Deep breath, she told herself. In. Out. In.
There was a knock at the door but Dany kept her eyes shut and listened to Missandei's steps cross the floor to answer. The murmurs passed her by like the ripples on a lake as Dany sought to find calm. The nerves tickled her belly like so many baby dragons wings but they were not fearful nerves, no. Not even after the row in the storerooms. Only anticipation, only excitement.
The door shut with a heavy thunk, and Dany's eyes fluttered open, met their own reflection in the looking glass. No, no fear stared back at her. Only herself, only Dany.
"What was it?" she asked.
"They're ready for you, Your Grace," Missandei said. "And a note from Lord Snow." She held it out before Dany could ask for it, and Dany smiled at the sharp handwriting that spelled out her name. She traced the scratches and then broke the seal.
Come get your crown, my queen.
She sucked in another deep breath, the dragons' wings stirring as if in a gale, then stood. "Missandei, my cloak, please."
Her friend draped the heavy wool over her shoulders and Dany fastened the dragon head clasps herself, then held still as Missandei adjusted the train of her light blue skirts, the lay of her white fox fur coat, then the maiden cloak itself. A misnomer, she thought, at least for herself. Jon did not seem to mind, she reminded herself, then carefully refolded his note and tucked it into a pocket.
"Ready?" Missandei asked, and Dany nodded, her throat closed too tight to answer. They walked side by side from Jon's chambers along the corridor. The halls seemed to echo their footsteps as they descended the stairs to where Kovarro waited.
"Khaleesi," he murmured, or as close to a murmur as he could get his deep voice. She nodded again, both in greeting and as a command. He answered it by opening the door. The cacophony of the crowd's whispers fell away as her bloodrider stepped into the falling snow. Missandei squeezed her hand once, then stepped to follow him.
In. Out. In. Dany raised her chin and stepped clear of the doorway into the mass of people waiting for her. She saw the Unsullied scattered amongst them; it was the only compromise Grey Worm would accept when she told him he could not assign a troop to guard her, not for this.
Wide eyes in pale faces watched her, the false silence roaring in her ears. The bows and curtsies followed her like the wake of a ship, though some were shallower than warranted, and others were not in evidence, the dissenting parties rising like pilings above the tide. She tried not to notice, instead counting her steps as she moved through the press of bodies, her chin high.
Twenty-four, twenty-five…
She was walking to her fate. She could be brave.
Twenty-nine, thirty…
It was a hundred and thirty-seven steps to the godswood gate, held wide, the press of people no less inside, but of a different mix. Her kos, Jon's lords, her own, their retinues. And the flame of the heart tree crowning them all. She could not see him through the people, but her heart seemed to swell in her chest with each step she added to the count. She recognized the faces turned toward her now—Jorah and the Lady Mormont, Jaime Lannister skulking behind Brienne of Tarth and Sandor Clegane, both of whom guarded the Stark girls' backs, Brandon their brother, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tyrion, and Kovarro—but none were the face she sought.
The total reached a hundred and fifty-two and the faces parted and there…there he was, his eyes lit with a fire that crackled and roared to match the one that seemed to fill her body with light, the perpetual sadness gone from his face, at least for this moment, their moment.
Jon, my Jon.
Twelve more steps and if she tried, she could brush her fingers over the scar in his eyebrow, the gilt thread on his jacket collar. He smiled for her—only for her—and came out of his soldier's rest, his hands coming from behind his back, from under his cloak, and though she'd known he'd bring it, her eyes widened at the crown of winter roses he held in his ungloved hands. The murmurs rolled over her as she stepped closer; she bent her head and felt him settle the blue flowers over her braids. Though it was girlish, she reached a hand up to feel the blooms herself as he stepped back but dropped it when Jon nodded to the septon who stood beneath the red leaves, just to the right of the garish smile carved into the heart tree.
"Who comes to claim this woman?" The man called over the crowd, the quiet amplified by the falling flurries.
"I, Jon Snow of House Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, come to claim this woman." There was a thrill in her veins as his gaze met hers, held her in its grasp, that fire coursing through her blood to meet her own flame.
She did not break it as the septon asked, "Who gives this woman to be married?"
"I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons give myself to be married." The heat grew as his eyes crinkled in amusement at her list of titles, but he was not laughing at her, only the contrast, she knew. He'd soon posses some of the names as well. Gods, let the time between now and then pass quickly, she prayed.
"Do you, Daenerys Targaryen, accept this man?"
"I take this man," she confirmed and wondered that she did not do just that—reach out and take him into her arms. His heavy gaze should have held her trapped, but she felt sure she was flying as he answered her unspoken wish with what he could at that moment: he held out both hands in invitation. She took them, held his hands skin-to-skin with hers, holding them with all her will, with all her want. I will not let go, his eyes said to her, and she knew her own said the same as they knelt in the snow and broke their shared look to bow their heads in the silent prayer the old gods demanded of them.
In that moment, all of her prayers left her head, and all Dany could think was, Please. Please, over and over in a litany as images of Jon laughing, of her own swollen belly, of summer come again flashed behind her eyes.
She felt the brush of Jon's thumb over hers and opened her eyes to find his again, to find his smile, and felt her own spreading as he helped her rise, the moment done. The septon stepped back in, voicing a short sermon she did not truly hear for all her thoughts were with Jon, her Jon as he continued to rub circles against her knuckle in a silent promise. She heard only the septon's last words, the ones that prompted a response.
"Father, Smith, Warrior," she said, her words soft against the deep rumble of Jon's, both twining to bring voice to the promise. "Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger."
"I am hers," Jon said over her pledge.
"…and he is mine, " Dany said before their voices joined again.
"…from this day until the end of my days."
"With this kiss," Jon said and stepped into her, leaning down slightly to brush her nose with his own, the cold of his skin a shock that made her gasp just as he pressed his lips to hers in a fierce meeting that ended too soon, "I pledge my love and take you for my queen and wife."
"With this kiss," Dany repeated and lifted herself on her toes to press her lips to his in a promise just as fierce, "I pledge my love and take you for my prince and husband."
With that, Dany reached between them to undo the clasps so lately fastened at her neck. You'll always be a dragon, she promised herself as the heavy cloak fell to the snow. Always.
Jon stepped away to retrieve a bundle from Sansa, then came back to her. Dany swallowed the rising tears; she loved Jon, she wanted this, and so she could mourn the loss of her house later. Jon, however, missed nothing on her face, and paused to stroke her cheek once, then opened the cloak before her, so she could see it.
The red three-headed dragon roared rampant on the left, and on the right, a white direwolf—Jon's direwolf—did the same, their backs to one another, defending each other from all sides. A tear she could not keep back fell as he swirled the cloak around her shoulders and refashioned the clasps to hold it in place.
"How does it sit?" her husband asked in an undertone, wiping the tear away in a gesture of affection meant to mask its purpose.
"Well," she murmured.
He nodded once with a quick smile. "Sansa made that one for you."
And before she could respond, he backed away a step and went down to a knee, unfastening his own cloak and letting it fall away. Her eyes widened of their own volition as Arya came forward with another bundle. Taking it gingerly, Dany looked down into Jon's eye, questions flying through her thoughts faster than Drogon.
"I'm under your protection, my queen," he said, loudly, clearly, for all to hear.
She looked down at the gift he was giving her, brushed her fingers over the fur at the collar, then unfolded it to reveal the same sigil, mirrored—the direwolf to the left, the dragon to the right. Her heart swelled in her chest and she lifted her gaze again to Jon. He only smiled and bowed his head, giving her better access to lay the cloak across his shoulders. He held it in place with his fingertips and stood, letting her pin the cloak with the wolf's head clasps at his clavicles.
"By the power of the Seven, I declare you, Jon Snow of House Stark and you, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, man and wife. You are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."
On the septon's last breath, Jon's smile broke across his face like dawn breaking over a glacier—radiant, blinding, glorious. She didn't see him move, only felt him sweep her up into his arms, felt that smile envelope her own in a kiss that would have stolen her breath if she had any left to steal. She held him there for a moment longer than was proper, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him for herself in the first moments of their marriage.
When they finally parted, she could hear the noise of the crowd again, but it did not drown out the words he murmured only for her, his smile softer, more a brush than a hammer of joy. "I love you, Dany."
"I love you, Jon," she said back, then added, "Husband."
That brought the full breadth of his smile back before he lifted his gaze and took the first step out of the godswood with her cradled against him. They had no true feast waiting for them, but they'd eat with their people in the main courtyard, they'd decided. Jon carried her there, through the raucous throng of people, and up the steps of a sightly raised scaffold. He set her down but took her hand as they stepped together to the small table set up there.
The pie was a small thing—again at their insistence—but the crust looked mouthwatering just the same. Jon looked to her, grinned.
"Did you ever think you'd be here?"
"No," she said. "But I'm glad I am."
"As am I," he said, then released her hand to unsheathe his dagger. She placed her hands over his as they lifted the blade to the crowd. Then gently, so gently, they cut the lid of the hollow pie, moving slowly to give the bird inside time to move away from the killing point. Their care was rewarded when the pale dove burst forth and chattered as it flew over the crowd, cheers rising to follow it across the sky. Drogon answered the noise with a roar of his own, Rhaegal echoing him seconds later, and faces turned up to watch them swoop overhead.
"Here, my love, the first bite," Jon said when they'd flown on, spearing her a small piece of the crust. "For you and for that wee one making your mouth water," he joked only for her ears, and she laughed. When had she last laughed in front of strangers? And on so important of an occasion?
She ate it from the end of the dagger, watched the way his eyes twinkled with joy and love. For me, all for me. Then she picked a broken shard up herself and held it out to him, laughed again when he nipped her fingers, then leaned in to kiss her cheek.
Was she living in a dream?
She never wanted to wake.
Their joy seemed to spread through the crowd like brushfire, and dinner—though it was only a thin, mixed-meat stew—was a wild event, with common men mixing among the lords, all eating from simple bread trenchers, wherever there was room to sit or stand. Well, Dany thought, not so wild as my first wedding. She'd ordered her kos to inform the men that the pale women would not like grabbing, and the pale men would not take kindly to any death at her wedding. Neither would she. They'd expressed that it would be a very dull event, but she'd replied that she'd rather a dull wedding to one ending in blood among allies.
Dany was not sure she had more than three bites, they were interrupted so often by smallfolk and lesser lords to accept blessings and answer questions. It was conversation she would value for all her days; this was knowing her people, this was what she'd always wanted.
Alongside those gifts, Dany would treasure the little moments. If all else faded, she knew she would remember the way Jon tangled fingers with her as they stood near the edge of the scaffolding, bending to praise a young woman's child, or how the torchlight kissed his brow as he tilted his head to better hear the words of one of his men-at-arms or the breathlessness as his lips brushed her knuckles in a quieter moment.
The rest was a whirlwind, though they hadn't allowed their friends to plan any true wedding events. Kovarro, who had wondered how he would find the traditional bloodrider gifts on so short a notice, and what to do with them during the gift ceremony, in any case, had been grateful for the delay, saying he did not know whether the dosh khaleen would say that Dany should accept the gifts as she was the leader of the khalassar or whether she should give them to Jon Snow as her husband. Dany didn't think the dosh khaleen would take either option. They didn't think her last bloodrider should be hers in any case.
Dany herself was glad for the lack of special events. As it was, the nerves and attention, and yes, perhaps the child inside her, exhausted her, so that when the calls for the bedding ceremony began, she only had the energy to blush as a coalition of lords and lads came forward to hoist her upon their shoulders. Kovarro, Grey Worm and Gendry Waters numbered among the men, mingled with faces she could not place, and though it saddened her, she noted Jorah had not joined them.
She perched on Grey Worm and Kovarro's shoulders and gave her hands to strangers, laughing as they made jokes about replacing Jon for her. When she turned to laugh with her husband, her husband, she saw him borne off his feet with ladies arrayed below him, Brienne supporting his upper body by herself, her too-serious face graced with some amusement. At least they were saved the indignity of being undressed as they were carried bodily away, she thought, but the jokes and tunes were embarrassment enough.
It was after they had gone up two flights of stairs that Dany realized they were not headed to the Lord's Chamber. "Jon?" she called over her shoulder, but she could not hear if he answered over the echoing voices. She might have worried if she had not been carried by her most trusted friends, even amongst strangers. Any lingering concern she might have had died when the door at the top of the last flight opened to reveal the rooftop, and she was carefully lowered to the cobbled roof.
"Your Grace," the men said in a scattered way, bowing before leaving her there alone. Kovarro met her eyes as he left, sending her a silent promise to be nearby, though she knew now she would not need it. She nodded goodbyes to the merry men, who she could hear jesting as they descended the stairs. She approached one of the tower walls to look out over the castle, aglow with such merriment the world surrounding it looked black as tar.
She heard the women's voices replace the men's and turned to watch as Jon ducked his head beneath the lintel, his cheeks flushed and eyes only for her. Brienne and the other women lowered him to the floor in much the same way as the men had her, still singing reels Dany hadn't heard before as they curtseyed to first her, then Jon before heading back down the stairs. Brienne shut the door behind her, and the silence—which wasn't quite silence but a low rumble of voices and laughter flying on a chilling wind—became the only barrier between Dany and her husband.
My husband, she thought.
And felt tears spill from her eyes and freeze on her cheeks.
"Dany?" Jon's voice was soft as she lifted her hands to her face, trying to stem the flow. "My love," he murmured, his arms coming round her shoulders, radiating such comfort and warmth—both so much a part of him that she wondered how she'd ever thought him ice—that more tears started to slide into her palms, though she wiped them away before they could burn her skin.
"My queen, have I done you wrong by planning this? I thought the roof—you said that anything important must be done under the sky—I thought—"
Dany shook her head where it rested on his shoulder, unable to find words to reassure him when it was enough of a battle to hold back the surge of love inside her.
"The wedding itself, then? If it's not what you want… well, I'm sure there are any number of septons who might argue it is not legitimate if…"
NO, her thoughts screamed. Dany's fingers were clawed against his sides, holding him to her. How did they get there? she wondered.
"What's happened, my queen?" Jon asked, gently, his left hand stroking circles between her shoulder blades as his right eased her chin up so that soon she was staring into those dark eyes, their depths searching her for an answer she didn't have. She could only shake her head and try to swallow the lump in her throat, for she could not speak past it, not yet.
"Shhh," Jon said softly, wiping his thumb over her cheek to rid it of droplets as he had too many times before, in her chambers upon the ship north, in the storerooms, after nightmares woke her in the dark. Those memories, she noticed, were enough to start steadying her.
"I'm glad it's not that you've decided we need to live separated, or that you've discovered a dark secret of mine that's pushed you from me forever. Not that I have any you don't already know," he said, and Dany choked out a laugh. "Is it the number of roses in your crown? The noise from below? The absence of the stars?"
The laugh was minutely stronger that time, and Dany watched her husband's lips curve. My husband, she thought again, stronger, and felt more tears flood her eyes.
Oh, was her next thought, and she moved her hands to her stomach, trying to remember if Rhaego has caused her to do this as well. If he had, she thought, it was not for the reasons that had her acting a fool now.
"Oh," she whispered out loud as she stroked her hands down the front of her coat, over the bump that wasn't yet there, would not be there for months. "No," she said. "It was not that."
"Then, what, my love?" Jon asked, concern winning over the gentle teasing on his face.
"I'm happy," she said. At the question he asked without speaking, she said it again. "Overwhelmingly happy. It overtook me, but I'm happy. I—You're my husband, and you knew to take me out here under the sky, instead of to your rooms. There's a piece of you growing inside me, and the whole of our army knows that you are mine, that I am yours." The tears slowed as Jon pulled her closer with an arm around her back, his hand a heavy warmth at the base of her spine, the knuckles of his other hand brushing the same path as her own hands over her stomach, causing the dragons roosting within her to leap into a flurry of activity. "I'm happy," she repeated as his face fell into more serious lines, his eyes burning over her face, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips.
"Tell me again," he asked. "Tell me you're mine again."
"I'm yours," she whispered, her eyes locked to his, blocking out all else. "And I love you."
"I'm yours," he murmured in answer. "I'll always love you."
The space between them melted to nothing, into a kiss so tender, Dany felt the flood of emotion within her threaten to break again. She dammed it and wrapped her arms around Jon's waist, tugging him closer though there was nowhere to go.
He responded by lifting her off her feet in an embrace so tight, she lost her breath and forgot the need for it. She lost the feeling of the wind and did not mourn it when his lips brushed her, scorching her skin wherever he laid them. She did not see the pallet before he laid her on it but knew it must have been there all along. He left her for only a moment to spark a fire within the small brazier set up alongside it, then returned, a whirlwind of heat himself.
It was too cold, she knew, for her to be able to run her hands over his skin, for him to do the same, but she found that the weight of his hands moving along her was enough when she was as wild inside as the winds were around them. But when he shifted so that he lay below her, helped her spread her skirts so that they were center to center, she forgot that she'd ever wanted more. His hands, warmed by the friction of his explorations, reached her skin beneath her dress, and he warmed them both as she leaned over him to keep his lips captive with her own.
"I'm yours," she murmured to him as she reached between them to free his laces. "And you're mine, Jon. Always."
"Always," he promised and held her hips as she moved against him, as she guided him into her. She lost the words as he filled her with heat and love and light, only able to move with him, to nuzzle her nose against his neck, to gasp out his name.
"Mine," she heard through the fog of her rise. "Mine, Dany, oh gods, mine," again as she fell over the hidden cliff, as she pulled him after her.
"Yours," she agreed in a whisper, then let herself drift against him for a while.
"Would you like me to build the fire back up?" Jon asked some time later. "Or would you prefer to move inside?"
"Inside, I would think," she said as he shifted slightly under her, covering his skin before he exposed himself to the freezing temperatures.
"As my queen commands," he murmured, then pressed his lips to her brow. "Shall I carry you?"
"You needn't," she said and felt him smile against her skin.
"And if I wish to?"
"As my prince desires," she answered, and felt the grin broaden.
He carried her well, all the way to his bed, their bed, where he set her down, helped her out of clothes and beneath the furs, before tending to their fire. She sat up against the simple headboard, undoing her braids and watching the muscles in his back move beneath his coat as he maneuvered kindling and shifted logs into a pattern that would burn for them through the night. When he stood to face her, a sort of awe captured her throat and made it hard to breathe again, though the tears seemed to have faded for the night. He was hers, she knew, all hers, for the rest of her days, and thought, May they be endless.
"Come, let us rest before the shadows under your eyes turn to bruises," he said, leaning down to brush a kiss over her lips.
"Then, join me," she invited and delighted in his careful, deliberate undressing of himself, removing everything, and replacing his fine tunic for one more suited to dreams and laying abed. He slipped beneath the covers beside her and cradled her in his arms, making sure to sweep her hair out of the way before he looped one arm around her shoulder.
They fell asleep to the crackle of the fire and the whisper of their own voices.
And woke at dawn to three sharp horn blasts through the open window.