Hello all! I know it's been a [long] while since I updated, I know, I know.
But this story takes so much focus to write and life got in the way, then my muse didn't cooperate, so I decided it would be better to stay away awhile, not wanting to ruin it.
Anyway, this pick up right where the last chapter ended - with Jon and Rhaegal because their connection needed just a little more explaining :) Just a little bit. So the first part of this chapter deals with that, while the following focuses on Jon and Dany. Now, I really want to know what you guys think about their interaction so, as usual, some feedback would be amazing. This being said... Enjoy!
"Jon, stop!" Dany shouted with all the strength she could muster. The blood froze in her veins - he was going to get himself killed! "Stop!" she screamed again, over the raising wind, over her thundering heart. But Jon couldn't hear her.
He could not see, nor breathe, nor think. Acting on pure instinct, the man leapt onto the dragon's back, seized the crystal spear and ripped it out. The damned thing was glowed brightly, smeared with fuming black blood. As fierce as they are, even dragons can be killed, Jon realized and flung the spear aside violently. Beneath him Rhaegal roared, snapping his massive jaws in protest, but made no attempt to throw him off. Muscles rippled under the scaly skin, twitching and gathering their strength, then suddenly, with a cracking sound, large wings flung open, sending them soaring from the ground.
Jon held on tighter, lifting and falling with the beast, feeling his heart about to burst. The trees below lost shape, faster and faster, until it all dissolved into a blur of gray and white. Would my body shatter if I fell now? he wondered, Would there be time to register what part of me broke first? Jon's head began to spin and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of wind-driven ice-crystals. The dragonlords of old Valyria used binding spells and sorcerous horns to control their mounts - he had to make do with hands and feet.
Not wanting to further contemplate an oncoming death, Jon tightened his grip and kicked the dragon, trying to turn the beast. "Go back," he commanded, tugging the scales. This might cost him his life, he knew it, but there was no other way. "Back!" the man shouted again, yanking as hard as he could, "Go back!" But it was pointless - Rhaegal had a will of his own.
Yet my will is stronger. The realization forced a shift in Jon, every fiber of his body accepting the fact that something profound was happening. Like an abrupt revelation —the curtains whipped away— he knew what needed to be done. There was no time to tame the beast, or think of consequences. There was only time to assert his will. So focusing his entire being, Jon leaped out of his skin.
Turn. Back. ... They need us...
Rhaegal shrieked at once, twisting abruptly in the air, then plunged back through the night, on wings as green as jade. When the camp reappeared beneath them, the dragon roared his fury and bathed it in fire. Hot swirls of yellow, orange and green, merged with Drogon's black ones. Shrouded in flames, wights ran and tumbled to the ground, twisting and melting like candles. Fire. Fire was everywhere, it's hungry crackle raising above the screams. Jon could no longer feel his wounds, nor the ache in his muscles. They were winning. The Others were falling back, retreating into the woods.
They were winning.
.oOo.
Later, when the flames died down and the embers cooled enough, Jon wandered through the predawn light, gazing across the camp's remains. Even now, hours later, a fine rain of dust and cinders kept falling from above, ashes drifting around like white moths and fireflies. A terrible sense of sadness crept through him in the realization of what victory had cost. Dragon-fire was a brutal weapon. It made no distinction between friend or foe, between human or wight. It could not be controlled.
Part of his men, unable to avoid the flames, had been caught in the crossfires. Those still alive were now crawling upon the ground, burned and bleeding, crying for their mothers. At least a third of the wagons had been consumed by the fire too. Jon took a few more steps, his face set in grim determination. Loneliness, deeper than ever, sagged his shoulders. It felt like he was no different from those ice monsters - a bringer of death. Dragging his feet through the mud and snow, he took a few more steps, then halted almost unable to believe his eyes.
She stood just a few feet ahead. Daenerys the fierce. Daenerys the ruthless. The butcher Queen of Dothraki hoards... Kneeling beside a fallen soldier — a boy, really — soothing back his dirty hair. Jon walked numbly toward them.
"It's alright," he could hear her say, in a steady voice. "It will be better soon; the pain will be over soon."
"Aye," the boy wailed, "I canna' ... I canna' feel my legs anymore…nor my hands… Are ye'... are ye' there?" Numb hands flailed blindly ahead, "Are ye there?" Dany grasped them firmly between her own. "I'm here," she whispered, "You're not alone." Suddenly, the boy's back arched off the muddy snow, his wounded body in violent protest at what his mind had already begun to accept. He gasped deeply from time to time, hungry for the air his lungs refused to breathe in.
A tear rolled down Dany's cheek. She could not save him, couldn't ease his pain. People are always dying around you... What kind of queen can't protect her own? Embittered, she leaned closer over the struggling body, murmuring words of comfort, taking on the heartrending task of helping a man to die. When it was finally over, she gently pushed his eyelids closed and stood up, wiping away her tears. Her gaze drifted around the campsite, lost and saddened, until it met Jon's across a small distance. As recognition slowly settled in, something passed between them - unspoken and intense.
"Jon!" she cried out in relief, her hands reaching out as he approached. Before he had a chance to, Dany threw her arms around his neck, embracing him tighter than he'd ever thought her capable of. He could feel her heart against his ribs. He could feel it as clearly as if it was his own - strong, defying death with each beating. Basking in the nearness Jon drew her closer, wanting nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving, just feeling that resilient heart.
"Why?"—she finally asked, her voice muffled against his chest, "Why were you so reckless? Rhaegal could have... He could have—"
Dany's voice wavered and Jon kissed the crown of her head, nestling it to his chest. Remembering, it seemed almost surreal; some sort of instinct kicking in, something he couldn't explain or understand.
"I had to," he confessed, stroking her hair gently, reveling in its softness. "They would've killed him. I— I just had to."
Pulling back a little, Daenerys gently disentangled herself from the embrace and looked up. Her brow was wrinkled and tears streaked the ash on her face. Was she ... was she crying for him?! No one had ever cried for him. His mother had been dead, and the rest of the world shed no tears for bastards. Hesitantly, he cupped her face and ran his thumbs down her cheeks. The tenderness made Dany's stomach clench.
"What's wrong?" he asked, searching her eyes, keeping his hands on either sides of her face, "Why are you crying?" He gazed down with such undisguised concern, such compassion, that it tugged at her heart. How was she supposed to react to this? With desires of the flesh she could deal with, but this... this was disarming.
An awkward silence fell. She couldn't stop thinking of all the times people have told her how brave he was, how good a person, how kind. The young bastard who rose up the ranks in the Night's Watch, and then became King. A man with no claim or title, who bravely defied all odds. Exaggerations, she'd call them, embellishments of the truth. Now, she knew better.
"I..." her voice faltered, unsure. "When those monster closed in on Rhaegal ... I thought I was about to lose him ... and you. Both of you." The mere though, sent an icy draft through her heart and she gave a shiver.
"It's alright," Jon whispered, pulling her back against him, "It's over."
Dany's arms went around him and she moved a little, burrowing closer. Their bodies molded to each other. A perfect fit, she thought, as if they had been joined at some point in time, then split asunder, only to find themselves perfectly aligned once more. She closed her eyes and allowed herself this moment of peace. When she opened them again and gazed over his shoulder, she saw the sky lighting up in hues of gold, and orange and red.
She saw it catching fire.
.oOo.
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, although the road turned rough, then rougher. Survivors rode in silence, brooding, glancing at every shadow with unease, until their destination finally loomed ahead.
The sight of it gave Dany shivers. You could see it from miles off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. This is the end of the world, it seemed to say. Castle Black, with its timbered keeps and stone towers, looked like nothing more than a handful of toy blocks scattered on the snow, beneath the vast wall of ice.
The ancient stronghold of the black brothers was no true castle, yet Dany could not be more grateful for the safety it provided. The North was cold and harsh, and no place to be out in the open. Thus, after walking through the cold narrow corridors dimly lit by slitted windows, she almost sighed when she came to her chambers in the King's Tower. Although sparsely furnished, they had wall hangings and tapestries to absorb most of the damp and the drought. Furthermore, the bed had soft fresh linens, and, most importantly, a healthy fire burned in the hearth.
It's flames whirled and writhed , spinning their crimson veils, crackling from time to time. Soothed by the sound, Dany stripped off her traveling clothes and donned a loose nightgown. Tired as she was, she knew sleep wouldn't come easy, so she settled by the fire, thawing her frozen limbs. She stood there silent, thinking, trying to figure out what had happened with Rhaegal.
Why had he reacted like that to Jon? Viserion was lazy and curious, indulging in the attention he received. But Rhaegal! Her green was dangerous. Impulsive. Like Drogon, he didn't allow anyone near - not even Irri and Jhiqui, who've been with him since hatching. So why accept a stranger born in the North?
Oh! But he wasn't born in the North, was he? an inner voice whispered, He was raised there, yes, but he was born in the South. She knew it, from Tyrion. After fighting the Usurper's rebellion, Eddard Stark had returned to Winterfell with an infant son, and refused to say who his mother was. Maybe his mother... Yes... the voice urged on. In the South, where Targaryens and Velaryons ruled for centuries, dragonseeds remain plentiful. If the woman who made Lord Eddard forget his duty was a seed ... If she had some Valyrian blood in her veins, then he... he...
Could it it be?! As crazy as it sounded, part of her wanted to believe it. Somehow it made her feel less lonely, even if just a little. Her thoughts churned like leaves in the wind when Jon knocked on the door. Stepping in, the northerner scanned the place with his assessing glance. He'd been busy, discussing the ambush they've suffered with his former black brothers, but before retiring he wanted to make sure the Queen had everything she needed.
"Your Grace," he greeted guardedly. She was sitting at the fireside in her nightgown, a heavy robe thrown over her shoulders and hair brushed loose, looking more beautiful than any woman he'd ever seen. "The Night's Watch has done its best to receive you. I hope you find your chambers satisfactory," he added politely.
"Yes," Daenerys replied looking straight into his eyes, "I do." There was a formality between them again, a distance they'd managed to bridge, out in the wild. Surely they could do it again. Somehow, she felt it was utterly important that they did. "Thank you," she continued and there was a world of meaning in her own eyes as she spoke, " For everything."
After the attack, Jon had doubled her guard and made sure she was protected, and fed, and warm. It had been the closest thing to feeling safe, given their situation."Will you sit with me awhile?" she invited and Jon looked at her for a long moment with those cold grey eyes of his. He hesitated, taken by surprise, then smiled his half-smile, softening a little. "As you wish," he agreed and settled into the other chair facing the fire. They remained silent, looking at the logs that were burning down to red embers.
"Why did you leave your home for this?" Dany asked softly, glancing at him.
When he didn't answer right away she knew his mind was working, pondering. He was such a calculating man, this northerner. And yet, beneath the reserved exterior she knew there was warmth. She'd seen it - in the way he treated his men. His sister. Her.
"Winterfell was never 'home' to me," he finally confessed, earning a rather surprised look from Daenerys. "I loved that place as a boy, and I love it still, but it was never home. Not the way you'd want a home to be." He leaned forward in his chair and stared down at his fists, which he held clasped. "It was my father's home, where I was allowed to live. Later, it would become Robb's home where I'd be allowed to live." His expression turned thoughtful, tinged by a bit of remorse. "No matter how close I got, I was always on the outside looking in."
Dany's eyes moved in little flicks as she studied different places on his face, "But why a black cloak?" she asked again, "Why a wall of ice when there's an entire world out there — Dorne, Pentos. Volantis!"
An expression of vulnerability washed over his face. He looked down for a second, then back at her, and it became obvious that confiding wasn't something he'd had much practice in. "Dorne was never an option and neither were the Free cities," he begun to explain, "You see, despite my bastard birth, or perhaps because of it, I craved to prove myself, to make my way into this world. I wanted to be seen as the honorable, as the kind of man my father was, not just 'Ned Stark's bastard'." He paused and broke the gaze with a glance to the ground. "In the Night's Watch, even a bastard can rise and earn glory."
Danys' heart went out to him. She could almost see him — a young boy, a bastard, longing for something he might never have.
"I never had a home either," she found herself confessing as she pulled a loose thread from her sleeve. "Viserys and I ... we were always on the run. Braavos, Myr, Pentos... One city after another, never settling down." Slowly, she wound the thread around her finger, "Had I not been blood of the dragon, maybe I could have found comfort with the Dothraki. But with Viserys gone, I was the last of my line. I was—" she looked on the verge of adding something more, but then shook her head and threw the thread into the flames.
"It must have been hard," Jon almost whispered, "losing your only brother." When she turned to him, her expression made him regret his words. This was prying into things that were none of his business. But the words were out there, and he could not take them back.
"Viserys taught me who I was," Daenerys' voice trailed off, eyes drifting to the flames. "He told me of our heritage and did his best to care for me, but..." a shadow passed over her face, "Our circumstances made him miserable. He went from being a prince to being a beggar, and it broke him. He grew angry. Violent." Even though her head was turned, Jon could see her eyes close for a moment. "He often took that anger out on me," she added and the edge of her voice spoke volumes.
Jon felt his chest tighten, horrified by the picture that leapt into his head. Her own brother. To be mistreated by the one person who was supposed to protect her. "I'm sorry," was the only thing he could say, "I'm sorry it happened to you."
Her violet eyes came to his, "It doesn't matter," she tried to shrug it off, "I don't know why I even brough—"
"Daenerys" he cut her off in a gentle voice, "I know there are things you do not wish to tell me. Perhaps things you cannot tell me." Somewhat tentatively, Jon shifted in his chair to fully face her. "Confiding isn't easy for me either." Their eyes bore into each others and at such close range, she could see the shifting hues in his gaze. "I'll never insist on knowing things that are your own concern," he continued seriously, "I'll never ask for something you cannot give me. But what I would ask of you— when you do tell me something, let it be the truth. We have nothing between us —save honesty. Let there be room for secrets, but not for lies. Do you agree?"
She didn't answer, she couldn't, but when he reached out, she put her hand in his without a second thought. Their fingers tangled, their hands joined, and in that moment Dany knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she could trust this man completely.
"You have my honesty, Jon. And my trust." She smiled and the smile made him wish that she was plainer. It made him want so much more —not only trust and honesty. I want her, he realized. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. At once, guilt washed over him as if he were taking advantage, so he stood up reluctantly and made for the door.
"Goodnight, my lady. I'll see you in the morn."
