You Are The One

Chapter 16

In her dream, Jon is flying.

Flying the dragon. Flying with Drogon.

And she knows it's a dream, because she does not sit upon the beast and struggle to see only clouds, but instead, is looking through his very eyes and able to see the entire world whizz by beneath her. She is able to feel every wing beat as if she were flapping her own arms. Able to feel passed the exciting newness of flying in general to feel the tiredness; the weariness of Drogon himself.

No loneliness, like she'd expected; guilted.

If anything, she feels a mild sort of urgency rushing through his veins. Like he knows exactly what he's looking for, yet, has no clue of where or how to find it.

Jon knows that feeling. Has often wondered if she really wants what she wants or if she wants it because she knows it's what she should want.

Drogon suddenly lets out a surprised, yet, somehow also, angered sounding shriek and—

"Your Grace, may I come in?"

—And Jon is awake that split second before a knock, and then, Maliah, again, calls out to her from the other side of the door of her chambers.

Jon blinks, feels a mix of confusion and annoyance. Confusion from the dream and annoyance from Drogon being a prissy little preteen Sansa (Gods, both forgive and never let her sister hear those words from her mouth) to her even in her dreams.

"Yeah." Jon croaks out as she glares up at the canopy of her bed.

There's a small pause before the door opens and closes. Another pause of footsteps, then, "Are you not well this morning, Your Grace?"

Jon lets out a long and slow sigh. Then, without moving from her back, says, "I'm well," and bites her tongue to stop the word 'enough' from rolling off her tongue to pile right on top of her shitty mood.

More footsteps, slow and unsure. Then, Maliah is carefully asking, "Um...Your Grace, did something happen in here?"

Jon frowns, confusion taking her, then, falling away as she pushes herself up to sit. Her eyes follow the trail of Maliah's own, taking in the trails of bloodstained to the stone floor and the slight mess of her chamber in general—that she could not be bothered to deal with after the shitty night that started her shitty mood now.

"Oh." Jon mumbles. Smiles weakly. Drops the smile with a huff and says, "Yes, something happened."

Maliah purses her lips, brows creasing with worry.

Jon tilts her head, arcing a brow at the girl, who knows exactly what this look means.

Maliah smiles meekly, but nods; speaks her mind with, "Did... Did The Conqueror... Did he..."

Or tries to speak her mind; Jon can't help the amused and slightly crude little smirk tugging at her lips as she asks, "Did he conquer me?"

Maliah's eyes widen. She even takes a step back with the little scandalised gasp that leaves her lips.

She glares at her Queen when her Queen so blatantly chuckles at her.

Maliah huffs, folds her arms and sternly states, "That is not what I was going to say."

Jon's smirk widens as she says, "No. But you were thinking it."

Maliah bites back a scoff, fights back glaring at her literal Queen. Composes herself and starts again with, "You must not believe everything you read. History is written mostly by winners. The ones left standing to tell those stories we read. Or by those who wished they were winners."

Jon flops back down on her bed with a sigh and a chuckle. She stares up at the canopy as she says, "That is exactly why I never really bothered to read about history. It's much better to visit it instead. My time at the Wall was very eye-opening." She adds that last part sarcastically, waits, and grins triumphantly to herself when she hears Maliah scoffing quietly.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace—I did not mean to imply that you are lacking in experience, or that you are lacking in growth from your experience."

Jon bites her lip to keep from laughing at the obvious sarcasm touching the edges of Maliah's tone. "I know what you meant." Jon says, showing mercy before the girl can fluster herself into an early retirement. "And no, don't worry, Aegon is not the reason for the blood, nor my...off mood." It's less bad since Maliah cheered her up in those last few minutes.

"OK. Good." Maliah blows out a sigh of relief...with a dreamy little hint to the end of it there.

Jon narrows her eyes before slowly rising to sit again. Suspicion quickly rising in her, slowly, she asks, "Why?"

Maliah blinks, looks lost. Asks, "Why, what, Your Grace?"

Jon's eyes narrow a little further. And without sounding (too) smug, she asks, "Why were you more concerned over something happening with Aegon and I than the blood on the floor you still haven't asked any follow-up questions about?"

Maliah blinks again. Smiles rather weakly. Then, all but stumbles through her answer of: "Well... I was obviously concerned about You, Your Grace. But everyone knows You can take care of Yourself..."

Jon nods, accepting the answer for truth, but not real logic this time. Jon arcs a brow, leans back on her hands, tilts her head inquisitively, and plainly, asks, as if a child would ask, "So, you care if I might be being forced upon by someone, but not if they're trying to murder me?"

Maliah follows her Queen's motioning gaze down to the bloodstained stone floor just a few feet away from where she stands, almost at the foot of the bed. Maliah's eyes flick back to her Queen's, spotting a flicker of an amused grin across her taunting mouth. "Ye—no."

Jon arcs her brow higher, fighting back her smirk with all her might.

Maliah folds her arms, turns to snootiness with: "Without adding: returning from Death itself like it was simply a summer frolic to you, to your list of achievements—you've killed everyone who has ever tried to kill you first, and instead of doing it with a song in your heart like most men or vengeance in your bones like most women, you did it with mercy and remorse."

Jon flops back down onto her bed with a groan and grumbles, "It's too early for buttering me up. What are you not telling me?"

There's a pause, and Jon can feel the hesitation before Maliah quietly mumbles back, "There is a wager going on around the castle about how long it will take for you and Sire Aegon to...well."

Jon groans even louder, flips over onto her stomach and buries her face into her pillow.

Quickly then, Maliah is rushing out her words, "I swear, Your Grace, I am not involved. I've just heard about it and I only first heard about it last night and I only know a few involved...those being the ones who told me about it...and about whose wager is whose...which could technically be them lying, which is why I said I only know a few of those who—"

"Maliah,"

"Your Grace?"

"I don't care."

"...OK."

"OK."

"OK, good. Thank goodness."

She does care...

Jon takes a little of the past Maliah's snootiness in lending her a hand with brushing off even entertaining that—truth—thought.

It doesn't work...

Jon groans even fucking louder into her pillow before yanking herself out of bed and up to stand in all of her naked glory.

And while Maliah is already turning and rushing over to bring her her robe, Jon holds up a hand to stop her and says, "There'll be no point in bathing until after I've returned."

If there's one thing that helps her think clearly (while also, getting away from everyone and thing getting on her nerves), it's always been swinging a sword and letting her thoughts swing through her until they can both swing no more.

Maliah nods and goes to fetch her armour and leathers instead. "There is no training yard until the castle has been fully restored. And the courtyard is full of workers." She says as she lays the armour over the end of the bed, loops half the leathers over one arm and with the other, holds out the other half at the ready.

Jon nods, but pauses with a worried scowl to ask, "Is Maester Titus keeping his word about not rationing the water between workers?"

There is no need for it, he's just being...difficult.

Maliah nods eagerly and with a grin, says, "Your Hand sent the Maester off to keep your Dothraki watered instead. I believe his exact words were: 'I bid you good luck, but hopefully not good morning for the last time, should you choose to ration them, too.'"

Jon cracks a faint smile and nods in satisfaction. Happy to hear Tyrion is already backing her up even in her absence. She nods and mumbles, "Good."

As her Queen takes the silk black braies and slips them on, Maliah says, "If I may ask, Your Grace—I am curious to know where you find your peace with your sword."

Jon cracks another smile, this one, a little brighter, a little warmer in the sudden realisation that both this girl is observant and even cares enough to ask.

She knows it's probably just the girl carrying out her own duties, but it still makes Jon feel like more and more people care about her.

For her; not just for who she is—whether it being obligated, because she's Lord Stark's "bastard" or because of who her real parents were, she's mostly just felt like...well, a duty.

"Here and there." Jon answers as she slips her breast wrap around her, turning her back when Maliah motions for her to do so.

Then, as Maliah ties the wrap in place, Jon tells her, "Wherever feels right at the time. Mostly though, I'll ride until the horse needs to stop. And while he's munching on grass or drinking his fill from a nearby stream or river, I'll just wonder about until my thoughts finally stop talking to me, and instead, take out my sword and just...fly away."

"—fly away, like me. You're not like me. And I would never want you to be."

Jon blinks rapidly, her heart beating hard and fast for all of a few seconds. That voice, she's never heard it before, and yet, she somehow knows exactly who it belongs to.

"Your Grace?"

"I'm fine." Jon croaks out. Without turning around; not wanting the girl to see how fucking weirded out she looks (by default of feeling so, heavily), Jon clears her throat and just about keeps her voice steady, while asking, "Maliah, I feel a bit of headache coming on. Would you please leave me for another hour?"

"I—O-of course, Your Grace. As you wish. I...I will return in an hour then."

Jon doesn't see her face, but she doesn't have to to hear the concern and hesitation. Though, she's grateful to the girl and lets out a breath of relief when she hears footsteps retreating before her door opens and softly closes.

What the fuck is going on with her now?—is the first thought that exasperatedly (and a little bit patronisingly) springs to her mind.

OK, logically, she cannot be hearing real voices in her mind, no matter how real they feel. Which only means she's hearing voices in her head that aren't real; she's finally going insane.

But then again, not so logically, Aegon The Conqueror himself has somehow sprang out of his past and into her present...

Not so logically—Jon glances down at her hip where there is not even a scar from last night's attack—she came back from the dead and now, doesn't even know what she is.

A soft knock to her door doesn't even break her distraction as she mumbles out, "Come in," without even looking up, forgetting herself completely...until she hears a sharp and very loud intake of breath. Her eyes slowly widen as she comes back to herself.

Though, she doesn't turn around, she knows; Gods damned somehow feels who it is—his gaze ever heavy on her and so warm it almost feels beautifully suffocating—no; grounding.

Even now—even though it's her own fault for telling him to come in—Jon doesn't feel nervous or flushed, but only that same calm she always feels around him.

Any other man—maybe besides Tyrion, and only because he doesn't care about crudeness in the slightest; is in fact, rather known for it himself—would have either apologised and runaway or tried his luck (like men are rather known for themselves.)

But this man here now, he doesn't say anything.

Jon hears his footsteps approaching, confident as always but deliberately slow, like he's either giving her the chance to stop him or waiting for her to tell him to leave altogether. Jon doesn't do either, and then, he's standing just a foot in front of her, close enough, while still giving her space.

She is almost naked before him. And instead of feeling nervously excited or happy of any kind, her heart is waiting to sink (or possibly break, but she's not ready to admit that yet.) Just waiting those few seconds to see what he will say of the only scars that will apparently never leave her now.

Aegon wears a soft and troubled frown as he stares at her closed eyes and the small shame-coloured lines between her strong yet delicate brow. He did not know what to expect, but somehow, it's both worse and not as bad as he imagined; tortured himself thinking about late at night (when he wasn't torturing himself over how badly he simply wished to touch her.)

He reaches out a hand, wanting to touch her so fucking badly right now. But pulls back at the last moment with a scowl for himself. Takes a deep silent breath and whispers with a bad taste in his mouth, "Open your eyes, Jon," and when she does, he musters up a smile and says, "You trust too easily, even when you know you shouldn't."

She shoots him a withered look, which he counts as a victory and grins triumphantly to show her just that.

He shrugs, says, "I like you better pissed off rather than upset or worried." Then, bows dramatically and adds, "At your service, Your Grace."

Jon shakes her head, not knowing whether to be annoyed or amused, possibly, because she's a little of both. Which then, just makes her more annoyed. She scowls, shakes her head a little firmer and glares at him, while pointing a finger and snapping, "Don't cheer me up!"

Aegon freezes and flaps his hands up in surrender. Eyes slightly wide, but twinkling with humour.

Jon blows out a breath. Calms herself. Stares blankly at him. Then, calmly says, "I bet this is your fault."

Aegon opens his mouth to—

"Well, it can't just be a coincidence. I've been back from the dead for a long time. And nothing. But then, you show up, and now..." Jon pauses for the right word and gives up almost immediately and ends with a frustrated, "Everything!"

She never blames anyone for anything unless she knows for certain they are to blame. But somehow, Aegon, of all people, seems to be the only person that can just make her forget who she's meant to be and just really fucking let go for just fucking once in her fucked up life...

Odd realisation and feeling of gratefulness to have while she's literally having a go at him right now...

Even more odd and slightly infuriating is that he seems to find it funny—if that stupid little smirk on his annoyingly handsome face is anything to read into.

Jon glares harder. Swaps her pointed index finger for her middle finger and flips it off at him.

Aegon chuckles. And bites his lip in amusement to stave off the urge to lean forward to nip at her finger...or possibly take the entire thing into his mouth...possibly...

He's never seen her so flustered. And while only a tiny part of him is disappointed that he isn't the cause, he's still very much enjoying bearing witness to it. He finally sees a little of that unhinged fury that Targaryens seem to share, whether they're 'purebred' or not.

Though, quick as a flash, like she always manages, she reins that ironclad control of hers back—Jon sags with the breath that leaves her, glare leaving her, too, but no better being replaced by that annoyingly persistent guilty look of hers.

Aegon doesn't let her even think about apologising; quickly distracts her (and himself from staring too long); by, tone softly encouraging, asking her, "What has happened? What is my fault, Your Grace?"

(Your Grace, because he doesn't even trust himself enough to not keep it as formal as possible right now. He is only a man, after all; and she is...beyond any efficient enough words he knows.)

Jon takes another breath, but this one doesn't calm her enough as she purses her lips, grits her teeth, and without taking her irritated gaze from his face, points with both hands down at her absent-wounded hip.

Aegon purses his own lips to keep from laughing or even smiling. She looks like she would do more than just not care about him finding her anger adorable (when he isn't finding it highly erotic); he just knows she would punch him...if she would just let go a little more.

For the moment, while she looks genuinely spooked behind her bravado, Aegon sighs and nods and carefully asks, "Is it really so bad?"

He freezes, his eyes widening in sheer horror and panic when she sucks in a sharp breath and her lips purse even more.

She looks so fucking much like a dragon in human form, but right now, he's more worried over being the real cause of her unhappiness.

And right now, his little beastie really doesn't look happy...

Aegon's words all but tumble out of his mouth then; "I only asked because I don't wish to see you suffer. I wasn't asking you to just accept it. I swear. I just thought, for now, at least, we could count a win where there is one. And I know you're worried, but—"

"I'm not worried about myself." Jon sighs and takes a step back. Shakes her head. "Whatever happens to me now, after everything, I will most likely deserve it."

Aegon cuts her off before she can say anymore, snapping slightly with, "That's the biggest pile of dragon shit I've ever heard."

He puffs out a breath, but she's already calming him with that surprised look and that tiny smirk.

Aegon smirks and arcs a brow back as he reminds her, "I thought you never fibbed, Jon Snow."

His heart swells with pride and joy over the laugh she blesses him with; soft and over quickly, but unguarded and real, just for him.

Finally, Aegon can't take it anymore and gives in. This time, he reaches out and touches her.