convincing, "but he died all the same."

"Joffrey was a wilful boy even as a child; being crowned enhances that for anyone. By the time he made that decision, there was little time to change his mind." It's only a shadow of remorse, but it's the best he's likely to receive. "I don't intend to apologise to you either, Lord Snow – for my own choices or for my family's." She had seen through the point behind his prodding, it would seem, because she continues a moment later. "Is there anything else in particular that angers you? Would your heart have been fuller if another two or three hundred thousand people had died before my father had killed your brother in the battlefield, instead of having a handful of people's throats slid at dinner? How much more Westerosi blood would you like spilled in the name of honour? I've had my fill ten times over."

"I see." He almost does, and that only serves to aggravate him further – if he thinks about it for too long, she might turn out to be right. "This is what Lannisters call mercy, then?"

"Mercy? No." Her Grace is a remarkably honest woman, her Hand had said, and as it appears, she is. "There's not much about us that can be called merciful. We are efficient, however. We were at war, Lord Snow. One has to cut one's losses every now and again – often, there's a victory to be found somewhere in there, and victories cut wars short. That's mercy."

"That's terribly convenient for you." He doesn't bother with titles this time. What would be the point? If she wants him as honest as she is, then he might as well say what he means. "We were at war. Every single atrocity can be excused with that, can it? Every signed truce, every promise, every word given – you walk right over it and call it war."

"It wasn't me who started it," the Queen says, still just as infuriatingly dignified. "Catelyn Stark kidnapped my brother to accuse him of a crime that he, for a change, had nothing to do with. Your father started a brawl in the streets with my other brother, accusing him of much the same. And then – then – he came to threaten me with the truth and with my husband's wrath. I warned him to stop while he could; he didn't listen. Do you want to know the sort of wrath he spoke of? When your half-siblings were killed and brought to his throne, he smiled. I'll remember it for as long as I live."

"It was your family—"

"I was only a girl then," she interrupts him, and it's not really something he can argue with. "I do not have it in me to kill children, Lord Snow, no matter what you've heard of me. I certainly didn't have it in me back on that day, either. It was a sickening sight. He called them dragonspawn. This is the man your father wanted me to flee from, along with my children. I will not have that blood on my hands, he told me, because he knew Robert would kill them – knew he would follow me no matter where I went."

She's lying, he thinks again, she has to be, but it's growing quieter by the moment. "They were not the King's blood." It's a week defence at best and she tramples right over it.

"No. A man like him deserved to die the way he did – without issue, gored to death by a pig. Your father, on the other hand – this is the death he could have prevented easily, and yet, it's the one he chose. His loyalty to Robert Baratheon killed him before my son could have decided how, precisely, he would take his life." That detested, familiar smile returns, both mocking and patronising and Jon can feel his ire rise to the surface again. "He knew all of this. You know that, don't you? Ned Stark died in the name of the truth that would have killed my children and yet he lied to you for your entire life to protect you from that very same man. His word was only worth so much when his own blood was under threat, but it didn't seem to matter much how many other people died for it. He lied to you as much as he did to everyone else."

All the times he'd asked about his mother; all the times he'd wondered—

"He did it to protect me."

"From Robert Baratheon's wrath, yes. Dragonspawn." It doesn't feel like the offence that her husband had apparently meant it as; more like a brand sealed onto his chest, red-hot and shining for all to see. "And when I did the same to protect my own children, he condemned me for it. Had his honour been a little more all-encompassing, he might have still been alive, and none of this would have ever happened."

It's this that does it; the implication of innocence where there is none to be found. That, or the anger at a tale so unapologetic that it would have put the Maiden's purity to shame. It only takes a moment for his body to react before his mind does – he grasps her by the shoulders to keep her in place the way she'd done with his throat in the night of their wedding. One wrong movement and they could both topple over, and the precipice leading down into Blackwater Bay is so very close. "You cannot blame this on my father."

All he gets for his efforts is a laugh, more carefree than most would be in her place.

"Are you going to kill me, Lord Snow?" The Queen's eyes flash in the darkness, and there's not a trace of fear in their wildfire - only a challenge, amused enough to only fuel his fury more. Beautiful and mad and wicked. He should have listened. "Do it. My brother is more patient with keeping prisoners alive than I am. And when your army of dead men marches south and I rise as one of them, I'll watch him peel your skin off inch by inch until you both join me in the realm of frozen corpses."

With the first mention of the army of the dead, the fight goes out of him as easily as it had come. He loosens his grip on her, but doesn't let go. All of a sudden, he feels incredibly tired. Sansa had warned him about this, too – that she would try and twist the entire world and all of history until it fits whatever point it is that she's trying to make, and yet, it's hard to consider it a lie when it's not. He had spent his entire life knowing nothing about the way he'd come into the world. He understand, even now, but if his father could have told one person— If he could have only told him—

"I don't want you dead," he says and is astonished to discover that it's true.

"What do you want, then?"

His own smile, when it comes, is both sad and a touch cynical. "The truth, at last."

"You learn to make peace with ghosts on the other side of the Wall, you said," the Queen says, and it's unexpectedly gentle, given their predicament. "The same thinking works on this side of it, too. What's done is done. There's little use dwelling on dead men and their choices. All we can do is move forward."

"An easy thing to say for a Lannister." He isn't going to apologise, just like she hadn't, but he doesn't intend on pursuing and unwinnable battle either. When she laughs again, it's enough to make him forget how he'd coaxed the same reaction out of her just a moment ago. At war, he might have been able to kill her even now that he knows her, he thinks, but he cannot ever do it here, where she's defenceless. He cannot be her previous husband, and not only out of fear that he'd meet the same fate that King Robert had – it's beneath him and, worse, she doesn't deserve anything this petty. For his bride, it should be war or nothing else.

"Easier still for a Targaryen." It sounds encouraging, almost. Not for the first time, he wonders if she can read his mind, even if only through the way he looks at her when he finally meets her eyes. It's either that, or she's terribly observant. "Your family has risen from the ashes quite a few times."

"A family I know nothing about, other than what books tell me."

"What else is there to know? Make it what you want it to be when there's no one to use as an example."

There might be one that still lingers, even if he's only a ghost, just like the rest of them – just like half of the family he does know. Jon sighs and forces the words out before he has had the chance to think about it any further. "Did you know my father well?"

The Queen frowns. "Certainly not better than you did. I only ever met him a handful of times."

"Not him. My—" He can't make himself think it, let alone say it. He'd only ever had the one father; he can't see that changing anytime soon, no matter how many times he'd gone through the Septon's diary. "Rhaegar Targaryen. What was he like?"

"Ah." Understanding dawns on her face and she shrugs, as though not quite sure what she can tell him that wouldn't be either hurtful or disappointing. She needn't have bothered – he'd had his share of failed expectations when it comes to missing parents; his childhood years had taken care of that. The fact that she's willing to respond at all despite of his outburst is a miracle enough. "I didn't know him much better than I did Ned Stark, truly. I liked him well enough when my father informed me that I was to be betrothed to him, but I was a little girl then. He played the harp, and he was always— more patient with me than I imagine I would have been in his place." Try as he might, Jon can't quite imagine her as an overbearing, starry-eyed girl at the sight of a Targaryen Prince, but then again, plenty of things had happened since then. Her voice brings him out of his contemplation rather swiftly. "He would have been a better king that Robert was, but I doubt he would have been a good one."

She doesn't have to elaborate for him to know what she's referring to. "My mother—"

"She was the daughter of the Warden of the North. His own wife was a Dornish Princess, and she'd given him two trueborn children." She sounds the way she always does when they're neck-deep into the politics of the realm, mind working a thousand miles a minute as she scrutinises every possible option. "Angering two Great Houses all at once is— less than desirable. Dying shortly after annulling his marriage was likely his best option."

There's no malice to her assessment, as if the new information he'd brought with himself had only made for an interesting new angle to a story she'd already dissected in her mind a hundred times over. Still, it's rich, coming from her. "Angering them all is much more optimal, I suppose."

"I've wanted to run a thousand times," she says without missing a breath, as if she'd seen the retort coming. "I never did. For years, it was because of the children. Then it was because of the Throne. Where would I know peace in the Seven Kingdoms, if not here, with a crown on my head?"

It's hard to argue with that assessment. "What's done is done," Jon echoes, as if that will somehow manage to keep anyone safer than they already are. "I'll be a Targaryen, if I have to be – even if I'm the last one. I'll wear a crown if you say I have to. None of it matters as much as the war against the Night King does."

"In order to win that war, we need to win another first," she reminds him. Ah, yes. The dragons. "There are few weapons as effective as the one you could take from your own kin."

Jon sighs, drawing a hand through his damp curls. The longer he stays in the water, the wilder it gets; he'd never asked himself where he'd got that from, given the fact that everyone but Robb had had the perfectly sleek hair typical for all Starks. "We have no way of knowing whether they'll obey me at all."

"They will. It's in your blood to give them commands, just as it's in their blood to follow those commands." Her hand is on his chest, right over his scars, and her touch is as scorching hot as it always is; feeding a fire he'd never known existed at all. "Dragons live longer than men. If you keep one alive after the war, you can go back home and rule over your domain. Find yourself a wife and have children and pass it onto them; it's the greatest weapon the North will have ever had, should the threat beyond the Wall arise again."

He's too exhausted to even contemplate that. "I already have a wife." The Queen turns away to evade his gaze like never before, but he's feeling particularly brave today; lets go of her shoulder to run his fingers along her jawline and make her face him again instead. He can't make her meet his eyes, but she does, never one to let herself look like a coward. They're a good match in that, if in nothing else. She's so, so close, only a breath's distance from him, and he can't tear his attention away from her. "I don't know how open she is to the idea of birthing dragonriders, though."

The words are so quiet that he has to strain to hear them, but it's all right – it's just them here, after all, and the cave's echo brings them back to him anyway. He doubts anything will come out of this, but he had promised to try – she can have children without his help, too, after all, as he's reminded night after night. And yet, "She is."

"Cersei." Had he ever called her by her name before? It certainly doesn't feel that way. It rolls off his tongue like the water still streaming somewhere behind him; easy as anything now that it's carved its way up his throat. He leans closer and, although he's not even asked the question he needs an answer to, realises that he doesn't particularly want to move away again. "Can I—"

"Yes."

His mouth is on hers before either of them can utter another word and he kisses her the way he hadn't dared on their wedding night; the way he'd only started wanting to kiss her so very recently. Her hands tangle in his hair a moment later and he's reminded of the night when they'd gone to see the scorpions, when he'd desperately tried to look away from the scene unfolding in front of him as she'd done the exact same thing with her brother. It's not a competition – and if it had been, he's certain he would not come out of it the winner – but for a mad, fleeting moment, his only goal in life is to make her moan the way the Kingslayer had. He pulls away and lifts her up by the hips to place her on the edge of the pool, leaving a trail of kisses upwards from her knee as she leans back and braces her palms on the stone behind her. Tuberose, he remembers suddenly, as he inhales the same overbearing, intoxicating scent he'd smelled before. The flower that often grows over graves in the North, ill-omened and unbearably sweet all at once. That's what it is. He shoulders his way between her thighs, pausing to look up at her when he feels her tense.

The smile he offers is as tentative as it's teasing as he repeats her reassurances from their first – and only – night. "I could stop if you want me to."

In response, she only draws him nearer by pushing her heels into his back and Jon complies, eyes still fixed on her as he touches her for the first time, fingers pressing into her wet core. The Queen throws her head back and the sight she makes on the scarce light is enough to keep him in place – she's still wet all over, pale skin glistening with it, her hair shining like a halo around her sharp face. She could push him underwater and keep him there until he doesn't have the breath to struggle anymore and he'd hardly even notice.

She's wonderfully responsive, he quickly discovers – his first sign that he's doing something right manifests itself in a gasp and Jon's eyes fall shut as he pushes further, the heel of his palm pressing into her heated skin. She leans back a fraction more and for a moment, he thinks she's trying to escape him, but no – it's only so that she can lie on her back, giving him better access than he'd had, and Jon doesn't wait for another invitation; comes up against the very edge of the basin so that he can put his mouth on her, grinning despite himself when he feels her hand tug on his hair again to keep him in place, as if there's anywhere else he would rather be.

She's sweet here, too; just the way she is everywhere else. Even the bite behind most of the things she says can't quite mask that, not now that he knows her, and Jon lets himself get lost in her, tongue and fingers doing their very best to coax out a reaction he knows she's capable of, even if it's not for him. Pride is such an easy vice to feed when he has such an eager subject for it. There's little he can say in his own defence this time: none of this has a thing to do with furthering the Stark line and making sure that a Lannister wouldn't inherit the North again; no, it's terrible and self-indulgent and everything he isn't here to be. He wants her just like he had on their wedding night, and it's just as difficult to see the harm of it now. There will never be any love to be found here, but they don't have to hate each other either, he thinks. It doesn't have to mean a thing, he tells himself when he takes hold of one of Cersei's thighs to keep her in place when she arches up and into his mouth; it doesn't have to feel anything but good. If he looks at it a certain way, it had almost been part of the deal – they had both known what a marriage entails when they had stepped into it. He's only fulfilling his duty.

"Yes," she spurs him on, as if in tune with his mind, and the sound of her approval, choked out despite her best efforts, it seems, rushes through him like the world's finest wine. He murmurs his acknowledgment against her sex and receives his response in the form of an even harder tug in his hair, pain and arousal fighting for attention at the forefront of his mind. It's a losing battle: there's no place for either of them there. There's only her.

Sansa's half-warning, half-assessment rings through his mind again when he takes one hand away to wrap it around his cock in a feeble effort to give himself some relief as he opens his mouth further, pushing his nose up against his wife's clit to make her tremble. I take you for a man. And it's all right, really – right now, this is all he can be.

It takes a few moments more before Cersei freezes under his touch, legs locking him in an even tighter embrace, and then she's trembling from head to toe, her breath leaving her on a high, almost disbelieving moan as the waves of pleasure rush through her and he groans alongside with her; can feel the pulse of her very being on his fingertips as she pushes him away, a frown marring the bliss of her expression as overstimulation takes over.

Jon doesn't feel anywhere near done. "Cersei—" He begins again, only to find himself cut off immediately, her answer the same it had been what feels like hours ago.

"Yes."

He struggles on his way up and out of the water, still painfully hard, and leans over her. For a tortuously long moment, their laboured breathing is the only sound in the cave and Jon stares down into those green, green eyes; into that familiar self-satisfied smile. She knows what this does to him, because of course she does, but he can't find it in himself to be angry.

Despite himself, Jon casts a look towards the entrance over her shoulder, acutely aware of the not so distant presence of the help and the Queensguard. He'd accepted the complete lack of privacy as one of royalty's many burdens, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Someone could come in."

"No one would dare." He doesn't look too convinced, he'd bet, because she sighs, frustrated. "They wouldn't have allowed you here without my permission. No one would disobey a direct order."

For the second time today, his actions come to be before his caution can have its say. "I can think of one example."

The claim hangs in the air between them, anxious on his end and suspicious on hers, until the person he's referring to falls into place. She's been here with him many times, Jon doesn't doubt; there's no way he wouldn't simply march past the Queensguard if he so pleases. The company the Queen keeps at night seems to be this castle's – this realm's, really – worst kept secret. She's almost proud of it, one would say by looking at her actions.

"Can you, Lord Snow?" She's radiant when she's angry, and there's certainly anger tinting her features now – that, and something more wicked still that he can't quite decipher; something almost hungry. A horrible prediction steals its way into Jon's mind the moment he sees it. "Let us see, then, shall we?"

"What—"

Her legs wrap around his lower back again, tightening around him, and the question dies on his lips as he enters her, following the obvious demand even as she turns away from him and in the general direction of the entrance. "Jocelyn?"

The girl has the sense not to come in, thank the gods. He's doing nothing wrong, Jon reminds himself again, but the shame of forcing the poor servant to face him at his weakest-willed might have killed him all the same."Your Grace?"

His bride's eyes shine with unholy glee when she faces him again, and Jon realises – not without some dismay – that whatever it is that she wants, he's willing to oblige. Her features contort into a display of pleased surprise as he starts to move, but it does nothing to dissuade her from her initial goal.

"Go and fetch my brother, will you?"