Welcome back to Jon's POV. I've had this written for ages, but I put off posting it because I couldn't decide whether to reopen FDTW and put this as a bonus chapter there, or make a new fic. In the end, I decided on the latter, because it's a shorter scene that's from the main fic, just a different perspective. Am I already regretting the decision? Yes. Would I have regretted it either way? Also yes. So fuck it, might as well take the plunge.

Will this end up a multichaptered fic? Who knows, not I. We're just gonna play it by ear. But for now, enjoy.

It was a bad idea, and yet Jon didn't care.

All the caution he'd felt since arriving on Dragonstone months ago was gone, all his carefully crafted words and plans lost in the wake of the horrifying truth that Sam had unceremoniously dropped on him. Now he was breaking apart, unable to shoulder the weight of being pushed to be everything he wasn't—again. Wildling, King in the North, Daenerys Targaryen's lover, and now the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

So maybe it was a bad idea, but there was only one person who could make this better—who could make him feel like Jon. And he needed to see her, risks be damned.

Caitie's door was unlocked, which might have scared him under normal circumstances, but now he was just grateful that he didn't have to break it down—because he would've, if it had come to that. Though the room was dark, Jon saw her bolt upright, grabbing Owen and Cerys off her nightstand and moving into a defensive position to protect the other occupants of her bed.

Vaguely, Jon heard Willa call his name and saw Ghost's red eyes peer at him through the darkness, but he couldn't take his eyes off Caitie, the rush of emotions at seeing her again hitting him in such rapid succession that he could barely decipher them. The sound of her voice, ordering Johnna and Willa and a third—a young boy, maybe fourteen—out of the room, nearly made him forget why he'd come in the first place; he'd missed that voice so much, hearing it now was like having access to water after weeks of unquenchable thirst.

When the door slammed shut, Caitie leveled him with a glare. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

It was those words that coaxed anger to the forefront of his mind, his heart clenching with the betrayal that she was here—had been in Winterfell the entire time—and hadn't even tried to see him after he'd spent months agonizing over being apart from her. She didn't even seem to care that they hadn't seen each other for so long. And he knew, logically, that it was a good thing, because he was supposed to be avoiding her, but even in his jumbled mess of a situation, he'd been secretly hoping to at least have the chance to… come across her. Accidentally.

Except the closest they'd come to each other was the great hall, and he'd had to fucking ignore her the whole way through the damn meeting. After which he'd been forced on a tour with Dany—in which she'd made vague threats about Sansa, and Gods, he was going to have to deal with that eventually—and an impromptu and slightly terrifying dragon ride that had ended at a waterfall and resulted in a kiss that still felt awkward, no matter how hard he'd tried to force himself to enjoy it.

But it was fine. Dany was fine. She was objectively beautiful, and endlessly determined, and she loved him, at least in her own way. So he… he could live with being her lover, and even if she was a bit haughty or overly harsh, he could live with that, too—at least until they defeated the Night King.

At which point, hopefully, he'd be dead.

But even after his return, well into the late afternoon and evening, Caitie had been absent along with Ghost, which had been suspicious enough, until Sansa and Sam had both warned him to stay away from her. And now all he could do was wonder if the reason Caitie had avoided him all day was the same reason he felt so broken right now.

"Did you know?" he asked, his voice low and rough with tears he was refusing to shed.

Caitie blinked. "What?"

He stalked towards her. "Did. You. Know."

She must have said something in response, but Jon didn't hear it. Even at the best of times, he'd never been able to think clearly when he was around Caitie, but now he couldn't think at all. He didn't even know half of what he was saying, so lost to his own rage and pain. "Sam would have told you, I know he would have. Is that why you've been avoiding me? Because you knew? And you were just gonna keep it from me like the rest of them?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

Her shrill cry finally broke through his haze, taking hold of the small part of his brain that was still Jon and not a terrified, fury-filled beast. Because Caitie sounded scared—and the thought of her being scared of him was so unbearable that he clawed his way back to the small semblance of sanity that he had left.

All the fight left him in that moment, the exhaustion of the last six months weighing on his entire being. "I'm sorry," he said, unable to keep his voice from breaking. "I should've known you wouldn't…" He trailed off, for now that the confusion and rage had subsided, all he remembered was that this was Caitie; his best friend, his confidante, the person who made him feel alive when he was all but dead. He loved and trusted her above all else—how could he accuse her of keeping such an important secret from him?

"Sam found my mother."

What possessed him to say it out loud, he wasn't entirely certain; the secret was so dangerous and the last thing he wanted was to put her in more danger than she was already in. But he wanted Caitie to know. He hadn't kept any part of himself from her before—not until very recently, and never by choice. He simply couldn't bring himself to keep this from her, too. And, though he hated to admit it, even to himself, there was a part of him that needed her comfort, her advice, and—well, just her. Perhaps that made him a liar and a monster, but he'd tried so hard to love Daenerys—Dany—and right now, learning his entire life was a lie… Caitie was the only person who made sense in this fucked up world. Was it so wrong that she was all he wanted right now?

She stared at him, lips parted in shock, and he found himself unable to look away from them until she spoke, her voice unusually small. "What?"

"Him and Bran," Jon said, a little calmer now, though not by much. "They found out who she was."

"They—but Sam never said—" She cut herself off, a furrow between her brows as she thought everything through, and again, Jon nearly forgot what he was so upset about. He'd somehow forgotten how beautiful she was when she was thinking hard about something—the way her eyes lit up, the way the corners of her lips turned to a pout, the way—

"But that's good, isn't it?" she asked at last, looking up at him, and everything came flooding back. "You've always wanted to know who your mother was."

Jon wished he could laugh. It would have been better than the gut-wrenching, empty feeling in his chest at the thought of who his parents really were. He wished he could go back to not knowing, wished he could have lived in ignorant bliss. He'd have rather been Ned Stark's bastard, because at least that had led to meeting Caitie—and even with all the longing and the heartache, she was still the best thing that had ever happened to him. This… nothing good could ever come of this.

Jon couldn't even stand anymore, a bitter sob falling from his lips as he sat down on her bed, and though he said nothing, he hoped beyond hope that she would join him.

She did, though she didn't sit as close as he would have liked.

"Everything my father has ever told me was a lie. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father… was Rhaegar Targaryen." Saying the words out loud sapped what little strength he'd had, but he managed to croak out, "Sam said they were married in secret. That they were in love. When the war started, Aunt—my mother—was moved to the Tower of Joy, where she—"

He couldn't finish; the words died giving birth to me too much to even think, let alone say.

That's all I ever do—get the people I love killed.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stifle his tears, and he didn't even realize he'd reached for Caitie's hand under her fingers were slotting between his, sending a jolt through his entire body. It reminded him that she was here; solid and warm and alive—and as long as he had her, he could brave any storm, even speech.

"She made Father promise to keep me safe from King Robert. So he told everyone I was his bastard. But… I'm not." I'm not a bastard. It should have filled him with joy. "I don't even want to believe it," he said miserably, "but it makes sense, doesn't it?"

Caitie was silent for a long moment. Then, "I wish I knew what to say."

He almost laughed. Didn't she know? Or had she truly failed to understand him? Because she was everything to him; her mere presence was able to soothe any ache. And she could give him words—she could give him more than words—but her existence alone was enough for him.

But to say so would be an admittance of something far more dangerous than even his parentage, and so he looked up—and in a strange way it was a help, for it robbed him of his ability to think, his heart stopping in his chest as he allowed himself to take in the sight of her.

"You don't have to," he said, though it was a wonder he could speak at all. "Just be with me. Please."

She nodded. "Okay."

Now that he was looking at her, he couldn't look away. Before, he had been too lost in the grief and helplessness of the truth to revel in it. But her touch, her voice—all of her—had made the world right again, and now he could fully appreciate how close they were. In the moonlight, Caitie's skin was like ivory satin; her eyes were almost grey, the color of the sky after a storm. And even the smaller things sent his pulse skyrocketing: the freckles scattered across her nose, the curve of her lips, the dimples in her cheeks, the mess of dark hair—longer than the last time he'd seen it and still a bit wild from sleep. He could have spent an eternity just… watching her, drinking her in, smelling the scent of winter roses on her skin.

Jon had spent the last two weeks reminding himself that he could love Dany if he tried hard enough, that if he committed to the role, he could do it—but now it seemed impossible.

"Hells, I missed you," he breathed before he could stop himself. "So, so much."

Being apart hadn't dulled his attraction, and sleeping with someone else hadn't either—instead, it only made him realize what had been missing. It had sharpened his desire for her into something almost uncontainable, and it took everything inside of him to remember why he'd ever been upset in the first place, rather than focusing on the slope of her jaw and the swell of her breasts under an unfairly thin shift.

But they had to talk about it. Caitie needed to understand the danger this put her in—and so he wrenched his eyes away from her body and forced himself to focus. "This information—you know you can't tell anyone. Not the girls, not Sansa, not even your brother."

"I wouldn't."

Jon smiled and squeezed her hand, relishing in how perfectly it fit his. "I know. But I had to say it." He let out a long, slow exhale, finally brave enough to voice the fears Sam had brought up. "Sam says I'm the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He wants me to take it. But I can't, Caitie. I just can't."

He could barely handle being King in the North, and he certainly couldn't go against the queen. He had bent the knee, believing it would keep his people safe—from the White Walkers, and from her. This… this could ruin everything. And she was—oh Gods, she was his aunt.

"You don't have to," Caitie said. "That's your choice to make, not his."

"I never meant for any of this to happen."

"I know."

"If I'd known what had happened on the Goldroad, if I'd known what she'd done—"

"Wait, what?"

He froze as he realized his misstep. He hadn't meant to bring Dany up, not wanting to think about the woman he was meant to love when he was so consumed by passion for the woman he did. All it did was make him feel monstrous. But he'd hoped, desperately hoped, that he could contain Daenerys's worst impulses, and now that hope was slipping from his grasp. The food had been bad enough, but at least Sansa had mitigated the damage.

There was no mitigating the deaths of two unarmed prisoners.

He didn't know what to do. She was already in the North. He couldn't go back and undo that, and even if he could, he wasn't sure there was a better option. They still needed her to fight the White Walkers.

"I—" Jon wanted to deflect, to try and change the subject, but Caitie's gaze was unwavering, piercing his soul with its intensity. He'd only ever been able to resist that once before, upon their departure from Craster's Keep—and only by refusing to look at her. Now, he had no resistance; all he could do was tell the truth, no matter how it pained him. He owed her that much. "Dany—Daenerys. She… executed Randyll and Dickon after the battle of the Goldroad."

As his voice died, Jon braced himself for anger, righteous indignation, disgust. He readied himself to soothe all of that, hoping that she would trust his judgment, even if she hated the idea of bending to Daenerys.

What he had not expected was hurt—and yet, that was what flashed in Caitie's eyes, above all else. Hurt and betrayal, aimed only at him.

"Why?" she asked, the horror in her voice enough to crumble his resolve.

Still, he parroted what he'd learned Dany wanted from him, what he'd been learning to parrot over and over again since he'd bent the knee, trying his damndest to believe the words he was saying. And hoping that if he believed it enough, so would everyone else.

"They refused to bend the knee. She defeated their armies, took them prisoner. She gave them a choice. But they refused."

Jon felt the absence of Caitie's hand the moment she ripped it from his. "Let me… see if I understand you," she said, voice teeming with suppressed rage, and now he had to look away, unable to withstand seeing the pain on her face. Knowing that she was right and not being able to say it—because if he did, he would have to admit that maybe he'd failed. "Daenerys Targaryen murdered your best friend's father and brother and you think that's acceptable?"

Those words, coming from Caitie, of all people, was enough to shock Jon into doing the worst possible thing he could have: he laughed. He caught himself before he let it go too far, but he was unable to keep the amusement out of his voice when he spoke. "You're defending Randyll Tarly now?"

He didn't know it was possible for Caitie to look more enraged, but somehow she managed it. "So what if I am?"

"He treated Sam like dirt."

"So? He wasn't killed for being a shit father!"

"That isn't—" Jon stopped, unsure how to continue, because he just didn't understand. She wasn't mad at Dany—she was mad at him, and he'd expected the former, but he hadn't expected her to act like he was everything she hated. He at least expected her to hear him out.

Jon pushed himself off of her bed so that he could look her in the eye, get some idea of where this was coming from, and took a step towards her. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to tell her the truth, how he was trying to use his relationship to guide Dany down the right path. But he couldn't, his throat closing up and keeping him from saying the words, for he was too afraid to admit how much of what he was doing was a lie. Afraid of the danger it would put her in if she knew the truth of everything, because there was no doubt in his mind that the risks wouldn't matter to her; she would fight for his happiness. And his happiness was a small price to pay for his loved ones' safety.

"He committed…" Jon had to force himself to go on. But he had learned over the last fortnight to play the part of the Northern fool well—so even though it hurt more than the knife that had killed him, even though he was sure Caitie would never believe it, he was able to keep the pretense up. Barely. "He committed treason."

Sure enough, she dismissed him with a humorless laugh. "It was treason when Robb went up against Joffrey or when we went up against the Boltons. Treason is just a charge invented by winners as an excuse for hanging the losers."

A chill ran down Jon's spine. Was that really what she thought? Because if that was true, then what did she think of everything he had done? Was she disgusted by his actions, too?

"That's not what you said when I hanged Olly."

He shouldn't have said it. He knew he shouldn't have said it, for Caitie had always supported him, especially in the days after his death. But he didn't know what else to say, lost in his own terror that she had feared and hated him this entire time.

"Because he hurt people!" she cried. "And he would have kept on hurting people if you hadn't stopped him! He wanted innocent Free Folk dead, Jon—children, too. All the Tarlys did was refuse to kneel, just like you did. Or have you forgotten what you promised me before you left?"

"That's not fair," he rasped, feeling as though she'd slapped him. For the promise he'd made was scorched on his heart. The memory of that day, of how close he'd come to telling her how he felt even more so. "I had no choice."

"Oh, please! You may be able to get away with that bullshit in front of the others, but don't you dare lie to me."

Jon didn't even know what she was talking about—of course he hadn't had a choice. Of course he'd done it for the North. Even if she disagreed with it being the best course of action, she should have understood that.

"After Shireen…" Caitie's voice broke. "Jon, how could you?"

What she meant by those words was painfully obvious, and it was a wonder Jon managed not to retch. It couldn't be. It couldn't. That was… he didn't love Dany like he loved Caitie, but he'd believed it when he'd told Sansa she wasn't her father. She might burn a battlefield, but she wouldn't execute prisoners that way.

Would she?

He was barely able to speak with the way his throat was closing up. "You don't know—"

"Oh yes, I do!" Caitie cried, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with an outrage he rarely ever saw from her, let alone directed towards him. "What do you think Aegon the Conqueror did to the men who refused to kneel to him? Invited them to his camp for tea? Gods, she could have at least sent them to the Night's Watch; they wouldn't be able to stand against her that way, and Edd could have used them. But no, of course not, because it's not about stopping those who have hurt people or doing what's best for the realm, it's about her own fucking ego, and if some people end up charred, then that's just the price of getting what she wants."

Even though they were alone, the words sent a thrill of fear up Jon's spine and had him looking over his shoulder to make sure there was no one hiding by the door, listening to their conversation.

"She…" he said weakly. "She wants what's best for the Seven Kingdoms."

"Yes, as long as she's ruling them."

The retort felt like a stab in the gut, for he knew those words. He'd said them, once, about another ruler who had liked burning people.

Before he had the chance to reply, Caitie stormed over to her dresser, taking something from the top drawer and then slamming it shut with such force that the sound rattled against Jon's skull. When she stomped back over to him, there was still rage and betrayal and pain in her eyes, but beyond that was the steely certainty look she got sometimes—one that he'd always loved.

Now it terrified him.

She thrust out her fist, something silver glinting below it—and it took Jon a moment to realize what it was. When he did, a numb sort of dread set in. "Here," she said. "Take it."

Jon's breath hitched as he stared at the necklace that may as well have been his heart. Indeed, that was why he'd given it to her; so no matter how far he had to stray, she would always have something from him—from his family, for that's what she was to him.

"I gave it to you," he said softly. "I wanted you to have it."

"Well, I don't want it anymore."

He shook his head. "Caitie—"

"Take it," she insisted, her voice cracking. "Give it to your new queen. I'm sure she'd appreciate a necklace from your… your mother as a betrothal gift."

Too late, it dawned on him, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together whilst he stared at her incomprehensibly. Does she…

He didn't dare to hope, but there was no other explanation for her actions right now. No other explanation for the sheer heartbreak on her face, as if she knew what he'd done on that godsforsaken boat, and as if the knowledge of it—the knowledge of his potentially marrying someone else—was ripping her apart from the inside.

She feels something for me.

His heady giddiness at the possibility lasted a fraction of a second before horror took its place. Because if she truly loved him—even if it was only a fraction as much as he loved her—then that meant he'd gone and… Seven fucking Hells.

"I'm not going to marry her," was the only thing Jon could think to say, and it wasn't even close to enough, but the blood was rushing in his ears and his stomach was churning, with excitement or horror, he didn't know. The thought of her loving him—even after getting Grenn killed, even after he'd abandoned her during the Battle of the Bastards—had stolen all his senses. All he knew was that he had to get closer to her, reassure her that nothing could change how he felt. Tell her that he'd spent the last months in agony apart from her, trying to force himself to love someone he did not, and that if he'd known—if he'd known…

"Caitie…" The name came unbidden, all the love he felt for her and the panic that he might have lost her and the disgust at what he'd done poured into that single word. Jon reached for her, wanting to wipe the tear that had trickled down her cheek; wanting to kiss her until she knew that Daenerys Targaryen was less than nothing when compared to her.

"Gods, you really don't get it, do you?" Caitie cried as she batted his hand away, a high bitter laugh falling from her lips—and not even the White Walkers could elicit such fear in him, for it was a fear of having to go on in life, never being forgiven or understood, never getting to hold her again, or see her smile, or—

"You honestly believe that after you gave up the North's freedom because you wanted to fuck her, you can still just come back without explanation and everyone will support you—"

"How could you possibly think that of me?" Jon asked, his hands curling into fists. And a part of him knew that was what she wanted: to make him angry, to hurt him as he'd hurt her, but he couldn't help his outrage at such an accusation.

"And what else am I supposed to think!"

"You were supposed to have faith in me! Of all people, you were the one I thought I could count on for that."

"Well, maybe you should have done a better job of instilling faith instead of shacking up with a Targaryen queen!"

It hit him, then, that this was what she thought of Targaryens—as conquerors trampling her autonomy and culture under their feet in their quest for control over the kingdoms. And that he was one. Dany or not—would Caitie ever be able to see him as Jon again? Or did she truly think him lost for good?

"Damn it," he growled, because how could she not see that it wasn't true, that he was still the same man, no matter what? "You know me. You know I would never—"

"I thought I knew you," Caitie retorted. "Better than anyone else. But guess what? I was wrong."

In the heat of their argument, Jon hadn't realized how close they had gotten to each other. Their lips were a fraction apart, and being so close to her, a spark of arousal shot through him, her flushed cheeks and tousled hair and labored breaths sending all the blood in his body rushing downwards.

Her shift was paper thin and nearly see-through, and he doubted it would take much to tear it off her. He could imagine it so easily, pinning her against a wall and kissing her senseless—finally allowing himself to just take her, and show her all the words he couldn't say.

And she stared at him, her eyes dark and glittering and breathtakingly beautiful, he wondered if maybe she wanted that, too.

He might have finally thrown caution to the wind and given in, but that was when Caitie pulled away, a mask slamming over her features—and seeing her hide herself from him broke Jon in a way he hadn't even thought possible. For now he knew that not only had he doomed himself to a life he didn't truly want—but he'd hurt her. And even after everything else he'd done, everyone else he'd hurt, he'd never felt more like a monster knowing that.

Maybe he was a Targaryen, after all.

He had to explain, to tell her the truth; or as much as he could without putting her in more danger. He had to let her know how little Daenerys mattered to him—that yes, he'd accepted her as his queen because it was her or death, but never loved her, no matter how he tried, because for him, Caitie was it. No one else could ever come close.

But she didn't give him the chance.

"Get out of my room."

"Caitie, please—" he began, but he should have known she would never let him finish.

"I said," she repeated, her teeth gritted, "get out of my room."

Jon's jaw clenched, and he screwed his eyes shut to keep the pain in his chest from consuming him. He considered refusing, planting himself where he was until she agreed to listen to him—but he also knew it would never work. There was no getting through to her when she was so angry—he'd learned that a long time ago—and even if there was, he didn't know if he had the coherence to explain without making things worse. He was already reeling from the news of his parents. He needed time to process it, and to think of what to say to her.

And so it took all of Jon's willpower, but he turned and strode out of her room, unable to stop himself from slamming the door behind him.

As he wandered aimlessly through Winterfell's halls, replaying the whole mess of a day in his head, there was only one conclusion to which Jon could come: he had to end things with Dany. Distance himself until he figured out how to tell her, then transition from lover to her general, to… maybe her family, if it would help her accept things. She was alone in the world, the last of her family—and he couldn't imagine she would be upset to know that was no longer the case, as long as he didn't try to stake a claim to her throne.

But he couldn't go back. He just couldn't. Not when he knew he had a chance.

Our sad sack of simpage is back! How's it feel?