Cerulean Blue

by NorthernLights37

When Jon agrees to a betrothal to the newly-found Princess Daenerys Targaryen, he cannot help but wonder if the marriage will be doomed from the start. He will do his duty, unite their Houses and help lead the war against their common enemies, but he remains haunted by the love he found, and lost, seven years prior, across the Narrow Sea. (Canon-Divergent AU/Arranged Marriage)

4. Homecoming

Author's Note: I'll still be dropping a chapter a day, until this fic is wrapped up, but hey, you know, it would be nice to throw me a comment here or there, let me know if you're enjoying it. Unless is like a read-only, no comment kind of platform. I haven't been on here in years so I confess I'm a little out of touch. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter, we've got three to go after this one. Have an excellent Monday!

---

The little Princess was bored.

It was clear to Jon, so he assumed it must be clear to everyone around them, as well, but as of yet, none seemed inclined to do anything about it.

Ghost still accompanied her to her lessons, but the Lady Missandei reported the girl grew increasingly restless. No doubt, the absence of her mother was a large part of the reason, but when she was not in lessons he had glimpsed her wandering aimlessly about the grounds on several occasions.

He was not surprised, then, at the beginning of his third moon on Dragonstone, when she turned up in the training yards, watching the sparring soldiers practicing with the intensity of one thirsty for knowledge.

She reminded him, yet again, of his sister Arya, and there had only been one course of action when Arya had begun loitering around the armory, hanging on the wooden fenceposts as the Northern soldiers swung their swords and loosed their arrows.

After three days of her presence, Jon finally broke the stalemate, deflecting his Uncle's blow and laughing when the man called him off, panting. "You've gotten quite skilled, Nephew," Arthur called out, shaking his head as they sheathed their swords. "I don't know if these old bones can take another parry like that!"

Jon laughed, clapping the man on the shoulder against his training leathers. "There's always more to learn, Uncle. Perhaps your training is merely making me better."

Arthur smiled ruefully. "Now, I don't know about that." Still, he seemed pleased by the praise. "Shall we go again?"

Jon's gaze slipped to Naerys, who remained watching quietly from her perch atop the wooden fencing, Ghost sitting stalwartly at her side. He had been seized by an idea, though he was not sure the King or his closest confidante would approve. "What about the Princess?" Jon's chin ticked toward the girl. "Has she no training?"

Arthur's head tilted, frowning slightly as he thought. "Not that I am aware of," he finally responded. "The Dothraki do not train their women, so far as I understand. And I do not think Rhaegar has set her about training with sword or bow." He searched Jon's face. "Why? Do you think she ought to?"

Jon looked again to the Princess, sure she was listening, though she feigned nonchalance, and sure enough, as soon as their eyes met, she gave a slight nod, eyes pleading. Jon quirked his lips in a quick smile, winking at the girl before he turned his attention back to his Uncle. "Aye," he said. "Couldn't hurt, could it? A dragon she may have," Jon drawled, "but she ought to know how to defend herself when she isn't in the air."

He could see Arthur considering his words, for several long moments, then the taller man crossed to where the Princess sat. "What say you, Princess? Do you want to become warrior?"

Her eyes grew as wide as her grin, and she nearly fell from her perch when she raised both hands to clap excitedly. "Oh, yes, Ser Arthur. Please!" She climbed down and into the yard, looking between the two men with growing merriment. "I promise to try very hard!"

"Try what?" A voice sounded from behind Arthur, and all three turned to find Rhaegar approaching, clearly amused.

"Uncle!" Naerys ran to the fencing and reached up to clutch the King's forearm. "Ser Arthur and Prince Jon think I should learn to be a warrior. Can I? Please? I want to learn!"

Rhaegar pursed his lips, amethyst Targaryen eyes bouncing between Jon and Arthur as he considered the request. "Do you promise to finish your studies first? And to give Missandei all your attention?"

Naerys nodded adamantly. "I swear it!"

Rhaegar's lips twitched at the girl's solemn tone. "And will you train your very hardest? And listen to your instructors, and do as they ask?"

Silver braids bounced at the girl's emphatic nod. "Yes, Uncle, I promise!"

Rhaegar straightened, crossing his arms across his chest, his own black leathers stretched across his tall frame. "Well, then, I see no reason why you should not. In fact," he raised a finger in the air, waving it at Jon, "I think Prince Jon ought to oversee your training."

Jon furrowed his brow; Surely the Targaryen Master at Arms would wish such a task for himself, but Rhaegar's melodic voice cut him off. "Your father has told me of your great success in training your sister, Prince Jon. Surely Naerys would benefit from your tutelage."

Naerys looked so overjoyed at the prospect that Jon thought she might float from the ground. In truth, he didn't mind the task so much. His own afternoons were rather boring affairs when he was not called in to one of the King's strategy meetings, and it would not hurt to continue to build a relationship with the girl who would be his daughter, once he and the girl's mother were wed. "If the Princess wishes," he responded, bowing slightly in the girl's direction, "then it would be an honor."

Naerys squealed and scrambled through the fencing, hugging her arms around Ghost's neck before bouncing on her heels.

"But," Jon continued, more seriously, watching the girl's head whip around at his words, "be warned, Princess. I won't be going easy on you. Are you sure this is what you wish?" Jon clucked his tongue. "You can be certain you'll get a few bumps and bruises."

The girl stood tall as she could, hardly reaching the top of Ghost's foreleg, and mirrored Jon's pose. "I want to learn," she said, jaw sticking out stubbornly.

Jon felt his shoulders shake as he concealed a chuckle. Just like Arya, she was. "As you wish, then. We will begin tomorrow, *after* your lessons."

She moved in a flash, shimmy through the fence again to rush Jon and wrapping her arms around his leg, hugging tight. "Thank you, Prince Jon."

Jon smiled down. "We'll see if you're thanking me tomorrow, Princess."

---

Jon was, as ever, true to his word, and the next afternoon he waited for the Princess to join him, training bow in hand, across from a row of targets.

He chuckled at the sight of her, Missandei and Arthur in toe, clad in the small set of leathers, the sort she'd worn when he'd met the Targaryen dragons. They would do, he supposed. He waved her over, smiling at the way her eyes lit up at the little bow in his hands.

"Are you ready?" She grinned widely in turn, and he thanked the Old Gods that today was a day for the common tongue when she answered.

"Yes, Prince Jon," she chirped. She waited for him to hand the bow over, her palms raised expectantly, but he merely handed her a wrist guard and showed her how to put it on, after he determined which hand she favored most.

"Have you ever used one of these?"

She shook her head, her hair braided tight to her scalp today, trailing into one larger braid that led down her back.

Jon showed her how to hold the weapon, nudging her feet into place, positioning her so that her back was straight, demonstrating to her the way to draw back the bowstring and let her arrow fly. She practiced the motion, over and over, at his instruction, until he was satisfied she had a feel for it.

Finally, he handed over an arrow, and everyone watched as she drew back, only to have the arrow fall limp instead of flying forward. "Keep your fingers firm," Jon said, and helped her again, and together, they watched her arrow sail for the target this time, plunking into the lower corner.

"Now, do it again," he barked, crossing his arms and leaning against a post.

She did, but her arrow fell short.

"Again," he instructed.

Naerys did as he asked, never speaking a word in opposition, listening closely and correcting after each release, until finally, after what Jon thought must've been at least two hours, she let loose with an arrow that hit the upper edge of the ringed, painted target.

The Princess whooped with joy, and Missandei and Arthur clapped, but Jon kept his face straight.

"A fair shot," he said blandly, "but you can do better." He pointed to the arrows scattered across the yard. "Now go gather your arrows, and do it again."

He could see it then, the urge to complain, just a bit, but she must have thought better of it, setting her shoulders and marching out to the pitch, her little form dipping up and down as she painstakingly hunted down every arrow she'd shot.

And then, without his prompting, she began to shoot again.

Three shots more and she placed another on the target, closer in this time, but still a fair distance from the center. "Use that shot to correct your aim," Jon said, pointing to the target. "And try again."

Over and over she went, until Jon was sure her little fingers would be stinging from the twang of the bowstring, but she did not relent, landing shot after shot, ever close, until finally, as the sun began to set and the sky was painted with streaks of pink, she landed an arrow in the dead center.

This time, she did not jump around and shout, just nodded to herself, proudly. "I did it," came the girl's whisper, and now Jon gave her the praise she deserved.

"Very well done, Princess. You are a natural, I think." He grasped the wrist of the hand not still holding the bow, and looked at it closely. "Do your fingers ail you?"

They were red, he could see, but she shook her head in the negative. He narrowed his eyes, fighting a smile. Stubborn little thing, she was.

"They will," Jon intoned, "until you've built up callouses. Meet me here tomorrow, and we'll shoot again."

---

For a fortnight, they kept at it, wrapping the girl's fingers when they bled from use, Naerys insisting she continue practicing, and by the time they were two weeks out from her mother's return Jon was slightly amazed at the girl's progress. She had progressed from the close distance they'd started at, finding her target more often than not even as Jon moved her further away, testing her range and accuracy in a variety of ways.

Missandei reported that she had become more attentive, as promised, but was utterly exhausted by the time she put the girl to bed, and more to the point, she had stopped her aimless, somewhat melancholy wanderings. She had not lamented her mother's absence even once, and for this Jon was pleased.

His own family, left behind in the North, still caused a bit of a twinge in his own heart, so he was sure it must be magnified for the girl. Her mother was the only family she'd ever had, until just recently, and as he'd suspected, distraction was a welcome respite, for all of them.

He still dreamed of Dany, of the love he'd lost, but he had found, as he spent more time on this island, that perhaps he was growing his own callouses as well. He had another chance, he told himself, to make something new, and it could be that he could even learn to love this mysterious sister of Rhaegar's. The trick, he knew, was allowing himself to be open to it, to letting his heart be once more bared and vulnerable to pain.

But for the first time, in a very long time, he thought he might be ready.

When only a sennight remained, before the return of his betrothed, he was summoned to the King's council chambers, the fire burning in the hearth as always, the austere stone room glowing red and gold in the firelight.

Rhaegar stood at the windows, looking out, not turning until Jon cleared his throat. The prince glanced about, noting that no guards stood at attention. He'd sent Davos off to drink with the Northmen, leaving his own small guard behind.

"Jon," Rhaegar said, gesturing to the set of chairs by the fire. "Please, sit."

He didn't miss the somber set of the King's face, even as the man poured wine for them both and handed Jon a goblet. Jon swirled the amber liquid around, his own solemn reflection greeting him as he considered why this man had asked for his presence.

"You have a look about you, Jon." The Prince glanced up, frowning at the King's assessment, confused. Rhaegar smiled slightly. "The look of a man who has loved and lost. Your wife, I wonder? You father tells me the sickness claimed her, as it did Queen Catelyn."

Jon ran his tongue across his teeth, glad for the beard that hid his cheeks, something shameful twisting in his chest at the question. If he had indeed spoken on this with Jon's father, then he likely already knew the answer. "No," Jon admitted quietly. "Not my wife."

Rhaegar seemed non-plussed, humming to himself as he sipped his wine. "Political marriages are not always happy affairs, are they?" He did not wait for Jon to answer, but he broke their shared gaze, turning his eyes to the flames. "I hope, for your sake and my sister's, that such is not the case between you. She has suffered enough, I think. Just as you have."

Jon grimaced slightly, sucking in a breath. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but it seems to me that she has suffered a great deal more. Does she really wish to do this? To be married to a stranger?"

Rhaegar's countenance softened at the question. "Just Rhaegar, please. And while she has suffered, it has made her strong, though no one would have wished such to come about in the way it did. I can swear to you that she does nothing she does not wish to. She knows the value in such alliance, Jon. And what it means, for what comes next."

Jon straightened in his seat, his interest piqued. "Next?"

The King set aside his goblet, hand gripping the armrests of his chair as he looked steadily at Jon. "Yes, Jon. Next. Once we have defeated the Lannisters. I confess," he sighed, "that while both your father and I disagree with their motivations, there is some value in the ultimate goal that Tywin and his awful children strive for. They wish to take all the kingdoms for their own," he continued, freeing a hand to sip at his wine once more, "and so do we."

Jon sat back, suspicion creeping in as he mulled over the King's words. "You will take them for yourself, then? Make yourself King?"

Rhaegar let out a hearty laugh. "Oh, no, Jon. Nothing like that. No." He leaned towards Jon, slightly, lips curving up in a smile. "I will make you King, and my sister Queen. All the Kingdoms, united, under one rule." He shook his head as his eyes slid away, back to the dancing fire. "This endless warring must stop, Jon. We can none of us survive if we are constantly fighting amongst ourselves."

Jon's breath rushed out heavily. "And you and my father have been planning this?"

Rhaegar nodded. "Since Arthur returned from Essos last year, since he found my sister there in the Great Grass Sea, an army at her back, with three dragons at her command. It will take nothing less to bring all these fools to heel, mind you."

Jon shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Even if that is true, how long can such hold? It cannot be done without the support of the other Kingdoms, half of which the Lannisters have already overthrown."

Rhaegar smiled wanly, elbows drawing up, fingers steepling under his chin. "The deposed Tyrells currently shelter in Dorne. And I can assure you, we have Dornish support, Jon Stark. For you have their blood within you, do you not? The Tyrells will return to the Reach, the Vale and the Riverlands extend their support, and of course, the North."

"And what of you? And my father? All these Houses would so willingly give up their power to me? To your sister?"

Rhaegar regarded him solemnly. "We wish for peace, all of us, an end to the constant wars that plague these lands. We tire of seeing our people die, merely for the sake of power. We shall remain on, as wardens of our Kingdoms, answering only to the crown that binds us all together. And should there be those who resist, who decide to act against their King and Queen?" Something gleamed in the man's eyes, something more bloodthirsty than Jon might've expected from the normally placid man. "Well, now, what exactly do you suppose those dragons are for?"

Jon's brows raised mightily, but he could not deny the truth in the man's words. Before such grand creatures, he had no doubt that every knee would bend, eventually. And he could also not deny the bit of savage thrill that coursed through him, at the thought. He was no stranger to war or bloodshed.

It was love that held the most fear for him.

Rhaegar seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts, as now it was he who cleared his throat. "We shall speak on this again, I assure you. But for now, back to my original question, if you don't mind. Tell me of this one you loved, that has broken you so."

Jon shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the course the King had set them on now. "Just a girl," he finally bit out, staring into his wine despondently. "A girl I met, across the Narrow Sea." His jaw tensed, his teeth grinding together as he tried to keep the memories at bay. "It was a very long time ago," he whispered, "in my sixteenth year."

Rhaegar said nothing, and finally, when Jon could bear it, he looked up, imagining the man would be staring into the hearth, remembering his own losses, surprised to find himself the subject of strangely intense focus.

Tapping a finger against his lips, the King considered Jon's words. "Across the Narrow Sea, you say?" There was a forced lightness in the man's voice, a current of curiosity running underneath. "In your sixteenth year," Rhaegar repeated, seemingly more to himself than to Jon. "How did you manage to find yourself there?"

"Father sent me." Jon raised a hand to his shoulder, where his scars still lingered below his tunic and leathers. "After an attempt on my life."

Rheagar's lips formed an 'o' as comprehension dawned. "Ah, yes. Forgive me, Jon." He leaned forward, staring at the floor, now, sorrow weighing heavy on his shoulders. "I fear that was a terrible time, for me as well. Many losses in so short a span, made it difficult to keep up with what happened outside these shores."

Jon sipped absently from his goblet. That was true for everyone, he supposed. It was not until he had returned home, heartbroken and morose, healed but torn apart from within, that he learned of what had happened to House Targaryen. The King and Queen, dead, his Aunt Lyanna and cousin Rhaenys dead as well, Viserys Targaryen missing along with his little sister, the Princess Daenerys. Only Rhaegar had remained, in those dark times, consumed by grief. That was what his father had told him, his own spirit near breaking at the loss of his beloved sister.

"Do not worry yourself, Rhaegar." Jon tested out the moniker, not sure he was comfortable referring to the man by only his first name, but it was what the King had requested. "We have all lost much since then. I wouldn't have expected you to know everything that has happened so far from here."

Rhaegar rubbed at his temples, shaking his head as though ridding himself of his own ghosts. "No, I suppose not." He turned his head, just barely meeting Jon's eyes. "Where did Ned send you? I seem to recall he suspected the Lannisters were involved in the assassination attempt on you. They were involved in many deaths, both then and now."

"Aye," Jon agreed grimly. "He sent me to Lys, with the man who came here with my, Ser Davos."

This earned a soft laugh from Rhaegar. "The Onion Knight?" He slowly nodded to himself. "Makes sense, actually. None better to traverse the sea than Ser Davos Seaworth, if you want something hidden." Then he frowned, eyes narrowing as they focused on Jon, amusement falling away. "I'm sorry, did you say Lys? I could've sworn I thought it was Pentos, once upon a time, now that I think on it. Perhaps time has simply dulled my senses." He leaned forward, squinting at Jon as though he was studying him, his eyes sharp, not even slightly dulled by the wine. "I think I recall Arthur speaking of it now, but I feel certain it was Pentos, in his telling of the tale."

Jon couldn't tell what difference it made, really. "No, it was Lys. I'm sure of it." He sighed heavily, dark eyes settling on the hearth again. "I met a girl there. Fell in love with her. She died, and I lived, and still she haunts me."

Rhaegar sat back, breath whistling out as he exhaled, quiet and ponderous for several long moments. "'Tis an awful fate, to watch the one you love die. There are none who know that better than me." With a haunted smile, he looked at Jon, in commiserating sadness. "And to live without that love is almost worse than death. At least with death," he said, taking a heavy drink from his goblet, "there is an end."

Jon nodded, not knowing what else to say.

The men sat, in companionable misery, for what seemed an age. Finally, sweeping a hand through his loose silver hair, Rhaegar spoke. "There is a room, here, that I have kept untouched. The King's chambers, that I never use. Because I shared them with her, you see. The little room off the side was our nursery, where my little Rhaenys loved to play. Still, all these years later, they sit just as they were left. Because if I change them, I lose my last memories. I'm afraid I will forget: their faces, their voices, the way they laughed, the way we loved."

Rhaegar shook his head emphatically, his voice breaking with emotion. "I am too far lost in my own grief, Jon, and I will be until my dying day. Don't let yourself do the same. Don't lose yourself to the ghosts of the past, don't sacrifice yourself to the misery that I have. Let yourself live."

Jon felt his own eyes grow hot, the chain around his neck weighing heavily upon him. Rhaegar had shared with him, and so he felt compelled to do the same in return, perhaps because no one else might understand, not the way the King could. He drew the ring free, tugging until the silver links broke, and let the item dangle between himself and the King, watching the orange glow play along each swoop and swirl of metal.

"This was hers," Jon whispered. "It's all I have left of her. The fire took the rest."

He had thought, when he looked upon Rhaegar's face, he would find pity, understanding. What he found instead was pure, unadulterated shock. He moved to stash the ring away, in his pocket, wondering if he had committed some offense, by bringing the token here, showing it to the man whose sister he would wed.

A hand reached out to stop him, as Rhaegar finally spoke. "May I?" The man's voice was so thin, so thready, that Jon wondered if he was, indeed, troubled that Jon had brought the item to this island, but when he held out his hand the Prince laid it in the man's palm all the same. He watched, in silence, as the silver-haired King turned the ring around, over and over, fingers tracing each curve and swoop of the metal, just as Jon had done a thousand times.

When he finally looked up again, his expression was inscrutable. "This ring is Valyrian steel. Very valuable. Did you know that, Jon?"

Jon supposed he hadn't really pondered it, but it made sense, in a way. If the fire that consumed that manse had been able to melt the very walls, it ought to have destroyed Dany's ring, as well. But it had remained untouched, still carrying enough heat to give him the scar that still marred his palm, where he'd clenched it tight, in his agony, in his sorrow.

"No," Jon managed. He extended his hand, suddenly discomfited to see another holding such a personal memento, and yet it still took several ponderous seconds for the Targaryen King to return it to him. He was surprised to see the wetness in the older man's eyes, but only briefly. Perhaps Jon's tale of loss was merely a reminder of Rhaegar's own.

They did not speak, and as Jon looked on Rhaegar quickly downed the rest of his wine, long fingers tracing against his jaw, seemingly lost in thought.

"I shouldn't have brought it," Jon finally said, barely loud enough for his own ears to discern, but Rhaegar heard him all the same, his head whipping around to study Jon as he tucked the ring away again. "I know that. I know I have to leave the past where it belongs," he stuttered, not even knowing why he was still speaking, wishing he'd shut his fool mouth up already, "but it's hard."

Rhaegar drew in a breath, released it with a slow, steady exhale, then, to Jon's surprise, gave him a small, understanding smile. "None know that burden better than I do, Jon. Save, perhaps, for your father. But," he said, still stroking his jaw, almost absently, "perhaps you ought to hang on to that a bit longer. Moving on does not have to mean forgetting, completely. Perhaps there is room in your heart, still, for another." He leaned over, pouring wine for each of them, then taking a much more measured drink before he continued. "You have found much kindness inside yourself for my niece, and for that I am very grateful. I have no doubt my sister will be, as well." Now, his smile grew, a true smile at last. "Naerys is quite fond of you, no small accomplishment. She has not had an easy life."

Jon shook his head, not quite sure how to take being praised for being nothing more than decent. "Not a hard undertaking. She's a good lass." Jon sipped at his own drink, then gave a dry chuckle. "More often than not, she reminds me of my sister, Arya. It's almost like being home, again, in a way. Makes it easier not to miss Winterfell."

Rhaegar's brows raised. "Is that so?" He turned his face back to the fire. "How very interesting." There was an edge to the man's voice that Jon didn't quite understand, but he shrugged it off. It didn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things, and Rhaegar had given him quite enough to ponder without Jon setting to the task of dissecting every nuance and tone of the other man's words.

The Dragon King stood, suddenly, tending to the fire with the poker beside the hearth then adding a few logs, stoking the licking flames to greater life. "Jon," he said over his shoulder, not bothering to turn, "I pray you will not think me rude, but I should like to be alone for a bit. There are things I must think upon, if you will excuse me."

"Of course," Jon said, rising to take his leave, taking his goblet with him. "I pray you rest well, Rhaegar."

He made his way to the door, taking another swallow of wine, his mind straying to what lay ahead. Gods knew he had plenty to think upon, as well.

---

Three days before Daenerys Targaryen was set to arrive, her ships were spotted, their black and red banners a stark contrast to the blue skies above, inky blots on the horizon.

Naerys did not arrive in the training yard, and after an hour of waiting, Jon decided to set about finding her. Ghost was with her, that much he knew, and so instead of trying to puzzle out where the little Princess was hiding, he let the pull of his wolf do the finding for him.

He did, in short order, find the pair, seating on a low stone ledge, over looking the crashing sea below the rocky cliffs. He wondered if it was her mother's dragon the girl was searching for, wondered if she yearned to climb atop her own and search the skies above.

When he came close enough to see her profile, in sharp detail, he laughed to himself. She had persisted in her whispered conversations with Jon's direwolf, insisting that the two were telling secrets to each other, the most important sort of secret, the girl had intimated. He had no desire to dissuade her of the notion, though it didn't seem to him that Ghost would know much more than the spots he chose to relieve himself, and what time of day the cook threw him cuts of pork and beef before the night's meal was served.

Everyone in the Keep, it seemed, had learned that staying on Ghost's good side was easy enough if you were willing to toss him savory treats every now and then.

He knew, as well, that Naerys had taken to giving Ghost honeycakes at every opportunity, trying her very best to be sly about it, but she had certainly taken his advice to heart. If he wasn't careful, his wolf would become rather larger around the middle than would be advisable.

Jon waited until Naerys had finished her whispered words and turned back to the see before he called out a greeting, not wishing to interrupt what was no doubt, for a girl of six, a very important conversation.

"Have you forgotten our lesson today, Princess?"

"Oh!" Naerys looked about, startled, slumping slightly, clearly not realizing she'd been late. He couldn't bring himself to scold her when she'd clearly lost track of time. It was an easy thing to do, he'd found, tucked away on Dragonstone. She leapt up, hands pressed together, her face painted with worry. "Can you forgive me, Prince Jon? I did not know it was so late!"

Jon smiled, patting a hand atop her braided hair. "Not to worry, Princess." He gestured to the ledge, ruffling a hand through Ghost's fur as well. "May I join you?" The small girl nodded, seeming relieved as she sat as well, sandwiched between Jon and his wolf. She leaned against Ghost's side and let out a sigh.

"I was watching for Mama," she whispered, and Jon nodded at the admission. It was as he'd thought. "I miss her so." He watched as her little hands fumbled in her lap. "I shall be happy to see her again."

"I'm sure she will be very happy to see you again, as well. No doubt she has missed you greatly." He felt his own nervousness at the prospect of Daenerys's arrival; It had been easy enough to earn the Princess's favor, and Rhaegar's as well, but of his betrothed he was coming to find such a task daunting. "Let us hope she finds me favorable as well."

Naerys said nothing, for a moment, her eyes on her hands, something sad in the deep purple of her eyes when she finally looked to Jon. "Ser Arthur said you don't have a Mama."

Jon's lips pressed together tight, and he tipped his head, studying the Princess. "No, I don't. I did, a very long time ago, but she died just after I was born. She was Ser Arthur's sister, did you know that?" He had long ago let go of that loss, of the mother he'd never known, but there would always be a twinge of hurt that accompanied any discussion of her. "Her name was Ashara."

"That's a pretty name," Naerys said, and before another word was spoken, she had taken his large hand in her small one, using her other to pat against their joined hands comfortingly. "Does it make you very sad?"

Jon shook his head. "Not so much, anymore. But sometimes, I suppose, it makes me a little sad."

"I don't have a Papa." He could hear the sorrow in her voice, and he squeezed her hand, slightly, finding himself wanting to comfort her, now. He understood that pain, most certainly, to be absent a parent. It was Arthur who had told him the tale, that the Dothraki Khal the girl's mother had been sold to had died just before the Princess's birth, a world away from here.

"I know," Jon answered quietly, as silence fell between them. "It's alright to be sad about that, too, if you like."

Naerys gave a little shrug, her head lifting, eyes peering up at him. "I was afraid when you came. Uncle said you were going to marry Mama, and that you would be my new Papa, but I was scared that you would be a bad man. Sometimes people are bad, and they want to hurt me."

Jon's eyes grew a little misty, remembering the scared little boy he had been, so very long ago. He cleared his suddenly tight throat, and squeezed her hand again. "I don't want to hurt you, or your Mama. I promise." He nudged his shoulder against her, and nodded towards Ghost. "Neither does my wolf."

At that, Naerys grinned wide, and she rubbed her head against Ghost's fur, where she was still pressed against the white wolf's body. "I know," she whispered. "We are very dear friends. Missandei says that means the best kind, to be 'very dear friends'."

Jon laughed under his breath. "I think that is true." He smiled at the girl, then looked towards the horizon. "So, Princess, do you suppose your Mama will approve of Ghost and I? We are strangers, after all. Perhaps she will find us quite silly, as we are like to be at times."

She almost seemed offended at the question. "Oh, no. Mama will like you very much. I will tell her to." She freed one hand to sweep along Ghost's muzzle. "Ghost is my very sweetest friend in the world, except for Silverwing. And he can come inside with me, and I like that very much."

At that, Jon let out a full-throated laugh, thinking that he would've been hard-pressed to find a way in which his wolf had an advantage over such a magical creature as a dragon. "I suppose he has that working in his favor, now that you say it. I hadn't really thought about it."

"And," the Princess whispered, lowering her voice though no one was about to hear them, "he eats all my greens at dinner, and I like that, too." At the admission, her brow creased with worry, and she looked to him with the same pleading expression as before. "Don't tell Mama about that. She will be cross, I think."

"Well," Jon drawled, trying to look stern, but wondering if he was pulling it off convincingly, "So long as you try to eat them sometimes, I think I can keep your secret." He raised her arm, pretending to feel at the muscle in her arm. "Besides, you must eat all your dinner if you want to be big and strong, and swing your sword true." He had just begun to work with her at real combat, giving her a wooden training sword he had requested specially for her, one small enough to fit her tiny frame, with a shield to match.

Naerys nodded seriously. "I will try," she said seriously, taking his words under deep consideration. "If you think I should, Prince Jon."

Jon nodded approvingly. "I believe you," he said, and he was rewarded with a charming, toothless smile.

"Prince Jon," she said, her face growing serious, "may I tell you a secret?"

Jon became solemn as well. "If you wish."

She stood up on the ledge, then, standing just taller than he was seated, and held his face between her small hands. "I am very glad you will be my new Papa. I think you are the very nicest man."

At her declaration, she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck, and hugged him tight, and he found himself a bit choked up. Finally, he returned the gesture, patting a hand against her back. "I am very glad, too."

When she drew back, he looked between girl and wolf. "Now," he said, "let us see how well you can swing your sword today, yes?"

---

Jon paced.

He was good at it, he knew. He had worn endless tracks across the fine wool rugs in the Keep of Winterfell, and his booted feet threatened to do the same to the intricate patterns that decorated the one below his feet, here, in his chambers on Dragonstone.

He had dismissed Davos some time ago, trying and failing to distract himself with cyvasse, and games of dice, before he'd finally had to throw up his hands in surrender, dismissing the old sailor with as best a smile as he could muster. Davos had made him swear he would sleep this night, and he had promised as such, but he doubted he would be able to keep his word.

She was coming, on the morrow.

Daenerys.

He paused, to study his reflection in the leaded glass mirror atop his dressing table, wondering if she would be pleased with him, would find him a comely enough husband, at least. His hand rasped along the dark, bristling hair along his jaw, wondering if he ought to shave. It was the custom of Northmen, of a certain age at least, and in Jon's case he'd found it made him look older, sterner, made those around him take him a bit more seriously than the smooth cheeks of his younger years had.

Perhaps she would find him crass, and cold, a harsh man from a hard place.

Those things were true. But he was trying to be different, trying to become something else.

Rhaegar's admission floated through his mind again. He could no longer be content to be the Crown Prince of the North, the future King of but one Kingdom.

If the Targaryen King had his way, he would become much more than that.

It all seemed too much, in the dark of this room, alone and left to his own warring thoughts. Even Ghost had chosen other accommodations, little Naerys begging so sweetly to allow the Ghost to slumber in her rooms that Jon had given in.

Perhaps, even in this, his betrothed would find fault, think him too soft on her daughter, but it couldn't be helped. Every time he was in the girl's presence, he saw himself, standing in her place, small and innocent and just a victim of fate, of a life she had not chosen. He would show her every kindness, every bit of grace that he could, show her that he would never seek to cause her harm, to make her feel as worthless as his father's Tully bride had done to him. He did not imagine that he could compete with the brute force of the towering dragons that inhabited this island, nor the vast armies, but he would do what he could to protect her, teach her to protect herself. That was a gift he could give, and he would give it gladly.

He had to think there must be sweetness in her mother, as well, and it was this that settled his frantic, racing heart. Tomorrow, his bride would come, and they would meet, and likely wed in short order.

There were wars to wage, after all. There would be no time for pomp and circumstance, for elaborate ceremonies, and he had little desire for such, anyway.

He stared at his face, at the slim scar over his eye, his sad gray eyes gazing back at him.

Dany would laugh at him, if she were here. Tell him he was being a silly fool, brooding over being promised to a beautiful woman who commanded dragons, of all wonders, and an army of her very own. She would tell him he ought to find a bit of cheer, perhaps, that he stood on the precipice of power, poised to take these scattered Kingdoms and unite them, at last, under one banner, one rule.

He touched a finger to her ring, where it sat, still threaded on its broken chain, upon the dresser.

Then, chiding himself silently, he forced his hand away.

He had to stop this madness.

She was gone, and he'd tortured himself over the one woman he could never have for so long that he wondered if he was not already too far gone.

He owed it to this Targaryen Princess, to let this go.

And maybe, he owed it to himself.

Maybe every step had led him here, to this place, at this time. Maybe this was exactly where he was meant to be, his true destiny just beyond his fingertips, and he need only let go of the past to reach out and take it in both hands, tear some happiness for himself from this godsforsaken life he'd led 'til now.

He had to kill the boy inside him, that boy who still dwelt in his sixteenth year, who still clung to those childish gossamer threads of love found and lost, far from here.

Jon took Dany's ring, clenched it tight in his fist, then stalked to his trunk, there at the foot of his large bed. He threw open the lid, and placed the ring inside, shutting it away and hoping that, with enough time, he could close the door of the past just as finally.

Then he shed his clothes, and climbed between the furs and bed linens, and prayed for an untroubled, dream-free sleep that likely wouldn't come.

---

After the first day, that first claiming of each other in the shadows of the small smuggler's shack, they spent every spare moment that could be taken from the day together.

Jon felt free, for the first time in his life. Freed from shame and propriety, from duty and obligation, left only with a hunger and aching, consuming love that he felt down to the marrow of his bones.

They left no inch of skin undiscovered, exploring and mapping each other with curious, devoted inquisition. It was not long before Jon could admit he had mastered the mysterious art of bringing his sweet Dany to completion, with his mouth, his hands, his cock, or some combination of all three.

She had met his ardor with equal fervor, performing such torturous delights on him that he imagined might only be witnessed in the finest brothels of this land, of which he understood there were many. This girl who walked about in bare feet and fine shifts, who carried on like a wild, uncaged thing with the grace of a highborn lady, had conquered him in every way.

And with every day that passed, in the weeks that followed, he found himself wishing, above all else, that they did not have to part.

But he had obligations, just as she did.

He had duty to consider, and it would not be denied forever.

Time pressed onward, as it always did, and they only grew hungrier for each other, with each setting and subsequent rise of the sun. It was only a matter of time; That was the unspoken truth between them.

One truth, of the many that he kept to himself, that went unsaid.

He wondered, when he would find himself bereft and alone in the night, awaiting the morning when she would return, if he ought to tell her who he truly was, that he was a prince, the Heir to the Northern Throne, Jonnel, son of Eddard, the future King in the North.

But it was his cursed honor, his sworn promise to his Lord Father, that stilled his tongue.

Still.

He wondered, if he told her the truth, if she would believe that he could save her, could ferry her away from this unwanted marriage she had found herself set for, if she would come with him, when next he saw Davos's sails in the bay.

Perhaps it was, in truth, that he could not bear it if she still refused.

Perhaps it was better not to know.

Their last afternoon together, he lost count of their couplings. He took her on his narrow bed, mere seconds after her light knock sounded at his door. She rode him to exhaustion by the blue freshwater pool, her skin still damp and shining in the sun, with wanton abandon. He pressed her against the bark of a swaying palm, driving into her with a force he couldn't control, her nails digging furrows in his shoulders as he buried himself inside her, again and again, her moans and cries louder than the sea birds that circled above.

Still, it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

They lay in the shack, on his bed, Dany curled atop his chest and fingers tracing the scars at his shoulder, when she finally asked things she had not before.

"Where were you, before you came to Lys, Jon?" She lifted her head, her cheek still damp with sweat, her voice still a bit breathless from their most recent joining, his seed no doubt slipping down her thighs. "Your accent, the way you speak. It is very," she paused for a moment, "unique."

Jon reached back with a sigh, shoving his pillow under his head so he could more easily meet her eyes. "The North," he finally uttered, cautioning himself to tread carefully, now. "In Westeros. Far from here."

The pads of her fingers stilled. "Really? They say it is very cold, in the North."

"Aye," Jon said, wrapping an arm around her body and pulling her more tightly to him. "It is."

"Hmmmm." She seemed to mull over his words, a slight smile playing about her pink lips as she gazed up at him, resting the tip of her chin against his sternum. "I suppose it's no wonder you would wish for a life on the seas, far from all that snow and ice. I hear it's dreary, in the North of Westeros." Her eyes narrowed, and he felt a flare of panic at the sudden interest he saw on her face. "Have you no House, no family?"

His heart stuttered nervously. He could feel the lie rising, unbidden, an easy untruth to share, Catelyn Stark's voice ringing in his ears as he considered how to answer. 'You're little better than a bastard boy,' she'd spit at him, 'as your precious mother hardly lived long enough to make you anything at all.'

"I'm a bastard," he lied. "A Snow."

He did not know how such things were considered in Lys, if her face would wrinkle in disgust, but instead, her brow furrowed, something sweet and sad flashing across her features. "Jon Snow," she whispered, testing the name on her tongue. "I think that is a fine name."

He smiled down at her fondly, the hand not clutching at her skin raising to trace through her rumpled, silken hair. "What of you, Dany? You are rather improper, to be sure," he teased, snickering when she gasped in pretended offense, "but you speak like a fine, noble lady. Are you some Lyseni Lord's daughter, some rich merchant, perhaps?"

He'd asked the wrong thing, he thought, when she pulled away, sitting up and drawing her knees to her chest, making herself small as she hugged her arms around her knees. He hated the loss of her warmth, and so he sat as well, prepared to apologize, but she spoke before he could.

"No," she said sadly. "I am in service to a noble House, certainly, a great House, but," she continued, her lip beginning to tremble, "I fear I am little more than a servant. I am a pawn, to be traded about, as my guardian desires."

She stumbled over the words, and he thought it must be that she was a lady in waiting, or something similar, ignorant enough to the social structure of Lyseni culture that he did not know what the equivalent would be. He was familiar enough with what that meant; Several of his father's banners would send their daughters to court to be passed about, sold off to the highest bidder, their dowries and bodies given in exchange for a scrap of power here, a little more gold there. Some, of course, had been paraded about before him, all wishing to be the one who would be made the next Queen of the Northern Kingdom, and he'd despised every bit of it.

He understood the politics, of course, but he had rarely been able to hide his distaste for it. In those games, he was as captive as those trueborn daughters, no thought spared to love or affection, only to the most beneficial match.

Jon crept closer, 'til he was seated beside her, and he threw an arm over her shoulder, pulling her against his side and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I wish we could stay here for a thousand years."

She sniffed, and when she looked up again her eyes were ringed with red, a tear dropping down her cheek, even as her lips tipped upward. "As do I, Jon Snow." Her face wrinkled with grief, and fresh tears began to fall, and when she spoke again her voice was breaking, thick with emotion. "But it cannot be, can it? We cannot escape our fates, no matter how we wish things were different."

It was a pain that was almost unimaginable, a thousand daggers through his heart, ripping and stabbing, as it all became real to him, the fantasy of forever that he'd indulged in bursting as he fought back his own harsh cry. He twisted, pulling her into his lap, unable to stop his own hot tears from coursing down his face as he grasped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "If I could choose, Dany. If I could." He fumbled for the words, for the way to tell her that she was all that would ever exist for him, in this lifetime and whatever came next. "I would choose only you."

Dany let out a ragged sob, nodding mutely as she could not seem to speak, just then, and then burying her face against his neck, shoulders shaking as she cried openly now. There was no point in hiding his own sorrow, no shame in his agony, and so he held her, clutching her tightly, rocking them as he wet her skin with his tears.

Finally, as her sobs subsided, she pulled back, swiping a hand blindly at her slick cheeks. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, and took several deep breaths before the silence was broken. "I am leaving, Jon. I cannot return to you after today."

Panic gripped him, and the arms now wrapped around her back clasped more tightly, as though he could physically stop what was to come. "No, Dany." He shook his head, beginning to tremble. "No, please, not yet."

"I love you," she pressed on, ignoring his protestations. She slid her knees to either side, straddling his lap, letting her arms circle his neck. "More than anything. More than anyone. I want you to know that." Letting out a shaky breath, she kissed him, tenderly, regretfully. "Do you love me, Jon Snow?"

"Forever," he bit out, fiercely, something hot and dangerous rising in his chest. "Only you, forever."

That seemed to soothe her, just barely, and she rubbed the tip of her nose against his, each breath that fell from her lips puffing out against his. "Then show me. Love me one more time, one last time. Let me have one last bit of happiness before we part."

He felt powerless, and weak. His want, as she pressed her center again him, his cock stiffening at the sensation, warred with his torment, and he wanted to weep and scream and curse the heavens just as much as he wanted to sink into her depths, to lose himself one final time inside her.

In the end, it was desire that won, that yawning chasm of need that she'd created in him, and he said nothing, claiming her mouth with his in one bold move, their tongues stroking and seeking, lips clasping and unclasping as they gasped into each other's mouths.

But this time, he knew what he would do, knew how to touch her, and tease her, and he was more tender than he had ever been. Each stroke of his hand, as he laid her back upon his narrow bed, their skin alight in the afternoon sun that streamed through the window above, had a purpose. He moved with intent, his fingers memorizing the silky smoothness of her skin, cupping her breasts and giving her exactly what she craved. His lips knew where to press, and suckle, and kiss. His tongue branded her taste into his soul, all sweetness and sea salt and Dany, just Dany, as he travelled down her body.

Jon brought her to release with his mouth, once, and then again, but when he sought a third her hands were there to pull him upwards, to bring their faces even. Her legs held him captive, made him her prisoner, as she mewled and pouted, seeking his cock and the pleasure he could give her. All the knowledge he'd gained, in these weeks spent loving each other endlessly, he put to good use, and this time, when he loved her, when he thrust and withdrew, it was slow, and measured, his every move designed to show her the things he still could not say.

His eyes held hers the entire time, until she was crying his name, a keening whine as her back arched, as she writhed and rolled her hips, as her cunt grasped at grabbed at his cock and spurred his own release just after.

Then they lay, their eyes locked together, their hands the only thing not still, as they traced the each other's faces reverently.

And when she was gone, when she dressed herself and kissed him goodbye, after he had stood on that beach, the tide lapping at his ankles, long after her form had disappeared from sight, he fell to his knees and wept, at last, his heart breaking into a million pieces in the setting sun.

---

Morning dawned, and Jon rose, with a shudder and a gasp, his hand clutching his chest as he tried to calm his breathing.

It was not the sun's rays that had caused him to awaken.

No, not at all.

A great, screeching cry had shaken the very stone walls of his rooms, and just when he thought he'd imagined it, it came again, impossibly loud and incredibly close.

He freed himself from his tangled bed linens and raced to the window, eyes blinking hard against the sun, until the sun was gone completely.

He looked up, and saw the reason.

A great black beast, a dragon even larger than the two he'd already made acquaintance with, beat its' way across the sky on massive, leathery wings.

She was here.

Daenerys Targaryen had returned to Dragonstone.

Her enormous dragon circled once, and then again, before swooping out of sight, and then all was quiet, the only sound he heard now the beating of his heart, blood rushing through his veins, anxious excitement flooding him.

She was here, at last, and his future now lay in wait. With only a slight twinge of regret, for the past he would now push aside, he hurried to dress for the day, to face what lay in store.

---

Jon found himself tucked away, out of sight, out of the way of the flurry of activity, for the bulk of the day. The entire Keep was abuzz, the few Dothraki who'd remained here now joined by endless score more, although Arthur had explained to Jon that the bulk of the Queen's Dothraki and Unsullied armies would come ashore at the southern tip of the island, to join the Targaryen armies already there.

Still, it seemed to Jon that at least of hundred of each were now milling around, the large, long-haired, bronze-skinned warriors in skins, with their gleaming, curved weapons, eyeing him suspiciously every time he ventured down a corridor.

Then there were the Unsullied, those silent Ghiscari warriors that had been freed by his betrothed. Many wore helmets that hid their faces, stoic and soundless, clad in black leather from head to toe, though their arms remained bared.

Glancing down at himself, in one of Rhaegar's solars, he almost felt overdressed. He had taken great pains to don his finest, the traditional wear of the Northern court, though now it was stifling, in all these layers.

His sister Sansa had made him a fine fur cloak, just like his father's, tucked away in his chest when he'd left home, and while it was quite finely crafted, Jon was beginning to sweat under the bulky weight of it. Underneath, he had also taken care, the supple black leathers, bedecked with metal studs, wouldn't protect him from the many sharp blades all around him, but they would at least make him look the part of a Prince. He'd even layered on his gorget, the one his father had passed down, the one he'd worn in his first battle as leader of the Northern armies. It was a bit battered, a bit dented, but the weight was familiar around his neck, the direwolves in either side snarling in sharp relief.

However, now, as he sipped absently at his wine and nibbled at the bread and cheese that had been left for he and Davos, he slipped a finger between his neck and the metal, wondering if it might choke him.

Jon bit at his blunt thumbnail, distracted, moving from the table laden with food and drink to the carved stone opening of the window, gazing again at the ships now anchored just off shore.

"Where's that wolf of yours got off to, Your Grace?" Davos's graveled voice cut through the anxious quiet, and Jon turned to find his advisor watching him with a half-smile. Even Davos had dressed carefully today, had trimmed his greying beard and worn his finest doublet and woolen breeches, all in Stark gray.

Jon blew out a nervous breath, smiling slightly as he remembered a rather small, early morning visitor, who had asked so sweetly if Ghost might be permitted to accompany little Naerys when she took audience with her just-returned mother. It was of no bother to him, of course, but Jon couldn't hope but help that perhaps his wolf's company might smooth the path towards his betrothed, just as it had her daughter.

"He is with the Princess, of course."

Davos let out a coarse chuckle at that; in their three moons here, he'd grown fond of the little girl as well, setting his knife to pieces of driftwood that washed ashore to fashion a menagerie of animals that now littered a shelf in the girl's chambers. Dragons, wolves, bears, even a handful of fish and squid, each with a tall tale to match, stories that caused the girl's eyes to widen with wonder.

"A sweet lass, she is." He raised his brows meaningfully at Jon. "Let us hope you find her mother the same, lest she burn you where you stand for your *incessant* cheek." He laughed aloud when Jon shot him a mocking glare, raising his hands in pretended surrender. "Oh, now, apologies, Your Grace. Only trying to lighten the mood. Are you nervous?"

Jon sighed loudly, rubbing his temple for a moment, wondering if he might be sick all over the floor with the way his stomach roiled. It was like being back on the Onion Knight's boat, tossed about at sea, though the floor remained solid stone beneath his shined boots.

"A fair bit, I suppose. Wouldn't you be? Did you see her dragon this morning?" He made a worried sound in his throat, grimacing at Davos's clear amusement. "That thing's massive."

"To be honest, Prince Jon," Davos said, rounding the bed and coming to stand before Jon's dressing table, fiddling with the clasp on a flat, square box, "whenever I chance to see such creatures, I can only breathe a sigh of relief that we're on their side, eh?"

Jon couldn't help but agree. He couldn't imagine the fear those beasts would strike in the hearts of any who thought to face them on the field of battle, but the warrior inside him was very much looking forward to it. He frowned when he saw exactly what Davos was doing, the man's hands pulling out a thin crown of iron and bronze, something Jon rarely wore; It was the crown of the Northern heir, nothing ostentatious, a rather prickly looking thing that seemed that it might draw blood if grasped the wrong way.

And, Jon was finding, though it did not look too weighty, it was a heavy thing, indeed.

"Must I wear that?" His lips twisted sourly when Davos nodded, and gestured for Jon to seat himself. Gingerly, the older man sat the crown upon Jon's head, the metal settling against his slicked back curls, nesting in his raven hair. He stared at himself, again, wondering just what it was his father saw in him, that Rhaegar seemed to see, that they would wish to give unto Jon and his betrothed the governance of not just one kingdom, but all of them.

He wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea, still, but it had begun to grow on him, in increments. He had spent many nights thinking on what he would do, what changes could be made, to bring about a peace that might be lasting.

And, as Rhaegar had said, if all else failed, they had their dragons.

"I do wish we could get on with things," Jon muttered, eyeing Davos in the leaded glass. "I'm starting to feel like some helpless maid, locked away in a tower." He sounded far more sure than he felt, his hands tingling with trepidation, clenching and unclenching.

When a loud knock sounded at the door, he bounded to his feet, nearly knocking over the wooden chair in his haste. Davos held him back a pace with a hand on his chest, then gathered himself, the old sailor walking to the door with his usual rough dignity to see who had been sent for them.

A huge, shaggy body barreled past Davos, and Jon felt a simmering comfort at the feel of his wolf, so close, Ghost licking frantically at his face as though he could feel Jon's discomfort and was trying to allay his fears, with each swipe of his tongue.

"Prince Jon!" A little voice piped up excitedly from the door, and soon he felt a pair of small arms wrap around his leg, just beside Ghost's much larger form. "Mama is ready to see you, now!" Jon shoved Ghost down, willing the wolf to settle himself, and cast his eyes down to look at Naerys, who was positively giddy with excitement.

She had been dressed as her station required, this day, in a bright red frock shot through with black embroidery, little dragons crawling around her neck and wrists, silver braids forming a crown of her own atop her head and laced with red ribbons. Jon was sure that the happiness dancing across her wee face was due in large part to her reunion with her lady mother, though his own impending meeting with the woman did not inspire quite that level of joy.

Naerys, as she tended to, seemed to sense such, and she looked behind her, to where Davos stood, along with her burly, newly-arrived Dothraki guards. She waved a hand to Jon, indicting he should lean down, and rose up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "Are you very afraid, Prince Jon?"

Jon let out a harsh breath out her hushed question. He nodded, trying to adopt a smile. "A wee bit, I think."

He felt a hot rush of shame at the admission, but the little girl didn't judge him for it at all, giving him a tiny grin and taking his hand firmly in her own.

"Don't worry," she said quietly, but resolutely. "I shall come with you. Ghost, too."

With that, the girl began to march them out of the room, Jon in tow, a bemused Davos and a silent Ghost bringing up the end.

The Princess tugged on his hand, as the Dothraki led them through the stone corridors, sparing a glance back every now at then at him, their eyes dark and curious. "I like your crown," Naerys whispered, pointing her free hand at his head. "It's very nice."

Jon bit back a nervous laugh, pressing his lips together tightly for a moment before he answered. "I'm very glad to hear it. Davos made me wear it," he whispered back emphatically, rolling his eyes.

"I think Mama will like it," Naerys shot back, squeezing his fingers in reassurance. "It looks very proper." The child looked around, as if to make sure no one was listening to them, though Jon was certain there were ears all around them. "One day I hope I can have a crown, too."

Jon's lips tipped up, and he gave the girl a wink. "I'm sure you will." He glanced over his shoulder, to where Ghost was panting over Davos's shoulder. He jerked his head back, his eyes returning to the Princess. "What about Ghost? D'you suppose he should have one, too?"

Naerys squinted, thinking it over, before shaking her head. "He doesn't like things on his head." She pursed her little lips, and he admired her attempt to frown before she burst into giggles, as she realized he was teasing. "You are very silly today, Prince Jon."

Jon just nodded, eyes ahead as they neared the throne room, the large double doors guarded on both sides by both Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers who set their eyes upon him suspiciously. "I shall take that as a compliment, Princess." When their party came to a halt, the doors parted, just slightly, Arthur slipping out and flashing Jon and quick smile.

His Dornish uncle was dressed just as resplendently today, in the scarlet and onyx proscribed to the Targaryen Kingsguard. Arthur's own Valyrian steel was strapped to his hip, the sword named Dawn, but Jon had to assume this was merely for show. Longclaw was affixed tight to his hip, as well, the white wolf pommel shining bright against his dark ensemble.

With a low, sweeping bow, Arthur addressed little Naerys. "Princess, the King wishes you to wait here, with your mother's guards, just for a bit." He checked his gaze to Jon, then to Davos and Ghost, Jon's small phalanx of guards standing warily against the far wall. "He wishes that Prince Jon meet with your mother privately, first."

The girl's face twisted, as though she were in pain, and Jon could feel the way she tightly gripped his hand, as though she were preparing to refuse to let go. However, Jon could see the merits to a more private introduction. He knelt, dropping a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. "Will you wait here, with Ghost, Princess? I think perhaps he is a bit more scared than I am, and I think he would like to play 'seek and find' with you, while your mother and I tend to our business. Could you help me? Make him feel a bit better?"

He could see it, there, the sudden stubborn clenching of her jaw, as though she knew he was trying to pacify her, as though she knew she was still to be excluded. The lure of Ghost proved too much to resist, however, and she reluctantly released Jon's hand, twisting to find Ghost's red eyes watching her closely, the wolf letting out a sad little whine.

"Alright," she whispered, a note of dejection hanging in the air, but she still gave Jon a little hug 'round his neck. "Don't be afraid, Prince Jon. Mama will like you very much. I just know it."

She gave him one last, toothless, sweet smile, before she walked over to Ghost, burying her hand in the fur at the wolf's side as he rose to tower above her. Then, methodically, she began to move around the room, taking his wolf to each guard, Dothraki and Unsullied alike, and quickly speaking her foreign tongues. She gestured grandly to Ghost, then to each man before her, and from the slight smiles and interested grunts he was able to discern what she was doing, though he still had little knowledge of the Dothraki and Valyrian languages the girl seemed to speak fluently.

She was making introductions.

Jon's lips twisted in a grin, and he willed the wolf to behave himself, not missing the chuff Ghost let out at his unspoken request, as though he was deeply offended by the Prince's insinuation. Jon knew, from the deep well of innate sense he shared with the beast, that he would mind his manners; His fangs and claws would be stayed unless the girl was threatened, and in that instance, woe be unto the one who would try to harm her, for that unlucky soul would be quickly untethered from his body.

Arthur watched the exchange with peculiar intensity, until finally he focused on Jon, alone. "Are you ready, Nephew?" There was a calm reassurance in his words, but it did little to still the quiver of anxiety that stirred Jon's heart. But he shoved it aside. There was no room for his doubt, here. There was no room for his misgivings, for his worries, not anymore. Jon had made a choice, moons ago, and now it was time to see things through, as a man, a Prince, a future King. He was a boy no more.

"Aye," Jon replied gruffly. "I'm ready."

Arthur smiled. "Your guards should remain here. Only you and Davos are required for this audience, if you please."

Davos exchanged a narrow-eyed look with Jon, waiting until his liege nodded in affirmation before grumping out his own agreement. "If they must." The old man gave a dip of his chin to the Northern guards. "Stay put, lads."

Arthur gripped one iron pull, one last set of instructions to give over his shoulder as he made to re-enter the throne room. "Davos, you will announce the Prince, and then, Jon, you will approach." His uncle gave him one last half-smile. "Good luck," he whispered, and then he was gone.

---

This solemn chamber, this throne room of the dragons, felt far different than it had when Jon had chanced to journey through it on any other day. This was a day for formality, for ceremony, the ease with which he'd traversed the dark stone floor, inlaid in the center with the sigil of House Targaryen, now absent. The air felt charged, with something he could not quite name.

Davos walked ahead, the distance between the two men and the carved throne at the head of the room seeming leagues away, but when Jon looked up, he couldn't stop a burst of surprised breath. Rhaegar was not seated upon the stone seat, not this day. He stood to the right, regal, proud, but from here he couldn't quite pin down the expression on the man's face. Arthur stood to the left of the throne, hand on the pommel of his sword, standing at alert attention.

In two columns, were those who served Rhaegar's sister. To his left, Dothraki riders, these larger men in more ornate skins than their counterparts outside, surely those few favored to be his betrothed's personal guards. To his right, the stern-faced, stoic Unsullied, ever-watchful, and waiting.

Motion near the throne stole his attention away from such inspection, and he risked a small smile when the Lady Missandei stepped forward, down the dias and to the head of the columns of men, clearing her throat lightly and addressing him with a crisp, proper voice.

"You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, the Princess of Dragonstone, The Unburnt, The Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Breaker of Chains, The Mother of Dragons." Missandei's commanding tone echoed throughout the chamber, and Jon couldn't help but find himself a bit humbled, in the face of these many titles. He glanced askance at Davos, who gave a helpless shrug, and a slight grimace.

"Hope you don't expect me to compete with that, lad." Stifling a laugh at the man's words, Jon looked back towards the throne, but though he could see that Daenerys Targaryen had the silver hair of her House, he could not make out her face, not clearly. No doubt, however, she was fair, this mysterious lost daughter of House Targaryen. He shuffled a few steps closer, gesturing to Davos to make his own announcement, trying to peer without success upon the face of this Mother of Dragons.

She remained shrouded in shadows, and he took another step forward.

Davos gave a low cough. "Now comes His Grace Jonnel, of House Stark. The Crown Prince of the North, the White Wolf," his watery eyes shot to Jon apologetically, and he shrugged to the room at large, "and that's about it, I'm afraid. With respect, it's rather hard to follow such an intimidating list of titles."

The Onion Knight's gruff words earned a few chuckles from Rhaegar and Arthur, from what Jon could tell, but still, no response from the woman who sat upon the throne. Missandei, however, offered Jon a quick quirk of her lips, before ascending the short stairs, taking a place beside Arthur as silence fell again.

Neither moved, and Jon finally willed his booted feet into action, shafts of light from the narrow cut windows that lined the room washing across his face as he came to stand upon the three-headed dragon laid into the stone floor. He gave a courteous, deep bow, his cloak of fur brushing against the floor at the action.

He wished she would move, or speak, give him some sort of idea as to what she was like, other than her quiet focus and silver hair.

"Your Grace," he said respectfully, as he straightened. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, at last." He held his breath, as, instead of providing a verbal response, she rose as well.

One step, then another, and he began his inspection, as she made a wordless descent down the stairs.

She wore calfskin boots, laced tightly over her calves, as black as her dragon, and battleworn, if he was not mistaken. There came a thrill in his gut, that base part of him that loved no task more than swinging his steel telling him that, if nothing else, perhaps they could find common ground in the makings of war.

His eyes climbed higher, surprised that she wore neither gown nor proper leathers. It was a strange blending of the two, perhaps some concession necessary for the riding of dragons. Daenerys Targaryen wore what looked like woolen trousers, he guessed, as she came ever closer. They were a dark, almost midnight blue, giving way to a blue overcoat that dipped lower in the back, almost a skirt, the material swishing as she took each slow, purposeful step.

A thick silver chain climbed from her waist, between the swells of her breasts, to affix to her shoulder, dragons snarling at him as he examined her. He swallowed heavily, for while he had known no love since the one he lost, he could not deny the stir of desire as her petite, decidedly feminine form became known to him. Daenerys Targaryen stopped, several feet away, and it was not until he spoke that he brought his gaze higher.

"You have made quite an impression on my daughter, Prince Jonnel." Her husky voice was even, measured, and he could not discern whether she was praising him or chiding him.

Then, she took one more step, a shaft of light illuminating her face, and he was lost.

It was not the fine, delicate features, the noble arch of her brow, the refined turn of her nose. It was not the slight blush that colored her cheek, nor the firm set of her lush, rosy lips, that stole his breath.

And stolen it was, as Jon let out a strangled gasp, his gray eyes finally meeting hers.

It was her eyes, that did him in. Not Targaryen purple, to be sure. No, no.

These were singular eyes.

These were eyes he had seen, of such true and pure beauty that he felt himself transported back in time; He could've sworn the whooshing rush of blood in his ears was the pounding of the surf upon a Lyseni shore, would have gone to his grave that he could taste the salt in the air, the hint of rum on his tongue, the feel of warm, firm, tanned flesh beneath his questing hands.

She was older, yes, but so was he.

She was harder, perhaps, but again, he was as well.

But before him, there could be no doubt, stood a ghost.

"Dany," he whispered, shock buffeting him like a sea wind, and he swayed on his feet as he stared at her.

At the name, she took a step back, those cerulean blue eyes widening, her brow wrinkling in her own healthy measure of surprise. And then, she came closer, more hesitant that before. "What did you say?"

"Dany," he repeated, his voice stronger now, but his throat threatening to close on him completely as he struggled to draw breath. It was an impossibility, that it was her, that she was here, before him. His racing mind replayed that awful day, surrounded in ash and smoke and heat, her ring searing into his palm and scarring the flesh there. He had *seen* the destruction, had pulled that last piece of her from the wreckage, and though his mind told him that this was not her, not here, not now, his heart knew the truth. "Dany, is that you? It can't be, Gods help me." His breath seized in his chest, a sharp pain that stitched his side.

Daenerys Targaryen *was* Dany.

All he could do was focus on the basic requirements of his body, frozen in place, watching the play of emotions as they flitted across her face, struggling to let his chest expand and fall before the moment consumed him.

"Who—" She stammered as she took another step, close enough now for him to see those familiar thick, sooty lashes, the fullness of her lower lip, the burning of his own lips as they remembered what it was like, to touch her, to taste her. His hands clenched as she turned to look at Rhaegar, who stood, still, beside the throne. "What is this?"

"Begging your pardon, sister," Rhaegar drawled, and Jon was not so oblivious that he missed the amusement in the man's voice, "but I do believe you and your intended have met before."

Dany sucked in a quick breath, turning to face him again, now approaching so closely that there was a mere foot of space between them. He wondered, agonizingly, if she had forgotten him, if time and the world had torn away those lovely memories they had made, but then she grabbed his face, firmly, between both hands.

She pulled his face closer, their noses nearly brushing, and stared into his eyes with dawning comprehension. And then it came, that flickering spark, that grew, quickly, even as her face began to crumple. "Jon," she whispered brokenly, shocked, her voice wavering. "Jon Snow?"

Her eyes begged for it to be true, for it to be him, and he understood precisely how she felt. Jon let his hands ghost atop hers, where her fingers pressed against his bearded jaw. "Aye," he said, assuredly, and she began to cry, quietly, even as she broke into a beautiful, beaming smile. "Though I reckon I look a bit different than the last time you saw me, eh, Dany?" He caught her fingers, the intimate, remembered slide of his against hers only feeding the hot flare of recognition in the pit of his stomach. He kept her hand against the hair on his face.

"This is new," she whispered, nodding just barely, her tightly braided hair sliding across her back, "but I know who you are. I know your eyes, Jon Snow." Her chin trembled, her lips almost white as she forced them together, and then there was nothing to do but take her in his arms, to all the hells with propriety and formalities.

He had no use for them, anymore. Not with her. And as his arms wrapped around her, as she began to sob against his leather clad chest, he felt the last of his doubts disappear. He had no clue how it had come to be, that she was here. Those things were not his concern. Because in his arms he held her once more, his heart swelling and set aflame, as though it might burst right then and there. Peace swept over him, his jangled nerves calming and smoothing and settling, and for a bright, shining moment, all was right in the world.

"Dany," he whispered against her air, between kisses pressed against those silver stands. "Dany, Dany, Dany." He closed his eyes, losing himself in the feel of her, caught in the undertow of everything he'd fought so hard to pack away, everything he'd urged himself to forget, so that he might let her go, once and for all. His own eyes blurred with tears, and though he tried to fight it, a rough sob escaped as he pulled her closer. The world seemed to shift on it's very axis, under his booted feet, shifting and threatening to bring him to his knees. It couldn't be her, but it was.

Now, holding her captive in his tight embrace, he knew. It was her, his heart told him, rejoicing, his blood pumping, his heart hammering, his arms tightening as though he had to bring her into him, trap her against him so that she could not escape. If he held her close enough, he knew, then she would stay.

"It can't be you," she moaned into his chest, echoing his own thoughts, her hands dropping to grab blindly at his shoulders. Her own shook as she went on and on, her head shaking and voice breaking as she wept. "He said you were dead, it can't be you, how can you be here?" He could hear her agony, and he held her more tightly still, secretly gladdened that it was not just he who was completely shaken by their current circumstances. He didn't know what she meant, not really, but he understood the desperation in her voice, the underlying plea that begged for him to be who she wished he was, though she couldn't comprehend that it could be true. He understood completely.

"I thought I lost you," he answered quietly, so that only she might here. "Oh, Dany," he groaned into her hair, "I thought you were gone forever." He spoke nothing but the truths he had long ago accepted, his mind still reeling and trying to catch up with the truth now before him. She was not lost. She was here, in his arms, tears leaking down his black leathers, and she was very, very real. His cheeks were damp, as well, and he didn't care who saw, just then. Let them think whatever they wanted.

She sniffed against him, and finally pulled back, and all Jon wanted to do was kiss her, soundly, 'til there was nothing but just them. He was stopped, though, by Davos, who stood nearby, watching in wonder.

"I do hope those are happy tears, Your Grace. I know he's a bit rough around the edges, but I think you'll find he has great potential, s'far as husbands go." Dany let out a heady burst of laughter, her eyes never straying from Jon's face.

She freed one hand to stroke along his jaw, lovingly, and he had to bite at his lip at the sensation, to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms and spiriting her away to someplace more private. "Of that, I have no doubt, my Lord." Her slim hand was so warm, against his face, and for as lost as he had felt, as dead as he'd feared his heart was, inside his chest, in this moment, he was reborn.

"I might be terrible at it," he jested quietly, and she wrinkled her nose at him, her tears drying as she indulged in a sweet smile meant only for him.

"I don't believe you," she whispered forcefully. "You're always wrong on those counts, aren't you?" His mind was thousands of miles and years away, to the bank of a pool, to the dark of a shack, desire and elation coursing through him in equal measure.

He grinned, thumbing away the wet stains on her cheeks. "I suppose that remains to be seen." He glanced up, to find every eye in the room upon them, and he felt his cheeks heat. He ducked his head, feeling a bit vulnerable then, as Rhaegar finally descended, flanked by Arthur and Missandei.

"I hate to interrupt such a joyful reunion," he told the pair, and Jon could hear that he meant it, the regret in his voice as he addressed them, "but I fear there is much to be done, and very little time in which to work it all out, now." He swept a hand to the side of the room, to where his council chamber sat in waiting. "Shall we begin?"

His gut clenched, but he mustered a serious expression, nodding his assent, even as his eyes hungered for just one more moment spent staring at Dany's enchanting face, just a few spare heartbeats in which to lose himself again in her presence.

"Of course," Dany said, responding for them both. To Jon, she directed one last, quiet statement. "We shall speak later, Jon. Alone." With a meaningful look she took his hand, unwilling to be parted from him completely, and it was in that manner they followed the Dragon King out of the room. He was not sure how he was meant to focus on anything but her, in truth, unclear on how best to shake himself from the stupor he now found himself in. He was drunk on the sight of her, worried he might stagger on his feet; Every step he took, with her at his side, was one in which he though his legs might wobble and collapse out from under him.

Because she was HERE.

Dany was here, with him.

What was there to fear, anymore? When they were together? He wished desperately that they could be alone, that he could learn the hows and whys of why she still drew breath, but it seemed that would have to wait.

That didn't matter, either. He could wait. He could endure anything, he thought, letting his index finger stroke along hers, basking in the way she smiled at him, like the warm Lyseni sun shining on his face, after so long in the dark. He could endure anything so long as they were together.

Together, at last.

And this time, Jon knew, he was never letting her go.