I hate that this is becoming a thing, but sorry for the delay. I'm trying tho!

Warning: angst angst angst. In fact, I oughta say that's mostly what I write (If you couldn't tell), as well as drama and poetic irony and probably too many metaphors. So just to put it out there, the road ahead for Jon and Daenerys will not be an easy one. Hence the disclaimer.

It all serves a purpose, I promise!

ps. I sorta breezed through the end in an effort to get this posted, sorry bout that.

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: world is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think, incorrigibly plural...
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

from Snow by Louis MacNeice

Jon

❄️

Jon was certain of little in life, that much had always been true, but he at least understood himself. He'd moulded that person after Eddard—who was still his father and yet he was not— so he'd trusted himself, his instincts, for the most part. Now, if someone asked him who he was, he wouldn't be able to answer with any amount of certainty. He could not even say his own name without stuttering to figure out what exactly it was.

He'd never felt like this before, as if he were being pulled at in so many directions, his own mind and heart at war, so bent out of shape he could no longer discern the right choice, decision, or thought from the wrong one.

He cared for Daenerys, deeply, maybe loved her even. He'd been fairly sure of it not too long ago, but that something that burned under his skin when she was around, thinking now, was that his Targaryen blood calling out to hers, or his own?

He'd gone ahead with his marriage for many reasons, none he could explain even to himself properly, especially since he'd dreamt of it many moons before he'd met her, and it had been Bran, who'd shown him. Yet, it had been his brother too, who'd shown him the truth of his birth.

There was only one thing in all of it, in which he could not bring himself to feel regret. In fact, much the opposite, because despite finding out his true father had beed a Targaryen, he finally knew who his mother was. She had never given him up, she had loved him. It was only made sweeter by the fact that she had the wolf blood of a Stark.

He knew knowledge of this would change everything, knew he had to tell someone, including his new wife, but he couldn't bring himself to share it, not yet, not until he knew himself what it meant to him.

The moment he saw her though, the jumble of his thoughts disappeared, and he lost himself in the depth of her eyes, wide and expressive, bright with something that seemed to shine only for him. It wasn't until they made their way back to the keep, and their now shared room, that he remembered what was expected of him, not that he'd forgotten truly, only the many implications and potential ramifications behind it.

It was when he closed the door behind him that he knew he couldn't. He wasn't ready to take that leap, he couldn't take that leap, not with everything clouding his judgement.

But how would he tell her that?

He wished his father were here to guide him, and it was not Rhaegar Targaryen who came to mind.

He served them each a cup of wine, her fingers skimmed his deliberately before he pulled away, and sipped at his wine to defuse some of the tension he felt.

She followed his lead, drinking it all in one fell swoop. She put the glass down on the closest surface to her.

"Come to bed Jon," She said then, her voice sultry smooth, like silk.

Then she made her own way there, and stood waiting. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. After a few moments, as he didn't move, her brow wrinkled before she spoke again.

"Something the matter Jon?"

He drank the rest of his own wine before he finally said the only words he could find.

"I can't."

Her brow furrowed, confused, but only for a moment. The look on her face then, as she spoke, he would never forget.

"I do not understand, is it something I did? I know I can be difficult, but I care for you Jon—"

He interrupted her. "It's not anything you did, just— there's too much Daenerys."

He took a deep breath, deciding he needed there to be some truth after all.

"With the High lords, and our union, south and north, my sister, the Lannister, Theon, and the northern lords, we need to focus on what truly matters right now. We need to be preparing for the Night King, and I can't—" afford to get lost in love.

And didn't that sound maudlin like the songs Sansa used to like? Though it was the truth, at least in part, he could not say such things, this was not that world. He was not a part of such things.

"What? Can't afford distractions? Is that it?" She continued when he failed to find the right words. "Is that what I am to you?"

He heard the hurt hidden in her tone, and finally found himself enough to speak.

"I care for you Dany, too much. But the long night is coming."

And now the words wouldn't stop pouring out.

"I may have left the wall and abandoned the black, but I took an oath to protect the realm of men, and right now, that is what I need to do. Who I need to be."

She didn't say anything, but she was also not looking at him.

"After, when it is over—" This time she interrupted him.

"You will be welcome to stay and rule from the North, with its icy chill. I will not fight for it."

She turned from him then, and though it did not sound as if she were crying, he knew it would be best if he left. He made to move when she whirled on him, and suddenly she was all edges, burning with her own icy expression.

"You will not do me the discourtesy of leaving this room."

There were so many questions in his head from her earlier words, but he said nothing, only held her eyes before he stepped over to one of the chairs and sat, his back to her. After a few moments, he heard her steps and the rustling of fabric, but he never looked, instead he stared into the fire, unmoving.

❄️

Sometime later he finally stood, though he couldn't say how much time had passed. He made his way over to the table with the intention of pouring himself more wine, but when his eyes fell on the bed and where she lay, his feet unconsciously brought him closer to her though she never stirred.

She did not look peaceful in her slumber; he wanted to smooth out the wrinkle in her brow with his thumb, ease her tension away with his hands, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He was lost in the barrage of his conflicting thoughts, and the battle still waging between mind and heart—or perhaps more accurately, body. In the end it was fear that won out as she shifted in her sleep, so he stepped away, over to the table where the pitcher sat and refilled his cup.

He had never been much for wine, preferring ale, but he'd gone with the former for the occasion. He drank a cup quickly before serving himself another, and then returned to his vigil by the fire, thankful for the distraction as the blaze was beginning to wane.

Setting his cup down on the mantel, he added some more wood to the hearth, prodding for a few moments at the logs to balance out the flame. Not forgetting his wine, he returned to the chair and sat, wondering if he would ever find clarity again.

He'd finished the wine by the time her voice startled his thoughts.

"Jon?"

He turned to look at her, standing beside him in her warm woolen shift, her cheeks flushed red, and sleep still clinging to her. She was soft and warm, and gone was all the chill of their earlier conversation, almost as if it had not happened. It was disheartening since he knew it could not last, didn't know how it had even come to be.

There must have been something in his expression, as she spoke, her voice tender and gentle, a tone that could only exist in a fleeting moment such as this.

"What is wrong my love?"

He didn't know how to answer, afraid his voice would burst this tenuous moment, so when she placed a hand on his shoulder, he finally gave in, and pulled her close, his arms wrapped tightly around her and he pressed his face into her chest. He relished for a few moments in the feel of her, in the comfort she so clearly wanted to give him, until he felt her shiver.

Then suddenly, without deliberate intent his fingers were pulling at her shift, undressing her, eyes boring into hers before they found the curves of her body, just as his hands had. He pulled her into his lap, let her undress him. She stilled though, the moment she had pulled off his last layer.

The wounds on his chest had healed, but the scars were still stark against his pale skin. She trailed her fingers over them lightly, her expression dark and her brow furrowed both with anger and worry.

"How did you survive these?" She asked, finally looking at him.

"I didn't," He answered truthfully.

Oddly enough, telling her was relatively easy. He suspected it was because there were more urgent matters on his mind at present. He didn't start at his death though, that was where he ended, a vague 'A red priestess brought me back' to answer the question he knew would follow. Nor did he start at what he considered the beginning: The day he joined the watch and realized the glory he'd imagined, was of his own imagination.

He began somewhere in the middle, after he'd been made Commander, when resentment had long since been festering, but before he told the other men of his plan to bring the wildlings across the wall.

Her expression was a mixture of anger and sorrow, but the latter won out as she raked a hand through his hair and mumbled softly, "Oh Jon."

He kissed her then softly, her arms settled over his shoulders pulled him closer, likely with the intention of deepening the kiss, but he pulled back, suddenly afraid of what would happen if he let her.

It was likely the shock of hurt in her eyes that led him to speak the jumbled words he'd been holding back all this time, feeling a sudden desperate need for her to understand. Not what he knew, but what he felt.

"I want you, you don't know how much," He said, pulling her closer, resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed.

"I want to lose myself in you, forget everything weighing on my shoulders. If we go that far—I will, and I don't know that I'll be able to come back from it."

"What does that even mean Jon?"

He couldn't tell her, not yet, so he opened his eyes and kissed her instead, knowing he shouldn't but doing it none-the-less, knowing he would likely never regret the feeling of her mouth against his, even if things ended between them.

It seemed to work, since she was kissing him back, her mouth parting easily. But then he felt her hands tugging at the ties of his trousers and he found himself pulling away. If he undressed any further, he knew what would happen, and he could not take that step, not yet. So he returned to the fireplace, and stood there, trapped by the fire he felt, not the one burning in his hearth, but in his mind and body. It was no use though, trying to find his sanity in the inferno, so he turned away, only to find her looking vulnerable and exposed and suddenly he felt the scales tip in favour of his heart.

He could not make love to her, but he could give her this—would let himself have this at least too, regardless of whatever kind of man that made him. So he went back to her and picked her up, and delivered her lightly to their bed, kissing her once fiercely before he settled her back onto the furs, and trailed his mouth down her stomach until he found the heat between her legs.

After, he fell asleep as he held her in his arms, deep and dreamless for the first time in weeks.

In the morning, he woke early, allowing himself a few moments to look down at her. Her hair was a messy halo around her, her expression relaxed, mouth slightly open. He touched her shoulder lightly, tracing his fingers down to her neck and then her hair, smoothing it back, then placed a soft kiss to her temple. She let out a soft breath, but otherwise didn't react. Reluctantly, he slid out of bed before she did wake, knowing the harsh light of day would bring it all back, everything they had let themselves—mostly—forget.

He decided not to leave the room, to wait for her to go to the hall, remembering how thoughtless it'd been of him, to even consider leaving her alone in his room, on the eve of their marriage. They'd not gone through with the bedding ceremony of course, but he knew that wouldn't stop the entire castle from knowing if he'd left his chambers. His guilt was assuaged, a little at least, in knowing that no one would doubt the legitimacy of his marriage, not with the sounds Daenerys made that night.

He was dressed and had just finished prodding at the fire when she woke. She smiled sleepily for a split moment, but then, like waking from a pleasant dream, her eyes turned to steel as she remembered.

She kept her gaze on him for a long moment before she turned away and slid out of the bed, and without covering herself walked over to the door that led out of the room and towards the place where he knew Missandei slept.

She was gone a long while, but she finally came back, dressed in her red velvet gown, her hair braided tight, the bells chiming in her hair as she approached him.

"Shall we?" She said smoothly, without emotion.

He hated the chasm he felt growing between them. "Daenerys—"

She cut him off, "You were right. We have greater matters to attend to. If there's an after, we can speak of it then."

He really did not know who he was anymore when he felt himself nod. After a few moments, he finally broke the silence.

"It's time to tell your southern lords of the night king."

"And your northern lords of your sister's betrothal to Ser Jaime," She replied, her voice sharp, but steady.

❄️

Sometime after they broke their fast, they retired to his solar, and had Missandei summon both his sister and the Lannister, both deciding it was best to inform them first. Jon thought to summon Gendry after, to speak of the Stormlands, hoping the man wouldn't object to Jon formally giving him the lands this evening as well.

Things had remained cool and detached between him and Daenerys, but she held his arm as they walked to the Great Hall, smiled during dinner at the occasional cheer for the newlyweds, and then sat beside him in his solar.

He served her a cup of wine without asking, and himself some ale as they waited. She nodded in polite gratitude, but otherwise said nothing, and hardly looked at him. He let the silence sit, unable to find anything to say, but thankfully his sister arrived, and then Ser Jaime, and the tension though still there, could be mistaken for another.

"The King and I will announce your engagement tonight," Daenerys said, not wasting any time.

Ser Jaime tensed though he tried not to show it, his sister didn't even flinch, instead she gazed at him with piercing eyes.

"After everyone has sworn fealty I presume?" Sansa said then, and though it was a question, it was clear she was not truly expecting an answer.

She likely wouldn't believe that it had been at his suggestion, and felt slightly ashamed to admit it. Daenerys did not seem to have noticed though when he told her, had only agreed.

It was her who answered cooly, "And after your brother has told my southern lords of the Night King and his army. It will be a night to remember I'm sure."

She reached for the wine and poured herself a cup, she looked around the table, her eyes landing on the Lannister, who seemed frozen stiff by the news. In the end, she poured him a cup and slid it over.

"You look like you could use it," She said to him when he looked over at her.

"And if they do not agree?" Jaime said then not addressing her words, but reaching for the cup none-the-less.

"They will," Sansa answered him. Their eyes locked for a moment before Ser Jaime extended his hand with the wine, seemingly offering it to her.

Jon wasn't entirely surprised she accepted it, she was fond of wine, he knew. What caught him off guard, and probably forced him to speak his next words, was after she took a sip she handed the glass back to him.

"After, Ser Jaime, along with most of the other Lords and Ladies, will return south, to prepare for winter and send provisions North. In his case, he will return with his army. Sansa as Lady of Winterfell, you'll remain here."

They both turned to him then, Jon mildly pleased when the Lannister set the glass down.

"I will do no such thing. I will go south with Ser Jaime, otherwise what is the purpose of our marriage?"

He'd expected a refusal of course, to which he had an easy rebuttal, "You're the Lady of Winterfell—"

"It won't be for long," Sansa interrupted him. "And in any case, you'll remain here until I return."

All eyes turned to her, but she ignored them all, looking at Jon like Arya used to whenever she'd made her mind up about something. Like his petulant little sister, he thought, unable to help the subtle upturn of his lips.

"Alright Sansa," He relented, sighing deeply.

He felt Daenerys turn to look at him with what was likely surprise since he'd given in so easily. In truth, he hadn't truly expected his sister to agree, no matter what he said. He'd still tried of course.

❄️

The brief ceremony, though it had hardly been that, had been held in the great hall before the evening feast. Jon told them of the Night King, and what was expected of each Kingdom, but he let Daenerys break the news of Sansa's betrothal.

The first had been met with skepticism, the second outright hostility. In the end, both submitted, the Southern lords to Jon, but it had been Sansa, who tempered the Northern Lords into acceptance, not with submission, but with a show of her own power and veracity.

"I am a Stark and the Lady of Winterfell, and it is my decision. I will be the one marrying him, not any of you. You do not need to like it, but do not think for one moment that I need your permission."

The grumbling did not stop, and just as Lord Glover opened his mouth, to throw out some threat no doubt, his sister didn't let him.

"Leave if you wish, but we all know you aren't going anywhere. There is nowhere safer than Winterfell, and that is thanks in part to our southern allies, so you may as well accept it."

Surprisingly the Hall quieted after she spoke, somewhat at least, there were still hushed whispers throughout the room, but no one spoke up.

Sansa looked over at Lady Lyanna, whose expression wasn't without reproach. Her voice grew soft as she spoke then, and though her tone was lighter than his had been, it still reminded Jon of their father.

"Someday the North will remember this too. That the south came to our aid."