Dany slipped through the flap at the front of Jon's tent and tried to calm her breathing as she stepped across the simple floor. She felt near tears, but she was stronger than that at least, surely? Jon did not move, though his breathing was not that of a sleeping man. She couldn't blame him; she'd seen his face when the Kingslayer threw the death of the Tarlys at her feet. She should have told him sooner, they'd had so much time, but she hadn't wanted to disappoint him. It had only hurt her to withhold it, she knew that now. Instead of giving explanations, she'd only been able to watch as his face fell. She never wanted to see that face again. She'd made him smile. Would he still now?

She slipped beneath the furs next to him, holding in a breath. Would he turn away?

No, of course, he wouldn't, she thought with relief when he turned to her and pulled her in to be cradled against his chest. She could feel the warmth of him seeping into her toes, the stirring of her hair where his breath caught it. She buried herself in the circle of his arms, pressed her cold nose to his collarbone. This was what love felt like, she knew. She'd never felt so peaceful as this, and laying in his grasp made the world fade away.

Dreams pulled at the dark corners of her mind and she dozed, though only in that half-world of mingled awareness and oblivion, feeling the movement of Jon's chest and yet feeling apart from it all. She knew he dozed as well because he was mostly still, but his breathing had not calmed enough to signal deep sleep. So when the urge to pull him closer and lay her lips against his neck came, she only acted, her brain too groggy to let her fear of his anger get in the way. It felt like half a dream when his lips found hers, gentle and soft and so innocent, and his arms tightened around her waist and pulled at her like he was trying to determine what was real. She could not even tell that he was real, that she had not dreamed it all, that she would not wake in the morning to find that she was still in Illyrio's manor, awaiting her wedding, her slavery, her escape from Viserys and the snake inside him, that she'd not met Lord Snow, nor heard talk of White Walkers except as myths. And yet it felt too real, too vulnerable as well, here with his hands weaving into her hair, his lips soft and warm.

She did not want to let their created universe—just the two of them beneath the furs, just the sound of their breaths, just the feel of his hands on her body—pass, and so she clung to it and him, not daring to break the moment. It felt like seconds and years had passed before he pulled her on top of him, before his entrance into her body dragged a sigh from her lips, and then another eternity passed in the span of moments before she felt the tightening within herself and her breathing sharpened, until her own tide swept him along like a raging current. She felt like a ghost as she pressed her lips to his collarbone, pulled away, and then curled against his side. He pressed his lips to her hair, and the silence held, but the dream world faded. The emotions roiled within her, threatening to break, and so she spoke to release some of the pressure building below her heart.

"I love you."

She had not meant to say those words, but they hung there and settled over Jon's shoulders like an extra blanket. He said nothing at first, only held still beneath her, the stir of his breath tickling tears she did not remember shedding on her cheeks. The words were true enough, but now that they were out, she knew they would hurt her. Someone or something would take him from her now, the gods would make sure of it, she thought. They had never let her stay happy for long.

"I love you, Dany," he murmured against her hair, and she felt her heart might explode out of her chest with the relief and pain and fear. He loved her, and that mattered. It mattered so much she worried she would fall apart if she lost him. She could not lose more, and he was everything. If she lost him, she would be lost.

"I was angry with you," he said after a long moment, his voice a hoarse whisper. Dany's heart rose into her throat in an instant, but he continued. "And yet I cannot find that anger now."

Dany took a deep breath, prepared herself for the worst, and then asked the question that haunted her every moment. "Am I too like him? My father?"

"I never knew your father."

"I meant… can you only see him in me now? His madness?"

"No. You are not mad, Dany."

It felt like warm water flowing over her to hear him say it, but the doubt lingered. "I fear I will become mad." She paused after that confession and then went on. "If not that, why were you angry?"

"I know that you are a Targaryen and fire is in your blood… but I truly cannot abide burning men." Jon's voice was soft like he feared her reaction.

"Is it any different than putting a man to the sword?" she said it gently, trying to understand, not defending her actions as she might have to anyone else. She wanted to know how his mind worked, how he saw the world so that maybe she could see it too.

"Have you ever burnt?" He knew she had not, she was the Unburnt, but she wasn't meant to answer. He pulled one of his hands away from her skin and held it aloft in the dim moon and torchlight seeping through the tent walls. His palm and fingers were pale with scars that stretched as he flexed the taut skin. She knew of his first wight encounter of course, but she still shuddered. She was not cold, but he pulled the furs closer to her and wrapped her up again. "A sword will kill a man in an instant if swung true. A man who burns… he suffers. It feels as though your body has turned against you, and is trying to melt away into nothing. Dragonfire may act quickly, but I think the Tarlys suffered in those moments before death."

"I do not swing a sword," she said simply, but more pressing questions interrupted that thought. "You do not hate me for burning them?"

"No… I could not hate you. I wish…" he said, his voice trailing. Anything, Dany thought, I'll give you anything. "I wish you had told me yourself, though. I know when it happened it would not have made sense when we were not true allies, but after," he said. "If only so I could have written to Sam."

"Sam?" Dany asked.

"I've spoken of him before; he's on the Night's Watch, I sent him to become a Maester."

"I remember… But why…"

"Samwell Tarly is his full name," Jon explained. "Randall was his father, Dickon his younger brother."

Dany closed her eyes. If she had known that those men were connected to Jon, that their deaths would have affected him so, would she have slowed? No, the honest part of her whispered, you didn't know you loved him then. She knew now. She would never lose that knowledge. Would it make her stronger or weak? She feared the answer.

"Sam had no love for his father, but Dickon had been kind to him, and his mother must be grieving, and his sister. I just wish he could have heard it from a friend." Dany could not answer him. She had hurt him so deeply with one decision, she wondered how she would next do it. With her own words? Jon took a deep breath and she held tight to him, and then he surprised her. "I will be your sword if you'll have me. No more burning. Too many good people die by fire. Let them die by the cool touch of steel instead, if they must die."

"Who has burnt, that you knew? Aside from your grandfather." She asked before she could withhold the words.

"I never knew my grandfather. But I knew a little girl. She was burned as a sacrifice to the Red God. She did not deserve that fate; she was too kind for this world. Davos, he nearly killed the woman who did it. I banished her from the North to save her life, but I swore no one else would burn. I'd watched the same woman try to burn Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall. I put an arrow through his heart, risked my own head, just to stop his screaming. I had no real love for Mance, but I couldn't stand by… I couldn't hear him crying out in pain." Jon drew a steadying breath. "And Gendry tells me that the first time Davos saved him, he was bound for the same pyre. Davos put him on a boat and saved his life." He fell silent, and Dany nuzzled into his still chest.

"No more burning," she whispered, then kissed his scar.

"Thank you."

"Will we survive without Cersei's army?" she asked, the words coming out in a frightened child's voice after the silence had stretched to cover them both.

"I don't know," Jon sighed in an honest breath, and Dany held him all the tighter as a shiver crawled up her spine. He pulled her closer as well, trying to protect her from even her fears. She had never wanted protecting, but he made her want to be if only he'd hold her forever.

"If we die, at least we'll die together," he said in a burst of morbid humor.

"If I've come all this way to die in the cold, I'll bring fire and blood to the gods—whichever ones I meet in the end," she said and his lips tugged into one of those precious smiles.

"I'd expect no less, my queen," he said with a hint of teasing. She felt him trace a thumb over her ribs and the wonderful smile faded.

"You've not been eating," he said with thick worry.

"Our people have not been eating either."

"Our people need you healthy," he said, and she knew he was right, but she defended herself nonetheless.

"In truth, I've been wanting to eat more because of the stress. More than I ought, and I've stopped paying attention to how much food passes my lips." When had she eaten last? That morning? She could not remember.

"Shall I have Missandei count your bites?" he joked, then grew serious. "An extra roll will not break the people, my queen. They're all too used to hunger. We will fix that when the end has gone, but for now…"

"I'll eat," she promised because the words he said made sense. The kiss he pressed to her forehead made it worth it.

"Good."

They settled into silence again, but Dany was no longer drowsy, only preoccupied. All his talk of Sam, of family, circled in her mind, and she thought of his own family, of her lack of one. She desperately wanted one of her own. People she could rely on, people she did not have to mourn because they were by her side.

"Are you—" The question burst from her lips but she slowed herself. "Are you excited to be going home?"

Another moment's silence passed and Dany realized this was one of the pieces of Jon that she loved. He thought through his answers, found reasons for his words. "It's not truly home anymore," he said.

"Where is home then?"

"I'm not sure. But Winterfell only holds memories now. It does not hold me as it once did. The North calls, but not the castle."

"I do not know home either. Just the red door," she whispered. He rubbed a hand up her back to ease that ache. That was one of the things she loved as well, his ability to read her like he would a scroll, to soothe her aches, imagined or real.

"You'll find home again, one day," he promised, but she knew that if she thought about it, she would come to the conclusion that she already had, and it smelled like wolf's fur and firewood and had grey eyes so dark they looked like charcoal.

"And you?"

"I hope to as well," he said faintly. Where? She wondered but did not ask in case it was not with her.

"Jon?" she murmured, still thinking it.

"Dany," he said, and the sound made her stomach flip.

"Will you stay in the North? After." So much for not asking, she thought, but she could not regret the words.

"I'll go where you need me, my queen. To win the second war. To get you your throne."

Her heart already sinking, she hesitated and then asked, "And after that?"

She felt him look down at her then, and his hand reached for her face, tenderly smoothed away the anxious wrinkles from her forehead, then lifted her chin. His dark grey eyes searched hers and she felt small, young in that gaze. He looked the same in moments like this, when it was just them, alone and safe in their solitude. Dany tried to find the answer to her question in his eyes and watched him take a deep breath.

"Wherever you'll have me," he said slowly. "But I would hope that you'll have me wherever you are. I'll not lose you, Dany, not even to duty."

A spark of something grew within her, filling her with warmth despite the quiet fear that sat on her stomach. Would the gods take him too? He kissed her forehead gently, then pulled away to speak again.

"I knew a man who said that love is the death of duty. He was right; he was always right. In the end, though, his love for you killed him and his duty, too. He never reached you, but he was trying to find you for the love he bore you. I never did understand." He trailed off, and Dany nearly lost him to memories.

"Who was he?" she asked, wondering who he could possibly mean.

"I'd not give you pain," Jon hedged.

"What is one more pain?" she asked, meaning to kid, but it came out too serious, and Jon's jaw clenched in his own show of hurt.

"He was your family. Maester Aemon Targaryen, Aegon V's elder brother. When he heard you were alive and fighting for your birthright… he needed to see you. And I let him go. He caught his death while bound for Old Town."

This pain that tore through her made her stiffen. She hadn't even known she had a relative looking for her, an uncle who loved her for their shared blood. How had she lost so many family members? How had she survived when none else had? She forced her words out, slow and deliberate, trying to hold the grief at bay. "What made you think of him now?"

"When he told me that love was the death of duty, I didn't understand, not really. He was trying to convince me to stay at the Wall when I heard my father had been murdered. And his words worked, twice. I loved my father, I loved Ygritte, but I didn't turn from my duty for long. But now, for the first time, if I had to choose again between love and duty… I'd choose you, Dany, every time. And now I understand."

She let the silence after his words envelop her, let a pit grow in her stomach. He would give up everything for her? Had she ever been so loved? It hurt her to voice the thoughts swirling around in her head, but she whispered them anyway. "Jon… I cannot ask you to do that. What about your family, your people? You would never leave them when they needed you."

"Our people," he corrected, his voice strong and sure. "And… our family. If you'll have them."

"What?" she asked breathlessly, propping herself up on her elbow to see his face, to try to see if he meant what she assumed. Part of her ached with hope while another floundered, and Dany felt she might spiral into tears again. Happy tears? Or disappointed ones?

"Marry me. In front of gods and men." Happy tears then.

"Jon—"

He rolled so now he was propped above her, the dim light enough to highlight his cheeks and hide his burning gaze. He was breathtaking and yet she breathed. Looking at him, she felt he was the reason everything had happened to her; she was meant to find him, meant to hold him. He stroked her cheek, the corner of her lips with calloused fingertips. "I'm yours, my queen, now and always. I want to give you everything: myself, your kingdoms, a home, a family, children. But I promised myself I'd never father a bastard. I'd do it for you, I'd do anything for you, but I'm asking you to do this for me. I love you, and I swear I'll never take your crown, your kingdoms. I'm yours. Take me; make me yours in the eyes of gods and men as I already am here."

"I've never worried that you'd take my crown," she whispered in shock, searching his gaze. "I've only worried that I'd lose you. When—when you went beneath the ice…"

"I know. You'll never lose me."

"If… If our enemies know how much we care for each other, they'll try to hurt us."

"They'd try anyway," Jon said as she leaned into the hand he held cupped against her cheek. There was that wonderful feeling again, the feeling of being fragile and yet strong, flying and yet falling. "They'll always try to harm us. We are stronger together; don't you feel it?"

"Yes," she murmured, her lips grazing the inside of his palm. She wanted to kiss every inch of him, but held her eyes to his, tried to find any way to express how full she felt. She gave up—she'd have to show him another way. Instead, she took a deep breath. "If anyone takes you from me, they'll not live long."

"You'll—"

"I'll marry you. At Winterfell, in front of gods and men."