Harry is the one who plants that seed of doubt in his mind. Without meaning to, of course. As it most often happens, it is little more than an interesting conversation. All the same, nothing remains as it was. And it's the words. Mere words.
"If there is nothing to hide," Sansa's lord husband says, "then why the violent refusal?" Ghost lazily looks up as Harry shifts closer. "She owes her power to her dragons. Three dragons that shall long outlive her. If she plans to leave no heir, then we will be no better than we were."
And it makes sense. Yet Jon does not wish to think upon it in such terms. "That is a pessimistic view."
"I never took you for an optimist, Snow."
Daenerys pats Drogon's scales. It's in such moments that Jon wonders. He wonders if he should tell her. He wonders if it would be the death of him. After all, there is so much at play here and he could gain a world if only he would speak.
He never does. Not about what he wants to speak of the most.
Nay. Jon has learned that all people have a value only as far as they are useful. Especially to kings and queens.
The great black beast takes off, swirling in the grey skies.
"We should return," the Queen says, holding one hand out. "I still have to attend the meeting of the Small Council."
"One must know when to let go," Tyrion advises. With the best of intentions, Jon is certain. "Imps and bastards most of all."
"I suppose you have the truth of it, my lord," he says after a short moment of silence. Yet he still wants to know why. He wants to know what it is that he is wanted for. It's growing more and more burdensome. He rakes his fingers through his hair in an annoyed motion.
Tyrion laughs. "You don't. It is clear from the look upon your face. A pity, Lord Snow."
A pity that he does not? Or a pity that it should happen to him. The basted doesn't question the statement.
Sansa rocks the youngest child, a thoughtful expression crossing her features. "I couldn't say. It seems strange to me as well. But, Jon, she is not one of us."
Striking. One of us. It feels like she's including him in this category. The acceptance produces a burning heat in his chest; it's painful. "She is the Queen," he replies.
The redhead looks up from the child. "Kings and Queens are like flowers, they bloom and then wilt only to fall away. Even those that are of our own. And she is not even that."
If someone like Sansa can think it, Jon shudders to consider what others believe.
The babe in her arms begins to wail, no doubt upset at having been left without her attention.
One of the Dothraki maids comes running in, in her haste she throws the doors apart and they crash thunderously against the walls. Jon wakes with a start, his heart thumping, hand searching for Longclaw among the warm sheets.
He can't understand a thing the woman is saying, but Daenerys merely nods, replying something in that same strange tongue.
He is calmer now, after the confusion has passed.
"The Dornish Princess is arrived." The Queen slides out of bed, her hair all in tangles. Her skin seems a vast expanse of ice in the low light.
Who could possibly guess she is a being of fire, seeing her now as she is?
Jon stands as well.
Arianne Martell he sees only after the sun is high upon the sky. Jon has just arrived in the great hall of the kings and the Dornishwoman is already standing against one of the columns, no doubt in wait for Daenerys.
She sees him as well, for the next moment dark eyes burn into his and a daring smile plays upon her lips. But as soon as it has arrived it goes.
And 'tis just as well, for Daenerys has arrived as well, followed by her Essosi companions.
This is the very first time Jon notices that even Lord Velaryon turns a distrustful eye to the horse riders.
He later understands that there have been complaints which have gone unaddressed.
"There must always be a limit. It is to the discretion of every ruler what they consider to be the limit. But if this belief crosses the belief of the masses and the lords, then that ruler should fear." Maester Wyngren reads this passage out of an earlier work of some maester who has not thought fit to sign himself.
"If there are weeds in the garden, they must be pulled out," Jon says. No doubt that they should.
"But if the weeds have grown all about and within the garden?" A question for the thinkers. "What is there left to save?"
"Whatever it, it must be enough." The bastard turns around and makes his way out the door then.
It is not the first time he and she have had this disagreement. But Jon insists nonetheless. "You cannot chastise the whole realm for the few you have brought with you. They are all your people."
The Queen sends him a hateful glare. "These people have murdered my parents and my brother. And now they would treat those who have followed me from Essos, the first who believed in me, poorly. I will not stand for it."
"They followed you to Westeros. In Westeros they must become Westerosi," he argues.
"Out of my sight," she explodes in waves of fury. "Who do you think you are?"
Clenching his jaw, Jon barely keeps himself from answering. But the Queen has already exiled him. It would matter little whether he speaks or not.
Ghost growls at the approach of the other person, ears perking. Jon merely slides a hand along the rumbling beast's back. "Just a while longer. Until Viserion is returned," he promises, without even looking behind.
"There is already words spreading within the keep that the Queen has kicked her favourite without." The voice is mockingly sweet. It's meant to pour salt on the wounds. Or at least that is what Jon thinks.
"The world always whispers," he counters with a shrug. "It makes no matter to me."
"But to many others it does." He fells the pressure of her hold on his arm but still does not look at her.
Harry helps his wife down, his hold gentle upon Sansa's trim middle. They smile at one another, a quiet, unobtrusive sight. Once she is on her feet, his hold lingers a few moments longer, fingers brushing against the thick wool of her dress.
These are people who have lived through the winter. These are the children of a long war. That they can still and do smile like they do is amazing.
For once he wishes he could do so as well.
But he cannot. Mayhap he is just not meant to be happy. Any sort of joy bleeds out long before he can attempt to keep it. Jon sighs.