Her
She loved it when people underestimated her. Didn't trust her. Saw her as an outsider. Years ago, in Vase Dothrak, none of the Dothraki thought she'd eat the whole horse's heart, but she did. And now there were no Khals. Only Khaleesi.
These Northerners looked at her the way the Dothraki did, waiting for her to give up or vomit. She might not be here to conquer, but these people still needed conquering. The strategy would just be different. No fire and blood. No horse's heart. Jon Snow's people needed to see that she was unaffected by the cold.
After unpacking her chambers, a large white beast with red eyes wandered through her door. His direwolf. It stood in the doorway and it seemed to be waiting for something.
"Ghost!" Jon Snow's voice bent around the hallway, only just ahead of him.
"This is your direwolf?" She asked as he walked through the door, following the wolf. It left his side and languidly padded toward her. If she hadn't been the Mother of Dragons, it might have been an imposing creature. Looking in his eyes was startlingly like looking into a dragon's – silent intelligence beyond measure, knowing loyalty and ferocity. He nuzzled her outstretched hand.
When she stood up, Jon Snow was standing so close to her she could smell the smoke and leather of him. His hands were ungloved and cold. He clasped either side of her face, leaned into her and kissed her on the brow. "I'm heading down to the Great Hall. Come down after me. Bring Ghost."
So when she swam through a crowd of Lords from the North and Knights of the Vale, she was late and flanked by Jon Snow's legendary direwolf. The angry clamor she'd heard died off as she made her way through the sea. She did not sit at the Great Table with Jon Snow and his sisters.
As soon as she was situated behind the table and between Tyrion Lannister and Missandei, the noise erupted again.
"Your Grace," a man with a sigil like a closed fist proclaimed, "we appreciate the supply ships that come up the White Knife this week, but I can't abide taking them attached to so many strings."
"The Knights of the Vale will not fight for foreign invaders, Your Grace. We named you the king. Westeros hasn't recognized the Targaryen line of succession for decades." This man and his sigil – round dots on a field of runes – were ludicrous. Jon Snow stood, placing his gloved hands heavily on the wood of the table.
"My lords, I understand your concern. But you chose me to lead you. You named me King because of what I've done on the battlefield. I've fought the Night King and I've lost against him. We cannot win without Queen Daenerys and her dragons. And if we lose, it won't matter who sits on the Iron Throne." There was more chaotic shouting. Lady Sansa stood next to her brother.
"We chose Jon to lead us because we trust him to do the right thing. To make difficult choices. To protect us. Why did we chose him if we second guess every decision he makes? Why was he our King if we can't stand behind him?" Daenerys saw a look of gratitude pass between the siblings. She scratched Ghost between his ears, felt his wagging tail brush against her legs.
"Daenerys Targaryen is no queen of mine," a smallish, angry-looking man said through clenched teeth. "Her Hand is the Imp. There are dragons circling overhead. Her army of savages is making camp outside our gates. Does no one remember all those who died on the battlefield when Ned Stark fought to overthrow her father?" His sigil was a double-bladed axe. She wanted to gut him with it.
"Lord Cerwyn, you forget yourself." It became brutally quiet as Jon Snow's voice rose in anger. "I may have relinquished my crown but you are still sworn to House Stark. I almost died North of the Wall. My whole party were lost until Queen Daenerys flew her dragons north and saved us all. She's seen the Night King. She knows what's at stake. She promised her dragons and her men and in return, I gave her the North."
"And you're willing to pledge us to win the Iron Throne for her?"
She stepped forward. She couldn't have her Warden speak for her any longer.
"My Lords and Ladies." She felt the piercing glare of dozens of eyes. "There are the Living and there are the Dead. The rest doesn't matter. Your king made me see the truth of that." The whirlpool of angry bile rose in her stomach. "The Wall has fallen and the Night King rides for us." The gasps emitted were a mass inhalation of frigid air, echoed by frightened whispers. "The Dead are coming. Let me fight with you. I am not my father. Judge me by my actions. I willdefeat the Night King for you, I swear it." She felt Lord Snow's eyes like an augur. Her face had reddened but she hoped they could hear the sincerity pouring out of her.
Her Hand stepped forward. "I urge you all to remember we are on the same side in the Great War. We'll worry about my sister if we survive."
Every House wanted answers, but plans needed to be set and strategies finalized. A round, nervous-looking man had entered as everyone else was exiting. He was pushing before him a brown-haired, sorrowful-looking young man in a wheeled chair. They lingered in the back of the room.
As soon as Jon Snow saw them, he cut his conversation with Ser Jorah off mid-sentence and went running. His brother. Lord Snow bent to embrace his brother who sat stiff and unmoved by the reunion.
There were only a dozen people in the room now, her counselors and his, as well as his siblings and their advisors. When Brandon Stark was introduced to her, his smile didn't reach his eyes. When Samwell Tarly was introduced to her as Jon Snow's sworn brother of the Night's Watch, her brows furrowed in question at Tyrion Lannister. Tarly?
"I see you made it back to your Queen, Ser Jorah," Tarly directed happily behind her, to where her advisor was standing.
"That I did, Samwell Tarly," he said over his Queen's head. "A debt I can never repay you. Sam was training as a Maester of the Citadel when we met. He cured me as a Novice when the Maester's told me it was hopeless. I owe him my life."
And I took the lives of his family. The things I've done from a position of strength.
"I've been waiting to speak with you, Daenerys Targaryen." When she turned her head, Brandon Stark seemed to be measuring her, dismantling her. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers splayed wide.
"Me, Lord Stark?"
"I am no Lord Stark. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven." A lull of confusion spread like melted butter.
"Your Grace, my brother has spent the last few years North of the Wall. He is not used to the presence of Queens," his older brother volunteered. The awkwardness of his joke told her that he, too, was alarmed by his brother's riddles.
"No, Jon," he snapped, but not unkindly. "I have been waiting a long time to see Daenerys Targaryen. And I have been waiting a long time to see you." At this, Tarly pushed his way through the small crowd, bowed forward in apology.
"Forgive him, Your Grace. What Bran means to say is that he's a greenseer. He can see things. Things that have happened, things that are happening right now. That's how the Ladies Sansa and Arya knew to execute Lord Baelish."
"You said Lord Baelish had returned to the Vale," Jon demanded of his sisters. This news hadn't been relayed to anyone in her camp, either.
"Does it matter now, Jon? Sansa floundered, struggling to explain, "Bran informed us of the full extent of his crimes against our family-"
"But it isn't Jon's family." Jon Snow looked at this Three-Eyed Raven, bruised and wounded. She'd always prided herself on being able to assess her surroundings before anyone else in the room, but this time she was completely thrown off now and it scared her.
"How can you say that, Bran?" asked Arya Stark.
"Because it's true. Jon isn't our brother. He's our cousin."
"Bran. What have you seen in your visions?" His hand rested on his sword's wolf-head pommel possessively as he moved to stand in front of Brandon.
"You were born in Dorne, at the end of Robert's Rebellion. Your mother was Lyanna Stark."
"Aunt Lyanna?" asked Sansa. The three greensightless Starks looked back and forth between each other, searching for rescue. "If you're not father's son, then who are you?"
"Jon is the legitimate son of Lyanna Stark and…and Rhaegar Targaryen," whispered Sam Tarly, in a low voice that rung against the stone walls above them. Wet, gargled murmurs stalled his voice and he was compulsively licking his lips. "His marriage to Elia Martell was annulled. He married Lyanna shortly after they ran off together. There's written record of it. I've read it."
It was like someone had thrown a severed head into their midst and everyone had taken a step backward to avoid stepping in the pool of blood.
"Your name isn't Jon Snow. It's Aegon Targaryen," said Brandon Stark.
Aegon the Conqueror.
"But," Tyrion Lannister's voice slowly ventured, "if Jon Snow is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen, that would mean that he is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
A careless summer breeze could have knocked her over. He was staring right at her. His dragon eyes withering and absent of fire.
Should she run to him or scream? Was the man she loved just another in a long line of usurpers? Or was she? They needed to discuss this alone, but the moment she made a move toward him, he turned and left the Great Hall without a backward glance.
Him
The rhythm of the hacking was comforting. Something steady. Something to be relied upon. He swung right, once, twice, three times, and then he swung left with extra effort. Splinters rained on the snow, and the weeping meat of the weirwood tree looked jarring and naked in the rising light.
After storming out of the Great Hall, he'd marched to his chambers and locked his door behind him, something he hadn't done since before he'd joined the Night's Watch, something he used to do whenever he was painfully reminded of his status as the Bastard of Winterfell. He'd fallen into a fitful sleep. Several times he'd woken to knocking on his door and several times he'd rolled over and ignored it.
That morning he'd woken up before the rest of the castle and headed straight for the Godswood, hoping to think alone. He hadn't left early enough.
"Robb did that. When Father died. He was so upset, but Motherconvinced him to stop. She said he'd ruin his sword. His sword wasn't Valyrian steel, though." Bran had been sitting in his chair, nestled against their father's favorite heart tree, when Jon Snow had gotten there hours before. He hadn't stirred at all, content to simply watch Jon expel his anger, sword against tree. Jon's sword hung now, bouncing against his leg. He was sweating in his furs and hardly felt the bite of the cold.
"How could you let them execute Littlefinger without asking me first?"
"He was a bad man. He did terrible things."
"Did you tell Sam what happened to his father and brother?"
"No. We need him here. We need Daenerys here. We need you here. I thought you'd be happy. You always wanted to know who your mother was."
"I did. It's the only thing I ever wanted from Father."
"Aside from being named a Stark."
"Aside from being named a Stark."
"Then why are so angry? You're not a bastard. You never were. Your mother and father loved each other. You were wanted."
"Yes and now everything I have is based on a lie. Everything I've ever had. And the Queen must hate me. And I've done terrible things."
"But you didn't know. She didn't know. And she doesn't hate you." He stopped, looking off into the hills, agreeing with the horizon. "You should go to her."
"Bran, do you realize we could have lost the Vale?" When Bran failed to respond, Jon Snow finally tossed his sword away, leaving it where it noisily tumbled. "And you realize Father died so that Cersei Lannister could keep her secrets?" Again, nothing. He threw up his arms, beseeching anyone to answer him. "And that my being alive at all means Father, the most honorable man we ever knew, was a traitor?"
"But he wasn't your father. He helped kill your father."
"I never knew Rhaegar Targaryen! I only knew Ned Stark!" This whole argument struck the former King in the North as being pointless and one-sided. Collapsing, his knees sunk into the snow and he tasted acidic defeat in his mouth.
"Why do you think Father kept you separated from us?" Bran rolled his chair closer by a foot. Jon looked at him sideways through the wet tangles of his hair.
"Because your mother hated me."
"No. Why do you think he never returned South after the war? Father couldn't lie. He kept you away so he wouldn't be tempted to tell the truth. The King would have had you killed. He tried to have Daenerys killed, and Father quit as Hand because of it."
At this casual mention of the Queen, he finally dropped his head and closed his eyes, hard. It hurt too much.
"I've laid with my own blood. I have no more honor than Jaime Lannister."
"Targaryen's have wed each other since the dawn of time. The Queen loves you."
"I'm not a Targaryen. I'm a Stark."
"And yet you've spent your whole life telling people that you aren't."
You have never, ever known anything, Jon Snow.
He swung his legs around so that they were crossed and he was sitting like a child listening to one of Old Nan's stories, the precipitation soaking through his breeches. "Bran, what would you have me do? I have a war to fight."
"So fight. Fight with Daenerys Targaryen and you will win."
"How do you know?"
"I don't know for certain. The future can always change."
"I don't want the crown."
"But you want the woman who wears it."
"The last time I saw you, you were still a little boy who wanted to be a knight!" he laughed, mirthlessly, at his otherworldly younger brother. Cousin. He rubbed his face with his hands.
"Have you ever considered that you don't have to be one or the other? Your father was Rhaegar but your mother was Lyanna. You are Targaryen and Stark. Be both. You always have been."
The rest of the castle must have been waking, but Jon Snow heard nothing but his own labored breathing, the world around him quiet in anticipation like an audience before a troupe of actors. Looking up into the grey sky through the red leaves of the tree before him, Maester Aemon's words came back to him through the mists of time.
A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.
Her
When her Hand suggested she concentrate on something other than the War Council, she nearly spat on him. It was a diversion tactic, to be sure – a way to keep her mind off the new and nagging ambiguities in her relationship with her Warden of the North. But he reminded her that, in many ways, the North still needed convincing.
"What would your brother have done?" Been beloved by the people. Married a Stark.
Tyrion Lannister's grin was nothing less than smug. Eventually, he was always right. So she spent her days being seen all across Winterfell, earning their favor.
In the central courtyard, she watched Lady Sansa's sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, spar with Arya Stark – who insisted, over and again, that she not be referred to as Lady.
The men and women who worked the stables were aflutter with the attention as she shared stories about her time leading her Khalasar. It was there she learned the most about the history of Winterfell, all the old stories she didn't used to believe until she'd seen them waking.
She roamed the encampments, visiting with the soldiers. The Dothraki, although unused to the cold, were eager to prove themselves in battle and the Unsullied were as rigid as ever. The Northmen were as courteous as they could be while still refusing to speak with her. But with Ghost as her guard she kept at it, until she learned how blustering, gregarious, and funny they could be.
She took Ghost with her to visit Drogon and Rhaegal. They were chained during the day but took flight at night, when she could hear Ghost send howls of brotherhood heavenward, into the dark, infinite emptiness.
She took her meals in the Great Hall, somedays with Missandei and Grey Worm, and on other days with Lord Tyrion and his former squire, Podrick Payne, who made her laugh in spite of herself.
And at night she lied in her bed, unable to sleep, counting all the things she wished she had done. She wished she'd followed him out the door, across the courtyard, out the gate and kept on going south, until there was nowhere left to go. She wished she'd forced some kind of answer. Do you love me or do you love what I offer?
At the end of the week there was a knock on her door. Her chest hammered furiously – her Warden of the North had let each of her sealed messages go without reply, leaving her heart in fetid stasis. She called for her guest to enter.
Ser Davos shuffled in. "Apologies, Your Grace. I was hoping I might have a word." But when he made his way to sit across her small table, neither seemed to know what to say. She waited. He reached for her abandoned flagon of wine and took a long swig. "I hear good things about you around the castle, Your Grace. I think you've managed to win a lot of 'em over."
"I did as my advisor suggested, Ser Davos," she said, letting the resentment seep into her words.
"It reminds me of your brother. I saw him once, you know." She sat up straighter, leaning into his voice, eager to hear anything that contradicted the Northern side of things. "I'm from King's Landing, originally, and before the War I remember watching Prince Rhaegar walking and singing through Flea Bottom. You could tell he was royal – the way he looked, the way he carried himself – but he never acted like he knew it."
"Ser Jorah told me this story once. He said Rhaegar loved to sing."
"Aye, and he had a right good voice too, if I recall. You know, Your Grace, Stannis Baratheon might have lifted me up, but I never quite believed what they said about your brother. Your father – no offense intended, Your Grace – that was all true, but Prince Rhaegar didn't seem like the type who'd have to force a woman to go anywhere." His story, his kind and humble words, felt like a tonic. Lighthearted Targaryen stories were a rare thing this far away from Dragonstone.
"Ser Davos, how do I fare in your eyes? Speak honestly. Do believe in my claim to the throne?"
"Your Grace," he started. The man was comfortable with his words, plainspoken and true, but she could tell he was treading lightly. "You are a skilled conqueror. You've surrounded yourself with smart and loyal advisors, including a Hand who is, technically, the enemy. But, I think, most of all you want to help people. Common people like the ones in Flea Bottom. You'll be a good Queen if it ever comes to that. You've got a good heart. Jon Snow told me so." With this, she pushed herself back in her chair, stood, and turned to look out her window. She couldn't have him see her.
"Do you think Jon Snow would be a better king?"
"It's not a matter of better. Jon Snow doesn't want to be king. He never did. He didn't even want to be Lord Commander. He only took the title to protect his people."
"Answer my question, Ser Davos."
"Your Grace, I think Jon Snow would be a great king because he doesn't want to be. He wants to help people, same as you. But he would never take the crown for himself. It's just not in him." When she heard his chair scrape, she knew the Onion Knight had said his piece. "Give him time, Your Grace."
That night, she dreamt of the first time she ever saw Jon Snow and the way he could hardly manage to look at her, like she was a burning star, something too bright to behold.
The next day she spent time with Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion, examining all that had been gathered and stored for any refugees who might arrive, outrunning the Army of the Dead. Even the Dragon Queen was impressed with Sansa's forethought and efficiency. She'd taken care of everything.
"You were always far too smart to just be a Lord's wife," her Hand complimented his former bride. The auburn-haired lady of the castle looked pleased. Credit was more often given to her heroic half-brother. Cousin.
As the trio walked and the Lady Sansa continued to explain her thoughts on how to supplement and house her projected numbers, Daenerys Targaryen tasted steel on her tongue. Her breath felt hot, and waves of saliva were flooding against her teeth. Leaning against the fortifying beams of the granary, her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Bent and overcome by dizziness, the Queen of the Andals and First Men wretched into a mound of snow. Her companions watched her and she watched as the puddle at her feet steamed and melted into a cloudy brine.
"Lady Sansa, please fetch the Maester to my chambers. I will meet him there." Once Sansa had picked up her skirts and headed for the Maester, Daenerys looked at her Hand.
Do not tell Jon Snow.
Him
He felt it like a specter. He ran the War Councils, relaying information from one party to the next. He was like a busy raven, delivering messages. It did nothing to shake this one, unutterable fact: he missed her.
Bran was waiting for him in the Godswood every night since the first, and every night his council was the same. Be both. Go to her. It had been three days and the more concrete their plans, the more repeated this guidance, and the more he missed her, the less life-altering the reality of his life and its various shades and mysteries became. Many things that had never fit quite right suddenly locked into place. Winterfell had always been his home, but his family had always lived and breathed just beyond arm's reach. If what Bran said was true, then maybe all of this was supposed to happen.
Of course, he didn't know how to be anything but a Stark and letters from the only other Targaryen alive still sat – seal unbroken – next to his bed. He feared he'd let too much time pass. Initially he'd felt indebted to Tyrion Lannister for convincing the Queen to get to know her people. This saved him the discomfort of finding a bridge between what they had been and what they could be, but now Jon Snow found himself wanting to cross that tenuous bridge.
The gathering storm was not going to slow down just for him. Death was coming for them all. If he had to die again, there would be no regrets.
As he readied himself for the day – adjusting haberk, securing sword – he heard the sharp blast of the sentries' horns break the calm of the morning. There had been no raven warning of an arrival. Hastily, he shouldered his furs across his back and made his way down the hall.
"Your Grace," Ser Davos panted as he caught up with Jon Snow coming down the hall from the opposite direction. Each knew by looking at the other that this was an unexpected event.
When they broke free from the darkness of the castle and stepped out into the light, his eyes were drawn to her. She was already at the gates, with Tyrion Lannister and both of his sisters, with a look of suppressed worry on her face. He reached for his sword, a motion that rippled across the courtyard.
But when the heavy gate finished making its inward arc, it wasn't White Walkers or the risen dead who came scrambling in. It was a huddled mass of Northerners, scared and cold, led by a group of familiar faces.
"Jon Fucking Snow! We thought you'd be dead by now!" He'd never been so happy to have Tormund Giantsbane grapple him in a hug. It was nothing short of a miracle that he, Beric Dondarrion, and Gendry Waters had been able to run the length of the wall to safety all the way to Castle Black. Once they'd made it, informed Dolorous Edd – the Lord Commander – and sent their ravens across the North, they'd all headed South to Winterfell. As the Lord Commander, Edd had made the decision that, with the breach of the wall and the march of the dead trampling toward war with the living, the Night's Watch would be needed at Winterfell. To guard the realms of men.
Along the way, they'd picked up men, women, and children from Mole's Town, the Gift, and Last Hearth, all seeking protection from the plague beyond the wall. Jon Snow thanked the Gods for the extra numbers to strengthen his forces. At this surge in population however, he realized there was a very crucial piece of information regarding the incoming threat that he had withheld from those who were at Winterfell when he'd returned.
"Lord Snow," he heard called to him from across the courtyard. Twin orbs of ice froze on him. It was the first time they'd spoken in days. It made his breath catch. All eyes turned to her but she ignored them, held her head high and let her skirts drag in the mud as she walked over so as not to shout. He'd forgotten how warm she was, how sweet and steely she smelled. A large part of him was afraid he was going to be slapped. "I think we should call a meeting of the Knights and Lords. It might be disastrous if our men and women found out about Viscerion from someone other than their Queen or their King."
He'd misplaced his ability to speak, so he simply nodded his assent.
Those gathered stood in the Great Hall watched as Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow stood together, side-by-side in spite of days of impasse between them, and informed them of the true nature of the Night King's threat. Held upright by Valyrian resolve, she took the lead, plowing onward through cries of outrage and fear at the news that the Night King rode straight for Winterfell on the back of one of her dragons. The flotsam of sadness she felt about this matter floated just below the surface. As though they'd practiced it beforehand he followed her, assuring his people that plans and strategies were being sharpened and refined daily. He also reminded them that Lannister reinforcements had been marching north since the Dragon Pit parlay, sworn to fight this war for the survival of Westeros.
The whisper of a smile fluttered across her lips when he caught her eye, across the crowded Great Hall and over the bobbing heads of his people – her, the foam on the ocean – before she wordlessly disappeared. Consciousness escaped him that night, almost the moment his head hit the pillow.
The Kingslayer's midnight arrival roused him out of a dreamless sleep. The commander of the Royal Kingsguard brought with him Sandor Clegane and a man Lord Tyrion introduced as Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, someone who looked suspiciously like a sellsword. With them, maybe two dozen men. Cersei Lannister's treachery shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone, but the blow was nearly fatal. She'd doomed them. Not a man among them batted an eye when Jon Snow upturned a table.
"Gentlemen, there's really only one thing to do when faced with one's impending mortality," said Tyrion Lannister, with a sigh that bespoke a life largely defined by near-misses and might-have-beens.
An hour later and the King in the North – Ned Stark's former bastard and Rhaegar Targaryen's secret son – found himself significantly more intoxicated than he'd ever been before. Illuminated by candlelight, he sat around the Great Table with his best friends, his newest allies, and his enemies. Ser Jaime had just finished detailing for his company just how close he'd come to having his head chopped off by his own sister, when Lord Tyrion developed a glint in his eye.
"You haven't heard the news, dear brother. Lord Snow here is much more than the King in the North, although he did recently relinquish that title to our Queen Daenerys." To be fair, much of what Jon Snow knew of Jaime Lannister was based on rumor and Northern assumptions. But when the man slammed his flagon of ale down on the table, hard, he perceived a much acuter sense of self-awareness than he'd ever given the man credit for. Ser Jaime shifted in his seat and covered his mouth with his good hand.
"My God. It all makes sense now. Ned Stark would've never fathered a bastard." He laughed. He actually laughed and if Jon Snow had been less drunk he might have been offended. "You're Rhaegar Targaryen's son, aren't you?" It was silent in the room, other than each ponderous, thunderous swig of ale. "You're Ned Stark's nephew, aren't you?" Jaime Lannister found the whole thing much funnier than Jon Snow had. "And Ned Stark raised you right under Robert Baratheon's nose! The man had a lot more nerve than I ever suspected!"
"I'm glad you find this so funny, Ser Jaime." The alcohol was leaving him, ounces per minute.
"You're the heir to the Iron Throne! My sister's lost her mind! If we live through this, Westeros is yours!" Opportunities rattled off in quick succession did not seem impressive to the men around the table. Jaime Lannister looked from man to man, perplexed at the way they avoided his enthusiasm.
Ser Davos spoke. "He's in love with the Queen. It's caused a bit of a row between them."
"Why?" It would have been stupid to cause a rift between himself and the only other seasoned military commander in their arsenal, so when the Kingslayer asked this, he stayed quiet. "Because she thinks you want the Iron Throne for yourself? Or because she's your aunt by blood, and being in love with her makes you no better than I am?"
It must be the end of the world, or how else could a man, known throughout the world for breaking a sacred oath and killing his king, make another king feel so small?
Jaime Lannister leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat. "Well Jon Snow, if it means anything coming from a man without honor, I can tell you this. If I've learned anything in this life, it's that we do not choose who we love. And we'll all be dead soon anyway." His flagon hung in the air, a sad and weathered man trying to pass on the only bit of wisdom he had to give. Ten mugs of ale clinked together with a leaden thud.
Her
She dreamt of rushing air. She dreamt of winter roses, bluer than sky, growing out of her eyes and rooted in her belly. She dreamt of firelight, refracted in snow. She dreamt of black hair and the way it felt, brushing against her forehead. And when she woke, she didn't question who it was kneeling at her bed.
Sitting up and reaching out to him, she undid his furs and helped pull him up beside her. She smelled the ale on his breath, felt the sweat on his hands.
"I don't know anything," he said as she wrapped her arms around him. His head rested on her collarbone, black curls wet with snow. "I've always been a bastard and I acted like one."
"We should have discussed it," she whispered. It was harsh, but the rhythm of her delicate hands softened the sting. "I am your Queen and you are my ally. You cannot run away from me."
"I'm a stupid man, Your Grace," he said, looking up at her with those honorable dragon's eyes. "I would never fight your claim to the throne. I wouldn't've said it if I hadn't meant it. You are my Queen. If I live to, I will fight for you."
The steady, methodical whoosh of her fingers through his hair filled the night. Did anything else in the world exist? Had it ever?
"Jon Snow, you are my home now, do you understand?" Silence. "And we didn't do anything wrong. Do you understand?"
"Bran says we can win the war together. It's as it should be. We were meant to find each other." At his words, Daenerys Targaryen pushed herself up, forcing Jon Snow along with her.
"You were right. You knew all along. It always made so much sense and then I told you, and it sounded ridiculous, like you already knew." In her chambers, the darkness around them was thick enough to be crushed velvet, but she knew he saw every inch of her. For an eternity they sat there, breathing, until, crawling like a foal learning to stand, his hand made its way to rest on her stomach.
"The Maester confirmed it yesterday." The emptiness she'd felt for days was replaced by the weight of him. It reminded her of the first time they'd kissed, the way he seemed afraid to lose her.
"I will protect you. My sword is yours. Every part of me is yours, Daenerys." When their lips met, it was a kiss born of salty tears and smoky breath. It was impossible to tell who held who the tightest.
"Be my King. Marry me. Rule with me."
The Godswood was claimed by candle fire. For all she knew, the Night King was just beyond the castle's gates, but for this night, the night after her wolf had returned to her, they'd leave their fate in fire's hands.
He stood beneath the heart tree, the one his father – the man who raised him – had knelt before in prayer years earlier. She clung to the arm of her Hand, the only man she'd trust as witness to the joining of two royal houses.
"Who comes? Who comes before the Gods?" The way his voice quavered, she could hear her King's nervousness and she would have laughed if it hadn't made her dragon heart burst.
"Daenerys, of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, the Mother of Dragons. A woman trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?" Her Hand had been so afraid he'd forget the words, he'd rehearsed endlessly with Sansa Stark.
"Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, Warden of the North. I claim her. Who gives her?"
"Tyrion of House Lannister, Hand to the Queen. Queen Daenerys, do you take this man?"
"I take this man." Their gloved hands clasped together as they knelt before the heart tree. Although she could not say what it was her husband prayed for, the Queen prayed for the health of her unborn child, the safety of her loved ones, the defeat of the Night King, and the victory of her people.
They rose. A union forged by ice and fire, struck together by obsidian. Jon Snow did not remove her maiden's cloak as dictated by tradition, because the night was freezing and he had no sigil yet of his own. He removed his own thick furs and laid them over her slight shoulders. He kissed her like something rarer than dragon's eggs.
The candlelight was dying. The face of the heart tree smiled. "Well, my Queen?" He asked, blinking, tilting her face upward with the crook of his finger. "Shall we begin?"