Hello, everyone! Welcome to my Jon POV fic, alternatively named: "Jon tries to parkour his way out of Dany's clutches while trying to make sure she doesn't nuke people in response."

If you're coming to this from AGotNW—good to see you again! I know a lot of you have been itching for Jon's POV, so I hope you enjoy (and I hope this keeps you from being too mad at me for booting him from the main fic for 10 chapters haha). If you're coming to this as a new reader, I am sorry to say that almost nothing about this will make any sense to you. That being said, if you still want to read anyway because you're starved for less-idiotic!Jon content (with a healthy side of dark!dany), you are still very welcome :)

The moment the doors to Dragonstone's throne room grumbled open, Jon knew he had made a terrible decision.

Perhaps he should have known before, when the queen's people had taken his ship and his weapons—or when the dragons had first soared overhead, leaving him with only the ability to drop to the ground and pray for a swift death. But no, it was now, as he walked into the throne room, Davos at his side, and Tyrion and the queen's advisor, Missandei, leading the way, that he knew he was well and truly fucked.

The room was grim, to say the least, just like the rest of the keep, but it was the throne at the back, which gave him pause. That was where the Dragon Queen sat, half-shadowed and clothed in black and red to match the gigantic wall of stone behind her, terrifying and all-powerful.

As he came to a stop, Missandei spoke, her voice sharp and forceful. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains."

Jon exchanged a look with Davos, half-having expected the list of titles to never end. Yet they had, and he wasn't exactly sure what to do next. Did she expect him to rattle off his own titles, as if it were some sort of game to see who had the most? If so, the queen would be disappointed.

Davos spoke for him, as the Missandei had done for the queen. "This is Jon Snow." There was a long pause in which the entire hall stared at them, waiting for him to continue. And Jon knew that he could have had Davos list all his titles: the nine-hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the White Wolf, the King in the North. But he didn't want to be reduced to titles. It felt like a betrayal of…

Jon ended the thought then and there. He was trying his best not to think about her.

Davos seemed to remember himself, for he quickly added, "He's King in the North."

"Thank you for traveling so far, my lord. I hope the seas weren't too rough," the queen said, and though Jon noted the lack of his proper title, he decided to ignore it.

For now.

Instead, he gave a polite smile. "The winds were kind, Your Grace."

"Apologies," said Davos, "I have a Flea Bottom accent, I know, but Jon Snow is King in the North, Your Grace. He's not a lord."

The queen furrowed her brows. "Forgive me—"

"Your Grace, this is Ser Davos Seaworth," Tyrion said.

"Forgive me, Ser Davos. I never did receive a formal education, but I could have sworn I read the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life and the lives of the Northmen, Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?"

Jon cast his eyes down at the floor, hoping it would disguise the fact that he was biting down on his tongue. Because he knew he couldn't say what he wanted: that Robb Stark had been the last King in the North. His brother, who had fought until the end for a free North.

Even if, as a certain girl had once told him, he'd been a bit of a royal prat.

"I wasn't there, Your Grace," Davos said.

The queen smiled smugly. "No, of course not. But still, an oath is an oath. And perpetuity means—" she paused, and Jon could see the joy she was taking in toying with them like this; it curdled his blood, and he didn't know whether it was from anger or fear. "What does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?"

Tyrion's face was like stone as he answered. "Forever."

"Forever," she agreed, still smiling. "So I assume, my lord, you're here to bend the knee."

As the words settled between them, Jon took a deep breath to steady his rising temper, because only now did he realize that Tyrion had lied in his letter. The queen didn't want any alliance; she never had. She just wanted a subject. When I get my hands on that fucking dwarf…

At last, Jon shook his head. "I am not."

The words echoed through the throne room. The queen's expression was one of the most terrifying he'd ever seen, her false smile doing nothing to hide the blazing fury in her eyes. He tried for a thin smile of his own, as if doing so could make his words any more palatable to her, but secretly he wondered if he was about to be supper for her dragons. At the thought, his heart pounded frantically against his ribs, even as he tried to convince himself that he didn't fear death anymore.

"Oh," the queen said. "Well, that is unfortunate. You've traveled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?"

"Break faith?" Jon repeated incredulously, and suddenly the fear was set aside for anger. How dare Daenerys Targaryen accuse him of breaking faith after everything her family had done? "Your father burned my grandfather alive. He burned my uncle alive. He would have burned the Seven Kingdoms—"

"My father," the Queen said, looking contrite for the first time, and if it hadn't been for her next words, Jon might have truly believed she was remorseful, "was an evil man. On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter for her father's sins."

Jon's eyes drifted to Tyrion, who was trying to suppress a smile. His hands curled into fists. If the queen didn't want to be judged for her family's crimes, then why was she here? Why was she claiming a throne she had no right to, expecting him to throw himself at her feet and pledge his people to her cause?

"Our two houses were allies for centuries," she continued, apparently oblivious to how ridiculous the words coming out of her mouth sounded, "and those were the best centuries the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne, and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honor the pledge your ancestor made mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Warden of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it."

In the silence that followed, Jon looked around the throne room, trying to think up a means of escape. But no, the queen had stationed Dothraki at every exit, and even if he could have gotten himself and Davos out of the throne room, there were still his men she held prisoner, and his ship she'd impounded—which meant that he had no other choice than to try to convince her that the White Walkers were real, and hope it would take precedence over any fealty she wanted from him.

Judging by the greeting he'd been given, that would take a miracle.

"You're right," Jon said at last. "You're not guilty of your father's crime. And I'm not beholden to my ancestor's vows."

Any semblance of civility disappeared; the queen's face contorted into a cold scowl. "Then why are you here?"

"Because I need your help, and you need mine."

The smug look returned as she glanced at Tyrion. "Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?"

How could I not when you used them to intimidate me as I arrived? "I did."

"And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?"

"They're hard to miss."

"But still, I need your help?"

"Not to defeat Cersei," Davos said. "You could storm King's Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it and we didn't even have dragons."

"Almost," Tyrion replied coldly.

"But you haven't stormed King's Landing," Jon said. "Why not? The only reason I can see is you don't want to kill thousands of innocent people. It's the fastest way to win the war, but you won't do it. Which means at the very least you're better than Cersei."

He hoped. But from what he'd seen, he wasn't sure he believed it.

The queen's expression changed the moment he finished speaking. It was subtle, but she almost looked… flattered? Jon hadn't the first clue why—what he'd said could hardly be considered a compliment—but he filed away the information for later, regardless, and took a deep breath. Caitie had always said he excelled at speeches. He hoped she was right. "Because right now you and I and Cersei and everyone else, we're children playing at a game screaming that the rules aren't fair."

It was the wrong thing to say; Jon knew it the instant his mouth closed.

"You told me you liked this man," the queen said shortly.

Tyrion didn't take his eyes off Jon. "I do."

"In the time since he's met me, he's refused to call me queen, he's refused to bow, and now he's calling me a child."

"I believe he's calling all of us children. Figure of speech," he said nervously.

Fuck this, Jon thought. "Your Grace, everyone you know will die before winter's over if we don't defeat the enemy to the north."

"As far as I can see, you are the enemy to the North."

Jon took a deep breath. His head was starting to hurt from the circles their conversation was going around in. "I am not your enemy. The dead are the enemy."

"The dead," the queen repeated flatly. She eyed Tyrion. "Is that another figure of speech?"

Jon didn't give him the chance to answer that. "The Army of the Dead is on the march."

"The Army of the Dead?" Tyrion asked skeptically.

Jon resisted the urge to take a swing at him. "You don't know me well, my lord, but do you think I am a liar or a madman?"

"No, I don't think you're either of those things."

"The Army of the Dead is real. The White Walkers are real. The Night King is real. I've seen them. If they get past the Wall, and we're squabbling amongst ourselves—" Instinctively, Jon took a step forward towards the dais. Every single Dothraki moved at the same time, their hands reaching for their curved blades. Jon's heart leapt into his throat as he took a step back and continued, suddenly feeling completely drained. He wanted nothing more than to leave this place and go home. But still, he spoke. "We're finished."

The room was deadly quiet as he ended his speech. There was a pause before the queen scowled. "I was born at Dragonstone. Not that I can remember it," she said, standing from her throne and slowly making her way towards him and Davos. "We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib."

Jon didn't know what to say to that; what did it matter what his father or King Robert had done? What did any of this have to do with the things he'd just told her?

"Not that it matters now, of course," she continued. "I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a brood mare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea. Any sea. They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will."

There were many times in Jon's life when he'd been afraid. Sometimes for himself, other times for those he loved. But never before had mere words stirred such terror in him. Terror at the prospect of what the woman could do to him, to his family, to his entire people if she wanted. He knew he must have looked as petrified as he felt, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You'll be ruling over a graveyard if we don't defeat the Night King," he said softly, for it was the only thing he could say.

"The war against my sister has already begun," Tyrion interrupted, walking over to join them. "You can't expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting… whatever you saw beyond the Wall."

Davos took a step forward. "You don't believe him. I understand that. It sounds like nonsense. But if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Jon Snow King in the North. You were the first to bring Dothraki to Westeros. He was the first to make allies with Wildlings and Northmen. He was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He was named King in the North. Not because of his birthright; he has no birthright. He's a damn bastard. All those hard sons of bitches chose him as their leader because they believe in him."

I'm not the Free Folk's leader, Jon wanted to say. I would never ask them to bend the knee, and they would never want to.

"All those things you don't believe in, he faced those things. He fought those things for the good of his people. He risked his life for his people. He took a knife in the heart for his people. He gave his own—"

Jon's eyes widened. He turned, shooting a look that he hoped conveyed just how much Davos needed to shut up. There were only a few people who knew about his death—and most of them only did because they'd been there for it. The last thing he wanted was for someone to announce it to a room full of potential enemies.

Thankfully, Davos seemed to know he'd said too much. He pressed his mouth together and quickly changed course. "If we don't put aside our enmities and band together, we will die. And then it doesn't matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne."

"If it doesn't matter, you might as well knee," Tyrion said, a note of desperation in his voice. "Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys. Help her to defeat my sister and together our armies will protect the North."

There's no time for that!" Jon snapped. He'd had enough humiliation, enough meaningless platitudes and tyrannical speeches. He would make his final plea, and then he'd go home. "There's no time for any of this! While we stand here, debating—"

"It takes no time to bend the knee. Pledge your sword to her cause."

"And why would I do that?" The words surprised everyone around him, but Jon didn't care anymore. He was done. So he faced the queen, refusing to let her intimidate him. "I mean no offense, Your Grace, but I don't know you. As far as I can tell your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father's name. And my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The lords of the North placed their trust in me to lead them. And I will continue to do so as well as I can."

The queen narrowed her eyes. "That's fair," she said. "It's also fair to point out that I'm the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself king of the northernmost kingdom, you are in open rebellion."

If Jon hadn't been so furious, he would have laughed. She hadn't heard a word he'd said. All she cared about was the Iron Throne; not the people of Westeros or ending tyranny, as she and Tyrion had claimed.

And to Jon, that was the worst sort of hypocrisy.

Before she could sentence him to death, however, someone came rushing towards them. It was a portly man, entirely bald and dressed in fur-lined robes. The Spider, Jon thought. He'd heard stories about Lord Varys; a eunuch who had served not one, not two, but three rulers—starting with the Mad King. And now, he was serving that king's daughter.

Jon should have known this was a mistake. No amount of dragonglass or dragons was worth this.

Varys whispered something to the queen, who bowed her head to listen. When he departed, she looked back up. "You must forgive my manners," she said, abruptly polite. "You will both be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms." She spoke to the Dothraki nearest to her in a language Jon had never heard before. He eyed Tyrion, whose body was very still, his face drawn. And it was hard for Jon to stay so angry with him when he looked so… well, scared.

As the queen walked back towards her throne, Jon found himself asking: "Am I your prisoner?"

She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at him, a scowl on her face and a promise of cruelty in her voice. "Not yet."

Not for the first time since leaving Winterfell, Jon wished he'd asked Caitie to come with him.

He'd never felt more alone than he did at Dragonstone. His life had always been punctuated by stretches of solitude, even from his very first memories, when his trueborn siblings would attend feasts, leaving him behind to beat a practice dummy in frustration; yet it seemed all the more acute now. Despite that he was supposed to be a king, despite that he had a place in the world, he was lonelier and more helpless than he'd been in all his life.

He had failed. Now that the anger had faded, he could fully comprehend what that meant, and he hated himself for it. He'd made Sansa and his bannermen a promise; he'd made Caitie a promise that he wouldn't bend the knee, that he wouldn't give up her freedom to a Targaryen. He'd promised her he would come back with dragons and armies to defeat the White Walkers. Now he wasn't sure he could even survive, let alone deliver on his promises.

And he could have handled such failures, were she at his side to cheer him up, draw him out of himself the way that only she had ever been able to do. But she wasn't, and it was maddening—the way he kept turning, expecting to see her there. He kept expecting to hear her jokes or see her smile. Hells, he'd have even taken her yelling at him, if only it meant that she would be there.

But she wasn't. He'd seen to that. And even though he knew he'd done the right thing, the honorable thing, the noble thing, that didn't magically fill the gap she'd left in his life, no matter how hard he'd tried not to think about it.

As he stood on the western cliff side of the island, lost in thought, letting the cool breeze caress his face, he heard footsteps. Jon sighed, refusing to spare a glance at the newcomer, keeping his eyes trained on the view in front of him. It was beautiful; even he could appreciate that. The ocean stretched out in front of him, shimmering blue in the sunlight, and the dark, soaring cliffs spanned miles in either direction.

"I came down here to brood over my failure to predict the Greyjoy attack," said Tyrion. "You're making it difficult. You look a lot better brooding than I do."

Jon refused to dignify that with an answer. He'd always liked Tyrion—less so after finding out about the marriage to his little sister, but Sansa had always spoken of how kindly he treated her, and that made Jon feel marginally better about it. And if not for Tyrion, he'd have never found a place at the Night's Watch. If not for Tyrion, he would never have made friends with Caitie, or Sam, or Pyp and Grenn. He owed Tyrion everything, and right now that was the only reason why Jon hadn't run him through with Longclaw for his deception regarding the letter.

"You make me feel like I'm failing at brooding over failing," Tyrion continued, and Jon couldn't stomach it any longer.

"I'm a prisoner on this island."

Tyrion frowned. "I wouldn't say you're a prisoner on this island. You're free to walk the castle, the beaches, to go wherever you want."

"Except to my ship. You took my ship."

"I wouldn't say we took your ship."

"I'm not playing word games with you," Jon snapped. "The dead are coming for us all."

"Why don't you figure out what to do about my missing fleet and murdered allies, and I'll figure out what to do about your walking dead men?"

Jon ignored the sarcasm. He didn't like sarcasm. At least, not when it came from Tyrion. "It's hard for me to fathom, it really is. If someone told me about the White Walkers and the Night King…" He trailed off, closing his eyes and sighing, because—Seven Hells—it did sound ridiculous, even to him, and he had seen it with his own eyes. "You probably don't believe me."

"I do, actually."

Jon bit back a snort. "You didn't before. Grumkins and snarks, you called them; do you remember?"

Tyrion nodded.

"You said it was all nonsense."

"It was nonsense," Tyrion agreed. "Everybody knew it. But then Mormont saw them, and you saw them, and I trust the eyes of an honest man more than I trust what everybody knows."

"How do I convince people who don't know me that an enemy they don't believe in is coming to kill them all?"

"Good question."

Jon wanted to scream. "I know it's a good question; I'm looking for an answer."

"People's minds aren't made for problems that large. White Walkers, the Night King, Army of the Dead—it's almost a relief to confront a comfortable, familiar monster like my sister."

He said it so casually, and for one brief moment, Jon felt a pang of sympathy for Tyrion. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to have a sister like Cersei. The closest he had was Sansa, and however much they fought or disagreed or annoyed each other—well, she was his baby sister, and he would do anything to keep her safe.

But how was he supposed to keep her safe from Dragonstone?

"I need to help prepare my people for what's coming. I can't help them from here." I need to get back to my family, he wanted to add. Sansa, Johnna, Willa. Most of all, Caitie. They'll all be at Winterfell, and I should be with them. At last, he looked at Tyrion, silently begging him to listen. To let him go home to his sister and his friends, and… and the woman he loved, even if she'd never feel the same. "I'd like to leave."

Tyrion shook his head. "It seems unlikely that you became King in the North by giving up that easily."

If Jon were a different man, he might have laughed—because he would have given up after his disastrous time as lord commander, if not for the people he loved and the danger that had followed them. Yet, now the people he loved weren't here. The only person who had supported him in this wasn't here. And how was he to get through this without her?

He needed Caitie. Always had, really, in the way a man dying of thirst needed water. He needed her in a way that somehow terrified him and excited him and made him feel in ways he hadn't thought possible. But he'd seen the look in her eyes the moment before he'd meant to confess everything, and he'd known, then, that he couldn't burden her with his feelings. Not when he'd caused her unparalleled grief over and over.

"Everyone told me to learn from my father's mistakes. Don't go south, don't answer a summons from the Mad King's daughter, a foreign invader." He nearly spat the word, because however he tried to dress it up in his mind, it was the truth. That's what the Targaryens had been to Westeros from the very beginning, and it's what they were now. "And here I am. A Northern fool."

"Children are not their fathers," Tyrion said. "Luckily for all of us. And sometimes there's more to foreign invaders and Northern fools than meets the eye. Daenerys could have sailed for Westeros long ago, but she didn't. Instead, she stayed where she was, and saved many people from horrible fates, some of whom are on this island with us right now."

Jon had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting. He settled for glaring, instead.

"While you're our guest here," Tyrion continued, either oblivious or unperturbed, "you might consider asking them what they think of the Mad King's daughter. She protects people from monsters, just as you do. It's why she came here."

Right, Jon wanted to say. How gracious of her. Gods, would he have loved to see Caitie's reaction to Tyrion's words. Hell, he would have loved to see her reaction to Daenerys Targaryen, if not for the fact that it would most likely seal her death.

Tyrion went on. "And she's not about to head north to fight an enemy she's never seen on the word of a man she doesn't know. After a single meeting? It's not a reasonable thing to ask."

Aye, because everything she's asked of me is so reasonable. Jon had to bite down on his tongue not to say it this time. He'd had enough; with a shake of the head, Jon stormed past Tyrion, intent on never speaking to the dwarf ever again.

"So, do you have anything reasonable to ask?"

Jon stopped in his tracks, turning on his heel. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion's lips twitched. "Maybe you are a Northern fool. I'm asking if there's something I can do to help you."

Jon froze, his thoughts racing. Because… yes. There was something Tyrion could do—something that wouldn't be unreasonable. And Jon may not be able to give Caitie the dragons or the armies, but he could at least give her this.

The queen summoned him to the steps of Dragonstone at sunset, and Jon didn't waste a moment. He exited the keep and descended down the long flight of stone steps to the landing where the queen watched the vista. Two of her dragons were flying over the ocean, one gold, the other green, screeching playfully as their wings beat against the wind.

Whatever he thought of the queen, Jon had to admit, her dragons were nothing short of incredible. And now that they weren't being used to intimidate him, he could fully appreciate them.

"Amazing thing to see," he said, by way of greeting. Now that he was calmer, he could see that fighting would get him nowhere. But flattery might. It had worked on Craster, after all, and this wasn't that much different.

The queen did not look at him. "I named them for my brothers, Viserys and Rhaegar. They're both gone now." Jon hesitated, unsure what to say to such a blatantly personal comment, and when he decided not to say anything at all, she turned to him. "You lost two brothers as well."

He nodded, this time not trusting himself to answer rather than not knowing what to say. One of the brothers for which her dragons were named had kidnapped and raped his aunt. He didn't think the loss of him was the same as losing Robb and Rickon.

Fortunately, when she realized he would not be forthcoming, the queen quickly moved on. "People thought dragons were gone forever, but here they are. Perhaps we should all be examining what we think we know."

He took that as his queue, taking a few steps forward so that they were side-by-side at the stone railing. "You've been talking to Tyrion," he said, sighing. That could either be a good thing or a bad thing, and even after his conversation with Tyrion, he wasn't sure which.

"He is my Hand."

"He enjoys talking."

"We all enjoy what we're good at."

And though he knew he shouldn't have, some oppositional part of Jon—a part he must have picked up from Caitie, because only she would've been brave enough to say anything like it after the disaster that happened in the throne room—answered, "I don't."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw the queen shift. "You know I'm not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne."

"I never expected that you would," he agreed.

"And I haven't changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to that throne."

He gritted his teeth. "I haven't either."

They fell into a stony silence, and Jon didn't think anything could break it, no matter how pleasant he tried to be towards the queen, for that was the crux of the argument: she wanted to rule, and the people Jon loved would never accept it. They had sacrificed too much to gain that freedom; he would not let Daenerys Targaryen force their sacrifices to be in vain.

She may have been born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, but she would take the North from his cold, dead hands.

At last, the queen spoke. "I will allow you to mine the dragonglass and forge weapons from it. Any resources or men you need, I will provide for you."

It took Jon a couple of seconds to comprehend what she'd just told him. That… was not what he'd been expecting. To be honest, he'd been expecting a cold cell in the depths of Dragonstone. And while he still wasn't happy about the situation—and even less so that no one had offered him a raven to send home—at least this meant he would be doing something of use for his people.

"Thank you," he said, only to hesitate after the fact, because he didn't entirely know if he should say what he wanted. But if she was letting him mine for dragonglass… "So you believe me then. About the Night King and the Army of the Dead?"

The moment he finished the question, he could see the answer. She didn't believe him. This was just a means of securing his loyalty for her. Never mind that people would die, never mind that it was the right thing to do—no, for all she claimed wanting to save the world from those who'd destroy it, this was all a game to her—just a way she could win her throne and demand that the North bend the knee.

Jon could just picture Johnna's face if he'd done the same to the Free Folk. She would probably have kicked him in the balls while Caitie laughed and congratulated her—and he'd have deserved every bit of that pain and humiliation.

The queen cleared her throat, drawing him back out of his thoughts, her voice lighter than it had been only moments before. "You'd better get to work, Jon Snow."

Jon nodded. He didn't wait for her to say anything else, not trusting that she wouldn't change her mind. Instead, he all but bolted back up the steps to tell Davos what had happened.

He would worry about the Dragon Queen's claim later. For now, she was right: there was work to be done.

The corresponding chapter of AGotNW is also up, so go read that too if you haven't already. Until next time, guys :)