Author's Note: Here is the final installment of what I intended to be a trilogy of sorts - this story told from 3 POVs, first Dany, then Rhaella, and now Jon. I do have one other little nugget to be written that didn't quite fit at the end of this chapter, so I'll have an epilogue to add to the end involving Benjen, Maester Aemon, and the final fate of that fucker Pycelle. Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought if you're so inclined, but if not, that's alright, too :)
Jon has grown up on tales of honor.
It is in his blood, his mother says, and as a boy Jon believes every word that passes her lips. Every day, as the crowing of the rooster wakes them all, and they gather in the kitchen to break their fast, his mother reminds him of just that. "A man is nothing without his honor," she says, and he thinks it must be true.
He is six, and curious about the world around him, and the life he leads on the farm is an enjoyable one for a lad like him. He learns to sow and to reap, his milks the cows and gathers eggs from the chickens, and helps in the small orchard the next field over, gathering bushels of plums and peaches and lemons as the men he calls his Uncles shake them from the leafy canopy above.
His mother makes wonderful jams and jellies from the fruits, and the only sadness he knows in his young life is when the rickety cart leaves the barn, Arthur or Gerold leaving the farm behind to take their goods to market for sale amongst the vendors.
He wants to go, aches to see the world beyond the farm, but his mother will not allow it.
Jon accepts this, of course, because his mother is his world. Every day, when chores are done, he sits at the long wooden dining table in their humble home, and his mother teaches him his letters, and sums. She instructs him strictly, until he is haltingly reading from large bound books that she keeps in a chest in her room, tomes on all manner of subjects. He learns the names of the stars, and beasts of the air and the land, and when he has been very good, his mother gives him a most special reward: on those days she reads to him about dragons.
He is content, in life, and wants for nothing, but still his young heart despairs at the sound of the wagon wheels travelling along the stony path, because he knows, somehow, there is more than this.
Jon is twelve when his training sword draws blood.
Gerold and Arthur have gone to market, and though he is sometimes allowed to join them, so long as he wears a hooded cloak, and keeps it drawn, today he has stayed behind.
There is a cow ready to calf, and he is in the barn near the house, checking her progress, when he hears the commotion.
His mother screams, and his heart pounds in his chest, and he runs.
Jon sees no sign of trouble outside the house, but that means little when he hears a crashing from within, a man's voice raised in alarm. He slips through the rear entrance, to the small bunkroom he shares with his Uncles, and finds his sword, his hand damp with sweat.
Quiet, he warns himself, and he creeps, and he hears his mother grunt with effort as he rounds the corner. When he sees her, his pulse is hammering, alarm freezing him where he stands, just for a moment. She has a knife in her hand, her wrist held tight by a man dressed in dirty leathers, his other at her throat. She struggles, and sees him, and a moan escapes her lips.
He is frozen no more, then, because he realizes this man will kill her if he does not act, and rage runs so hot in him he thinks he might catch fire from it. A hazy blackness steals his vision, and he is just motion, mindless as he rushes across the room.
The man who has grabbed his mother can do little as he sees Jon rushing him, sword held aloft as Arthur and Gerold have shown him, and before he can think the steel is buried between the man's shoulder blades.
It is all his mother needs to pull away and send her own blade whistling through the air, her knife striking true and slitting the man's throat as though she were slicing through butter.
He can hear the man's last, gurgling breaths, and he is strangely fascinated by this, by the red blood that pools on the floor, his chest heaving, his blood racing as he finally tears his gaze away to look at his mother.
"Jon," she breathes out, and drops the bloodied knife, and steps over the body as if it isn't even there. She pulls him into her arms, and begins to cry, softly, shaking against him as she holds him tight. "Well done, my sweet. Well done."
Jon feels numb, when he draws back, shocked at last by what has happened. All he can think, in that moment, is that they cannot leave this body here, must take care to get rid of the blood.
"I shall fetch a shovel, mother," he says in a dull voice, and he runs, again, trying to forget, knowing he will always remember.
They bury the man, together, by the time Arthur and Gerold arrive, but the floor is stained forever by the blood that has been spilled.
And that night, by the hearthfire, Jon learns the truth at last. The truth of his mother, and the men he has always believed to be her brothers, and most importantly, his father.
"You were very brave, Jon," Arthur tells him, and he imagines it might be true. Arthur is a knight, it seems, just as Gerold is, knights who were in service to his father when Jon was born. He nods, absently, fingers curling and uncurling in the loose hem of his tunic. "One day, I think, you shall make a fine warrior. And then," the man pauses, looking to Gerold and Lyanna, his eyes shining with something Jon cannot quite identify, "One day, when you are ready, you shall make a fine King."
Jon doesn't feel brave. He is afraid, faced with the truths that have been shared, more than he was that afternoon, more than he has ever been. A burden has been set about his shoulders, now, a mantle he is not sure he wants, and it terrifies him.
But he does not let it show. He will try to be brave, for them.
It does not seem to him that he has any other choice.
And the tiny sliver of him that is not completely overwhelmed with horror and shock and confusion trembles with a foreign excitement. This, his mind whispers, is the more he has always dreamt of, has reached for with blind hands.
He can only hope he will be ready, as Arthur believes. He must be.
The next morning, when the sun rises, he rises with it. He shakes Arthur and Gerold awake, and begs to begin his training anew. The truth has burned through his mind, his heart, his soul, through the night time hours, and though he is a boy, he is not a fool. These things they speak of, thrones and wars and great and noble houses, these things will require a sword hand that is strong, and a will to match.
It is not long after that Jon learns yet more of the past that has been concealed from him.
His name is not Jon, not truly.
It is Jaeherys, a Targaryen name, for a Targaryen lad.
His mother has meant to protect him from the full truth, but it has found them out anyway, despite her efforts, and so she conceals nothing now.
In a trunk in her room are a great many sheets of parchment. Some are smooth and flat beneath his fingers, of fine creation, and others are rough and rolled tight, furling inward even as he tries to spread them apart.
He learns what his father's fine hand looks like, sees the words he had given Jon's mother so very long ago.
When she pulls the harp from the chest his heart stutters in his chest, for this is a very fine thing, even to a boy of twelve, though he does not know how to work his fingers down the strings.
He does, anyway, as his eyes study the dragon carved in silver, as his ears memorize the way each note sounds.
His mother says she will hire a tutor to instruct him on the instrument, but he is not sure he wants that. He prefers the steady, comforting feel of a pommel in his hand, the song of a blade swinging through the air.
But Lyanna insists that some wars can be won by other means, so he relents.
It is silly, but sometimes, as he grows better at the instrument, working through scales and learning to read the notes scrawled on the pages, he sees the way his mother's eyes begin to shine, the secretive way she wipes away tears that fall upon her cheek.
This was his father's harp, and he feels more connected to the man whose face he will never see when his fingers pluck and pull at each thin string.
He is a man, now, nearing his seventeenth nameday, and life is no longer tranquil on their small farm.
His mother is ill, and though they try to conceal their worry, he can see the knights who have helped raise him have finally lost hope that a cure might be found. It is a consuming sickness, they finally tell him, and it will eat away at his mother, from within, until there's nothing left.
Jon is consumed with a sickness, as well, a bone-deep loneliness that has already begun to creep in, because once she is gone he will be lost. He believes this with his whole heart, but he has mastered the art of hiding his true feelings, and he wears his stoic, solemn mask well.
He helps tend to his Lady Mother as best he is able, when she is no longer capable of leaving her bed, has grown used to the weary defeat in her gray eyes.
But then, one morning, he awakes to excited voices, travels the narrow hall to his mother's room to find Gerold and Arthur kneeling beside her bed, the three so deeply engaged that they do not notice him at first.
"Truly, Arthur?" His mother's voice is stronger than he has heard it in some time, and he wonders if a miracle has happened, if perhaps a cure has been found and he will not lose the only blood left to him. "Can it be?"
He sees the way Arthur takes his mother's hand, looks away at the tender look they share. Jon is not a fool; He has suspected for years now that there is something between the pair, but still, he feels he is intruding when he sees the intimate, knowing way his mother studies the Knight's face. "It must be," Arthur says, as though he is swearing a vow.
"What's happened?" Every head turns his way when he steps into the room and makes his inquiry, and he cannot remember the last time he saw his mother smile so truly. Most days she is but a specter of what she once was, but today the Northern fire inside her glows bright.
"Something wonderful." She struggles to sit upright and Arthur helps. She gestures for Jon to come closer. "Fetch a quill and some ink, and some parchment as well." Jon hurries, because the energy that has taken the frail woman on the bed is far too rare to waste. He gathers the items, and brings them to her, his mind racing as she shoos him away.
Gerold comes with him, leaving Arthur to assist in this secretive task, and walks with Jon out into the bright sunshine. The boy can hear the cows lowing from the barn, and wordlessly, he sets off about his chores, with Gerold's quiet, solid presence to keep him company.
He does not know what stirs, what certain destiny has now been set into motion, but he has to assume that, as with everything else in his life thus far, he will learn when it is time.
They are to expect company. This is what Arthur tells him, two turns of the moon after his mother sends a raven to parts unknown. Every morning, before he tends to the animals, he rises earlier than ever, shakes awake the two Sers who sleep on the bunks nearby, and the three make quick work of tidying the house.
This company, Jon learns, is of the most important type.
His mother's condition grows worse, but the knowledge that her raven has finally been answered has kept her clinging to the lands of the living, and if nothing else, Jon is grateful for this.
But sometimes, sometimes when she is wracked with coughing fits and blood trails from her mouth, when she shivers and shakes so hard in the night that she slips from her bed and must call for help, when she can barely work her lids apart to peer up at him, he knows it would be a kinder fate for her to give up, and give in, to the death that is coming.
He hates seeing her suffer as she does.
It is early afternoon, as he is filling a basin in her room with water, that he hears commotion from outside his mother's door. She stirs, as well, at the noise, but she remains quiet. Lately, it has been hard for her to speak.
Jon decides he will finish tending to her, seeing that she has plenty to drink, wiping down her face with a cool cloth as the visiting maester had instructed to help her feel more comfortable, and then he will see what the cause of the ruckus is.
But before he can, the door opens, and a woman he has never seen steps into view.
There is something so regal, so royal about her, that he knows this must be a Queen. And her hair of silver, bound up neatly in braids that twist and hold her hair like a net, tell him something else.
Targaryen, he thinks. This woman is a Targaryen.
But then, thoughts flee all together, because he sees her.
A girl steps in, and the world shifts and sways around him. Not, not a girl, he corrects himself, she is a woman, grown, surely, but of age with him..
He has never seen a fairer maid, not in all his days. He never will, he knows it with firm certainty. Her hair is silver as well, her face a mask of polite caution, as she watches from the doorway.
Then her eyes land on him, and he is lost, completely.
She has the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen, that shine like polished amethysts, and when she gazes upon him he fancies she can see to his very soul.
He fumbles the basin in his hand and looks away, his cheeks no doubt reddening, his heart pounding so hard in his ears that he cannot hear the words his mother and the older woman exchange.
But Lyanna's ragged cough breaks through the haze, and he rushes to her, giving her a cool sip of water, wiping at her brow. He finds two pairs of eyes steady on him, now, as he tends her dying mother, and with the barest of glances he meets each.
"My name is Rhaella," the one nearest him says, the one he has already thought bears the air of royalty. It is because she is. He knows this name, knows who this must be, has been told enough of his father's family and the terrible fate that brought about their ruin that he can place her, though he has never seen her in his life. She smiles at him, kindly, though grief settles heavily around her as her eyes continue to flit back to Jon's mother.
Then she beckons the girl forward, and Jon wonders how he shall ever breathe again, with the way the air is stolen from his chest. She is even more lovely the closer she comes.
"This is Daenerys," Rhaella tells him, and he fancies that it is now seared into his mind, his heart.
It is like a song, this name, and he repeats it over and over in his mind, his mouth unable to form even a single syllable now, his chin dipping with a jerk in greeting.
He wonders why they have come, why now, of all times, when things are so very dire in his world.
He gives the prettiest maid in any realm another shy, quick glance, and returns his attention to his mother.
But his mind, oh, how his mind is filled with thoughts of her for the rest of the day.
It is several days before he finds himself truly alone with her, relegated to furtive looks when he thinks she does not spy him in the meantime.
But if nothing else, he is thankful that he has regained the use of his voice, now a bit used to her presence, as they ride. She has the sweetest voice, he thinks, but then, Jon thinks everything about Daenerys is sweet.
He is certain he has never felt like this before, felt this rush of heat and need just to be near her, whenever he does little more than think upon her.
The presence of their visitors has brought about a change in sleeping arrangements, one he is thankful for, as he has taken to bedding down in the hayloft of the barn. It affords him privacy to think upon her in solitude, to do things he knows he probably ought not, but which he cannot help. He's taken himself in hand before, certainly, but never like this.
He pushes those thoughts aside, as he speaks to her, as he finds himself confessing the truth of what awaits his mother, of how he wishes, some days, that the end might finally come. When she answers him, quietly, her voice soft and compassionate, with her own truths, he is overcome by it. She did not need to share such with him, but she does, and he understands that she is trying to comfort him, but his mind runs wild at the notion that she wishes to know him, as well. She wishes for him to know her, in turn.
That is a very fine thing, even if he cannot quite believe it yet, and he is smiling, a rarity, as he stables the horses, bids her farewell with a wave of his hand as she leaves to walk the orchard with her mother.
Jon enters the house, still grinning, as he goes to check on his mother, unsurprised to find her propped up so that she might gaze out the window, Arthur seated by her side in one of their few chairs.
"Jon," she says in a rough whisper, her eyes lighting on his persistent smile. "Did you enjoy your ride?"
He ducks his head, replaying again the way the sun played upon her silver hair, the way her eyes seemed to shimmer with some inner light. "Aye, Mother, I did."
Arthur stood and waved Jon over, offering the seat at his mother's beside, his hand clapping heavily on Jon's shoulders as the young man sat. "What do you think of her, lad?"
He feels his eyes widen, and he freezes, knowing that he has thought many things about sweet Daenerys, things not fit to share before his lady mother. "I," he stammers, looking between the pair, "I think she has a good heart."
Arthur lets out a low, knowing chuckle, and cuffs a hand against Jon's ear lightly. "Oh, yes," he utters, raising his brows at Lyanna and adopting a rather devious smile, "I've noticed you staring at her 'good heart'."
Jon let out a frustrated sigh, avoiding his mother's gaze, and frowns at the knight. "Ser, I would never-"
His mother takes his hand, then, and he slowly meets her eyes to find her smiling gently at him, as well as she is able, her face pale and drawn, but still, she is present enough to squeeze his fingers with hers.
"She is a lovely girl, isn't she?"
Jon nods, but thinks that is an understatement. She is the loveliest, the sweetest, the fairest to ever exist, he is certain. If only he didn't feel like he was on the verge of making a complete arse of himself whenever he was around her.
"If it comforts you, she does not bother to hide her longing looks in your direction, sweetling." A rough, hoarse laugh escapes his mother's chest at his look of surprise and bewilderment. "Do try to make her feel welcome, yes?" She is tired, Jon can tell, and as she speaks her eyes fall shut and she slumps back against her pillows.
He removes his hand from her limp grasp, and leaves, Ser Arthur just behind him, warring with the guilt that rises inside him at the notion that he is far more distracted by thoughts of the girl who consumes his mind to fret as he usually does about his mother's illness.
And the truth, he knows, as he heads to prepare for his daily training with Arthur and Gerold, is that it is a welcome respite, no matter how much it shames him.
He has grown up on tales of honor, yes, has supposed that he must have much of it, but it departs the moment he thinks of her again, flees him completely as he remembers her moonlight hair and the way her gowns fit to every curve of her.
Jon asks Daenerys, one morning, if she wishes to help him with his chores, and he is surprised by her enthusiasm when she agrees.
It must be boredom, he thinks, as she gathers eggs from the hens, almost gleeful as she fills the basket on her arm, her eyes finding his every few moments.
Her hand brushes his, as he gives her a milking pail, and his skin suddenly feels too tight, his every nerve alive at her barest touch. They talk, as they work, each day, of little things, small kernels of knowledge that they do not know of the other. She is fair, so fair his eyes ache with it, to be sure, but she is so much more, he discovers.
She does have a good heart. She shines with kindness, a palpable empathy that only serves to make her all the more desirable to his young heart. He finds her, sometimes, in his mother's room, brushing out Lyanna's hair, braiding it along his mother's pale temples. For Daenerys, his mother has a ready smile, seems as taken with the girl as Jon himself is, and when he comes upon them, together, he does not interrupt.
Rhaella, for her part, seeks him out increasingly. She seems cautious, at first, as though she fears she is imposing, but he does not mind the company. She helps him, one sweltering afternoon, in the kitchen, preparing the peaches and plums for jarring, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hair a wild, sweaty mess of silver. She tells him stories of Westeros, tales from her girlhood, happy things, but he knows by the sad glint in her eye that there are other tales, as well.
Sometimes, when she is in the right mood, she speaks of Rhaegar, Jon's father, and he finds he hungers for such knowledge.
The old Knight who serves her, Barristan, begins to train with Jon as well, and Jon is humbled by the man's praise, for while he might outpace both Gerold and Arthur in age, his skill with a blade is most impressive.
And at night, when the crickets sing in the fields, and the moon is high, he shares a wineskin with Daenerys, sitting as close as he dares, but never close enough. If not for his mother's worsening condition, he thinks, all would be right with the world.
Honor is all well and good, but he thinks he could spend the rest of his days without it if he could learn the softness of her lips.
Jon ventures into his mother's room, one morning, not long after sunrise, surprised to find that Rhaella is already there, speaking quietly, both women appearing to be thoroughly engrossed in their discussion.
But his mother spies him there, and gives him the ghost of a small, and beckons him closer.
"We must speak with you, Jon."
Rhaella's firmness makes the invitation sound more like an order, and trepidation claws at his throat as he shifts near, awaiting whatever pronouncement is to come.
"Daenerys is quite fond of you, Jon. As am I," Rhaella continues, her voice softening now with familiar kindness. Her eyes have lost their usual hard resolve, and she reaches to take his hand with her cool one. "Your mother and I, we would very much like to see the pair of you betrothed."
He feels as though the wind has been knocked from him, a sensation he normally only experiences in the training yard, and he takes a gasping breath, his mouth falling open in surprise. There is a moment of supreme embarrassment, when Rhaella lets out a merry laugh, and his mother rasps out a close approximation.
"You see," Lyanna whispers. "It hadn't even occurred to him."
That is not entirely true. Jon has spent many a night in his loft, lost in endless fantasies about what he would do if Daenerys were his. But he dares not mention that, he knows that while he has been absolutely courteous and honorable in his actions his mind has ventured down decidedly dishonorable avenues.
"Jon." Rhaella's fingers tighten against his. "I mean to take back what is ours. What belongs to us. What belongs to House Targaryen."
Jon swallows, hard; He has known for some time now that he has a legacy besides the one of House Stark, his mother's house, knows that in the land of Westeros, it was House Targaryen that ruled all Seven Kingdoms, until their fall.
"You must take your place with us, Jon. With you, we can seal our claim, and retake the Throne. I will take back my crown, and then, when I am gone, I mean for you and Daenerys to rule. Together. I mean to make you King, do you understand?"
Jon nods, mutely, not sure he can even begin to find the right words, now. He looks to his mother, who is eyeing him with a speculative look, a plea buried deep within her gray eyes as she watches him process this request.
"It is your destiny, Jon. Do you see?" Her voice is shaking, but not without resolve. "A Targaryen alone, sweetling, is a terrible thing. And soon I will be gone."
He shakes his head, and his eyes grow hot, though he knows she speaks truly, that the end is drawing near.
"Would you do this, Jon? Would you be her husband? Would you help me protect her, keep her safe?" Rhaella's voice is thick with emotion, now, her own eyes glistening as she beseeches jaw, her grip like iron. "We have many enemies. We need you, Jaeherys. She needs you."
Jon may not know many things; He has been raised on a farm, and he can till the soil, and he can tend to the livestock, and he can grow any manner of things. He can swing a blade, and he enjoys heated discussions over military strategy he has only read about in books. He knows his sums, and he has a decent hand, when he focuses.
But there is one thing he is certain of; He wants Daenerys, wants her for his, wants her with a selfishness that causes him no small manner of shame at times. But only if she wants him, too. He knows well of his mother's own arranged marriage to the Baratheon lord, and he does not think he could live with the notion that what he feels is not reciprocated.
"Is this what she wants?"
His hand is released, and something knowing flickers in his grandmother's eyes. "We shall leave it to her. Speak to her, ask her what she wants. Let her tell you herself."
Jon isn't even sure he can think straight, a flood of all the hidden fears and misgivings he's ever dared whisper to himself unleashing like a silent deluge.
He nods, again, then leaves, silently, his ears barely registering as the low murmurs of the two women begin again.
He spends the day in a haze, his tongue heavy as lead in his mouth when Daenerys tries to prod him into conversation. He wishes he were stronger, more self-assured, more confident. He wishes he was Jaeherys, this Dragon Prince they have come in search of, but he is just Jon. He doesn't know how else to be. He doesn't know if he can be what she needs, what she wants.
But as day turns to night, and she becomes withdrawn and forlorn, he knows he has wallowed too long. He has left her to the worst conclusions, and he needs to set things right. So, he finds her, perched on a stack of hay bales, the old striped barn cat purring in her lap, and asks.
Gods be good, but he isn't prepared to hear that she wants what he does, that she wants HIM, that their fears of the future are shared. She takes his hand, so naturally it's as though they've always done just this, and leads him to the barn, and in the glow of the lantern she shows him the future.
Dragon eggs. Real live dragon eggs. He is gobsmacked, and when he strokes a hand along the rough, scaly surface of the green egg Jon feels something, like a lick of flame against the pad of his finger.
But even that pales in comparison to the sound of her voice, when she says that yes, she would very much like to wed him, and he cannot help but finally give in to the unyielding pull that he feels when he is near her. He draws her close, and gathers her in his arms, and kisses her. It is cautious, at first, just the gentlest brushing of her soft, full lips against his, but soon he is adrift, lost and flung free from the ground below, his hands sliding against her face and hair, his lips nearly desperate against hers.
She moans, and kisses him back, so ardently that he knows, though he hates it, that he must stop.
He is honorable, at least he tries to be, and she is to be his wife. He can bear wait, though surely it will be an interminable one.
They walk back to the house, together, hand in hand, and Jon realizes that the warmth that suffuses him now is familiar. He is content, and for now, that is enough.
The night of his mother's passing, Daenerys has coaxed him from her room, the scent of death clinging, he thinks, to his very skin. It stings at his nostrils, and he is stricken by the urge to scrub at his flesh until it is gone, but for now, he cannot.
Instead, he sits at the table, his eyes locked on the wooden grain, as plans are made.
Arthur and Gerold, and Rhaella and Barristan, speak of travel, of leaving Meereen for Volantis, and they might as well be speaking a foreign language, for as little he retains.
Daenerys has threaded her fingers through his, holding tight, as though she means to fuse the digits together, so they might never be separated. He thinks, though he lingers in a deep well of misery, of sharp, fresh grief, that he would love nothing more.
She has sworn that she will love him, and never leave him, and though their time together has been brief, he believes her, wholly and completely. There is a holy devotion that lights up her eyes, something he is not sure he will ever deserve, but he know he must try.
It's what his mother would have wanted.
And, as she presses closer to him, whispers gently that he must eat another bite, he can accept that it is what he wants as well.
He looks up when he realizes that there is a quarrel afoot, Rhaella and Arthur seeming to square off against each other from their opposing seats on the long wooden table benches.
"She must be laid to rest. We need to see it done, before we leave." Arthur scrubbed a hand down his face, older than Jon has ever seen him, weary and beleaguered as he meets Rhaella's scowl. "Perhaps in the orchard-"
"No." Rhaella is deceptively calm, and Barristand, the old knight, rests a hand on her shoulder as she looks at each face in turn, finally resting on Jon's. "We burn our dead. That is our way."
Jon feels several stares settle on him, feels Dany's fingers twine more tightly against his. "Whatever you wish, Jon." Dany's whisper brushes against his ear, and he closes his eyes tightly and thinks.
"She was not a Targaryen, Your Grace." Gerold pipes up, cordial, but direct. "She was a Stark. We ought to send her home, perhaps, to Winterfell?"
"Not a Targaryen?" His grandmother's voice grows shrill and high, incredulous in the candlelight. "Did she not wed one, Ser? Did she not birth one? And raise one?"
Jon knows that his word will likely settle this squabble, and so he tunes out the bickering and tries to focus on what his mother would truly have wanted. Would she want to be at rest in the orchards, her bones left behind as they ride towards the future? He has never even seen Winterfell, and he cannot say what greeting they might receive, if they did try to take his mother's remains to her ancestral home.
She would want to be free. That's what Lyanna of House Stark would want, not left to rot in an earthly prison.
"The Queen is right," Jon finally says, and exhales heavily. He is so tired, so empty, suddenly. He wants to rest. "Let us burn her on the morrow, and set her free."
He watches as the flames consume his mother's frail body, feels the warm press of Daenerys against him, swallows as a tear tracks down his cheek.
They wait, all of them, for hours, until the flames have guttered out, until all that is left of the woman who gave him life, who taught him to walk, who raised him and sang to him at night, when he was afraid, who tended his scrapes and bruises, who always had an easy smile for her boy, is nothing more than ash.
And Jon realizes that if he is to move forward, he must let her go.
They load the carriage that brought the Targaryens to this place, with the few belongings they wish to take, his mother's trunk loaded with care, the dragon eggs as well, and when they pull away, that afternoon, Jon only looks back once, to say goodbye.
Volantis, he thinks, is a strange place.
It is a strange land, full of strange people, clad in red robes, who serve R'hllor, the Red God. Jon doesn't think he believes much in any God. His mother's people worshipped the Old Gods, and he knows that the Targaryens of Westeros pledged themselves to the Seven, but in his estimation it didn't do any of them much good.
He believes in Dany, now, and he thinks that is more than enough.
She has done something impossible, has hatched dragons from those eggs of stone, and two small scaled forms screech in greeting from the cage that has been constructed for them. He smiles, and climbs from the bed he shares with his new wife, coaxes the little dragons from their perches, and quietly pads back to her sleeping form.
Her back is bared, bed linens a tangle around her waist and legs as she sleeps on, her face buried in the pillow where she rests on her stomach.
Jon doesn't think he will ever be used to this, to the sensation of waking up beside her, of belonging to her, though it has been but two moons since they were wed.
He chuckles to himself as he slips back under the covers beside her, taking a moment to enjoy the way the morning sun gilds her in gold, his green dragon climbing his arm with ease and perching on his shoulder as he sets her down in the center of her back.
He laughs aloud when she begins to grumble, her black dragon scrambling for purchase as she rolls over, her bleary eyes finding him almost immediately as she slides a hand under the scaly black body that has slipped from her flesh and onto the bed linens.
"That was very wicked," she says in a sleepy, fuzzy voice, trying to scold him with narrowed eyes, but her lips twitch as she takes him in, his hair wild around his head from their exertions the prior night, and earlier that morning, his dragon chirping merrily from his perch. She kisses at her own dragon's tiny face, strokes a loving finger down the spine, and smiles at him. "I have a very wicked husband, don't I?" She coos at the small dragon in her hand, and winks at Jon, then rises, uncaring of her naked form now on full display.
No, he thinks, as he watches her every move, he will never really grow used to this, but perhaps there is something to be said for all these Gods. For surely, it was the divine that has brought Daenerys to him, and he is determined that he will spend every day that he draws breath in an effort to deserve her.
Daenerys teaches him Valyrian, instructs his clumsy tongue on the ways to form the language, tells him the commands he must know so that he will be ready, when the day comes, to command his dragon in turn.
Their beasts grow by the day, it seems, and they spend many fond afternoons together, laughing with their heads bowed close, watching as the small creatures work up their first gusts of flame, cooking small morsels of meat before they consume it.
When he grows aggravated with the syllables, tells her he does not think he will master the tongue, she comes near, and gives him a cheeky wink, and reminds him that his tongue is quite capable at other pursuits, and this ought to be no different.
It is all the encouragement he needs.
The taking of Westeros looms at the edges, always, a task which Rhaella has devoted herself to. She holds audiences with those who seek their favor, those who would align with House Targaryen as it rises from the ashes, and every morning she instructs Jon and Daenerys on the ways of court, sets them about studying from thick books written in some cramped Maester's hand.
He learns the histories of all the Kingdoms, learns of both the Great Houses and the small, and of the North he pays particular attention. He has known, of course, of House Stark, has learned his mother's lineage from the woman herself, and sometimes he finds himself wondering what she would say, if she were there, if she had survived to see the Iron Throne retaken.
He does not think she would care much for King's Landing, not from the tales he hears from his grandmother and the assortment of knights in their service. But he knows, and is convinced, that she would be in perpetual awe of the dragons.
Sometimes, in the dark of night, while their dragons sleep, and they have exhausted themselves in each other, he tells Daenerys just that, falls in love all over again with the way she slides her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face, and kisses him.
"We must be sure we make her proud, then," his wife always says, and he always pulls her close, falls asleep to the weight of her head on his shoulder, their legs tangled together, their hearts beating as one.
Jon has been sure, until the day his son is born, that he can love no more deeply than he already does. He is consumed by Daenerys, and it grows, by the day.
But then Torrhen comes, his little face red, squalling as he is laid against his mother's chest, still streaked with fluid, and he changes, then.
Mine , he thinks, as he nestles Dany closer, her back against his chest. Mine , he repeats, as he feels those tiny, wee little fingers grab at his larger one.
The love that blooms inside his chest is a ferocious, deadly thing, a thing with claws and fangs, a thing that burns through his veins. Outside, the dragons sing their song, as they take to the skies, as they trumpet out their cries in celebration, but inside this small room he becomes a father. He has not understood, until this day, what it would mean, how it would feel.
He thought he knew, as he watched his wife's stomach grow large with child, but he could not have known how bottomless such love could be, how sharp this newborn fear would threaten to carve his very heart from his chest.
Jon has always thought himself honorable, but as he holds the tiny bundle for the first time, as he presses a kiss to this small, helpless little babe, he knows that honor has finally departed him completely.
What is honor, compared to this? A fine, noble ideal, he thinks, as he closes his eyes, and breathes deep, and clutches his son more tightly, but he will toss it aside in a heartbeat for what he now holds, for the woman who has given him this most precious gift.
Honor is well and good but here, now, is something greater.
Jon is certain he must seem insufferable, to the host that now awaits their departure to Westeros, ready to raise every sword in battle to reclaim what belongs to the dragons. He does what he can, to aid in their plans, though he can readily admit that there are certainly many among their number with more practical experience than he possesses.
No, it is not his lack of experience, or his youth, that likely makes him almost impossible to be around for longer than mere moments, he suspects.
It is most assuredly due to the ever-present boy that he keeps nearby during his waking hours, the little lad who can always be found in either Jon's arms or his mothers, or, occasionally, in Rhaella's.
Torrhen is his joy, his grandest adventure, the foundation upon which his every choice has made.
He will give anything, do anything, to keep the boy safe.
He knows it is the same for Daenerys.
Jon makes it a practice, every day, to take the boy with him, cradled safe in his arms as he shows the lad off to anyone and everyone he comes across. Jon crows in delight over every aspect of the boy, waiting for agreement when he proclaims that Torrhen is the most perfect babe ever born, with the finest head of dark hair, and eyes so like his mothers.
He does not think he will ever tire of looking upon his son's face, or the solid weight of the body's small form against his chest.
And he will see the world burn, to keep this child safe.
The taking of Westeros plagues him with worry, for Torrhen's safety, for Dany's, even as their dragons grow larger.
Soon, they will be large enough to ride, and when that time comes, they will strike.
Perhaps, then, with three fully-grown dragons at their backs, Jon will find the undertaking less fraught with peril. But for now, he enjoys the relative peace that is afforded him, with the new little family he has forged with all the love he is capable of possessing.
The day Jon climbs atop Rhaegal, and feels the tremendous power unleashed as the beast takes to the skies, is amongst the finest of any he's ever experienced.
He imagines, as he streaks across a sea of blue, the wind whistling past his ears and carrying his joyous cry to the heavens, that his mother is there. He can see perfectly, in his mind's eye, the look of awe her face would wear, the excitement she would be bursting with at such a sight.
A twist of grief claims him, but only for a moment, because then a screech sounds from his left, and he turns to see Daenerys, his sweetest love, atop her own mount, and gaining fast.
He grins to himself, knowing what she's after, and the minute she blows past him, in a burst of flapping wings, he nudges at Rhaegal, ready to make chase. This is what he was born for, he can feel it, that sense of completion that makes his skin tingle and his heart pound. It is pure and undistilled exhilaration, and for a moment, high above it all, nestled amongst the clouds, they are free.
Jon thinks, as his sorrow turns to wistful sentiment, his smile remaining as he lets out a whoop and spurs the dragon onward, that his mother would be proud of him. Finally, he is exactly what he is meant to be.
The day the Lannisters fall, Jon feels himself a creature of burning vengeance.
It is easy, to bring forth his dragon's flame, in tandem with the others, and there is not an ounce of remorse in him as he watches these proud lions given over, at last, to such a fiery death as this.
In his mind, he tries to imagine the faces of the brother and sister he had, long ago, dead before he ever drew breath.
Rhaenys. Aegon. He repeats their names as the screams grow higher, then stop completely, finally. They screamed, he is sure. And their deaths, with so many others, lay at the feet of those who are little more than ash littering the stone steps.
He smiles, a feral thing, as his eyes meet his wife's. Between them, he knows there is a primal understanding, and he hopes that the people who have cheered for this execution remember it for the rest of their days, that they store away the terrible image of the fate of those who choose to cross them.
For those who act against Jon's family, there will be no mercy, only swift and deadly justice.
His mother, he thinks, would be very proud this day.
The Iron Throne is theirs, is reclaimed for House Targaryen, and it is Rhaella who wears the crown.
Jon comes to understand her intent rather quickly, as they tour the destruction of the city, as they take audiences in the broken remains of the Red Keep. She has told them both that she will command the people's fear, she will become the hard, unyielding figurehead necessary to establish their rule once more.
Rhaella is like iron in her resolve, and her smiles, now, are spared only for those closest to her. They come easy for Torrhen, who runs for his Lala with open arms, who giggles when she kisses his cheeks and tickles at his sides.
It is not until they are safely ensconced at the Dragonstone Keep that his grandmother grows less suspicious, and Jon finds himself enchanted with the place, with the gray stone walls and the carved, snarling dragons around every corner.
It feels like a home, a real, true home, where Torrhen's little legs send him bounding down the corridors, Jon hot on his heels, Daenerys trailing behind and laughing madly at the sight of them.
Her stomach is rounding once more with his child, another little babe that will no doubt steal his heart as the first has. Daenerys remains as beautiful to his eyes as she was the first day he saw her, if not moreso. In them both, some lingering child still remained, those years ago.
But now, when he spies himself in the looking glass, he does not see the boy from the Meereenese farm, not anymore. That smooth-cheeked, melancholy boy is gone, now, and in his place is a man grown. He is broad-shouldered and well-muscled from hours of daily training, his cheeks and jaw now masked with a short, dark beard that he takes great pains to maintain.
Daenerys likes to tease him about it, will sometimes act surprised at the sight of him behind her as she brushes out her silver hair, will gasp and exclaim at the Northern brute who's stolen into her rooms.
But then she fixes him with dark, smoldering looks, grabs a hand at the neck of his tunic and pulls him to their bed, moans in pleasure when his bearded jaw scrapes along the smooth, silky skin of her inner thighs.
She likes it, she tells him, when he sees his handiwork, worries at how he has reddened her skin. She confesses that the slight sting that she carries the next day just makes her think of him all the more, makes her slick with want to have him, again and again.
He is hungry for her already when he enters their dimly lit chambers, sees her standing by the window, painted in moonlight, her hair a silver curtain of waves that hang down her back. She wears only a thin dressing gown, the rounded curve of her belly cradled in both hands as she gazes out into the night.
But at the sound of the door closing she turns, and gives him the smile she saves only for him, and he can do nothing but hurry to her and wrap her in his arms. This is what he longs for most, during the day, that it will end, and he can have her all to himself, for just a while.
Jon shifts to stand behind her, so that his hands can cover hers, over the place where his child grows. He cranes his head and kisses softly at her cheek, before resting his chin on her shoulder, smiling as she relaxes against him.
"Has Torrhen finally consented to sleep?"
Dany laughs and lets out a put-upon groan. "After endless stories, yes. He wanted Lala to tuck him in, of course, and so she did, thank the Gods. I do believe he fancies himself a horse, currently, running everywhere he can manage. 'Tis rather hard for me to keep up." Her voice grows whisper-quiet as it trails off, and he can hear the smile in her words.
"I'm certain his Lala doesn't mind." He raises a hand to slide her hair over her shoulder, baring the pale, delicate line of her throat, plants an open-mouthed kiss at his favorite place, the tender spot where her neck meets her shoulder, and hears her quiet groan.
She tires easily, these days, well into her fifth moon of pregnancy, but just as with Torrhen, she is also in the grasp of a carnal hunger that he finds impossible to deny. The time will be upon them all too soon when this babe will come and he must keep his distance, and so he revels in the way she wants him, the way she always wants him.
And Daenerys, his lovely wife, his Princess, the one who will be Queen, takes what she wants.
She spins in his arms, before he can raise his head clear, and fuses her lips tight against his. He is always amazed anew at the feel, at the perfect fit of those plush, full lips against his. He is always amazed by everything about her.
Every version of her, from the sweet girl he wed in a temple in Volantis, to the one so magic she hatched their marvelous beasts from stone, to the fiery woman on dragonback, each is a discovery, but this one is his arms, glowing with life, her swelling stomach pressed against him, might be his favorite.
She pants against his lips, breaking away only to give him a hooded, lusty stare under the fringe of her lashes. "I have been aching for you all day." He groans, and drops his forehead to hers, his own desire nearly unmanageable, because it has been the same for him.
Daenerys walks forward, forcing him back, grinning at him when the backs of his knees hit the bed. She arches into his touch, as he slides his hands everywhere, marvelling at the heat of her skin beneath the thin fabric of the shift she wears. She is always like this, so hot to the touch, and he cups a full breast in his hand as he mirrors her smile. "Well, I am relieved then." She quirks a brow, bites back a whine as he teases his thumb over the peak of her nipple. "It wasn't just me, then?"
With a throaty laugh, she shoves, lightly, pushing him back onto the bed and tugging at his boots. "Now you're just teasing me." His boots are pulled free, and his stocking follow, and then she is attacking the laces of his breeches with gusto. He chuckles and helps her in her quest, working his tunic over his head and tossing it to the foot of the bed, before pushing up on his elbows to watch her progress.
She slows down, now, climbing up to lay along his right side, fingers working his trousers and small clothes down to free his cock to her hungry gaze.
Gods, the way she licks her lips at the sight will undo him completely, he's sure of it.
Dany teases the tip of her index finger up his length, her eyes locking with his, and his head falls back, the intensity of her stare threatening to overwhelm him as he chokes out a reply. "Now who's teasing, hm?" His words give way to a rumbling groan as she cups his cock in her hand, fisting his length lightly, just enough pressure to leave him burning for more. He reaches a hand blindly until he encounters the curve of her hip, and plucks at her shift. "You're still wearing this?"
It's almost a whine, and he might feel embarrassed at the way she's reduced him to such pleading, but she gives him a wicked, taunting smile and rises to her knees, drawing the garment over her head, hair fluttering down gently and settling around her body as she witnesses the way his eyes scan her newly-bared body with urgency.
Sometimes he feels like little more than a green boy again, abed with her, but that feeling is fleeting, because she has been his for years, and he has learned, in that time, how best to love her.
He knows how to touch her, and where, and when, could do so blindfolded, so thoroughly has he memorized every hiss and cry and moan.
And she is moaning, now, as he rises to his knees as well, his hands finding her tender breasts, molding their shape and testing their heft in his palms before he gently tweaks her stiff nipples, delighting in her breathy little cries.
He does not relent, knowing how ready she is for him by the way she arches into his touch, by the way her fingers dance along his hip bones and slips against his stiff erection, now nestled between them. She cups his stones in one hand when he claims her mouth with his, and for a few heady moments he devours her. His tongue slicks against hers, teasing the tip into the cavern of his mouth, only to retreat and begin the dance anew.
Jon lets his right hand drift down, a momentary abating of his lust as his bare fingers dance against her swollen stomach, and he feels her lips curve up against his as the affectionate touch. But he does not linger, lets his bearded jaw rasp against her neck and then takes great, grasping mouthfuls of her skin as his fingers slip still downwards, finding her cunt as swollen and molten and weeping as he's suspected.
He pulls away, delivering a final lick to the fragile line of her clavicle, and finds her eyes, so dark they seem black, wanton and endlessly excited. "Tell me what you want." It is softly delivered, yes, but still a command, and she shivers and licks at her bruised lips.
"Fast," she utters, and drops onto her elbows, raising her arse in the air and revealing herself to him completely, wiggling her hips enticingly. "Hard, Jon. Hurry." Now it is she who pleads, her eyes begging him as she peeks at him over her shoulder, her hips canting backwards and just brushing against his cock.
Denying her has never been something he's found himself capable of doing. And in this, he feels no need, for the sight of her there, supplicant, her eyes begging him to give her the roughness she craves...that would take a will and fortitude that he does not possess. He take himself in his fist, crawling forward on his knees just enough to tease the head of his cock against her soaked entrance, twitching in his hand as a low, keening cry escapes her at the contact.
He will always be amazed at how desperately she wants him, and how she makes no effort to hide it, how she embraces her desire and envelops him with it, feeding the fire of his own until, together, they have built an inferno. His lips twist in a feral smile, and he enters her with one smooth, powerful stroke, a guttural groan escaping when he's finally home, buried deep within her, as he is meant to be.
Jon does not hold back, because that's not what either of them want, really; When she's like this, she wants to feel it, wants to twinge at the soreness betwixt her legs the next morning, and then smile at him saucily as they break their fast, so that he knows exactly what the cause of her discomfort is.
He strokes inside her, again and again, his rhythm blind and urgent, his hips slapping against hers, his hand sliding down the notches of her spine to brace against her shoulder as his other anchors tight to her hip.
His sweet Dany, his wicked wife, is reduced to a babbling blend of his name and wanton, lusty cries, that will no doubt let the entire wing of the Keep know what the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone are up to in their rooms, but Jon has long stopped caring about that. She is so hot and slick around his cock, her cunt squeezing him with each sure thrust, and he grits his teeth as he feels release begin to knot and burn at the base of his spine, his stones tightening perilously.
She is so close, he knows, from the way her spine arches all the more sharply, the way she drops her face into her bent arms and the bed linens now muffle her cries. All it takes, to push her over the edge, is the hand on her hip that wanders and finds the swollen nub just above the place where his cock maintains its frantic assault, pounding into her. He finds that bundle of nerves, slips his fingers against it in well-practiced circles, relieved when at last, she screams with pleasure into the bedding and her cunt flutters and grasps at him in wave after wave of release.
He lets go, as well, the last of his control finally spent, and floods her with his seeds as his hips continue to meet the curves of her arse. He closes his eyes as he spills into her, savoring each jerky thrust as he finally begins to slow, and he follows her down onto the bed, stopping just short of laying completely atop her as she collapses, exhausted and sated and panting.
Jon slips out of her, rolling onto his side, catching his breath as she does, then leaning forward to swipe the tangled strands of silver from the now-damp flesh of her back, kissing her shoulder blade as he grins. "Feel better?"
"Mmmhmmm." She hums, and rolls as well, slowly, facing him, her lips spreading in a languid smile. Gently she lifts her fingers to his face and pushes back his own sweaty hair, then creeps forward to curl against him, kissing the tip of his nose. "Much."
He jerks, then, in surprise, because as her swelling stomach presses against his abdomen he feels motion, light but there, confirmed by her softening eyes. She takes his hand and presses it against the taut skin, and together they wait until, again, there comes a bump against their joined hands.
He swallows hard, not wanting the heat building in his eyes to progress and further, and draws her into his arms fully, her head against his shoulder, his face hidden as tugs their bedclothes over their bare bodies and lays back, getting comfortable.
In his heart, there has always been a part of him that wondered why his father had done it, had left his mother there in that tower in Dorne, knowing full well he had gotten a child on her.
But since Torrhen's birth, and increasingly so as the next nears, he finally understands.
If the Usurper had found out the truth, had known of the child that Lyanna carried, Rhaegar's last, he would have killed them both. He thinks his father must have known that as well, had ridden to battle in the Trident because he would not allow that threat to continue, unchecked. He had paid with his life, of course, and while Jon never said as much to his mother, while she lived, a part of him had resented the loss, had wondered why the man could not have just stayed, hidden away.
But now he knows.
He lets his hand drop back onto the comforting swell, closes his eyes as Dany nestles her face against his neck, feels the massive, unending well of love that she has created within him swelling and threatening to break past the barriers he has erected so that he's not a mooning, starry-eyed fool around her all the time.
He knows, now, what Rhaegar must have felt, if he truly loved Jon's mother as much as was claimed.
Because for this, for the woman in his arms, for the small, dark-haired little lad just down the corridor, for the life growing inside his wife even now, there is nothing he would not do.
There is no act of horror he would not commit, no blood he would not spill, no limit to the rage that would be unleashed if harm should ever befall them. He would plumb the very limits of his sanity, devolve into utter madness, if he lost them.
And so, he commits himself every day to the task he promised there in his mother's rooms, when Rhaella wished to know if he were willing to wed her only daughter, the sweetest girl his ever known, the very author of what joy is given him.
He will protect her, and love her, and see that she wants for nothing.
Or the world will burn.
Jon shuffles a sleepy Daenerys over just for a moment to blow out the bedside candle, then settles back into the warmth of her arms, lets the love that he feels for her settle over him like a heavy fur, that he is never given cause to show them all the sort of monster he could be.
He closes his eyes, and ponders the mantra that sprung to life in his mind as he watched his mother's body steadily consumed by flame. One day, that will be his fate as well. His flesh will turn to ash, and be swept into the wind, flying free for the rest of eternity. He knows such an end will come, although he hopes it will be a long time coming.
Jon has everything to live for, now, and this life is a terrifyingly fragile thing.
But he will not linger on such. He will die, yes. All men must die. But first, he will live.