"Come with me," Jon whispered, taking Dany's hand in the chaos of the snow fight, when all eyes were on the pile of children that had swarmed over Arya and Gendry. She turned to him, saw the light in his eyes and smiled.

"Where are we going?" she asked as a gust blew some of the loose snow over the back of her neck, sending a shiver coursing down her spine. He tugged her to motion and wove his way through the disturbed drifts, tamping down the snow so that she might walk easier.

"There's something I must show you, something you'll want to see," he promised, squeezing her fingers within her woolen mittens.

"What is it?" She could feel the excitement pouring off of him, felt it sweeping over her like a waterfall, and wondered what could have made him—her melancholy northman—as giddy as a little boy. It made her wonder whether he'd often been like this when he'd been younger, whether their own child would have such a wide range of moods and emotions, and whether she might be able to pull this mood from him more often.

"You'll see," he said, and led her through the yard, toward the godswood. She could see the weirwood reaching for the sky, and wondered if that was where he was going to bring her, a thrill in her stomach at the thought, though she knew he'd not marry her without the lords' knowledge, not with his parents' sad end fresh in his mind. Instead, he turned to the crypt door, held open to the morning air by a rock lodged in the snow. The thrill in her stomach turned to dread—she did not want to go there again, not so soon—but she stiffened her spine.

"What could be here?" she asked as his momentum carried them down and down, round and round, but the words were lost in the rush of their descent, which went on and on until she lost track of how far they'd gone.

He stopped at the bottom, his features lit in the wash of a torch he must have put there. She put her free hand on his shoulder as he pulled her in, caught her breath for a moment in his loose embrace. "Jon?"

She wondered if he could hear the quiver in her stomach, the dread she felt being so far down. He tightened his fingers around her own again, this time in reassurance, and smiled down at her.

"I'm here," he said, and that was enough to beat back the tiny prick of worry. "Do you feel the heat?"

She did, enough that her fingers had grown warm within the mittens. She tugged them off, tucked them within her coat.

"Yes," she said, and felt brave enough to take a step beyond the torchlight, into the space ahead of them. It was cavernous—that much she could tell from the torches extending into the distance—and she used the free space to remove the coat, itself growing too warm to wear. Jon helped her pull it from her arms, folded it, and set it carefully behind them on the second step. She looked around the dark chamber as he gave the same treatment to his own jacket and cloak. She couldn't see the walls, couldn't see much but a bit of rubble.

"It's so warm," she murmured, and then an idea caught her. "Jon, the smallfolk—"

"Yes," he said, coming to stand even with her. "I thought the same."

"They could camp in here; is it safe?"

"It's been safe so far," he said, "I've not been able to find the source of the collapse; we'd need to get some of your Unsullied engineers in here to inspect the ceiling, the walls. I've not found the corners yet, I haven't had the time. But we wouldn't need fires for warmth. Less wood to chop, a safe spot for those who cannot fight to hide."

"How many could stay down here, do you think?" she asked, trying to find the corners with her eyes and unable to penetrate the darkness far enough. "And where is the warmth coming from?"

"Hundreds, at the least," he answered. "Come, I'll show you." He took her by the hand, stopping every once in a while to help her over large rockfalls, and once to lift her completely onto and then over a large boulder. She felt small when he did that, delicate but not weak. It was a lovely feeling, and her heart strained toward him when he'd set her back on her feet. She leaned in, pressed her lips against him, needing to tell him without words what he did to her. He returned her affection, pausing to run his fingers over her hair, her cheekbone. That itself was enough to make her heart soar again. I'd follow you anywhere, she wanted to say, but instead she only took his hand again.

"Is that water?" she asked in disbelief when she first saw the shimmer of the torch on the surface.

"A hot spring, the source of our warmth," he said.

"Could we drink it?" she wondered.

"I think so." He walked with her to the edge, scooped some in his hands and took a cautious sip, then nodded. "It's warm, of course, but it tastes almost like the well-water."

She knelt herself, took a handful. There was the tang of iron, a bit of sulfur, but it still refreshed her throat. She wanted to strip down and wade in with him, to lounge in the steamy pool and forget the world above for a while. After, she promised herself.

"This is wonderful, Jon," she said, looking out over the pool, seeking the edges of the cavern.

"There's more," he said, his tone a bit off, and she turned to see him again.

"More?" she asked. "How could there be more? This is already more than we could have hoped for."

"You'll see," he said, standing to his full height and offering his hand again.

"Something good, I hope."

"I think so," he said, then led her to the last torch. He hesitated, then pointed into the darkness. "Do you see that?"

She followed the arrow of his finger, shook her head. "What?"

He moved behind her, pointed again over her shoulder. "There. It's faint."

"I don't—" She cut herself off. "What is that?"

"Come, my love, let me show you," he said near to her ear, then he bent to retrieve the second torch, one he must have left for this very purpose. He said nothing as they walked, and Dany kept her gaze focused on the shimmer ahead, only breaking it to navigate fallen stones. They were still a dozen yards off when she stopped.

"Jon—" she choked on her words, swallowed hard, took a deep breath. "Jon, I can hear them," she said.

He nodded, watching her face.

"This is what you came to find this morning. Your dragon dream."

"Yes," he said.

"They called you," she said.

"Yes," he said again, softer.

"I—I can hear their heartbeats," she said. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, two heartbeats, drumming a slow and steady rhythm, just as she'd heard Drogon's, Rhaegal's, Viserion's. "Can you?"

"Like a pounding in my own chest," he said, lifting to hold her hand to his heart.

She could see them even from here, two dragon's eggs in the torchlight, but she couldn't quite tell their color. Like she was being pulled, she took a step forward, then another and another, until she was close enough to touch. She nearly lifted her hand to do so but stopped. They'd called to Jon, not to her. She couldn't say that did not hurt her, but she pushed it aside. She was no longer alone, no longer the only Targaryen. Of course they would have called to him, with him so connected to this place.

One of them was red with golden flecks scattered like stars across the surface, the source of the shine she'd seen, the other a grey, as deep as Jon's eyes, with silver about the scale ridges. "How did they come to be here?"

"Vermax," Jon said, then softer, "I think."

"I thought that was a child's tale," Dany said, thinking back to the story in the book Jorah had given her at her first wedding. Vermax had been Jacaerys Velaryon's dragon, and they had visited Winterfell during the Dance of the Dragons to gain Cregan Stark's support for the black faction. A fool—Marshmallow? Mushroom? Moonfellow?—had claimed that Vermax had laid eggs in the crypts, and that Jacaerys had married Cregan's half-sister in secret, but no one had believed him.

"As did I," Jon said, "though I'll admit we all dreamed of it being true as children. None of us wanted to venture this far into the crypts when we were that young, though. Too many tales from Old Nan to scare us off wandering too far."

"And here's our proof that it was not a tale," Dany said, looking to Jon after a long moment. He was staring hard into the nest, his brow wrinkled, his thoughts thousands of miles away. She smiled to herself, then murmured, "Where have you gone, my love?"

His vision cleared and he looked at her, looked deep, as if he could see through to her core. She felt he could, that only he could see so far into her. He said, "I've had that crypt dream since I was at the Wall. Why now? Why did I follow it now?"

She reached for him, stroked the hard line of his jaw with her thumb, searching him as he searched her. She could see his center, his strength, his fear. "You were not ready for what you would find, perhaps."

"I still do not feel ready."

She laughed, a breathless, wonderous, baffled sound, even to her ears. "Are we ever ready for destiny? I've always felt the gods grab me, yank me into my fate when I am least ready for it. Yours is right in front of you, Jon, waiting. Take it in both hands, and face it."

He traced his hands up her back, driving a shiver before them, his steel eyes heavy on her own, his face stoic, until he found her shoulders and pulled her against him. She smiled against his questing kiss, knew he was stalling, and enjoying the product of it.

"There," he murmured against her lips. "I've taken my fate in both hands." She shivered again, this time with the surge of love his words made in her, and held him closer herself. Hadn't she thought the same in his darkened tent overlooking Moat Cailin?

"Now," he continued, "let us reach for our fate. Together."

He turned them both, gently, to face the eggs, but made no move to touch them.

"That one is the color of your eyes," she said, and took his hand in hers, took a step closer, pulling him with her.

"Is it?" he asked, but then he reached for it with his free hand, his long fingers outstretched to brush the surface. "It's warm," he murmured in wonder.

"Why don't you hold it, Jon?" she nudged, knowing she'd been just the same with her own children. He did, lifting it carefully from the cradle of stones.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," he said, stroking his fingers over the scaled surface, then looking up at her, the wonder shining in his eyes. "Here," he said, holding it out to her. She took it, cradled it herself, watched him lift the red one with just as much care, turning it in the torchlight to watch the shimmer shift and change.

"There was another part of that treaty, you know," Jon said suddenly.

"Which one?"

"Cregan and Jacaerys'."

"Oh?" she asked, smiling, knowing.

"Yes. Cregan gave his support in exchange for the promise of a Targaryen princess for one of his sons. They never got one."

"Hmm," Dany murmured, stroking the silver egg where it rested against her as-yet flat womb. She stepped into him, the eggs between them and wondered if she'd do the same with a child in time. "Will a queen do?"

"I think only a queen will do. It is a couple hundred years late. Consider it interest."

"Your interest rates are much higher than the Iron Bank's," she admonished, watching his eyes dance with laughter. "But, if you wish, it's done. You'll have your queen, Jon Snow."

"Good," he whispered against her lips, and kissed her again with the two extra heartbeats thrumming in their ears.

When she could breathe again, she looked to her charge. "We must protect them; they cannot fall into the Others' hands. I won't have it."

"You're right," he said, then looked around. "What better place to keep them than right here, where they've been for hundreds of years? Under guard when we have the smallfolk here, I'd think."

She considered, then nodded. If the demons got so far, all would be lost anyway. "Shall we show the rest of our friends? Our family?"

"I think we should," Jon said, then resettled the ruby egg in the hollow he'd taken it from, turning to accept the silver one from her to do the same for it. He dusted his hands when he turned back to her, then reached for her. "Come, my Targaryen queen, let's find our friends before I lose you to more wedding preparations."

She let him lead her back the way they came, though he stopped once to look back at the eggs, still illuminated by the torch he had retrieved from the base of the rock nest. "We'll come back," she said. "We'll bring them to the light."

He only nodded, then leaned down to kiss her in an almost absent, casual gesture that had her toes tingling. That it had become so natural, so routine to love each other was its own miracle. There was no fake affection, no need to remember graces, no false passion that would die at the first sign of trouble. They loved, and they loved enough that it had become part of them in only a matter of weeks. It was a whirlwind, a gift, a joy.

She rode that feeling the entire way to the steps, while they talked and laughed about inconsequential things, small things that they would not bother to tell others, not when they could tell one another.

Sam laid Heartsbane on the library table and did not notice the goblet he nearly knocked aside. It wouldn't have mattered; it was empty, had been for days, and he wouldn't have been able to remember when he'd last had anything to drink, or eat for that matter. All he could think about was that dagger—flipping through the air, at rest in Arya's tiny hands, turning in his own.

There was a fourth picture forming—a drawing, precise and intricate, and definitely the same dagger. The damn thing was, he couldn't remember where he'd seen it.

Think, Sam, he chided himself. Think.

Why was his gut telling him—screaming at him—that it was so important? He couldn't fathom, not until he found that drawing.

He remembered talking to Gilly about a dagger, maybe at the Citadel. It would have to be in one of the books they'd stolen, if he were right. He wouldn't feel guilty about the theft, couldn't. He'd learned too much of use and import from books the fools at the Citadel had hidden away under the flimsy excuse that they were too dangerous, too important for just anyone to read.

"Ridiculous," Sam muttered to himself.

"What's 'ridiculous?'" a voice asked, and Sam jolted.

"Gods, Gilly," he said, putting a hand to his heart. "Do you have to sneak up on me?"

"I wasn't sneaking. You haven't eaten this morning," she said, setting a tray among the books, though Sam hardly noticed.

"Hmm," was all he replied, leafing through a likely volume.

"Sam," Gilly prompted. "You haven't answered."

"Hm?" he asked.

"I asked, 'what's ridiculous?'"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," he said absently, reaching for the goblet he'd nearly knocked over, taking a sip of air before he realized it was empty. Sheepish at the misstep, he set the cup down and took the one Gilly held out to him. "Thank you," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

"Welcome," she answered, studying him. "What are you looking for?"

"A dagger," he said, setting the ale down to page through a little further.

"What, in a book?"

"No, no. A drawing of a dagger. Do you remember it? I feel as though I showed it to you."

"No, I don't remember. I could help you look."

"Would you?" he asked, with a spark of hope in his voice. "There was something important about it. I know it."

Gilly smiled, but Sam missed most of it, absorbed in the hunt again. He accepted the hunk of bread she slipped into his hand before she pulled a book herself and began to search.

"Little Sam misses you," she said.

"Oh?"

"He cries, and asks for you."

That made Sam's head come up. "I'm sorry for that."

"You could come back to the rooms, see him. You could sleep, remember to eat."

The guilt was immediate. "If we had time—"

"The Others have nothing to do with it, Sam."

"They have everything to do with it. Seven days, Gilly, seven days until they could fall upon us. I have to—"

"Anything you can find in these books will be too late. Come see him before it is too late."

"I—"

"Promise me you'll come see him. He misses you. I miss you."

"Gilly…"

"You bury yourself in these books and stop living. We may not be living much longer."

Sam reaches across the table to still her hand as it turned pages with more anger than care. "I miss you, too."

"Then don't forget me. Don't forget your son," she said, the heat in her voice tinged with fear. "I don't want to die missing you."

"You won't. You won't die, you won't miss me. I won't let you," he said gently, lifting her fingers to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles. It still made her blush to have him do it, even after so long. "And you're right. It's too late for most things in these books, but that dagger — it's important, Gilly, I can feel it."

"Then I'll help you look," she said, with a tired smile. Sam watched her for a moment longer before turning back to his own book. For an hour, the only sounds were those of their own breaths and the turning of pages and though they often met eyes across the table for brief moments, they didn't speak.

Then, "Sam."

"Did you find it?"

"Maybe. It says, 'The Val-Valrins—"

"Valyrians?"

"The Valyrians were fam-familiar with drag-dragonglass—'"

"That sounds promising," he said, standing, moving around the table to lean over her shoulder, "Ah, yes, you found it! Well done, Gilly."

"Will you read it to me?" she asked.

"Of course," he said, then skimmed the page to find where she'd started. "Ah, here we go." He cleared his throat.

"'The Valyrians were familiar with dragonglass long before they came to Westeros. They called it—'… hmm, I can't pronounce that," he murmured. "No matter—'they called it something, which translates to frozen fire, in Valyrian, and eastern texts tell of how their dragons would thaw the stone until it became molten and malleable.' That's it!"

"What's it?" Gilly asked, and Sam straightened.

"Well, this paragraph here tells us two things—one, dragonglass can melt, like any metal, and two, it takes high heat—dragon fire—to do it. However, I think we can take it one step further." Sam reached for Heartsbane and held it out in front of both of them as he slid it part way out of it's sheath. "Do you see these bands of lighter metal and darker metal?"

"Yes," Gilly said slowly. "Are you saying that there's dragon glass in there?"

"I think there just might be. It seems logical doesn't it? White Walkers can be killed by only two things—dragon glass and Valyrian steel. Why those two things in particular? They must share something in common. Then, it says that the Valyrians used dragonglass in their decorations just here in the next paragraph, and they melted it with dragon fire, the way one melts any other metal in a forge. If they're already melting dragon glass for their buildings, and using their dragons as forges, what else would they use it for?

"Someone must have tried it, someone must have thought it might make a good weapon, if they mixed dragonglass into their swords. Then, the final clue is the name of Valyrian steel itself—only Valyrians could make steel like that. What did only they Valyrians have?"

"Dragons," Gilly said. "Do you think Daenerys would let us use her dragons that way? To try?"

"I think she will, if we show her this," Sam said. "It could give us more weapons against the dead."

"Then let's do it now," she said. Sam let her stand, and reattached Heartbane's scabbard to his sword belt. When she turned to him, he leaned in for a kiss, lingering over it for a long moment.

He had missed her, more than he'd known.

Fighting the urgency he felt to find Daenerys, to ask for her dragons' help, he pulled Gilly closer for a deeper taste.

And heard the nasal, masculine voice from two stacks down.

"…and he bent the knee knowing what she was," the voice said, carrying oddly in the echoey chamber. "Dragon-spawn—pah—you can't expect she won't burn people. But lord and heir in one flame? A frightening prospect. If I had any respect for Tarly other than as a general, I'd take up arms meself."

A second voice, too indistinct to catch, interrupted as Sam pulled away from Gilly with a sharp jerk.

"No. There's no excuse for burning men, I say. Not even if the damn fools had asked for it. Would have thought Randyll had more sense than honor, considering, and his damn son enough healthy fear…"

Sam heard footsteps moving off but he was frozen in place as his mind whorled. Dragon-spawn, flame, Tarly, burning, Randyll, son.

"Sam?" Gilly's voice sounded distant as his fingers tightened on her shoulders.

And anything else she said was drowned out by the roaring in his ears.