His father's solar had become suffocating, the heat from the fire and the weight of the furs about his neck threatening to steal the air from his chest as Jon read the scroll through again.

And again.

By the third reading he had found his breath again, and he reluctantly looked up to find the King in the North staring at him from behind his great wooden desk, watching him closely.

"Son," he said, his voice brusque and clipped as always, cold as ever but not without a layer of kindness, "We ought to consider the offer."

Jon's cheeks rounded slightly, a heavy exhale escaping as he considered the truth in his father's words. Times had grown increasingly dangerous, and though the North had been on guard for years, closed off and wary to enter the fray of war that had consumed several of the kingdoms to the South, that would not be the case for much longer.

The Lannisters were on the move, at last, taking the Stormlands and the Reach, marching, at last report, for their allies in the Riverlands, and the Vale as well.

"A betrothal," Jon uttered, gray eyes flitting again to the scrap of paper in his hand, the crackling of the fire the only response his words earned. It was a decent match, by any calculation. Jon could see the benefits, intellectually; The Targaryens had remained above the fray, as well, reclusive since the death of the King Aerys of Dragonstone and his Queen Rhaella at a tourney in the Vale, some seven years prior.

It was hard for Jon to keep up, at times, with what had come before, especially then. He had suffered his own losses, then, borne his own wounds, and hadn't had the slightest inclination to learn what had befallen Westeros, not at the time.

That knowledge had come later.

After Lys.

After her.

Finally, his father spoke, each word careful and considered. "'Tis not much left to the Targaryens, or so they say, save their island, and their steel, and their number is few. But times, and circumstances, have changed. And we must change as well, all of us, or we shall none of us survive what is to come." The older man nodded to himself, and as Jon gazed at his father it struck him how very tired King Eddard looked, how weary. But something had sparked in the old King's eye, as he spoke, and it was this that drew Jon's curiosity, despite his misgivings. He leaned forward in his seat.

"What do you mean, father? What has changed?" Though the room was dark, save for the firelight, Jon could see a rare smile dance across the man's lips.

"The fates have seen fit to restore to House Targaryen what was lost to them, my boy. And now, let us hope, they will use those gifts to the benefit of us all." A notion crept into Jon's mind, then, one almost too fantastic to be believed, and he took a shaky breath, his eyes widening, as he finally stood. "The Princess Daenerys has been found at last, and with her, she brings her own armies. And," his father drawled, standing and rounding his stately desk, coming to clap a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder, "dragons."

"Truly?" It was more than his imagination could fathom, really. Dragons HAD existed, once upon a time, and it had been the Targaryens who commanded them, the Targaryens who'd mastered their secrets and learnt to forge Valyrian Steel from their flames.

But hundreds of years ago, the dragons had died, and House Targaryen had begun to die with it. They never strayed from their island Kingdom, not in all the time they'd dwelt on than small stretch of land. Fleeing their own doomed motherland, they had left the native Westerosi largely to their own warring ways, intermarrying here and there, and making a mountain of gold selling their fabled swords and daggers and, for the very lucky buyer, full sets of mail.

That they had returned, that once again, real, fire-breathing dragons might be spotted in the Westerosi sky was a concept that filled Jon with an excitement that came surprisingly close to eclipsing the gut-wrenching agony that blazed inside him, at the very notion of this betrothal.

"Aye, Jon," his father said, bringing their faces close, his voice lowering to a whisper. "A great war is coming, my son, and we must be ready. We can hide away no longer. We need this alliance, now more than ever."

Jon gnawed at his lower lip, his fingers rolling and unrolling the scroll as he thought. It was all true, what his father said. If the Targaryens truly had dragons, once more, that would be a far greater defense against whatever fight the Lannisters meant to bring to them than he could ever had dreamed. He was young, still, at three-and-twenty, and he thought the lost Targaryen princess to be of similar age, if memory served.

It was the betrothal itself that was the problem, that filled him full of dread even as he knew what he must do.

Jon had been betrothed twice, and married once. His first betrothal, in his sixteenth year, to the daughter of the King Beyond the Wall, had ended in misery and pain, the flame-haired girl leaving him for dead, littered with arrows, paying the blood price with her own life when he'd managed to crawl his way back to the encampment in the Haunted Forest.

Without Ghost, Jon doubted he would have made it at all.

His second betrothal, two years prior, to the Westerling girl, had been without affection, or even any notion of friendship. He had wed her, of course, as his father had wished, but he'd found it hard to lay with her, guilt rising in him like bile once his task had been done, his eyes flying open to find brown hair spread upon the pillow, instead of silver.

The Westerling girl had died of a fever more than a year ago, and it brought Jon no small amount of shame that he rarely thought of her.

Even after all this time, with seven years to dull the pain, to diminish the memories, it was always and ever her. Only her. His moonlight beauty, with eyes like the ocean, who'd stolen his heart in the very same year he'd nearly lost his life, on the distant island of Lys.

His heart had grown beyond measure in his sixteenth year, been filled to the brim, then broken and crushed to dust, all in six moons time, in a land of blazing sun and long, summer days. Jeyne Westerling hadn't ever stood a chance, not even against a memory, or the ghost of one.

His heart only beat for his sweet, silver-haired Dany of Lys. Still.

Forever.

Jon hung his head, and closed his eyes, feeling the parchment twist beneath his fingers.

When he opened them, when his eyes met his Lord Father's, he saw the sympathy there, but the iron as well. This must be done. It had to be.

If Jon could not let her go, he must try, finally, to move on. It was his duty. He must do this, to protect his people, to make a powerful alliance that could promise unmatched military might.

"Aye," Jon finally said lowly, nodding his assent. "I shall do it, father."

Perhaps this third betrothal might be his last. Perhaps this Targaryen Princess could do what others might not. Perhaps he could finally, truly let go of the love he had held then lost, find room in his heart for another.

He owed it to his people, to his father, to try.

King Eddard squeezed his shoulder, the pressure barely hindered by his leathers and furs. The relief that swamped his father's face was almost enough to dull the sting of what he was considering. It was madness, to feel as though he was betraying his lost love, for she was surely dead and gone. He needed to move on.

He must.

"Thank you, Jon." His father's chest heaved in a sigh, and to Jon's surprise he found himself pulled into a tight, only marginally stiff embrace. "I know it is hard, my son. I know what it is, to feel as though your heart is gone, only a shard of ice left behind." He cuffed Jon's ear lightly, affectionately. "But you owe it to yourself to try, lad. It's been long, and you cannot ignore your duty forever."

Jon swallowed hard, meeting his father's eyes, eyes of iron, so much like his own. "We shall make this work, father. The stakes are far too high for anything less."

The King's face wrinkled, his lips pressed tight together, and Jon was shocked to see how glassy the older man's eyes grew. "I am proud of you, Jon. I wish there was another way, I wish I need not ask this of you, but there is no other way."

His hand crept up to cover his father's, and he patted it awkwardly, unused to seeing his father so outwardly emotional. They were men of the North, men of ice and snow and iron and stone. They did not avail themselves of overwrought sentimentality, and he wasn't sure what to say to the man. Jon cleared his throat. "When do I leave?"

Jon's question seemed to snap the old King from his hazy wistfulness, and the man's eyes sharpened, his father straightening and pulling his hands away. "Three days' time, lad. Best make your preparations."

He returned to his quarters, to ponder what was now set before him, spent hours in deep, gloomy consideration, before he finally extinguished the candles and lay his weary head upon his pillow. He would dream, he knew, and on this night he welcomed it. His dreams were always the same.

Always of her.

Jon stepped clumsily from the old smuggler's dinghy, splashing through the clear, knee-deep water and climbing gratefully to the shore.

Old Gods preserve him, he *hated* sailing.

He looked around, turning in a slow circle and taking in his surroundings, his left arm throbbing at the shoulder, though his sling was still secure.

So, he thought, this was Lys.

It was certainly warmer than the North, that much was for certain. The cold didn't much bother those of Stark blood; His father, the King, liked to jest they were all born with ice in their veins. But this place, this little island so far from his home, far across the Narrow Sea, was downright balmy.

Davos pulled the small skiff past the tideline, to nestle amongst tall tropical trees he'd never seen before. "What are they?" He pointed at the fringed, floppy green leaves at the crown, that created a welcome canopy of shade against the bright, burning sun above.

"Palm," Davos grunted, his eyes searching then lighting up as he spied something in the scrubby undergrowth. He leaned low, his hands grasping at a rough, brown orb, and he held it out for Jon's inspection.

It was scratchy against his palm, but heavy, and when Jon shook it he heard something jostle inside, as though a liquid were contained within.

"That's a coconut, Your Grace." The older man leaned an arm against the nearest palm trunk, catching his breath. "And you'd better get used to them, lad, because they're all over the bloody place here." Jon frowned down at the object, shaking it again, only looking up when he heard Davos let loose with a rough laugh. "You aren't in the North anymore, Prince Jon."

Davos was right.

Lys, he was discovering, was an altogether different animal than the land of his birth. Gone were the icy, snowy hills, the thick, forbidding forests where game could be found under every mound of brush and the grey peaks of the Flint mountains could be seen on this distant horizon.

He found it almost unsettling, here, to stand in the doorway of the smuggler's small, but tidy, beach shack, staring out into the bluest waters he'd ever seen, and see nothing at all on the horizon but sky.

That first night, Davos helped him tend the wounds that punctured his left shoulder; Three angry, red, slowly healing welts of flesh that marked the place where the Wildling girl's arrows had pierced him. He would not even think her name, the one he had been betrothed to, who'd taken him out with a hunting party, before they were to be wed before the Old Gods, in the Kingdom Beyond the Wall, only to fill him with arrows and leave him for dead.

But Jon was no tender child, he was a man of sixteen, and with every ounce of strength he'd managed to scrape together, with Ghost at his side, he'd stumbled and crawled back to the camp.

She was dead, by her own sire's hand, and his own father was no doubt weighing whether this would mean a true war. The marriage was meant to bring about a more sustainable peace, to bind together those north of the Wall to those south of it, to end thousands of years of strife.

The Gods only knew there was plenty of that afoot already.

And here he was, tucked safely away, like he was some bloody maid in a tower, to heal while his father plotted his next move.

Jon winced, biting back a cry when Davos cleaned his wounds with a pungent soap and wet linens. He bit at his lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, when the man gently spread on a sharp, medicinal salve that the King in the North, Eddard Stark, had ordered his healers to provide.

The smuggler was firmer with the clean bandages, winding it around Jon's shoulder and slightly down his arm, tying it off with a tug. "There now, Your Grace, right as rain." The man's endless cheer was welcome, most of the time, but in the moment it was rather grating. Jon could not find much to be cheerful about, just now, save that he lived.

"Best not to go shouting that about, Ser." Jon eyed the man crossly as he arched his back, trying to ease the tightness in his muscles. "Here I am just Jon." He didn't know how the old man had come into his father's service, in fact, but he was one of the few that Ned Stark seemed to truly trust, and folk of that sort were increasingly hard to come by.

"Ah," Davos said, eyes twinkling in the lamp light, "that's right. Well, Just Jon," he said, with an exaggerated air, "let me show you to your less than royal accommodations."

Jon rose slowly, painfully, pulling his sling back on and cradling his left arm close to his body as he followed Davos to the back of the shack, only divided from the front by a hanging curtain, finding to narrow cots along the walls. He'd slept on much the same, in his brief stay at Castle Black, and he wasn't going to complain like a spoiled, pampered little prince. The linens and thin blanket were worn but looked clean, down pillows that looked to be in serviceable shape on each, and when Davos gestured that he might take whichever he liked, he picked the one to his right.

And as he settled in to sleep, he was grateful for somewhere to lay his head, praying to the Old Gods as his eyes shuttered closed that they might protect his family, and keep them safe, in the wars still to come.

It was his second day, in the little cove at the very tip of the island, when Davos told him he was leaving.

"Lad, I've got a run to make, but I can swear to you, there's no place safer than here for you." Jon didn't doubt the man's words; there was not a soul about in this isolated spot save for the two of them, and some inordinately loud marine birds who had taken up roost right outside the small window by Jon's cot.

Before Jon could reply, as though Davos anticipated meeting with some form of resistance to the idea, Davos walked him to the large trunk between their cots. "Got plenty of dried fruits and meats in there, and there's more to be had around the island, if you hunt around a bit. Wouldn't hurt for you to get a wee bit of sun, either, but be careful." Davos peered at him, seeming to notice the way Jon winced when he turned too quickly, his shoulder screaming with the swift movement. "Got some bottles of rum by the door, might help take the edge off." He squinted at Jon, something knowing in his eyes. "But mind yourself on that as well, Your Grace."

That settled Jon's lingering question as to whether the smuggler had brought any Northern ale, he thought with a sigh, frowning as he looked around. "And what am I meant to do, while you are gone?"

Davos shook his head, wonderingly. "Heal, lad. Hide. Heal, and hide, that's what your father ordered, and that's what you will do. Don't go wandering off too far, now, lest you run into folk with less than pure intent towards you."

Jon's brow furrowed, as he followed Davos out into the morning sun, watching the man check his pack and glance about as though he feared he was forgetting something. "I thought we were alone here," the young Prince groused, but the smuggler spared him only the barest of looks.

"You will be," he said, as he rummaged through a crate by the shack door. "But caution is it's own reward, Just Jon." Davos pulled free a scroll, a large one at that, presenting it to Jon with a flourish. "Everything you need, 'til I come back, can be found nearby. I'm no mapmaker, but I tried to draw out what I could remember. Don't use this shack much, but there's a freshwater pool not far from here, and plenty of tasty things to eat if you're willing to rummage for them."

The man rushed on, not even sparing for a single interruption for Jon, clearly in a hurry to be off. "You're a capable lad, Jon Stark, and one day you'll be King. I reckon you can fend for yourself for a bit, eh? You are no soft, Southron boy, after all."

Jon knew he was being goaded, knew the man's cajoling tone was meant to prompt some puffed up, proud response from him, but the truth was his shoulder ached and his head was beginning to pound. He wasn't used to all this sun and sand and salt, and the heat was almost unbearable.

"Aye, alright then, Davos. I can take care of myself." The old smuggler had spoken true, at least, in that fact. Jon *wasn't* some soft, Southron son, pampered and coddled. The North was hard, and had made him hard, as well, and he was a boy no longer. His father had been wedded by Jon's age, and had the King Beyond the Wall's daughter not tried to end his life before their wedding, he'd be wed already, too.

"Good lad," Davos said, seemingly done with his reassurances, his focus turning solely to preparing for departure.

But as Jon sat on the white, sandy shore, his hand shielding his eyes from the too-bright, scorching sun above, he couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness, as the man who'd delivered him to these shores rowed his skiff back to his ship, anchored just off the coastline.

It was going to be a long, silent few weeks, he suspected.

By his third day, alone, Jon had reached several realizations.

The first was that, despite his mother's Dornish blood running through his veins, he absolutely fucking hated sand.

He loathed it.

It got everywhere, a fine, dusty coating that caked his skin, and crept into his nostrils, and in other crevices that were best left free of the grainy nuisance.

At least snow had the decency to melt away, but sand…ugh, sand remained, persistent and grating on his nerves.

The second realization was that he did not care for the hot, sweltering climate. He'd burned himself in the sun, the day prior, falling asleep on the shore once the tide had gone out, waking up to find the skin of his face and bared chest tender and pink, and this morning blisters had begun to arrive in patches of skin that now felt as though they were set aflame.

Now that he had fully experienced both, Jon thought it much better to freeze than to burn, if given a choice.

The third, and final realization, was that for as much as he'd longed to be left to his own devices, for as much as he had wished and prayed for some damned privacy, for time that belonged solely to him, that he was not fashioned for loneliness.

He missed his father. He missed his sisters, no matter how aggravating they were from time to time. Hells, he even missed Theon's constant needling and aggravating, his father's ward usually trying to one-up him every chance he got.

But most of all, he missed Ghost, his Direwolf, though he understood the wisdom in leaving him behind in the snowy winter Keep.

Ghost would hate it here, he knew, just like he himself did.

Jon sat in the thin sliver of shade thrown by Davos's small shack, his legs splayed out before him, sipping absently at the rum that the smuggler had left.

He was doing the best he could to tend to his healing wounds, opting today not to wear the sling on his arm, but it was still slow going, especially when he tried to bandage the punctures himself. But Davos had been right, the rum certainly took the edge off.

It also made him nap, quite frequently in fact, and made his head pound if he had too much.

Today, Jon wondered if it was not also affecting his vision, because as he sat and squinted and sipped, it seemed to him that someone was walking down the shoreline.

His stomach flipped, and not from the rum this time, one hand clenching and unclenching nervously as the figure drew closer and closer.

Then, as she came into sharper view, Jon realized it was a girl. His breath whooshed out, his fear growing exponentially.

She looked innocent enough, probably of age with him, judging by the curves of a body barely hidden in a gauzy, filmy shift that would be considered practically nude by Northern standards. In one arm she held a basket, and every now and then she would kneel down on the sand, silver hair braided back away from her face but hanging loose about her shoulders, her hand sifting and searching.

She was looking for shells, he thought.

Or, perhaps, in that basket she had a dagger, the edge slick with poison, and once she was upon him she would slit his throat.

Jon reached to his side, covertly gripping the dagger that lay at his side, his body tensing, preparing to fight if he must.

The girl acted as though she did not see him, but he knew she must. Surely the shade he'd tucked himself into did not hide him completely, for his bare feet extended past that demarcated line, the sun warming the digits, and he wiggled them anxiously as she came nearer and nearer.

Finally, she was close enough for him to make out the features of her face, and his breath escaped him again, because he was certain, now, that he was imagining her.

Jon had never, in all his sixteen years, seen a maid as beautiful as this one.

She was slight in stature, with fine, delicate features; deceptively sweet, he thought, her lips full and plump and pink, her brows arched and refined, the aquiline line of her nose making her look almost regal in bearing. But when her eyes finally met his, he was floored, sinking back against the rough wall of the shack.

They were of a color that matched the sea just behind her, an arresting blue-green that seemed ethereal, as though she were some sort of sea goddess who'd been birthed by the steady pulsing waves that crashed into the shore.

His hand tightened on his dagger when she gave him a tiny smile.

The girl stopped, a few yards away, stiffening as though his presence had possibly unnerved her, as well. Maybe he'd been better camouflaged than he thought.

"Hullo," she called, and waved her hand in a friendly manner, though she made no move to come closer.

The bright sun made her hair look like spun silver.

Jon had never seen anything like it.

He knew, in theory, that there were many in Essos in possession of such hair, due to their Valyrian ancestry, but in Westeros there were only the Targaryens, the Dragonstone royals, who had such. It was a rarity, there, but here, he supposed, it must be as common as his own raven locks were in the North.

Still, it was a breathtaking combination, her silver hair, and ocean eyes, and lightly tanned skin, so different from his own paleness that had reddened in this new climate.

She was dangerous. His mind screamed it. His eyes trailed downward, to find that the scant fabric did less than he thought to disguise what lay below, the shadow of her breasts enough to make him swallow hard. He understood, intellectually, that the hot, salty breezes and baking sun no doubt required the Lyseni to dress as such, but he hadn't been prepared for the truth of it.

He dragged his eyes back up to meet hers, swallowing hard once more before he finally spoke. "What do you want, then?" His low, growling question seemed to catch her off guard, her chin tipping to the side as she studied him, her smile drooping and morphing into a slight frown.

"Oh, I-," she stammered, seeming flustered at his rudeness, "I did not mean to disturb you." She took a step closer, and his hand clenched on the dagger, his other raising the cup of rum to his lips as he took a sip. If she moved to draw a weapon, he'd throw the potent liquid in her face if he must, hating the disadvantage he was currently at with one bad arm.

"Then go away," he muttered, purposefully turning his gaze from her to the sea behind her, though he kept her in his periphery.

She took another step. "It's just," she began, faltering before starting again. "It's just, I saw you on the beach yesterday, sleeping, and it looked as though you had burned yourself." Another step, and he reluctantly glanced at her, not knowing what to make of the way her breath seemed to catch when their eyes met. "I see now I was right." The concern that flitted across her face seemed to Jon to be unnatural. This girl was a stranger. Why would she seem so distraught about the state of his skin, or his person in general?

Unless, of course, she'd be sent here by another.

His father harbored the idea that it had been the Lannisters behind the attempt on Jon's life, though even Jon himself found it hard to believe that the Lions would ever ally themselves with the unruly Wildlings who dwelt beyond the Wall.

But if his father was right, perhaps this girl was allied with them as well, sent to beguile him with her beauty and pretended sweetness before plunging a blade into his heart and finishing the job.

"That's no concern of yours," he ground out, ignoring the slight twist in his innards when she seemed genuinely hurt by his clear disdain. He would not be weak, not again, would not have his head turned and mind addled by her loveliness.

It was a battle, years of propriety and solicitousness having been pounded into him, as the heir to the Winter Throne warring with the desire to rid himself of this unearthly beauty's presence before his weakness got the better of him. He would not yield, would not soften.

The girl seemed deeply offended, now, and dipped a hand into her basket, and for once tense, heart-stopping moment he prepared himself to see the flash of steel as her hand withdrew.

But instead, she scowled at him, remaining where she was, a threw a small tin in his direction. "You're welcome," she said crossly, and pivoted on her heel, stalking back across the sand to wherever it was she'd emerged from. "Put it on your bloody burns, you arse," she called scornfully over her shoulder, her hair trailing in a silver blaze behind her.

Jon watched her go, waited until she was gone, before he slid forward, taking the tin in his hand and pulling the lid free. Raising it to his nose, he smelled it, trying to detect any hint of poison. It smelled of almost nothing, slightly green and gelatinous, and realizing that there was a chance he'd been wrong, Jon swiped a tentative finger through it, careful not to take too much.

If it was a poison that could seep through the skin, he would test it first, only a small spot, to see if that the girl claimed was true. He rubbed the substance in a small circle on his chest, where the skin had begun to bubble.

He was surprised when, in a matter of moments, the burning sensation in his skin began to ease.

Maybe he was an arse, he thought, with a hint of bitterness. Or maybe she was merely trying to worm her way into his good graces, so that she might slip close enough to end his life.

He took a sip of rum, sighing and leaning back against the shack once more, to consider his lonely existence.

True to the King in the North's word, three days later Prince Jonnel of House Stark, Crown Prince and Heir to the Winter Throne, left Winterfell.

He rode away, a small contingent of guards riding with him, Ghost running ahead, darting in and out of view like a phantom against the white, glistening snow.

Jon let himself look back, once, and wondered if he would ever see his home again.

One hand strayed to the chain 'round his neck, as hoofbeats sounded steady in his ears, in time with his heart. On that thin silver chain, lay a ring, the only thing of Dany's that he possessed, one last token retrieved from the ash and soot and embers of a burned manse a lifetime ago.

He ought to have left it behind, if he truly meant to let her go.

But he wasn't ready. Not yet.

By the time Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, a moon had passed, and in that time he had done a great deal of brooding, working himself into a dreadfully awful state of melancholy.

The Keep was large, dark, dreadfully intimidating.

Jon was relieved.

It was a small reminder of his own home, austere and sprawling, though here he could spy the green grasses that grew upon the land, until it gave way to sheer, craggy cliff faces, with steep, plunging drops to the churning seas below.

He saw no massive, fire-breathing mounts circling the skies, and he wondered if the rumors that had reached his father were true. He hoped they were, he thought, digging his hand into the white ruff of fur at Ghost's neck.

The wolf hated sailing about as much as he did, and both man and beast had spent the first days of this journey green under the gills, sick and glum and hanging over the railing.

"Ought to be there in two days, Your Grace."

Davos, he knew, meant the declaration to be encouraging, and Jon fought his instinctual gloominess to cling to the scraps the man gave him.

"Aye," he said, his stare never straying from the approaching island, "thank the Old Gods. I shall be glad to be off this boat, at least."

The grizzled sailor said nothing, and everything, in his silence. Jon had only made one other voyage by sea, ferried away from the North under cover of night after the attempt on his life, as his father dealt with the traitorous amongst the wildling people, finally making a tenuous peace with the King Beyond the Wall. But Jon had been sent away, to recover, to heal, to regain himself.

Davos had taken him to Lys, seven years ago, and Jon could not help but be reminded of that journey now. How different it had been, his arm bound and slung to his body tightly, his eyes drinking in the bright blue skies and strange trees, the crystalline waters that lapped up onto white, sandy beaches.

Lys had been a paradise, to his young eyes, so unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

Dany, he recalled with a small, fond smile, had been the same. A paradise, a discovery, everything he never knew he'd wished for.

Jon had spent the journey home, six moons later, clutching her ring, alternately sobbing and screaming at the remembrance of the charred remains of her body, in the ruins of Illyrio's manse. Only Davos had known the true extent of his sorrow, how his young heart had been utterly devastated, nothing left inside him but debris.

Cutting his eyes to the man, now, he saw the knowing look, knew without speaking that Davos, more than anyone, understood his trepidation.

It was nice, he mused, to have the man there, to have someone with him who knew what had come before.

When he was King, he would make Davos his Hand. The man surely deserved it, had been a constant steadiness in Jon's life when he'd felt adrift.

"I hear," Davos said, coming to stand astride Jon and placing his hands along the rail, his eyes on the horizon, "that the Targaryen Princess is a true beauty."

Jon grunted in acknowledgement. He had heard much the same, as though that ought to sway him, to win him over. Loveliness was nice, but he very much doubted even this Mother of Dragons, as they called her, could ever compare to his lost love. "That is my understanding."

Davos cleared his throat gruffly. "You ought to give the girl a fighting chance, if you don't mind me saying so."

The Winter Prince rolled his eyes, though he knew Davos spoke truly. "I shall."

"Not while you still wear her ring." Cutting his eyes to the side, he saw how Davos stared at the chain still around his neck. "Not while you still belong to another."

"I'm trying, Davos." He hated the way his voice broke, hated the way heat rose in his face, the way his eyes grew hot and wet. "I still have time, though it diminishes by the day."

"Time for what?" Finally, he turned, fully facing the old smuggler, as he heard the man's quiet question.

Jon toyed with the chain, pulling the ring from under his tunic and tracing each line and swoop and swirl of the metal with his eyes in the dying sunlight. "To say goodbye." His jaw clenched, he pivoted on his heel, gripping the rail tightly as he trained his gaze to Dragonstone, where his future lay. "I should like some time alone, if you don't mind."

Davos left him, without another word, leaving just Jon and his wolf to stare into the distance.

Jon closed his eyes, and let himself remember.

The next morning, Jon awoke with a pounding headache, no doubt from drowning his lonely sorrows in Davos's rum stash, but at least his skin no longer pained him with every movement.

In a fit of desperation, after suffering no ill effects from his earlier test, he'd slathered himself in the gooey substance his mysterious visitor had thrown at him, and he allowed himself a small, tight smile at realizing it had worked splendidly well.

Though there were still blistered spots, his skin was no longer tight and lobster red, the burned appearance faded slightly and, though sticky, felt remarkably healed.

The only drawback to this miraculous remedy was how sticky and grimy he felt, because while it did create a soothing, cooling layer everywhere he'd rubbed it, it never fully absorbed, and it seemed to attract the gritty white sand at an even greater rate.

He needed to bathe.

Jon chewed absently on some dried jerky, grumbling when he went to fill his water skin only to find he was running dangerously low.

His task today became clear. Fill the buckets in the shack, and clean himself as best he could. He found the scroll Davos had left, unrolling it on the rickety tabletop and tracing the path to the nearest fresh water source he could find, a pool that looked to be perhaps a mile from his lone little nest in the sand.

Jon found a pole, forgoing his sling yet again, exchanging it for a small burlap sack he could throw around his neck that held a change of clothes and a bar of sharp-smelling soap. He threaded two buckets apiece on each side of the pole, then propped it across his shoulders, tucking the map into his pack at the last second before ducking out of the shack and setting out.

Half a mile in he was sweating profusely, long curly locks escaping the leather that kept it away from his face and sticking to his forehead as he labored, shoulder twinging even as he wound his arms around the pole for support.

The tropical undergrowth grew thicker, but there was a narrow, dirt path that, sure enough, led into a fairly dense jungle. He looked around curiously, the deeper in he ventured, new sights greeting him with every step. Riotously colored birds cawed and flapped in the tree canopy above, the green broken up here and there by odd-looking fruits he'd never seen before.

If there was room, and if he had the energy, he would forage a bit before he went back, he thought, even as his strength began to wane.

But it was reborn, and redoubled, when he heard a telltale splash, and when he finally broke through to a clearing in the trees he wanted to weep with the sight before him.

It wasn't just a freshwater pool, there was a small waterfall as well, and he rid himself of his burdens immediately to clamber to the edge, uncaring about the risk for potential sickness as he cupped his hands in the clear water and slurped several mouthfuls.

Surely it was fed by some river further inland, that lucky for him extended just barely onto this little fingerling outcropping he was currently dwelling on, but it didn't strike him as particularly urgent to wonder at Lyseni topography, not when the cool, crystalline waters before him promised sweet relief from the sticky grit that coated his skin.

With one brief, furtive look around, finding the surrounding jungle blessedly quiet, he pulled off his loose linen tunic, taking care with his injured shoulder under he'd worked the material free, unlacing his trousers and toeing off his boots in much quicker fashion.

Jon walked into the water, feeling cleaner the minute the water hit his skin, moving deeper until he was fully submerged. He couldn't swim, not yet, muscles still mending on his left side, but he-side stroked his way back closer to shore until just his head was above the surface, his feet finding purchase below.

How long he lingered, he wasn't sure, but as the sun climbed across the sky he realized he ought to get on with his business, so he waded back to shore, digging in the small sack for his bar of soap, deciding to kill two birds with one stone and use his dirty tunic as a wash rag of sorts. He cleaned himself as best he could, gingerly swiping along his still-tender skin, though it was nowhere near as sore to the touch as it had been the day before.

His mind flashed on the beautiful stranger, as it had many times since she'd appeared, now, and he wondered whether he would see her again. If he did, he thought with chagrin, he owed her his thanks, though the act of kindness had not necessarily relieved him of his suspicion.

One act did not mean he could trust her.

And if he were truly honest with himself, he wasn't sure how long he would be able to withstand her, if she turned her full attentions on him. He tried to be good, and honorable, and noble, in all things. He always tried his best to be a dutiful son, the sort his father could always be proud of, to learn to be the kind of King that would continue to proudly lead the North.

But he was still a man, and she was far too beautiful.

He finished washing his hair, desperate to rid himself of these thoughts, when he heard a voice, one that made his face fall and a heavy sigh escape from his chest.

It was, Jon fancied, as though he might have drawn her there, just by thinking on her too long. Maybe she was some sort of enchantress as could be found in these lands, and had already bewitched him.

"So," came the voice, with far less sweetness than it had held the day prior, "we meet again."

Jon said nothing, dunking his head under the water to rinse the soap away, but when he resurfaced and opened his eyes, there she stood, by the pile of his belongings, eyeing the buckets that he'd brought curiously.

"So it seems," he finally said, willing himself to at least attempt polite civility. He owed her that much, he figured. He watched as she shifted a foot at his trousers, lying in a heap, and his abandoned boots, before her eyes returned to him, floating in the water.

"Haven't you got anything to say?" She was still wearing a thin, gauzy dress, today's a light purple that he was sure had a more particular name, and he was silently thankful when she crossed her arms across her chest and stared at him expectantly.

Just the whisper of her form under that gown was enough to make his mouth dry, unfortunately.

But he found his voice, quickly enough, doing what he'd thought he must just before her fortuitous appearance. "Thank you. It worked, the ointment you gave me." He pressed a finger against his still-pink cheek, pressing without the pain that had plagued him before. "See?"

That earned him a small, smug smile. "I fear I was unable to ignore your suffering," she said airily, her chin tipping up as she stared down her nose at him, sniffing at his remembered poor manners. "Though your rudeness might suggest that perhaps you deserved it." She couldn't keep up her frown for long, though, and her mouth softened back into a beguiling smile soon enough. "Unlike some, I can manage not to be hostile to strangers, despite their poor manners."

Jon watched her, for several long moments, as she gathered the hem of her dress and settled onto the grassy shoreline, tucking the fabric around her knees and feet and leaning her elbows on the ledge that was made by her limbs. She rested her chin on her forearms, lips curling up as she regarded him. Today her hair was nearly all free and flowing down her back, two skinny silver braids tracing along the crown of her head and away from her face.

He had wished for company, to be certain, but he found himself wishing she were a fraction less comely. He wasn't absolutely sure how much of his body she could see from the shore, but he had no plans to embarrass himself in her presence, so in the water he would remain.

"Are you spying on me?"

His question seemed to take her by surprise, her brows climbing up her forehead and her eyes widening. "I was just exploring. I don't know if you have noticed, but there isn't really much to do here." Her face wrinkled in confusion. "Why would I be spying on you?"

Jon searched her voice for the slightest hint of deception, but, unable to find any, was reduced to a simple shrug. "People do lots of things that defy explanation." That answer didn't seem to satisfy, but she did not push him further. "Why *are* you here, if not to spy on me? Trying to catch me unclothed?"

That earned him a grimace, but her cheeks pinked prettily as she looked away, staring down at his heap of clothing. "Of course not," she hissed out adamantly, but still she looked away. Now it was she who seemed hesitant. "I was just curious, that was all." When she looked back at him, he could see that same curiosity rebuilding, reforming, in those lovely, breathtaking depths. "May I ask you a question of," she paused, seemingly searching for the right word, "rather personal nature?"

Jon frowned into the water, leery of giving her the option of asking anything of him, but deciding that he could always just refuse to answer, if he so chose. "Alright, then."

"Are you a pirate?"

A laugh broke loose before he could stop it. "What?" He shook his head in the negative, palming the bar of soap awkwardly as he realized he was pruning, all over, and he would need to get out of this damned pool soon. "No, I'm not a pirate."

The girl's eyes narrowed, her stare sharpening. "Then what are you doing down here, hiding out, thinking everyone you come across is some sort of spy?" It was a good question, one he hadn't spared much thought for. Jon had not anticipated meeting anyone, on this desolate strip of land, and so a false identity did not spring quickly to mind. He ran through a list of possibilities, from brigand, to thief, to runaway, but only one idea seemed to bear out as passable, giving his current living quarters.

"I'm a smuggler," Jon said quickly, watching as she raised a lone brow at the declaration.

The girl considered his words, then bit her lip, regarding him with close scrutiny, what little of him existed above the water line at least. "You seem very young to be a smuggler."

"I'm an apprentice." It sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears, for surely there was no such thing. But she seemed to believe him, this silver-haired girl who might or might not be sent to kill him, and she let out a little gasp of wonder at his false admission.

"That must be very exciting. Do you like it? Being an apprentice smuggler?"

Gods forgive him, but the lies were coming to him easily now. "It's fair enough, I guess. I still don't care much for sailing." That last bit, he consoled himself, was true enough. He'd spent most of the journey tossing up his lunch and dinner over the side of the vessel, as Davos chortled and patted his back in amusement.

Those enchanting eyes went wide again, this time in rapturous awe. "Oh, I love sailing. How wonderful that must be, to know you can spend the rest of your days on the open seas." She seemed so enthralled at the notion that he began to wonder just what she was doing on this lonely end of the island, that she would turn to seeking him out as a means of busying herself. He knew there were no other dwellings in the immediate vicinity, at least none that Davos had marked on his hastily drawn map, and so he thought perhaps she must have come from further inland still.

He wondered what her life must be like, that she would wish for the swaying, nauseating freedom that he had tasted on the open waters of the Narrow Sea.

Jon did not address her rhapsodic declaration, instead risking a look down at the now soaked bandages along his shoulder. His stitches were holding, that much he was sure of, but he knew he'd need to redress the wound soon, and he wondered if she would again take offense and think him rude if he asked her to leave.

"Could you turn around, and face away, please?" She seemed puzzled at his question, for several seconds, but when he looked down at himself, still submerged, then pointedly at his clothes, she seemed to understand, cheeks flushing further as she scrambled to her feet and turned to face the surrounding wall of jungle.

Jon eyed her cautiously, but to his relief she showed no signs of turning suddenly, no hints that she would attempt to peek at him as he finally splashed his way to the shore and clambered up. It was a very odd feeling, being completely bared with her standing just feet away, but still hidden from her sight, and he allowed himself a few moments to drip onto the grass below before he wrung out his tunic and tried his best to wick the water from his body.

He pulled out clean, lightweight woven trousers and another loose, white linen tunic, pulling them on as hastily as his sore shoulder would allow.

Jon realized he'd lost the leather that bound his hair back somewhere in the blue waters of the pool, but there wasn't much to be done for it now.

"You can turn around," he rasped, wondering why his voice had gone so low, suddenly, wondering as well at the way she started before she twisted about, apparently not expecting his sudden nearness.

The silver-haired girl's throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes making a fleeting journey over his body before meeting his gaze again.

An awkward silence fell, each of them taking the visual measure of each other, before she looked to the buckets discarded to his left. "Have you come to collect water as well? I can help, if you like."

"Why?" The question was out of his mouth reflexively, as he was completely flummoxed about her aim, here. "Why are you here at all? Surely you have better ways to occupy your time, my lady."

Again, her eyes became intoxicating, everything around him falling away as he found himself lost in those blue-green depths, as though he were drowning in the sea. She stared at him, silent, searching for something he could not fathom as she gazed into his eyes.

Then, she gave him a tiny smile and bent at the knee, picking up a bucket. "I truly do not have better ways to occupy my time. Or any ways at all, really." She shrugged, picking her way through the low, creeping undergrowth to the waterfall ahead. "Besides, I think you're interesting."

He wasn't sure what to do, for a heartbeat's span. It was unwise, probably, to encourage her company, but his isolation had become nearly unbearable, and despite the potential danger she represented, he found himself starving for another living being about, no matter how briefly. He picked up a bucket as well, making to follow her.

"What's your name?"

She turned, that filmy purple shift swirling about her bare, lightly tanned calves as she faced him. "Dany," she said softly, then shifted away, her grip tightening on the bucket. "My name is Dany," she repeated over her shoulder, and he was helpless but to follow.

Dany, he repeated in his mind. Yes, he thought, that was fitting. A nice name. A simple name.

Dany.

"What's yours?" He could barely hear her, over the crashing of water, as she lifted the pail under the current, so he leaned closer, cupping his ear as he set his own bucket down. "Your name?"

He could not give her his true name. Even if she bore him no ill intent, his father had been clear. None must know who he was, for his own safety. That his true name was Jonnel of House Stark, Crown Prince of the Winter Throne, was a fact he could not disclose, even if he wished to.

"Jon," he said. "My name is Jon."