Chapter XXVII: The Great Glory

The nights had been hard for Jon.

Ravens arrived from the Wall simultaneously, notifying him of rangers disappearing and Castle Black turning into a nightmare because of the cold. It wouldn't be long before the dead march onto the Wall, and the current forces wouldn't be able to hold them off.

His dreams were haunted by visions of Hardhome, of wars he had fought and was yet to fight in. The ice cold eyes of the Nights King, colder than the ice beneath his feet. As days passed, he knew that the enemy inched closer to the Wall, and that he needed to do something before all the Seven Hells broke loose in the North.

Dany had invited him to see her dragons, this time alone. She didn't want any complications, and as far as Jon could see, the only Stark in Winterfell she liked was Sansa. She kept a distance from Bran in anger, and she and Arya never shared company for more than five minutes, probably in the best interest of both parties.

The day of the wedding drew near, and Sansa was happily and hurriedly taking care of everything. It suited her; to be a Lady and run the household. She was the one who made him remember the old times when it was Catelyn Stark running Winterfell, even though some of the memories weren't pleasant. But Jon was grateful to Sansa for everything, since he needed someone to handle the castle while most of them were busy preparing for war. Tyrion and Dany barely left each other's presence, spending the entirety of the day discussing battle plans and strategies. Bran spent his time near the Heart Tree, keeping an eye on events beyond physical reach. Arya spent most of her time with Bran too, although Jon didn't know what they whispered about. She and Bran shared a strange connection, perhaps because both of them had accepted being wargs and were utilizing their abilities. Arya once mentioned Bran warging several of her wolves at once. She said he was practicing; for warging a much bigger creature than a wolf. Jon had urged her to drop the idea after what had happened last time, but she convinced him it would bring no harm. She claimed it was necessary for them to win the war. That Bran must fly, no matter what the consequences.

Sam had of course returned with his own set of information, most of which included Valyrian Steel defeating the White Walkers. They didn't have dragonglass, and had to do with the steel, and fortunately for them, Sam had also read how to forge Valyrian Steel, without any blacksmith from Qohor.

Dany's dragons were chained, one of the reasons why she was eager to leave Winterfell. Jon could understand. He'd never be able to keep Ghost locked in a cage for too long.

The biggest one, Drogon, was being caressed by his mother when Jon arrived. The beasts still frightened him, but Dany was near, and that made him relax.

"Step forward slowly."

He did.

All for nothing, he thought.

All of his wishes since childhood to become worthy of the Stark name, to become someone more than Ned Stark's bastard born out of dishonor. To become worthy of being called Robb's brother, of being called Arya's favourite, without everyone else around him constantly reminding him of his status. And now he was here, finding out he was a dragon.

He was never one of them after all. He was always an outcast. As a Snow, at least he thought he had the blood of Ned, but even that wasn't true.

The dragon growled.

He may be a Targaryen, a son of Rhaegar and born of Kings, but Jon Snow had never wanted any of that. All he wanted was to be called Winterfell's own, and now, he realized, he finally was someone wanted in the North.

But even that was lie. The Northerners didn't crown a Targaryen as the King in the North, they crowned Ned's son. Which he wasn't, and which was sadder than everything else.

I don't belong on either side. I'm not a true Stark, neither a true Targaryen.

He shrank back suddenly when Rhaegal hissed dangerously close.

"Give me your hand," Dany said and offered hers.

Jon took it reluctantly. Her hand was soft and warm, and fit perfectly in his.

Jon's shook as she took it gently and steadily near the dragon's snout. Jon tried taking it back but Dany shook her head, and placed his hand on Rhaegal's scaled head.

"They know you," she told Jon. "Dragons only submit to our family, have been for centuries. If you were anything else than a Targaryen, your hand would've been charred by now."

Jon pulled his hand back.

"Do not worry, King Jon. I do not wish for my betrothed to be burned days before the wedding."

Dany smiled, and Jon saw how beautiful she was. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and soon she'd be his wife. Most men would call him the luckiest bastard in the Seven Kingdoms.

Dany's hand reached his and he froze. The Queen ran her palm gently up his arm, watching his eyes with every movement. Jon felt his heart thump. Her hand reached his neck and he knew what would happen next.

He didn't reject her advances, and instead leaned down and let her kiss him softly. Her lips were soft, softer than Ygritte's had been, or any other woman he'd kissed as a boy..

Dany opened her lips as an invitation, and he tasted her with his tongue. Sweet and sweet and sweet. It was all too different and unfamiliar, but she was certainly a woman who knew how to kiss a man perfectly. He could drown in such a kiss.

He could, but he didn't want to.

He pulled pack slowly, noticing the redness spread across her pale cheeks. Her smile was radiating and blinding.

I can love her, he thought. I can.

A drop of blood tricked down his finger as he stood in front of his mother's statue, a blue, frosty crown of winter roses in his hand.

Jon placed the crown down on Lyanna's hands. His visits to the crypts had been frequent now that he knew about his true parentage. After all, his mother whose love he missed all his life, whose face he'd have killed to see, had always been right under his nose. His beautiful mother, who was now nothing but stone.

Love is the death of duty, Maester Aemon used to say.

Was it so important to love each other, that his parents had decided to forsake everything? Their families, their honor, their dignity. Was Rhaegar so mad in love that he didn't think of his own wife, didn't think of his children waiting for their father; of his reputation as a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Was Lyanna so lovestruck she couldn't forsake her silver Prince for her own blood and family? For Ned or Benjen or Brandon or her father?

Was love such a curse?

"Jon."

He didn't turn, but took her hand as soon as he felt her near him.

Arya dropped her head on his shoulder.

"Do you need to come here every day?"

Jon stared at her.

Arya inched closer.

"I don't like it when you're sad, stupid."

Jon pulled her closer to his side. She was warm and comforting, like the warm, sunny days in Winterfell that were no longer. He had been with Lord Stark when he had first brought little Arya to watch the crypts. Jon remembered that none of the Stark children had been as excited to see such a cold, dark and grey place. She had always been different.

And Arya. His little and precious Arya, was the only one who truly loved him. Loved him when he deserved it and when he didn't.

And for that he loved her too, so much that sometimes he had the urge to lock her up and not let others even near her, in fear of losing her again. His heart couldn't bear it if he were not to look at her daily, to remind herself she was safe and home. With him.

"Did you see Daenerys today?"

He nodded.

"And her dragons?"

"I did."

Arya hummed.

"Bran says you're to ride one of her dragons," Arya said. "You must."

Jon shook his head.

"Bran wants too much of me. Besides, she wouldn't let me."

Arya turned to look at him. Her eyes shone like molten silver.

"I have seen what haunts you. Bran showed me. I can only imagine what you must have gone through while fighting them. The Targaryen dragon has three heads, and you are the second."

Jon brushed her cheek softly.

"You've been listening to Bran too much. Besides, I'm a Targaryen bastard. I'm not a trueborn."

Her eyes flashed.

"You are a Stark and a Targaryen. Fuck being a trueborn." She took a deep breath, then continued, "After everything Bran has showed me and told me, I have full faith in what he says. Believe me, Jon, he knows everything there is to know and he says that you must ride Rhaegal into battle. Only the three heads of the dragon can defeat the enemy."

"Then it makes two if I do ride. What about the third?"

"Bran will fly," she simply whispered, and moved more into the light of the torch.

"So I'm now a Targaryen to you? Not a Stark or a Snow?"

He meant it as a little jape, but instantly regretted his words when Arya's lip quivered and the shine in her eyes dimmed.

"If it's any better, I never wanted to be a Targaryen," he said.

Arya smiled.

"It doesn't really matter, I think. We'll all have to fight the dead whatever way we can," she said.

"We?"

Arya quirked her brow.

"Like I'm letting you go out there in so much danger."

"Like I'm letting you stop me."

Jon laughed, and took her face in his hands.

"I can't bear the thought of losing you."

"And you won't," she promised him. "I am not a little helpless girl anymore, Jon."

His smile faded. Of course, she wasn't. She didn't act like old Arya. She didn't look like her. He had bid farewell to a little rebel always running with excitement and happiness, and years later, got back a lethal and deadly woman calm as the sea and harsh as winter.

Jon turned to his mother's statue. The blue crown lay on her hand, and he reached out. He took out a single rose and brought it to Arya, tucking it behind her ear, and let her hair fall loose

Arya looked up at him in surprise, but he only smiled. She looked just like the statue. No, she looked prettier, and she was alive and breathing.

"You look beautiful," he whispered. Blue suited her. "And they are your favourite, if I remember correctly."

"They are," she agreed. He wondered if his mother looked like Arya when Rhaegar gave her the crown of winter roses.

He reached out to touch her face, and leaned in close to her.

Perhaps this was what drove Rhaegar to war. This overwhelming love Jon currently felt for the woman infront of him. Arya, whose love he didn't deserve and never would in a thousand years.

Even if our love is different.

His breath was fanning her face, and Arya closed her eyes with an exhale.

Jon felt a sudden urge, and his body moved automatically and he kissed her on the corner of her lips. One of his hands moved to her hair and he touched the rose, and the soft petals fell of her hair, landing over his arm and the ground. Jon blinked and drew back.

Arya opened her eyes, eyelashes fluttering, and ran her tongue over her lips.

"Perhaps we should-"

"Yes," he interrupted her. He placed a kiss on her hair with quivering lips, and walked right past her without another word.

Even if our love is different. Even if our love is different. It is different.

Love is our great glory, Maester Aemon had told him.

Our great glory, and our great tragedy.