Author's Note: Part Three of the Four chapters in this section of our tale. It would be nice if you let me know what you thought - otherwise I am left to assume that I should, in fact, print this all out and let my dogs use it as pee-pads lmao. Enjoy Part 3, Part Four up tomorrow!
The day Daenerys spotted her ship en route, coursing through the seas and carrying tidings of the plans they'd made, the course they would take to first take the Seven Kingdoms, then save them, Jon knew something had to be done about Jorah Mormont.
He'd reached a tentative peace with Theon. His betrayal of Robb still burned inside Jon's chest, but his wife had been wise in her advice. That was in the past, and when Jon looked now upon Theon's downcast eyes, when he thought on what the man had endured already, he thought that maybe Theon had suffered enough.
He forgave Theon, as best he was able. He hoped he would not regret it.
But Jorah was a different story. Here was another, who was no doubt in love with the woman Jon had wed, the one person in the entirety of his universe that had become as imperative as air. The man avoided him most times, his words usually directed at Daenerys, but Missandei had, on several occasions, made it known to Jon that Ser Jorah was the one she trusted most, amongst this ragtag group of misfits and outcasts.
In that, Jon knew, there was an ally to be had.
And so, as Daenerys scurried about, making ready for the next steps they would take, Jon requested an audience with the man, meeting with him on the cliffs, with no one else about.
"I knew your father," Jon finally said, feeling the urge to break the silence.
He saw the spark of interest in the man's eyes, but it was swiftly followed by a bitter frown. "I knew yours as well. He meant to kill me, for what I did."
"Slaving is a terrible act," Jon said sternly, watching as the man's eyes shuttered, as he let out a breath and nodded grimly.
"And I have paid dearly for it." Jorah Mormont stared out at the sea.
Jon just stared at him, trying to find Jeor in there, somewhere, wondering if he'd caught a glimpse. "I'm glad my father didn't catch you, Ser Jorah." At the look of surprise he received, Jon smiled, bemused. "If he had, he would have killed you, for certain. And my Queen would not have had your protection. I think she would have suffered dearly, without you to guard her."
Jorah swiped a hand down his face, but when next their eyes met, the man's lips twitched, just barely. "I was wrong about you, Jon Snow. I thought, when you first came, you were just the next in the long line of those who would meet the Khaleesi and fall under her spell. Yet another who would make her false promises, and break her heart, if given the opportunity." He sighed, and laughed silently. "But I should have known better I think, to expect that of Eddard Stark's son."
"I love her," Jon said simply. "More than anything. More than anyone."
Jorah tore his gaze away, his eyes tracking the sea birds as they circled above. "How could you not? But you must do more than that, King in the North." He shook his head, his face growing grim. "You must protect her."
Now it was Jon's turn to chuckle. "With respect, Ser Jorah, I don't think Daenerys needs my protection, not a woman who commands armies of Dothraki Horselords, and Unsullied, not a woman who has three grown dragons."
Jorah pursed his lips, examining the tips of his boots before he responded. "From herself. She may pretend otherwise, at times, but she has a gentle heart, and there are those who would use it against her." That was correct, Jon knew, for with each new tale of how she had spared so many from dreadful fates he found himself more and more in awe of her kindness, of her sweet nature hidden beneath her fire. "That responsibility is yours now, Your Grace."
Beyond the truth that rang out in the man's words, there was something odd, about him addressing Jon as such, and it was rather startling, on the face of it. "Don't look so surprised," the man continued. "I may have been exiled, that is true, but I am a Mormont of Bear Island, all the same. I am a Northman. And the North has chosen you as their King." He waited a beat, lips pressed together tightly, before he continued. "And so has my Queen."
Jon wasn't sure where the urge came from, but it was upon him before it could be halted, before he could think better of it. "I was your father's steward, in the Night's Watch. I could have asked for no finer commander to serve under. And I swear to you, Ser Jorah," he swallowed, quickly, the burning anger he still harbored for those traitors making his teeth grind, "the ones who betrayed him, I made them pay." He made short work of his sword belt, and then his sword was in both hands, as an offering to the older man.
Jorah just stared, face twisted in surprise, and took the Valyrian steel from Jon's light grip. As he pulled the sword from the sheath, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.
"I switched out the pommel," Jon said, pointing to the wolf's head, "but it's still Longclaw."
Mormont began to shake his head, but Jon pressed on.
"It was your father's, Ser Jorah. He gave it to me, but I cannot keep it. It belongs to House Mormont. It belongs with you, now." Jon spoke assuredly, leaving no question as to the conviction in his words, and for several seconds Jorah just stared at the blade, watching as the sun glinted off the precious steel.
Then he sheathed the sword, and placed it firmly back in Jon's hands, something that looked suspiciously like a grudging respect growing in the man's eyes.
"No." He shook his head, his jaw set. "I shamed my father. I shamed my House. I am not fit to carry this sword, King in the North."
"Ser Jorah—"
The older man stood straighter, becoming sterner, holding up his hand to halt Jon's coming argument. "My father gave you that sword, Jon Snow." Formalities had been set aside, it seemed, at least for now. "He meant for you to wield it. And if what you say is coming, is true, then you are going to need it." He relaxed, slightly, and clapped his hand on Jon's shoulder. "May it serve you well, and your children after you."
Jon narrowed his eyes, for surely this man knew well what Daenerys believed to be true about herself. To be cautious, however, Jon voiced it, just to be sure. "My wife does not believe she can bear children. She believes herself cursed."
But Jorah was not swayed, pressing the sword more firmly into Jon's hand. "I know what she believes. But I also know that she has made impossible things happen before. I am certain that she can do so again." His mouth tensed as he looked at Jon, then his lips tipped up in a half-smile. "Though I'm rather sure she'll get willing assistance from you in regard to that particular task."
Jon worked the sword belt back around his waist. "Aye," he said dryly, "'Tis certainly a pleasant undertaking."
Jorah sighed, and for a moment Jon felt a measure of pity for the man. "Then I wish you good fortune, Your Grace." He shook his head, as though to dispel the lingering heartbreak that lingered on his face. "Now, it just so happens that I have acquired a bit of ale, of the Northern variety."
Jon's eyes lit up, as Jorah smiled fully. "Is that so?"
The other man nodded, cordially. "And I can think of no finer way to drink it, than with another true Northerner."
Jon let out a hearty laugh, already looking forward to the old, familiar taste. Jeor's son was right. No better company for a little measure of home, than one who could appreciate it the most. He gestured grandly with his hand, back towards the Keep. "Lead the way, Ser."
It wasn't until the following morning, long after an enormous amount of ale and a meandering journey with his wife under one arm, helping him back to their rooms, that he told Daenerys his thoughts on the matter of Jorah.
"We should tell him what we have planned." They were laying face to face, nearly nose to nose, loose strands of silver tickling at his cheek every so often when the soft morning breeze would catch it. She wrinkled her brows, confused. "Ser Jorah."
Dany let out a soft breath, her hand sliding slowly up and down his arm. "Thus far, only Varys knows the full extent of what we shall do. And that might be one to many, but sadly, we need his particular skillset if we mean to succeed." She wasn't sure, he could tell, and he could see she was biting at the inside of her cheek, worrying the skin with her teeth as she mulled over his suggestion. "Why do you trust him?"
That was a hard answer to pin down, Jon realized. He knew the man had betrayed his Queen, years ago. But it was just a sense, just something he knew, and finally he found a way to put it in to words. "Because of everyone of Westerosi blood that serves you, I think he's the only one who would truly lay down his life for you. Aside from me, of course," he amended quickly. "I would take part stunning acts of bravery for you. Truly staggering. Name it and I shall do it." He shied away from her fingers when she laughed breezily and tickled his ribs, below the bed linens.
"My hero," she murmured softly, smiling at him so warmly that he wanted to order everyone to leave them be, until they decided otherwise. He hated the fact that they would need to leave these chambers at all, but if he wanted such peace, he was all too aware that he would have to fight for it. They both would.
Ghost whined from the foot of the bed, where he'd flopped his massive body when they'd finally settled down and given the wolf some quiet the prior night. "Ghost as well," Jon supplied. "He bids you to know he would *also* perform quite daring feats in your name."
Dany grinned and slid a foot up his calf. "Of course, he would," she agreed, loud enough for the wolf to hear her. "As I would for him. He is such a darling creature."
Jon pouted mightily, and it prompted another cheeky laugh from his bride. "What about me?"
She pretended to consider it, even as she let her fingers circle his navel teasingly. "Yes," she finally assented, "for you as well." Then she slid her hand lower, where his cock was already fully awake and begging for her touch. "But it will cost you, of course." She gave his stiff length a gentle squeeze, licking her lips meaningfully, and Jon rolled over, laying on his back and pulling her atop him as he kicked the bedcovers free.
"I surrender," he said with a broken moan, feeling her center pressed against his thigh, already slick and molten. "Do with me what you will."
With a wicked smile, she mounted him fully, tossing back her head and pinning him to the bed beneath her, his cock snug within her as she braced her hands on his shoulders. "Oh," she purred, beginning to roll her hips in the bewitching manner she favored most, "I most certainly shall."
Jorah sat quietly, no doubt absorbing everything they'd shared with him, then crossed to the wide windows that let in the sea air, leaving Jon and Daenerys to stand before the Painted Table.
"I think it will work," he finally said, quiet as he watched the boat that ferried Varys, Tyrion and Davos back to Dragonstone creep closer. "But I do have one question. You didn't capture one of these white walkers, you went to Meereen instead."
"Aye," Jon said, tracing his finger along the length of the Wall.
Jorah turned, facing them both, curious. "And yet you have a crate sitting empty, in which Tyrion will believe one of those creatures is held."
Daenerys nodded, shooting Jon a quick, tight smile. "Just so, Ser Jorah."
The older man crossed his arms, peering between the two of them now. "Obviously you wouldn't go to all the trouble to carry an empty crate all the way into King's Landing. So," he said, with a loud exhale, "what *are* you going to put in there."
Jon's gaze shot to his wolf, who sat quietly by the door, up on his haunches and sitting at attention, as though he meant to guard them all. "Something with very sharp teeth, Ser. And very sharp claws."
Ghost whined pitifully, and when Dany crossed the room to pet and comfort him, sneaking a piece of jerky to the wolf as she cooed at him, Jon didn't have the heart to bother teasing her about the way she coddled the beast.
The wolf would obey, bound as he was to Jon's wishes, and he understood well enough what was going on, but man and beast also knew another truth: that didn't mean he was going to like it.
"Sorry, boy," he whispered, earning a red-eyed glare in return.
Jon and Daenerys made sure to heap praise upon Tyrion, for his ability to broker a meeting at all, for his masterful wordcraft in convincing his brother to convince the false Queen to this summit between enemies.
It was enough, they realized, to keep the man from asking too many questions. He believed, they were assured, by both Varys and Jorah, that the empty wooden crate being guarded 'round the clock in the dungeons contained one of the enemies Jon had spoken of, though thanks to the Queen's Unsullied he was never allowed closer than a yard away.
Grey Worm himself oversaw the operation, and Jon had come to find, three moons since his wedding to the Dragon Queen, that of all the Queen's men, he was perhaps Jon's favorite.
He was quiet, and watchful, and always on his guard. He did not fritter away the day with idle conversation. That wasn't to say, however, that the man would not speak at all. Since his return, he and Jon had conversed on several occasions, usually when their paths crossed in the training yard, and Jon had learned much about the fighting style of the Ghiscari warriors.
In exchange, Jon had begun to show him the fighting style he had cut his teeth on, the manner of the Northern warrior, and before long they were regularly sparring, spear and shield against sword, and Jon was inordinately glad for it.
He'd worried he was getting a bit rusty.
But it was a particular day, into his fourth moon of marriage, when Grey Worm saw what had been done to Jon.
They'd been battling heatedly, and the other man had managed to snag Jon's jerkin, and his tunic beneath as well, the layers ripping soundly as the speartip tore through.
"Nice shot," Jon said, panting, examining the rent material and shrugging. He pulled both off without thinking on it, only regretting the choice when he realized the silence that had fallen over the yard, as the eyes that had gathered to watch the men duel saw the raw scars that lined Jon's chest.
Grey Worm said nothing, for several beats, taking a step back as though he meant to take Jon's measure anew.
"Snow," the man uttered, setting aside his spear and shield and approaching cautiously. "Those wounds are sure death." Grey Worm's eyes lingered on the scar above his heart, and he shook his head in disbelief. "No man can survive this."
Murmurs rose from the men who ringed the sparring yard, a mix of Unsullied and Dothraki, and he felt every gaze trained upon him. He shifted, a bit uncomfortable, but he had to face this. This was the tale they were spreading in King's Landing, after all, at least a part of it. The Northern King, the Bastard of Winterfell, who had cheated death itself. The White Wolf who'd been resurrected, who was coming to save them, wedded to the Last Targaryen, the Dragon Queen.
It was the sort of tale the smallfolk would swoon over, Varys said, and judging by the looks of shock and muted awe that were sent his way, the Spider was likely right.
"Aye," Jon said at last, his voice raised enough so that he could be heard throughout the yard, "I did not survive this. I died." Grey Worm's eyes flew to his, full of surprised confusion, "and then I lived."
Jon heard a ruckus, at the corner of the yard, and then Ghost was there, silently stalking towards them, men parting to allow him through, until his great white head was at the fence, red eyes trained steadily on his master. Jon didn't know precisely what had happened, when he'd bled out into the snow, but he had his suspicions. Many of them involved this very wolf, the only one who'd been in that cold gray room when Jon had taken his first panicked breaths.
Ghost whined, and Jon cuffed him lightly under his muzzle before scratching between his ears.
From his back, Grey Worm spoke again. "This one does not know what you are, King Snow." Jon looked over his shoulder, where the man was staring at him with an indecipherable look. "But you are no man."
Jon didn't know why this was so difficult, to accept the man's words. Daenerys, for her part, embraced this part of herself, the 'otherness' that set her apart. But, he thought wryly, perhaps it was harder to ignore such truths when one commanded massive dragons. It was true, though, no matter how uncomfortable it made him, no matter how many years he'd spent pretending to face into the background, while yearning to be so much more.
Perhaps it was time, then, for him to embrace his 'otherness' as well.
Almost Gods, Daenerys liked to say. And maybe, Jon thought, she was right.
"No," Jon agreed, releasing Ghost's fur and turning to face the Unsullied captain. "I suppose I'm not." He crossed to the wooden fence, where Longclaw leaned, awaiting his hand. "Now," he near-bellowed, "shall we talk, or shall we fight?"
Grey Worm smiled, and took up his weapon, his spear firmly in hand, shield raised. "Stand ready, Snow."
Later that night, he lay abed, his hand between his Queen's delicate shoulder blades, her cheek resting above his heart. "My men are quite impressed with you, husband."
Jon grunted, his other hand coming to thread through her unbound hair. "That's better than the alternative." She tilted her head to smirk at him, then kissed his chest.
"I wish we could stay here forever." Her quiet whisper was almost inaudible, and from the way she tried to hide her face he wondered if she'd meant to say it at all. He knew what it was that made her feel that rush of shame. He'd felt it himself, had that same thought a thousand times or more. He was tired, of all of it, of the world outside and its endless demands.
It took, and took, and seemed set to give nothing in return.
He had pondered the old Maester's words, what Aemon Targaryen had told him at Castle Black, of the divergent aims of love and duty, but he had come to a different conclusion. To hear Sam tell it, even old Aemon had loved once, but it was a love unrequited, unreturned.
Aemon had never loved like this. He'd never *been* loved like this.
And Jon was starting to think that maybe the woman in his arms had been his purpose all along. Maybe the Lord of Light, or the Old Gods, or whomever it had been that had ripped him from that dark, final rest and plunged him back into this world of living misery, had known something he did not.
Maybe she needed him, to win this war. There was no doubt, in his mind, that he needed her.
Loving her was his duty now. He had sworn an oath, and given his promise. This was his obligation, but finally, he'd stumbled upon one that did not make him feel empty, and hollow, and hopeless.
"Me too," he whispered back, tugging her up so that they were face to face, her hair falling around them, shielding them from the world. "One day," he breathed out, tipping up his head to brush his lips against hers, "when all these wars are done, we'll tell everyone to fuck off and just spend our days like this."
Her nose wrinkled as she smiled, and she sighed, nuzzling her cheek against his before relaxing atop him. "Yes, maybe one day." She shivered, her skin still damp from their earlier exertions, and he pulled the furs over them both, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.
In two moons, they would take the Iron Throne. After that, they would fight for all Seven Kingdoms, and hope to survive. But for now, he would soak her into his skin, savor every moment spent pressed against her, for as long as was left to them.
Something was wrong with Daenerys.
Jon wasn't sure what it was, precisely.
Planning continued apace, in their fifth moon as man and wife, and every day was flurry of hectic activity. Davos had made an extensive report on the living conditions in the worst parts of the Crownlands, and Daenerys had been firm in redoubling their efforts to provide for the most helpless among the residents of King's Landing.
They kept Tyrion occupied with overseeing the movement of the Queen's armies, a task which the man seemed to relish, waxing philosophical to anyone who would listen about the strategic intricacies of transporting such masses of people.
The rest of their advisors were similarly busy, which Jon found a bit of a blessing as well. His own nerves felt frayed, as the day approached, though Varys assured them both that the legions of people who lived in fear of Cersei were turning towards their cause by the day.
It was the people, Varys claimed, that were the most important, and Jon tended to agree.
He had read the histories, after all.
Perhaps, in Aegon's Conquest, there had been enduring anger amongst many of the great Houses, even his own. Torrhen Stark no doubt despised setting aside his own crown, and bending the knee to Aegon and his sisters, but he'd done it for his people's sake.
And even Jon knew, that while the nobility may have experienced a lingering, festering resentment towards the Targaryens, in the years that followed that first uniting of the Seven Kingdoms, the smallfolk loved them.
It was the smallfolk who bore the true cost of endless wars, who were little more but grist in the mill for these constant power struggles, and for them, it must have been as though a new age had come, when they saw those dragons take to the skies.
The dragons had returned, at last, and Jon hoped that this latest war, that had spilled so much blood, could be brought to an end in much the same manner.
His fears and hopes notwithstanding, he was no so distracted that there was something troubling his Queen.
She'd grown withdrawn, in the past weeks. She was exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes a constant. Some nights, she would already have fallen into a deep slumber by the time he returned to the chambers they now shared, and he would pull her close, curled against her back, and hold her as they slept.
Something was wrong, and she wouldn't speak on what it was.
On the day the armies prepared to sail, a month from their meeting with Cersei, he finally pulled Missandei aside. Daenerys had been avoiding him for a week's time, falling asleep in the overstuffed chaise in their rooms, gently pushing his hands away when he would reach for her, and it was driving him mad.
"My lady," he said, grasping her arm as they left the council chambers, "I should like a word with you."
If he had wondered about the woman's awareness, it was solidified in the quiet resignation that flickered in Missandei's amber eyes.
"This way," she said quietly, and led Jon out of the Keep altogether, walking beside him in silence until they approached the small landing on the stone stairway that Dany seemed to favor. "How may I help you, King in the North?"
He saw no point in beating about the bush, his anxiety growing by the minute. "Something's wrong with her. She won't tell me what it is. She pushes me away." He could hear the desperation in his own voice, but he cared not. "I want to help her, my Lady, but I cannot if she keeps me in the dark. You know what it is, don't you?"
With a tense, small smile, Missandei nodded. "She is in the gardens. Walk with me." Onward they went, down the endless stone steps, their booted heals striking the surface the only noise to be heard for some time.
As they reached the perimeter of the gardens, Missandei stopped him, with a gentle hand on his forearm. "She has lost much, my Queen. And in such a short time. She tries to be so strong, but some hurts run deeply."
Jon nodded bitterly. "Aye, I know." And he did. He hated how she had suffered, before fate had brought him to her. Sometimes he quietly raged on it, Ghost pacing frantically as he imagined how he would gladly see those who had harmed her brought back, just as he had been, so that he could feel the satisfaction of watching them fall beneath his blade.
"She can believe the awful truths of the world so easily. She has lived them. But when the tidings are glad," Missandei said carefully, "they can be hard for her to accept."
His brow furrowed as he held the woman's stare. "What are you saying?"
Missandei did not reply, at first, just gestured to the ironwork gate. "She is ready to tell you, I believe. Be patient with her," the woman continued, a hint of cautious warning in her voice. "She can hardly understand this herself. She needed to accept it, before she could share it."
His worry only grew, and with mounting trepidation he stepped through the gate, wandering the maze of hedges, until he reached a ring of benches, carved with intricate, fire breathing dragons.
There sat his Queen, with Ghost at her side, the wolf crouched low with his head in her lap, his muzzle pressed against her tightly. She was speaking to the beast, but in such low tones Jon could not make it out. Today, she had foregone her structured, stiff-shouldered coats, the warm air giving way to a softer gown of bright blue, that draped over her shoulders and wrapped itself about her body. Her hair hung loose, in soft silver curls that cascaded down her back.
She looked so small, so delicate, in that moment, that he felt that protective rush inside him rise like the tide.
"Dany?"
When her eyes met his, they were ringed red, and she sniffed and wiped away a stray tear as she stared at him. Then, slowly, she extended her hand to him in silent invitation, asking him to join her.
He did not sit, as she likely expected, but fell to his knees before her, heedless of the sharp crack of bone upon stone, his hands taking her face so that she was forced to look at him.
"Tell me, my love." He was stricken with misery, at the sight of her like this. "What is it? Has someone harmed you? Hurt you in some way? Say the word and I will end them." At his vehemence, she gave him a watery smile, and shook her head.
"No one has wronged me." With another delicate sniffle, her mouth twisting for a moment, she cupped his bearded jaw in her small hand. "It's nothing like that."
"Please, Dany." He was not a man prone to begging, but for her, he was shameless in it. "I cannot bear to see you like this. Tell me."
Her face crumpled, tears coming anew, and she leaned forward, burying her face in his neck as she clutched at him now with both hands. "I'm so afraid, Jon. I'm so terribly afraid."
"Shhhh." His arms circled her, nudging Ghost aside, and he ignored the wolf's irritated huff as he pressed closer. His hands swept up and down her back, soothingly, as her tears wet his throat. "I know, Dany, I know. I'm bloody terrified, too."
She began to tremble, and with great effort she drew back, her cheeks damp as she blinked down at him. "I have to tell you something."
"Dany," he started, eyes pleading with her. "Just tell me. No matter what it is, we can manage it." He took her hands from around his neck, bringing them together and kissing them. "Together, eh?"
Tentatively, she pulled a hand free, circling his wrist as best she could and drawing it close to her body. He was confused, certainly, at first, but when she placed it on her stomach, then slowly pushed it downward, when his fingers brushed against that small swell hidden by the loose folds of her gown, he knew.
"Dany," He whispered, eyes widening, brows shooting up. "Gods." He looked from his hand to her eyes. "Dany!" He didn't know what he felt, just then, his head spinning, spots beginning to form before his eyes as he had the very real fear he might pass out.
He felt *everything*. Joy, elation, relief coursed through him, chased with a fear so sharp his dizziness quickly shifted to a dull nausea. Every heartbeat became a pounding war drum, echoing through his mind, as his breathing became ragged. "A babe," he said, in a daze. "A babe."
She was watching him, still crying, witnessing every emotion that flickered across his face as he tenderly cupped the gentle swell of the child that was growing inside her. His child. A babe that was him, and her.
"Oh, fuck. Fucking hells." It was terror he felt, then. Gods, this was a horrifying fear he'd never experienced before, his mind rapidly cycling through what they were embarking upon, every step one in which he might lose her. If that were not unbearable enough, now that there was this to lose as well, the life inside her, borne of their love. "Oh, Gods, Dany." He shivered, and let himself fall into her lap, burying his head in the folds of her skirts and struggling to breathe.
"I know," she whispered from above, as his anguish warred with his overwhelming gladness, and though she still trembled, her shaking fingers began to stroke at the back of his neck. "I know, Jon." He felt, piercing the numbness that washed over him, the warm press of her lips just behind her fingers, felt the drops of her tears. "What dreadful timing."
Perhaps it was madness that had taken him, but something about her words, and the manner in which he said them, made him rear back, resting on his heels, to look at her. Then, he laughed. "Dreadful timing?" His gasping words, as he nearly choked on another, louder laugh, and she seemed worried as she just watched him, gaping at his reaction. "Oh, yes," he nodded, "that it is."
"Why are you laughing so?" She shook her head, brows wrinkling, mystified.
"I don't know," he said, not sure anymore if it really was laughter, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. "I do not know that a man is supposed to feel all these things, at the same time." He leaned forward, capturing her lips, kissing her with everything in him, even through their tears.
A smile curved her lips upwards, as she looked down at him. "What are we going to do, Jon?" Her chin quivered, and he saw what Missandei had hinted at, how his Queen was trying so desperately to be brave. "I cannot lose another, Jon. I cannot bear it. It will break me." She began to sob, and his laughter died away, slowly but surely replaced by a hard resolve. He tugged at her, until they were both seated on the ground, and held her as though she were a babe herself, as she wept against his chest.
"You won't," he swore. "Here is what we will do. Are you listening, Dany?" She nodded, as she cried, and he rocked her gently against him, as Ghost looked on. "We will take every precaution. We leave nothing to chance now. From here on out," he whispered against her temple, "every step we take, is for this." He laid a hand once more upon her slightly swollen belly. "This is our highest priority. This is the most important thing we will ever do. There are no crowns, nor thrones, that are greater than this."
She calmed, little by little, until she made no sounds but small, hiccupping sighs. "We cannot abandon these fights," she said, grim and certain. Her hand fluttered, then landed on his chest, just above his pounding heart. "But you speak truly: we must be very careful now. In what we do, and who we trust."
"Aye," he said, rubbing his bearded jaw against her silky hair, allowing himself the momentary indulgence of picturing, in his mind, what this child would be. This little lad or lass, who would live to draw breath, if they took great care, if they could find the will to win. "But we have each other, yes?" He felt her nod against his chest, her tense muscles slowly relaxing. "That's enough for me. You are the only one I trust completely."
"And I you," she said, her voice still wobbly but growing stronger. "None above you."
He looked down, tipping up her chin, waiting until their eyes met. "You need armor. Immediately."
With a resigned nod, she agreed. "Yes." Her hand fluttered to land above his, on her abdomen. "In this, we must take no chances."
Jon and Daenerys traversed the winding route to the dungeons, Ghost trailing behind, a forlorn moan escaping the white wolf every few feet.
Daenerys winced and squeezed Jon's arm with her hand, where it curled around his bicep. "I wish this wasn't necessary," she said quietly, giving a piteous look over her shoulder to the beast. "My poor little sweetling. What if he grows lonesome?" It never ceased to amaze him, how quickly she had taken to Ghost.
When he'd first come, he'd wondered if the tales he'd heard could be true, had wondered if his beast would cause her fear, as he did in so many others. He ought to have known better, of course, but that innate reaction to Ghost's odd, red eyes and large, sharp fangs was difficult to hide.
But she loved the oafish creature, perhaps almost as much as he did, and he couldn't deny there was a panging pain in his heart, at the prospect of what they were about to do. If he had any other choice, he'd never put Ghost through this, but he could see no other way around it.
They stopped, finding Grey Worm and Davos waiting on them. Even Jon's own Hand wasn't privy to the entirety of their plans, but he, along with Dany's trusted commander, would oversee the care of this very large wooden crate, and the precious cargo inside. He knew enough, and that was good enough for now.
Jon's trust in anyone who was not himself or his Queen was diminishing by the day, as his child, and the dangers they faced, grew larger.
Dany sniffled, her hands cupping and cradling the wolf's muzzle, Ghost's ruby stare steady on her face. "We shall see you very soon," she whispered, fingers stroking white fur, as his wolf let out a low, persistent whine. Ghost knew what was happening, as much as he could know, at least. He washed Dany's face with his tongue, and Jon's bride allowed it, with a melancholy smile and sad eyes. "I don't want you to be afraid, in there. Be very good, and very quiet, my sweet."
She stood back, releasing the wolf's head, and before Jon could even begin to approach, Ghost leaned down, rubbing his furry cheek insistently against the Queen's stomach. He heard Dany's breath catch; Her eyes grew wide, as she glanced around furtively, and she put her lips next to the wolf's large, fringed ear, whispering something only the pair of them knew.
But it was enough for Ghost, it seemed, to straighten, apparently satisfied with the exchange. He crossed to Jon, taking great care to rub his face up one side of Jon's body, and down the other. Then, as if it had just crossed his mind, he returned to Dany and did the same, as she looked at Jon, bewildered.
"What's he doing?" Grey Worm and Davos seemed similarly confused, but Jon knew what it was. The wolf was marking them as his pack. Ghost turned back to him, with a panting smile, then returned to his master and laid his large head upon Jon's shoulder.
Jon didn't answer. He wrapped his arms around Ghost's neck, and breathed deep. No matter where they were, his wolf always smelled of a winter's forest, and he took one last scent of home before he pulled back. "You know what to do, lad. Aye?"
Ghost's tail swished, just once.
"You going to behave for Davos?" Red eyes flicked to Jon's hand, then back to Jon. The wolf's tail swished again.
Now it was Jon who leaned in close, because there was something that only Jon, and his Queen, and his wolf knew. They weren't ready to tell anyone yet. They had agreed to it, in fact. First they would take that Southron throne, then they would share their news, but not before. "You protect her," Jon whispered, "with your life. Protect my pup. If it's me or her, you wily old cur, you choose my Queen. You understand me?"
Ghost stared at him, not moving a muscle, a ripple of understanding passing between man and beast. His tail swished, firmly.
"That's a good boy," Jon said, and ruffled the wolf's fur. "Now, in you go. When this is done, I'll find you the fattest pig in all Seven Kingdoms, all for you."
With a huff, Ghost obeyed, giving Jon a slightly cross look that told the King in the North his wolf was going to expect nothing less, especially for this particular indignity. He hated being caged, and trapped, a trait they shared between them.
Davos gave him a reassuring smile, as Jon's wolf was loaded away. As soon as dawn broke, the Queen's armies, and both of their Hands, would sail for King's Landing.
Jon and Daenerys would follow in a sennight, but there would be no seafaring vessels, not for the King and Queen. They would arrive on dragonback, and then the trap would be sprung.
"I'll make sure he's fine, lad. Not to worry."
He grabbed at Davos's arm, squeezed, and gave a half-smile in return. "I'm entrusting him to your care, Ser Davos. Make sure no harm comes to him." When Davos nodded, Jon held out his elbow to his Queen, his throat thick with emotion, feeling as though he were locking a piece of his soul away as they left, walking briskly, until they had put some distance between themselves and Ghost.
It wasn't until they were in their shared chambers that he let out the panicked breaths he'd been trying to keep in, his eyes flying about wildly for a moment as he collapsed onto the bench placed at the end of their large bed, his knees threatening to give out.
"Jon!" She looked stricken, his sweet wife, he held up his hands, in surrender or reassurance, he knew not.
"I just need a moment," he whispered. He shook his head, eyes screwing shut, as he tried to calm the racing of his heart. "It just hurts," he said, and he felt her approach him, the warm air that seemed degrees hotter just above her skin telling him she was now standing before him. He reached out, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her closer still, until his face rested against her stomach. "I'll be fine."
He felt her hands slide into his hair, gently freeing it from the tie that bound it, her fingers gently combing through his curls. It was comforting, that constant motion, and he nuzzled his face against her dress as she continued, until he felt like he could breathe again. When he'd collected himself, he raised his eyes to hers, slightly ashamed at his reaction, but she was having none of it.
As if she knew what he was about to say, how he was close to apologizing for his weakness, she stopped him, laying a finger across his lips. "I understand, Jon. I know this pain. It is a terrible thing." She shook her own head, sadly. "I'm sorry that we must do this. I truly am. I hate to ask this of you."
"Dany." It was an odd feeling, rising inside him, close to offense, but not quite. How could she think that he would hold her responsible for this? Had he not been the one to endorse this plan? Had he not been the one to encourage the Spider to suggest it in the first place? How could she not know what lay in his heart? He looked up at her, astonished, and slowly traced his hand down her arm, letting his fingers splay over her abdomen. It seemed to him that the little swell there grew larger by the day. Soon there would be no hiding it. He cupped the rounded shape in the palm of his hand, staring at her intently.
"Dany," he repeated, "The blame does not lie with you. I chose this. We chose this." He shook his head, a part of him realizing that perhaps she *didn't* understand, that he needed to tell her, clearly, where he stood. "What lengths are there, that I will no go to, for this?" He nodded towards his hand, towards the child she carried, his little babe. "What depths will I not sink to?"
He stood, as she stared at him, lips parted in surprise. "I would watch that whole city burn," he whispered forcefully, "if it meant that you were safe. That this babe was safe." He let out a burst of humorless laughter, begging her to understand. "Ghost will be fine, I assure you." He pushed closer, until his face nearly brushed hers. "But hear me well, wife. Here are my answers. There are no lengths too far, no depths to low, no limit to the blood I will shed to protect what is mine. I don't care, anymore, what that makes me. I stopped caring the moment I swore that oath to you, before my Gods. And this?" He raised his brows, caressing her rounded stomach. "This is everything. This, I would move all Seven Hells for."
Dany closed her eyes, and he wondered if he had gone too far, if she would think him unfit to be her King, if he had shown her the monster that would be born, that paced and raged within him, waiting to strike the moment his fury was unleashed.
But then her lashes fluttered open, and the world stopped around them, because he was certain no one had ever given him such a look as she did then, one of such utter devotion, and unyielding, unrelenting love.
Never again, he swore to himself, would he spend a day without her eyes on him, not until they were old and haggard, and even then he suspected he would be loathe to lose her.
"I love you so, Jon Snow. Take me to bed, and let us forget all this for awhile." She kissed him once, sweetly, then held out her arms, waiting for him to hold her.
He needed no further invitation.
She was cross with him.
They were alone, now, biding their time until they would depart, to meet the Queen's armies in the Crownlands, save for the skeleton crew that had stayed behind to man the Keep.
They'd quarreled, and he hated this feeling, being at odds with her.
He'd brought it on himself, frankly, though he hadn't meant a single word he'd said with ill intent.
Several blacksmiths remained in the Dragonstone forges, and one of them had been working steadily on armor for his Queen. He knew she was irked about it, that she feared it would make flying harder, make her less able to maneuver, thought her dragons would be protection enough.
But she had agreed to it, and he'd been best pleased to see her fitted for it that morning, knowing that no arrow might pierce her breast and stop her heart through the steel plate and chain.
The sight, though, had caused other thoughts to rise, unbidden, the bitter taste of fear heavy on his tongue when it had hit him, again, the enormity of the risks they were taking.
And so, once the blacksmith had taken his leave, he'd made a suggestion, and it had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
"Maybe I ought to go into the Dragon Pit alone. You stay aloft, on Drogon, and guard us from above."
It had been a desperate plea, on his part, bile rising in his throat when he thought of the terrible danger to her, the moment they stepped foot into the city, a panicked suggestion borne of his desire to see her protected, and his babe as well.
And she, naturally, had been sore wroth.
He'd wanted to take it back the moment he said it. It was not in her nature, to sit back, to order others to die for her, to remain tucked away while others fought on her behalf. It was simply not who she was. She was a fighter, of that there was no doubt. It was one of the things he admired most about her, one of the things that drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
She hadn't said a word, just stormed from the room and away from him, and now, an hour later, he found himself wandering.
She hadn't been in the gardens, or their chambers. She wasn't at the landing, and she wasn't in her council chambers, either.
Unfortunately, with Ghost gone, Jon had lost his ability to find her anywhere, but on a hunch, he headed outside, for the cliffs she'd taken him to that first day, when he'd met her dragons.
It was their great, hulking bodies he saw first, all three gathered on the grassy cliff, tails twisting sinuously as they circled around a figure he could barely see.
He smiled to himself, and with just a spare moment of hesitation, pushed forward, hoping the dragons would find him a friend, and not share their mother's current agitation with him. The cream, Viserion, wheeled around first, as he drew close, and Jon slowed his progress enough to allow the curious beast to sniff at him.
The green was next, Rhaegal, the dragon's amber eyes holding his for a long, curious moment before he, too, extended his snout, and without knowing what possessed him, he drew off his glove. Only the black had allowed his touch, before, but he could *feel* something in the green dragon's stare. He was curious, that was all, and though Jon could also feel Daenerys watching him, he did not look away. Slowly, he let his hand fall onto the hot scales above the dragon's nostril, giving a slow stroke as the beast blew out a hot breath.
"Going to let me by?" The dragon blinked at him, then slowly, he backed off, the cream as well, so that it was just Jon, and Dany, and Drogon that remained.
"Traitors," Dany muttered under her breath, but he knew she didn't mean it, saw the same pleased surprise in her eyes that he'd witnessed that first day, when he'd dared to touch the greatest of her dragons. Said dragon was currently curled around his mother and glaring at Jon hotly, clearly mirroring his mother's displeasure. She eyed him carefully, then slid her own hand along Drogon's jaw. "You must be the only man in all the realms who does not fear my sons."
Jon shook his head, glancing down at his boots for a moment and clucking his tongue. "It's not that I don't fear them." Looking up, he caught her eyes with his. He took a step closer. "I respect their strength, and their ability to kill me whenever they wish." He chanced a tiny smile, and stepped closer still, until the tips of his boots brushed hers. "Much like their mother," he whispered, and though she tried to fight it, that earned him a real smile.
She wasn't giving up so easily, though, his Queen, and she was soon frowning again, crossing her arms across her chest and giving him a scowl. "I'm still angry with you."
Jon blew out a breath and nodded. "I know." He set his hands upon her shoulders, then slid his hands down her arms, tugging her closer. "I've come to beg a truce of you."
Gods, she really didn't want to smile, but he saw her lips quivering, and then it came, a tiny laugh, and she was crumbling, her defenses pierced as she rushed into his arms. "Truce granted," she whispered against his chest.
Jon kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes, content to just hold her for a moment, but he knew what he ought to say, and that he ought to get on with it, aware of the way Drogon still watched him closely. "I'm sorry, love. I know you can't stay out of the fray, I know it, I just—"
"You're afraid. You don't want to lose me." She already knew, saying what was in his heart as surely as if he'd spoken it himself, and when she leaned back, she was giving him a true smile, at last, though it was tempered with a certain melancholy. "I know." She reached up, fondly stroking his cheek. "That's why I cannot stay in the skies. We do this together, Jon. I did not marry you so that I may have a protector."
"You don't need a protector, I know that." Jon covered her hand with his, trapping it in place, leaning into her touch.
"No," she agreed. "You are my husband, my King. You do not rule over me, and you do not command me, nor I you." She stood up on her toes, brushing a light kiss against his lips. "We are partners, Jon. Equals. We will share the battlefield together, and there can be no more argument on that front. We must be united."
He kissed the tip of her nose, pulling her close again. "Aye," he said, against her ear. "We are united." Carefully, he turned her around in his arms, so that she faced the sea, and he brought his hands to his very favorite place on her body, at least currently. There were several close seconds, he thought slyly, as he cupped her stomach, but this was his greatest comfort.
He tucked his chin against her shoulder, as she stared at the sea, but he could see the smiled that played around her lips at his actions. "Drogon knows," she whispered, and Jon thought that made a fair bit of sense. Whatever it was that bonded him to his wolf, he suspected it was much the same with Dany and the dragon she rode, likely the others to lesser degree.
"Good," he muttered, kissing at her neck. "Then he will take extra care as well." A rumbling growl rose, and his wife laughed.
"He agrees, I think," she said, and let her palm cover his.
For a long while, they stared at the sea, at the horizon, at the world that lay further beyond, waiting to be taken. But closer to home, there was so much more, for him, and he needed to explain, he thought. Perhaps she didn't require it, and she would forgive him his fear, but maybe, if he made himself plain, she would understand what had driven his earlier words.
"When I was a boy," he began, quietly, "I knew I'd never really be a Stark. I was luckier than most bastards, you know. Most do not grow up in a great House, in a proper Keep. There are no feasts for them to dine at, and their clothes are not the cast-offs of their Lord brother's. They have far worse lives than mine was, I know that to be true." He sighed, his eyes on the sea. "But still, I was caught between two worlds. I grew up with Lords and Ladies, but I knew I'd never be one. It was an easy choice, to join the Night's Watch. There, I thought, perhaps I could make my father proud, instead of being the walking, talking proof of his shame."
He felt her take a deep, heavy breath, felt the way she tensed in his arms, and he looked askance at her, confirming the affront that was painting her features. It was endlessly amazing to him, how she seemed to want to protect *him*.
"The Night's Watch wasn't what I thought it was, but when I took my vows, when I swore to hold no lands, to take no wife, to father no children," he shook his head against her shoulder, "it was an easy thing, you see? No fine lady would ever want to marry a bastard anyway, I thought, so what was I giving up, truly? I could man the Wall, find honor in my task, find a way to set myself apart from the shame of my birth."
Her fingers were stroking across the top of his hand, and he splayed his fingers wide against the place where his child hid inside her body. "I never thought I would be a father. It was something I'd given up on, long before I met you. And now," his voice broke, eyes growing embarrassingly wet, but there were none about to see but her and her dragons. "Now, Dany, that it is happening, there is nothing I want more in the world. Now, I know we must win these wars, all of them, to give this child all the things we did not have. We must make a world that is safe for them. And I'm afraid I'm going to die in these bloody wars, before I see this babe born. I'm afraid you will be taken from me, and most of all, I fear what I will become if I survive and you do not."
Dany turned, her breath stuttering out, and he saw her eyes ringed with red, saw she was quietly crying, no sobs or loud cries, just silent tears that slipped down her cheeks. When she faced him fully, he grasped her face, hands gripping tight. "I used to wonder," he whispered, "what could make a man like Ramsay Bolton capable of such cruelty, of such monstrous deeds. But I know the answer to that. I know it, I can see it, clearly. It's right there, just beyond my fingertips, lying in wait. There is a monster inside me, and if it is freed, only death will stop it."
She sniffed, swiping at her own tears, then raising trembling fingertips to wipe away his as well. Then, she gripped at the collar of his jerkin, tugging him down so that their faces were even. "We are not going to let that happen," she swore, and she spoke with such assurance that he thought perhaps he could believe her. "For there is a monster inside me as well, and woe be unto any who think that they will take you from me and live to draw another breath." Resting her forehead against his, she swallowed, still holding tight to his collar. "We are more than they are, any of them. We will see this done, together. I swear it, Jon."
She settled back, staring up at him, gathering herself, he knew. He did the same, taking several deep breaths, lost in her eyes, in the intoxicating mixture of love and ferocity that he saw there.
"What do you think it will be, eh?" He frowned, confused, until she gestured to the swell of her stomach. "I suspect it is a boy."
Jon hadn't allowed himself to dwell on those suppositions, much, but he felt a playful contrariness rise within him. "Hmmm," he mused, staring down between them. "A girl," he declared, chuckling at the wry twist of her lips.
"You're just being difficult." She let her arms creep around his waist, and hugged him tightly.
"No," he said, securing his arms around her back again. "I figure this way at least one of us will be right."