Jon opened the door to his chambers and found Arya flipping a dagger hand to hand, watching the sky through the window he'd left ajar. "You weren't in the council," he said, then moved to watch the snow fall with her.

"I like to avoid them," she said with a smile. "Let Sansa play with egos. It's more her game."

"And yours is?"

"Needlework, or the game of faces," she said.

"Have you shown him those faces?" Sansa asked, pushing Bran into the room.

"What faces?" Jon asked, then took the task of wheeling Bran's chair to the fire. "I could have brought Bran here," he said to Sansa. "Was Sam with him?"

"I didn't see Sam. Lord Clegane carried Bran for me," Sansa said, turning away, and Jon wondered whether he'd imagined the odd tone over Sandor's name. "Well?" she asked Arya.

"No; they're in my chambers."

"What faces?" Jon asked again as he resettled the blanket over Bran's legs, and wondered what his brother—cousin—saw behind the blankness of his eyes.

"Arya trained with the Faceless Men."

"And quit, as well," she said firmly. "But not before I learned how to change faces."

"Gods," Jon whispered, shaking his head as he settled in front of the hearth himself. Sansa brought him a cup of mulled wine from the sideboard and he noticed the tray laid out from the kitchens. She'd prepared for their stories, he noted, arranging it as if it were a formal meeting. "Thank you," he said, covering her hand with his own for a moment.

"Always, Jon," she said, and then sat as well, straight-backed, her hands folded around her own cup. "That story may be getting ahead of ourselves, though."

"I thought we might jump a little further ahead," Jon said. "There are things I need to tell you. That I need to ask of you."

"What?" Arya came up beside Sansa, a cup in hand as she lowered herself onto the arm of her sister's chair, her shoulder propped against the back. He wished he could have them painted, just like that, a study in opposites. Sansa, her hair kissed by fire, the picture of poise, grace, and manners, and Arya, dark as their father, a whirlwind come to settle, and yet, still one blood, still sisters. When the wars were won, he'd have it done in miniature, keep it with him always so he could have them near.

"First… Bran told me something today that I need you to hear." Jon looked at the boy, wondered where his thoughts were. "It was hard for me—it's still hard." He paused again, looked at the fire, took a sip.

"Is that—"

"Let him speak, Arya," Sansa said, not chiding, as she might have done when they were younger, only asking.

"No, no, once I start, it'll be hard to stop, I think. What is it?"

Arya bit her lip, studied him a moment. "Is that why you fainted? And why you—Ghost…"

"Yes. I think so, yes."

"What was it like?" Sansa asked, and Jon smiled for a second. They could not be more different, and yet Dany had asked him that same question, with that same intonation, that same wistful note.

"It was…confusing in the first moments. Ghost took over for a while. And he just ran, and ran. The smells, the sounds, there's nothing like it. I… I wanted to stay within him forever."

"I understand," Bran whispered, and Jon looked at him, surprised to see the blue of his eyes relatively clear. If anything, Jon would have thought he saw grief in them. He reached for Bran's hand, squeezed.

"I bet you would understand better than most, Bran."

The boy nodded and looked away.

"I have dreams sometimes," Arya said, in a half-whisper. "Of being a wolf. Running, hunting. I think… I think it's Nymeria. I remember dreaming of hunting some horsemen through the woods around the Gods' Eye when Gendry and I were there. I…" She shook her head and looked away. Sansa reached out to hold her hand, just as Jon held their brother's. Jon blinked at the thought that Gendry and Arya knew each other. Why wouldn't Gendry have told him? He let it slide for the moment.

"Cersei and Joffrey took that from me as well then," Sansa said, with a sad smile. When Arya stroked the back of her sister's hand, Sansa shook herself. "I do dream of Lady, sometimes. But we are never together like that."

The silence that fell was charged with unspoken wishes and sadness. Sansa took a deep breath and broke it herself. "What was it, Jon, that Bran told you?"

Jon looked at Bran, squeezed the small hand he still held. "I'll tell them, if you don't mind, Bran."

The boy nodded, no expression on his face. It made Jon ache a bit to see the shell he'd become, but even this was better than the ghost that he became when his eyes went unseeing. He knocked the thought away and sighed.

"It's going to be a shock; let me tell it all or I'll not get through it," he said, taking one last sip of the wine—not for courage, he told himself, just for thirst. "Ned Stark was not my father." He shook his head when Arya opened her mouth to argue. "I promise you, I'll explain." And so he did, ending with only, "So he brought me here, gave me a new name, and hid me from Robert. The rest you know."

"What did Lyanna name you?" Sansa asked, her hand on Arya's arm as if holding her back—and perhaps she was.

"Aegon," he said, past a lump in his throat.

"A good name," she said, nodding. "I believe I like 'Jon' better." She held his gaze firmly. "You are our brother, Jon, no matter who birthed you. You must remain so, regardless of how we may feel."

"What does that mean?" Arya asked. "You are our brother, yes—but you're also a Targaryen. A prince—a king—and the line of succession goes through you, not Daenerys—"

"And how would the queen like that?" Sansa asked to halt the flow of words. She studied Jon's face for a moment, then corrected herself. "She knows. How does she feel?"

"I've bent the knee again. I do not want a crown."

"What do you want?" Her eyes twinkled with mirth.

"Why would you bend? What do you mean he has to stay our brother?" Arya asked, getting up to pace, the frustration too much. "I don't understand."

"Arya, think for a moment. Jon is not Ned Stark's son. What would that mean to the North?" Sansa took a sip of her wine as Arya paced, chewing her lip.

"He'd not be Lord of Winterfell… so he couldn't be King in the North, couldn't bend, couldn't command loyalty. But as a prince—"

"They'd not follow a Targaryen," Sansa finished.

"They'd follow you," Arya said.

"Maybe."

"But—"

"Tell me, Arya, if Jon were not here, what would stop another man like Ramsey from storming the castle and wedding me by force so he could claim the title?" Sansa's hand shook as she lifted her cup again, sipped. "Jon must remain Lord of Winterfell. He must still be our brother, for the whole of the Kingdoms to stay balanced."

Arya stared into the fire, nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"You've changed," Jon said with a smile. That made Arya smirk, and she turned.

"I wonder if you could ride the dragons," she said.

"Maybe not changed so much, then," he corrected, and Sansa laughed—a noise he'd not heard from her in far too long.

"You're helping Jon dodge my question," she said to Arya, then turned to Jon. "You don't want a crown; what do you want?

"Her."

"And?"

"We marry on the morrow."

"Gods—" Arya said. "Tomorrow?"

"This will not be taken well, Jon," Sansa said.

"No, I didn't think it would be." At Arya's confusion, Jon elaborated. "Consider what happened to Robb, Arya."

"You're not promised to some idiot Frey girl."

"No, but my lords would want me to marry here, to stay here. I'll be following Dany to King's Landing."

"You just got here."

"I know. I'll not be leaving tomorrow, you know. And with two dragons, I expect I'll see you more than if I were still at the Wall." He held out a hand to her, pulled her to sit on the arm of his own chair. "I cannot explain how it feels Arya, but if she were to be gone…"

"It would break you," the girl whispered, once again watching the fire. "I know."

Sansa tilted her head and shook it slightly—I don't know who she means—when Jon looked to her, asking with his eyes. Jon squeezed Arya's hand and let that question simmer at the back of his mind. "Yes," he said. "Exactly."

"So, then," Sansa said, "the only question that remains is how to minimize the damage. How do we tell the bannermen?"

"I'd hoped to soften the news," Jon said.

"How?"

"By reminding them that there will always be a Stark in Winterfell. If you'll agree?"

"To be the Stark in Winterfell? You have my vow already. I'll ask that you not offer my hand to one of them, though."

"I'll not," Jon said. "I'll never ship you off with another if you've not agreed."

"Good," she said. "We may also want to frame this as a means of holding the kingdoms closer together. North and south uniting against the rest of the world. We should encourage them to think along those lines for the future as well."

"Stronger together," Arya said. "Like father always said."

"Yes," Sansa said, mirroring Jon's words, "exactly."

The knock at the door punctuated the thoughtful silence. Jon stood and felt his palms go damp. If it was Dany, and her council had objected… He couldn't think it, and so he opened the door. For one small moment, the look in her eye had his heart hitching, expecting that everything had gone wrong. It would break you, Arya's voice murmured in his head, and he thought she had never been more right.

And then Dany smiled.

Jon was standing at the top of the crypt steps again, staring down and down into the deep shadows. It seemed to pulse with something—not light, not heat, but something like a heartbeat. Whatever creature lived down there in his dreams, it called to him. Come, to, me, it seemed to say with each pulse of the darkness. Come, to, me. He wanted to turn and run, to find Dany inside the castle, but he knew the halls would be empty, as they always were in these dreams.

His foot took the first step of its own volition.

He didn't have a torch to light the way, he never did, and so he relied on the feel of the walls beneath his fingertips to tell him when he passed landings.

One, he thought. The pulses seemed to grow stronger with the thought, the call more insistent. Not into the first level, but further down. The darkness had encircled him, and he waited for the moment when he would come back to himself, wake to find Dany in his arms, her hair tangled around her face, her breath tickling his cheeks.

Two, another level passed and he still did not wake. It was long past the time when he normally would have and the pull was stronger. Come, to, me, come, to, me.

Three, and four, and five, he passed and still he walked further down. Down and down and down and down.

No place for you here, the stone kings whispered as he passed their halls. He ignored them. He had been named King in the North; he belonged. He may not be Eddard's son, but he was Lyanna's. Rhaegar's. He was more Ned's than the dead could know.

He lost track of the levels when the air started to grow warm. Was it ten or twelve? Even more? He couldn't be sure. He stumbled—the stairs had ended, the ground was flat, the air stifling. The higher levels were cold, too close to the surface to retain the heat. The hot waters of the springs passed close here, and Jon felt he might be melting.

The oldest Kings of Winter watched him—he couldn't see them, but he could feel their eyes. He knew their swords had turned to dust, their features had been blurred by time. The darkness shielded him from the stairs, but not the heat—it burned.

And yet he walked. On and on, and though he knew this level was partly collapsed, he did not stumble again. On and on, though it felt like his skin was falling away, like his blood was boiling off; he walked further than he thought possible, until he saw a speck of light up ahead, red and pulsing. Come to me, come to me, come to me, it called, faster and faster.

He began to run, until his feet left the ground and he flew, at a speed that would have blinded him over the ground, and the light grew, a coal burning among the ashes, growing brighter and brighter, it's light warming his skin—scales, a long-silent part of him whispered—no longer burning him. Come to me come to me come-to-me-come-to-me-cometomecometomeCOMETOME—

Dany shifted in his arms and Jon's eyes flew open. Just a dream, he assured himself. Just the same old crypt dream. It had been a long time since he'd had it; he shoved down the voice that whispered it was not the same, that he always woke when the black swallowed him.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to what was real and kissed Dany's hair, the silver strands turning golden with the dawn breaking through the window he'd left open. The Others had not descended while they slept, then, and for that, he felt only relief. Time was a gift from the gods, as was the woman still dozing in his hold and the child growing within her. He ran a fingertip along her collarbone, watched her chest rise and fall with the slow breaths of a sleeper, and prayed, begged that they'd have an eternity of time. She was not a gift to take for granted.

He wanted to let her dream, to watch the flutter of her pale eyelashes against her cheeks, to hold her until she woke on her own, but he knew they could not afford the loss of time. Jon ran a finger along the rise of her cheekbone, felt her stir against the brush of his lips on her forehead. Her lavender eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked open, then found him. "Another sunrise," he murmured, combing her hair back from her face. "Time to claim the day, my queen."

The smile was tired, but it lit her up, the fire in her blood coming alive as she drew in a deep breath. "Good morning," she said.

Jon rolled her over onto her back, cradling her face in one hand as the other stroked her smooth skin. "You make every morning good." He watched the grin bloom and deepen, then kissed it away, wanting to banish his dreams from the night with the dream that he held in his arms.

He left a trail of kisses down the center of her, stopping to nuzzle the spot where their child grew, unnoticeable yet, but there. He ached in his heart for the baby, for her. The kind of ache that warmed him, told him they were both precious. "I love you," he murmured to the both of them.

She gasped, a noise that always shot him straight through, when he brushed his lips over her breasts, already swollen and tender with the changing of her body. So he was gentle, stroking and soothing instead of taking, taking, taking. She murmured his name, pulled him in, wanting him, now and always. That itself was a miracle.

He laughed when she flipped them both, her grin wicked, her eyes alight in happiness. That they'd found joy when times were anything but joyful was another wonder. She moved like a dancer from across the Narrow Sea against him, held him captive with her eyes, her lips. He didn't mind the imprisonment, not when his jailor could make him groan and laugh in succession, not when the sound of her breathing made his stomach tighten.

Not when she possessed him, mind, heart, and soul with just the whisper of his name.

"Mmm," she sighed against his neck. "Wake me like that at every sunrise."

"Gladly," he managed when he'd caught his breath again.

There was a knock at the door, and Jon let out a heaving sigh, let the frustration capture him for only a moment before Dany kissed his cheek and rolled off of him to wrap herself in furs. "Duty first, my prince," she said with a resigned smile.

He pulled on some breeches and went into the solar, his toes frozen to the stones. Ghost was sitting upright and alert behind his desk, unconcerned, and yet still Jon went for the dagger on the desk. He'd never leave without it again, no matter the cause. Dany stood in the doorway to the bedchamber, her hair tousled, her cheeks still flushed. He wanted to grab her again, just take. And then the knock came again, and he cursed under his breath.

"Yes?" he asked as he opened the door, and then blinked in surprise to find Missandei without. He stood back and opened the door wider to let her in.

"Good morning, my lord. Your Grace," Missandei said. Dany smiled as Jon shut the door behind her.

"Is everything well, my friend?" she asked.

"Yes, Your Grace. It is only that we have much to do. I'm sorry if I've disturbed your morning."

"No, my friend, no. What is it that we need to do this morning?"

"Prepare for your wedding, of course," Missandei said as if it would be perfectly obvious. Jon looked at Dany, who was frowning slightly now, and grinned.

"Duty calls, my queen." He went to her, kissed her on the forehead. "I'll leave you to it until we call the bannermen again."

"The roses—" she said, eyes wide.

"I'll get them," he said, kissing her forehead again. "I promised. There is something I must do first."

"What is it?"

I'm not sure, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. He could feel the pulsing of his dream still within him, calling him. Come to me, come to me. How could he explain that? He couldn't, he knew, and he did not want to lie to her. "I could not say, my love, just now. As soon as I know, I'll tell you." That seemed to worry her, and so he bent to capture her lips. "It is nothing to fear… only a feeling. A dream."

That cleared the worries, almost immediately. "A dragon dream," she whispered.

"Maybe," he said, then felt that root in him, and nodded. "You may be right. I will find you when I know. Enjoy this morning."

"I will," she said. He moved past her into the bedchamber to dress more fully while she and Missandei spoke in the next room—in Valyrian if he'd matched the intonation of the words correctly. He strapped on his sword and his cloak, pulled on his boots, and smiled when he heard the musical laughter.

He found the source when he came through the doorway. Ghost was up and sniffing at Dany's bare legs, seemingly interested in her scent. Jon wondered for a moment if the wolf knew about the baby, and watched as the wolf lifted his gaze to meet his own. He took that as a yes. "Are you staying here, then?"

The wolf's ears twitched, and he went to the door.

"Does he understand you?" Missandei asked.

"Most of the time," Jon said. "He doesn't always listen." That prompted another ear twitch. "We'll leave you. Do you need me to send anyone?"

"No, my lord, thank you. We will care for it all."

He left them then with a smile for them both. Only hours left until he met the fur-wrapped beauty under a weirwood. Thank the gods.

The castle was a silent thing so early in the morning, though he knew there would be activity at any moment. He needed to steal this time for himself, so didn't delay as he retrieved some torches on his way to the crypts. He was not risking fumbling in the dark when he could help it. He lit the first at the top of the steps and carried the rest. He could find his way to the top as long as he could find the stairs. He was sure Ghost could find the way regardless of the light, but he was taking no chances. A dragon dream, Dany had called it. It was not as comforting as she'd seemed to find it.

He took a deep breath, then the first step. This time he did complete his count. Thirteen levels to the base of the stairs, and the partially collapsed lowest level. It was slightly warmer here, at the foot of the stairwell, but he did not burn.

Yet, his mind whispered. He shook that as he set the lit torch in the sconce to his left and lit a second. Ghost paused to sniff at the edge of the small entry to the rubble-strewn cavern. That's what it was, he knew, a cavern so large it would have dwarfed the Great Hall. His light did little to help with the sensation. He stepped lightly around the larger pieces of stone, looking for a place to set the second torch. He wedged it at last between a few fallen stones, looking about. In his dream he had not had to dodge fallen columns, only walk dead on toward the back of the cavern. He could do that still, with a few detours.

Why, why, was he persisting? He could go back up, go to the gardens, cut some winter roses for Dany's crown. And yet…

He needed to know.

Stepping carefully and pausing to light torches here and there, he slowly made his way deeper into the cavern, turning back to check his progress every so often. Ghost had all but disappeared into the shadows, often darting past in the corner of Jon's vision, chasing rats, he was sure. That heartened him, at least; if there were any danger, he doubted the wolf would be romping around as though it were a walk in the woods.

A hundred or so yards from the entrance, Jon had to remove his cloak—he was sweltering. Not melting away, as he had in the dream, but warm enough that he felt he must be getting close. The hot springs ran through the castle walls as well, by some feat of engineering, but it was never this pronounced. He settled for a moment on a large stone piece and took a breath, looking ahead into the darkness. It was still a blank canvas—no pulsing, no call.

Except…

He narrowed his gaze, stared a bit harder. In the shifting light of the torch, he thought he saw it again. A faint glimmer, just… there.

He set the torch securely in the pile at his feet, lit the last from it, and took cautious steps forward. The shimmer stayed in front of him, faint though it was. He felt the sweat beading on his forehead as he moved closer. The hot springs did not only run close to the wall, he realized; there was a pool down here. He thought it may explain the glinting light at first, but no… no, it was a bit offset from the edge of the water, as far as he could tell. The reflection on the water shifted more, the glimmer remained relatively still, as if it were a reflection within the stone—stationary, solid.

He worried he'd gone too far outside the realm of the previous torch, but his curiosity was caught, he could not turn back just yet. He had to push up his sleeves to stay cool as he met the edge of the hot spring's pool, but pushed on, skirting the edge of the water. He thought he could make out the shape of the source of the gleam. It was a pile of stones at the back of the cavern, some the same stone as the walls, others…

Not stone, he realized.

"Gods," he cursed.

A new chapter for you, and so soon! Pray to the old gods that the flow keeps up.

I want to thank everyone for their support, and tell you that it did wonders for me, keeping me positive so soon after coming back to myself. I hope everyone continues to love this story, and that we keep up the discussion in the comments.

As the date of the first episode of the last season is rapidly approaching, I just want to tell everyone that I'm going to continue my story my way, as it's surely not going to match D&D's story. Hopefully, we all love what they give us, but I need to complete my-Jon's & my-Dany's storylines, as well as all of their friends'. If I don't, I will always wonder what happened to them.