Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The kick hits him square against his chest and no second later, his back collides with the hard ground. The impact is so forceful, it drives all air out of his lungs. The gravelly soil of the yard digs into his palms. And it hurts, more than it should.

In the distance Jon hears Ser Alliser's laughter, mocking him as he gasps and tries to catch his breath before he stumbles back on his feet. All eyes are on him now. Waiting. Also Dany stands still, sword still in hand and unsure if to continue, his expression a bit uncertain. Brows slightly raised and lips pressed together, he looks as if he wants to ask him, was this too much? 

But it definitely was not. 

As much as the defeat chips away at his pride, Jon's grateful to have a serious sparring partner among all these amateurs joining the Night's Watch. So he swallows down his anger and nods. Even goes as far as to grin at the boy. 

It makes those violet eyes light up, almost sparkling, as Dany smirks back. In reaction, something flutters inside Jon's stomach, a strange sensation of excitement and another thing he cannot name. It blooms as he watches Dany twirl the sword's handle once, twice, before he attacks again. 

Jon dispels the feeling.

Because he needs to be ready. 

The wood cracks between them when their training swords clash anew, in danger of breaking now any moment. Yet neither of them pays that fact much attention. Around them their brothers cheer for one combatant or the other but even that's just a dull buzz in Jon's ears. All his focus is on his opponent and the win he's aiming at. 

There's no room for more. 

Though he has to admit, it's no easy task as Dany's style of fighting is very different to Robb's or Theon's or anyone's Jon has trained with so far. He's quick on his feet, dodges his blows with featherlight steps like he's dancing. He swirls around him like a cat and demands for Jon to change his tactics as his usual moves lack the desired effect. The hardship of Ser Alliser's many years of instruction becomes a true match for Ser Rodrik's iron drill.

Still this remains his favourite pastime these days. And whenever they're patrolling the Wall together at night. Every moment they spend together, if he’s honest with himself. Even scrubbing the floors is easier to bear with Dany's presence by his side. 

A stark contrast to how he felt once he’d arrived at Castle Black a few moons earlier. Back then his mood had been as sour as the beer they tend to brew in the kitchen. He felt disappointed and betrayed, snapped at anyone crossing his path. They were all his enemies and Dany no exception. The opposite, in fact. 

Never has he been as irritated by anything as by the boy’s nature, with his voice so high and his face far too pretty. Beyond his comprehension, how a person could always be in such high spirits at a place as grim as this. But he was and without meaning to, the mood became quite infectious. 

Jon really didn't intend to like it here. But somehow he does now and knows quite well to whom he owes his thanks. He just seems to have this effect on most people. He even makes Ser Alliser smile. 

Clever and witty, Dany never fails to have a comeback on his lips when one of the others teases him for his shortcomings. Often joking himself, he is never cruel though, stands up for those who cannot defend themselves, which earned Jon’s respect. That and the fact that he bested him during their first training session, not with a sneaky trick or something, but simply with skill. 

Though not today. 

“Yield, Waters,” Jon rasps, takes a swing and strikes even harder. 

“Yield yourself, Snow!” Dany yells back, dodges his blow again and rolls to the side, only to strike out himself a few seconds later. 

As it turns out, the bastard name is only a small detail on a long list of things the two of them have in common. 

Both of them being illegitimate sons of a lord, they had no other place in this world to go to but this. Though Dany never met his father. Born somewhere on Dragonstone, he left Westeros very early in his life and lived in Essos, raised by his uncle and brother, until they fell sick. After that he came to Castle Black at the age of five because of Maester Aemon, his last living relative. 

Till now, it fills Jon with pride to know this about them. Hardly anyone's aware that they're the last Targaryens, even if the eyes and hair actually speak for themselves. Yet Jon knows it. It's one of the many secrets Dany shared with him in exchange for some of Jon's own, sitting together by a fire while the harsh winds blew around their ears on top of the Wall. 

Neither of them has ever met their own mother. Though both of them have longed for their touches and comfort while growing up without it. Their childhood heroes are the Dragonriders of House Targaryen. And they're about the same age, as unbelievable as Jon thought it the first time he heard it. 

“You're so small,” he'd laughed, “how can you be nearly seven and ten and still be so small?”

“Guess I'm full of surprises.” Dany had shrugged and then smiled at him in that mysterious way he did sometimes, not smug though, but honest and warm and maybe even a bit sheepish. 

It was the first time Jon had felt that pleasant fluttering low in his abdomen. 

As they'd been sitting there together, talking about hopes and dreams, somehow they'd moved closer and sat at the end with their bodies connected from shoulder to hip. But he didn't mind the proximity and he still doesn't whenever they find themselves in such a position. He enjoys the company and the chance to share all these things with someone who knows how he feels, truly knows.

Maybe it's this what his uncle Benjen had meant while talking about the brotherhood of the Night's Watch. Jon has come to understand how special it is. How very precious it is to create such bonds like the one he has created with Dany. 

“Snow, watch out!” someone yells behind him but like so often he has got too lost inside his own head and so the inevitable occurs. Despite all his good intentions. His sword flies out of his hand as the blow hits his knuckles and he loses his footing, slipping on the frozen ground. Out of instinct he reaches out and grabs for anything to stabilise his balance. 

His fist closes around the strap of a chest guard and a breathless 'oh' is all the warning they get.

It happens so fast, there's no chance to prevent it. One second they're still standing, the next they're lying on the ground, Jon bellow and Dany above him. 

A tangle of arms and legs. 

Their lips pressed together. 

Neither of them moves. 

Both of them stare at each other, wide-eyed and shocked. Yet what shocks Jon the most is how soft these lips feel against his own, how warm they are and how sweet they taste. He never kissed anyone before but he always imagined that it would feel like this. Such a perfect fit. It turns that comfortable fluttering into a heavy throbbing, one that makes his pulse speed up and his heart jump in his chest. He can't even feel the pain from hitting his head. All he feels is the pleasant shiver that runs down his spine, his blood rushing south, straight to his cock. 

In one quick motion he pushes Dany away and flinches backwards like he's been stung by a scorpion. 

Now the blood is no longer pulsing at his groin but colouring his cheeks, his face flushed crimson. 

Slowly their surroundings come back to him and with it the bawling of their audience. A few of their brothers are bend in half, tipped over from laughing so hard. Jon takes a brief scan of the yard, his frown deepening. He tries with all his strength to avoid Dany's person. Instead, his eyes land on Ser Alliser.

And if looks could kill...  

The knight stares daggers at him as he helps Dany back on his feet and that's what finally sets Jon back into action. Wiping the dirt from his pants, he stands up and turns on his heels, stomping past the others with his hands clenched into fists. 

“Where are you going?” Grenn calls after him.

But Jon spares him no glance, just heads for the stables and mutters, “I yield.”

“It was an accident. I didn't intend to kiss him,” he tells Ghost some hours later, for the tenth time, as the direwolf lies patiently by his side on the hay, his massive head resting on his paws. Jon feels kind of sorry for him but he has to tell someone or he'll surely lose his mind. 

At least they're safe here. Nobody will come and disturb them. Especially not with the wolf's presence and after witnessing the mood he was in as he'd left the yard after this humiliation. It's long past supper now, the sun's position in the sky long replaced by the moon's. Still, he doesn't feel ready to leave his hiding place. 

What if he meets someone on his way back to his chamber? 

What if it's Dany?

“I shouldn't have left him behind,” Jon sighs and rubs his palm over the stubble on his chin. 

Guilt mingles with his anger. He behaved like a coward, marching off like that, exposing Dany to face the ridicule of the others alone. A fine friend he is.

“You think I should apologise?”

Ghost's answer is the lick of his hand then he closes his eyes. The message is clear; enough self-pity for one day. Yet despite the obvious hint, Jon stays for a bit longer and puts together his words of regret. Because he does regret it, everything, his body's treacherous reaction and all that came afterwards. He doesn't know what possessed him, only that it wasn't Dany's fault. 

Maybe something's wrong with him.

Maybe I'm sick.

There was a rumour once going around Winterfell, dealing with quite a similar story about a boy-whore working in Winter Town's brothel and that many men from the North had been seeking his company. For whatever reason Jon's brother and their father's ward had been highly interested in discussing the topic. 

“Mayhaps it's quite normal in other parts of the country,” Robb had suggested. 

“A hole is a hole,” Theon had answered as if it were as simple as that. 

Jon remembers how pleased Robb had looked at that foul-mouthed explanation, that's why he never mentioned that he thought there was an important difference in one hole or the other. 

But perhaps there isn't? 

He tries to imagine himself and Dany in such a situation, their bodies grinding against each other, sweat gathered between them. Those small hands fisting his curls. A soft moan leaving those plump lips. His breeches get rather tight as the picture in his mind becomes more and more vivid and Jon has to force his eyes open again or he'll get lost in the fantasy. 

This is not good.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he stands up and exhales a sharp breath. Though whether these strange feelings are returned or not, he can't act on them, there he's certain. It's too dangerous. And too high a risk of ruining their friendship. His behaviour at noon and his absence alone are enough to do significant damage to that. He must fix it instead of causing more problems for them. 

So with cautious steps and nervously shaking, he makes his way back to their quarters.

Nobody crosses his path, thankfully. It seems like the whole castle is already fast asleep. Just here and there, he sees the light of a candle flickering through the gaps of the doors he passes. But when he stops in front of Dany's, there is only black darkness and silence to meet him. Jon waits and listens. 

He hopes for some sign, the rustling of feathers, anything.  

But there's nothing. 

He should return to his own bed so they'll talk on the morrow. The last thing he wants is to deprive his friend of sleep just because he was an utter fool, hiding for too long instead of showing up at daytime. He should let it rest for the day. He really shouldn't open the door, yet that's what he does. Too scared to disturb the other with a knock, Jon opens the door only a crack and peers inside.

There's a small candle burning on the nightstand, illuminating the figure lying on the bed. At first it's not easy to make out the contours. But quickly his eyes get used to the dim light and when they do, his heart literally stops beating. Because what he sees…

Others take me.

This can't be possible.

Shadows dance over the naked body, sprawled out on the furs. A sheen of sweat glistening on every part of the exposed pale skin. 

With a will of their own, Jon's eyes begin roaming over each detail, biting hard on his bottom lip to muffle any sound. He starts with the face, distorted in pleasure, long lashes kissing pink blushing cheeks, eyes closed. And the blush continues as his gaze travels down, halting on a pair of round breasts with hardened nipples. 

He catches the little moan which escapes Dany's lips as she tweaks one between her fingers. 

She. 

She.

The realisation hits him like the blow of a warhammer as he stands there, spellbound, watching something that's definitely not meant for him to witness. But he can't look away. He can't leave. His heart feels like it's about to jump out of his chest and his cock gets rock-hard, almost on the verge of being painful. Yet he can't close the door like he should and he can't avert his eyes like his honour demands him. 

Never has he seen anything this captivating before. 

His mouth drops open as he sees the way she's clenching her thighs around the hand that disappears between them. The noises caused by her moves are quiet and still they sound so loud in Jon's ears and a little wet too. It makes a shock of pleasure strike him, a fire flaring up as he suddenly imagines her fingers to be his. And then she spreads her legs wider for him to see her juices seeping down her thighs as her touch easily slides over her slippery skin.

Gods help me.

Enchanted as he still feels, he reaches out without thinking, opens the door just a bit more… but then he hears something behind him that pulls him back to the present. 

Someone's entered the hallway. 

And they're quickly approaching. 

Jon snaps his head and pulls the door shut in haste. Startled and afraid to get caught, he runs in the opposite direction. His boots echo on the old stones but he doesn't bother about it. He runs, just runs, as fast as he can.

As soon as his chamber is finally within reach, he tears open the door and hurries inside. Back pressed against it, his pulse is pounding in his ears and his lungs are burning from his sprint. 

His breathing comes out in short sharp bursts. Yet it's still another part of his body that screams for his attention and he wastes no time. With trembling hands, he unfastens the buckles of his cloak and lets it drop to the floor without a second glance, already moving on to fumble with the chords of his breeches. 

His cock jumps out practically the first chance he gets and Jon starts fisting himself not even a second later. He moves to the same rhythm he remembers Dany was moving her fingers. His whole body is drawn as tight as a bow's string. He's so close to his own end already. And so he doubles his efforts, jerks himself harder. 

He needs that release, needs it so bad at this moment. 

He needs it now.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

He begins to quiver more violently. His chin resting on his chest, Jon watches the head of his cock disappear inside his hand and then reappear straight away. His muscles flex. Sweat forms at his hairline. He pumps faster, squeezes harder and groans as the pressure increases more. So close.

If only it were Dany's hand. If only it could be her cunt wrapped around him. If only he could tease her hole with his cock, tease his cock with her hole. Just the feeling of her moistness right against his raw dick. If only–

He nearly tumbles over as he cums so hard, his vision blackening. Stripe after stripe of his hot seed shoots out of him. He whimpers at the intensity. Reaches behind himself with his other hand, holding onto the door to prevent himself from collapsing. And then he slides down slowly until he's sitting on the floor, trying to catch his breath, still completely dazed and shaking. 

Seven hells.

As his breathing calms down, he begins to come back from this dream and the clouds start to lift from his foggy mind. It feels like the first time in days he's able to think clearly again. And with this awareness also comes the realisation of what he just saw.

What he just did.

What this means.

“She's a girl,” he whispers into the silence of his room. 

And he likes her. 

He likes her in a way he definitely shouldn't. The mess on his hand is more proof than he needs. And it's that what unsettles him and not the fact that there's a woman hiding at Castle Black among thieves and murderers and fucking rapists. 

Nobody can know, he thinks. 

And he has to avoid her. As much as it pains him. But something like this, it can't happen again. 

Something is wrong and it takes no genius to figure out what it is. 

Ever since that stupid accident down at the courtyard, Jon keeps ignoring her and slowly his indifference has its effect on her mood. Joy is a rare companion these days. So even if it's quite unnatural for her to be this broody, here she is, moping.

Sulking over the fact that he can't look at her any longer. That every time he does, though unintentionally, she sees only disgust reflected at her. Daenerys tried to shake it off and respect his sudden wish to put some distance between them. She tried not to feel hurt about it. Yet after a few weeks have passed, she can't deny it any longer. She misses him terribly. 

His company. His laughter. 

His touch.

With a deep felt sigh she watches Jon and the others train, standing high above them at the gallery with her arm propped up on the railing, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. 

There's so much distance between them.

How she wishes to be down there. Near enough to smell his sweat. To feel his hot breath caressing her cheek when their style of fighting results in such closeness. She cherishes every one of those past moments. Not only because she's never seen anyone looking this graceful while wielding a sword. But it's a factor. Jon looks marvellous doing so, swinging the blade like it's an extension of his arm. Effortless. Confident. Skilled.

Did a single slip truly ruin all that they had in one fell swoop? 

She gets no answer but hears the sound of chains rattling beside her and the comforting tune of her uncle's voice. “You seem troubled, ñuha jorrāelagon (my dear).”  

Despite her distress, Daenerys can't help but smile. It always warms her heart when he calls her such names of endearment. Spoken in the tongue of their house, saved for private moments, of course. When it's just the two of them. Still it never fails to make her feel lighter and loved. 

She offers him a smile in return, one he can't see but definitely hears. “Daorun bona won't rēbagon. (Nothing that won't pass.)”

As she lifts her head, she finds a knowing grin spreading out on Aemon's lips too, proving that he knows her thoughts quite well and the person they revolve around. There is hardly any point in trying to fool him. He might be blind, but she knows no other in this world who notices as much as her uncle.

She slides a bit closer until their arms touch and mumbles her confession. “Jon gaomas daor ȳdragon naejot nyke. (Jon's still not talking to me.)”

“Mhmm. And how does that make you feel?”

Alone, she thinks, but does not dare to say it for fear of hurting him. 

She opens her mouth to tell him something else, something less rejecting, when Grenn’s voice rings out over the courtyard. “What in seven hells is that?”

Her gaze follows that of the boys down below and rests on Ser Alliser arriving with another in tow. The knight’s expression is as stern as ever, where the boy accompanying him looks not angry but scared. Stumbling over his feet, each step seems to make him gasp with exhaustion.

“And what do we have here?” Aemon asks and Dany tries her best to explain it. 

“There’s a new recruit. My age, I guess. Brown hair and he’s rather…” Clumsy. Fat. Awkward. “...round,” she says with a lack of a less offending word to describe him. 

Her uncle cackles beside her, “spoken like a sublime diplomat, I dare say.”

“Rōvēgrie istin nyke sagon āeksio jentys. (A useful skill once I become Lord Commander.)”  

She often jokes about this with him as she knows it’s quite a ridiculous dream. She’ll never be named as their leader. Though she’s certain she’d be a good one, if only she’d get the chance. At least she’d never allow anything to happen like what is unfolding in front of her at this very moment. 

Injustice.  

With her gloved hands balled into fists, her temper rises as her humour vanishes. The fat boy is now lying on the ground, whimpering, while Rast keeps hitting him with his sword over and over again. Aemon holds her elbow as if sensing her anger. But it’s Jon who finally does what she'd do herself, if only she were close enough to address their group.  

“Enough. He yielded,” he says and pulls the squealing boy back on his feet.

She admires him for his courage. She admires him for many things but that especially. Ser Alliser instead takes it as another provocation and of course punishment comes no less than a short second later. 

If it had been her protecting the boy, things would have gone differently. But Jon has been a thorn in the knight's side since his first day at Castle Black, so she leaves her uncle and bolts down the stairs to prevent the worst from happening. 

In fact, however, she could have spared herself the rush.

As she reaches the last step, Pyp is already crouching on the ground, Rast in the same position a few steps away. Grenn’s holding his side, his face twisted in pain, while Jon’s the only one still standing straight. His sword is stuck in the earth beside him. His glare is set on Ser Alliser. Tension grows before the Master-at-arms dismisses them all with another rude insult. 

She exchanges a quick look with the man, but no words. Even as much as she detests them, she won't question his methods. Not here. Not in front of all the others. She owes him too much; protection and training. That's why she only reprimands him when no one is around to witness the action. 

“Your Grace,” the knight mouths and bows his head just lightly. Then he makes his leave as she joins the rest.

“The Wall’s no place for cowards,” she hears Jon say but whatever the new boy is about to reply gets stuck in his throat as he catches the sight of her. 

His expression is old hat by now. Mouth dropped open and his brows raised, the small beady eyes dart from one brother to the next until they land on her again. He stutters as he speaks, “do they… do they allow girls to join the Night’s Watch now?”

Most of the others start laughing.

“Stupid fool,” Grenn spits, “Dany’s no girl.” Then he smirks through his crooked teeth, “even if he looks like one.”

“He mistook me for one too,” she assures with a smile as she offers her hand. 

The boy, now truly embarrassed, takes it and shakes it, but only just briefly. “Sam, and… my apologies, I didn’t–

“It’s alright. Like I said, I got used to it by now.” 

Daenerys shrugs and Sam grins back. But once she glances sideways, she finds Jon’s face turned even more grim than before and it sobers her up rather quickly. As if he feels offended by her sheer presence. Is she really that annoying? 

Though where before she would have simply disappeared, acting like a dog with his tail between his legs, right here she decides that enough is enough. 

She ran here to come to his aid after all. 

With her anger rising, she takes one step closer and crosses her arms over her chest, frowning. “Something you want to say to me, Jon?”

He looks as irritated as she feels, swallows then and averts his eyes. 

Shaking his head, he ignores her questions and changes out of his gear. His pretty curls stick to his forehead and cheeks, still a bit flushed presumably from his training. The look irks her even more. So she blocks his path as he grabs the sword and heads for the armoury, paying no more heed to her or any of their spectators. 

“Move aside, Dany,” he grumbles, inspecting his feet.

“I need to speak with you.”

“I am quite busy.”

She fights hard not to roll her eyes and hears Jon click his tongue, impatiently. 

But now she chooses to be the one ignoring him as she peers past his body. “Sam, would you mind putting Jon's armour away?” 

The agreement comes with a nod. Obviously still ashamed about his previous assumption, Sam follows her request without any querying. Almost rips the sword out of Jon's hand as the latter remains the least interested in parting from the object. 

Eventually, he gives in. But instead of waiting for them to have the necessary conversation, he turns and stomps towards the stairs, not sparing her a second glance. And so she has no choice but to rush after him. Again.

“Stop following me,” Jon hisses as he enters the hall, leading to their quarters. 

“Then stop walking away,” she yells back, striving to keep up with him.

There he comes to a halt rather abruptly, which makes her stumble as she skits around him to prevent herself from colliding with his back. He sighs as she regains her footing and their eyes meet. “What do you want?”  

“For you to talk to me.” She raises her chin as she holds his stare. “I want to know what's wrong.”

“We are talking now and nothing is wrong.”

All around them the place is empty, that's why she doesn't lower her voice when she says, “you are such a bad liar.” 

“Aye, and you're quite the expert.”

“What's that supposed to mean?!” 

He doesn't tell straight away but pinches the bridge of his nose, something he always does as a last resort to maintain his composure. “Nothing. All’s fine, alright?”

And when she gives no quick answer, he continues his walk to his room, leaving her behind. Just like that.  

“Are you really that disgusted by what happened?” Dany calls after him and watches him flinch. “That you can't even talk to me anymore? Look me in the eyes anymore?” 

She pictures him clenching his jaw in frustration, but for what comes next, she is genuinely unprepared. One second he has his back to her, the next his hand is clutching her arm, forcing her into the room nearby. The chamber is of one of their comrades. Whose she can't tell as she's too perplexed by Jon's reaction. The door slams shut as he shoves her inside. His gaze is burning with fire as he catches her expression, stunned and speechless.

“I am not disgusted by you.” He’s shaking, his body as well as his voice. “I'm… I'm disgusted… with myself. With the things I–” He stops, realising what he’s about to reveal. 

And she hates that he doesn't just say it. Hates that she wants to push him, because she longs to hear it so badly. But then his glance drifts to the window beside her and his expression shifts from furious to sad. “I know the truth, Dany.”

The truth about what?

The tru–

Oh.

Surprisingly, it's not shock or fear that she feels. 

Maybe she should panic. But she feels none of that. She trusts him, in spite of his rejection. She trusts him with all her secrets and relief floods her as she realises that she no longer has to hide it from him. This one thing that she wanted to tell him so badly but swore to conceal. A small smile steals its way onto her face. 

Though it falters again as she sees the sorrow clouding Jon’s look. “Everything else you told me, was that just another scam?” 

Her first instinct is to lie again just to spare him the pain. But she can't do that. She has to be brave, for both of them, and hopeful that despite the knowledge, he won't push her away any further.

“Just one thing,” she says. One that will hurt him even more. 

She leans back against the table behind her as she collects her next words, folding her hands in her lap. She knows if their roles were reversed he would rack his fingers through his hair. But her short silver strands are wild enough as they are so she bites her bottom lip instead before she decides how to continue. 

“I wasn't born a bastard,” Daenerys speaks quietly. Still it echoes through the room like it were the steal of her sword and Jon’s face her target, stricken by her blow. “Though I know how it is to live like one,” she adds quickly, “how it is to be treated like one. That wasn’t a lie.” 

Yet it’s as if he didn’t even hear her reassurance. “So… you– you know your mother?”

Of course, that is what he's most interested in. A question that has tormented him ever since he's been old enough to think about it.

Daenerys can see it, the agony. He no longer looks like the man he pretends to be but only the boy that he is, deep inside; scared, lonely, desperate for the love of a mother he could never meet. He seems no longer frustrated but curious and nervous too. As if her own confession would reveal a secret about himself as well. 

She really wants to hold his hand now, to touch him when she admits, “I never met her. It's like I said, she died in childbirth. But… but I know who she was.” 

Following her impulse, Daenerys pushes herself off the table and walks over to Jon, still standing by the door. But the closer she gets, the smaller she feels. His dark eyes rest on her, like he's able to look right through her, straight into her soul. Finding the place where all her secrets are hidden; her father's legacy and the conflict it brings. 

Suddenly, she's afraid of Jon's reaction, once he knows that too, so she stops with one step left between them and doesn't seek his touch like she intended to do. “You must promise that you won't tell a single soul. If the wrong people find out–”

“I won't,” he interrupts her. “I won't tell anybody.”

And she believes him. Even if she hasn't known him for long, she knows Jon is a man who stands by his word. “Alright,” she starts, “so… my mother… she was… she was Rhaella Targaryen and my father… was King Aerys II.”

“The Mad King,” Jon gasps.

She nods, “the Mad King,” and watches his face changes as he processes the information. 

He's thinking of his uncle and grandfather, no doubt. Maybe he even sees it in his mind's eye, how they were slaughtered, strangled and burned alive by Daenerys' own kin. She would understand if he hates her for that. She does, whenever she thinks about it too long. 

But then Jon's features change once more. His gaze becomes wary and his voice almost strained, “you're… you're a princess? The princess… Daenerys?”

“I am.”

They stare at each other while the air around them grows thick with all the things laid bare. It's like she can grab them, so heavy they feel. The previous comfort, entailed by her confession, transforms into a weight, about to crush them any second. And Dany tries to prepare for it as she waits. Still, she begs him with her eyes to understand it as well, that she meant him no harm by keeping this to herself.

Please, you know me, she thinks. I would have told you if I could.

She can’t say it for whatever reason and he doesn’t look interested to relieve her of the worry. Instead of easing the burden off her heart, Jon takes a step back. He breaks eye contact and starts pacing the room, walking from one wall to another, then again, the other way round. Flexing and curling his hands into fists, he keeps shaking his head. 

“Who else knows about this?” he finally asks.

Daenerys sighs, but gives him her answer. “Aemon, obviously. And Mormont. Ser Alliser. Bowen, Othell and Benjen.”

“Benjen?!”

“He's the First Ranger,” she shrugs. “They had a vote when I came here as my situation was rather… unique. The Watch takes no part in any business of the crown but sending me away would have meant my death. So… in the end, they flipped a coin, at least that's what I overheard.” 

For a brief second, she's thrown back in time with the words. In front of her the huge door to the Lord Commander's chamber, harsh voices spoken behind it and she, a little girl of almost six, with tears in her eyes, fearing she'd be banished from the only family she has left in this world. If she’d not been allowed to stay, there would have been nowhere else for her to go. If she’d had to leave she might no longer be living. 

“I'm sorry,” Jon says. 

She hadn't realised that he had approached her again and quickly whips her eyes when she does. “Don't be.”

“I'm… I'm glad you’re here.” 

Maybe he’s braver than her, or she looks more miserable than he did before. Whatever it is, it seems to give him the courage she was missing as he takes her hand in his. And it feels surprisingly warm between hers, even with the gloves covering her skin. 

She studies their laced fingers for a bit before she looks up and meets his gaze. “You are?”

“I am,” Jon smiles, just the tiniest bit. “We'd never met if…” 

Her breath comes out shaking as she is as if the weight on her chest is lifted with this. “You're not mad at me for lying then?”

“No, I… I now know why you did it, I think.” 

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, yet the grin is able to grow out anyway. It truly is more than she’d dared to hope for. “So, this means we can be friends again?”

“Dany,” he says, pauses, ponders. “We can't be friends. It's impossible.” The trouble it gives him to tell her this is obvious, plain to see on his handsome face. Yet she doesn’t let him when he tries to pull his hand back. She holds on to him, as if she releases him now, she will never get him back. “It's not because of who you are but what–”

“Because I'm a woman?” 

“You're not just any woman.”

Moving closer, she presses their joined hands against her chest, against the fabric of her black cloak, against the white cloth wrapped tightly around her breasts to conceal them beneath. “Would it make a difference if I were a boy?”

“Daenerys.” He says it in warning but it only has the opposite effect. 

To hear him speaking her name, her real name, in his northern burr, with his voice so husky and trembling, it sends a violent rush of arousal cursing through her body. So she overcomes the last distance between them until they stand no more than only a breath apart. “You loathe my company because of the thing missing between my legs, is that it? Because of the breasts I have to hide? The beard I'll never grow?”

“Please, don't,” Jon begs her.

“Don't what?”

“Don't act like that.”

“Why not?” She blinks at him and sees a storm roaring towards her. 

His grey eyes turned almost black, his full lips pressed into a thin line, his next words sound almost like a growl when he speaks them. “Because I'm hanging by a thin thread here, suppressing this need to–”

“Then don't.” Dany gets up on her toes. “Don't suppress it.” Their lips are almost touching. So close. “You don't have to. Not for me, at least.”

His dithering is real and the way he’s trying to fight his impulses. The longing is there but the repression is there too. His free hand shoots up and grabs her jaw, but who he keeps holding back, her or himself, she can't tell. But she likes it, his strength. His warmth. It attracts her like a moth to a flame, ignorant of the fact that she's in danger of getting burnt. And even if she did, she’s a dragon after all, she's not frightened by fire. 

“Do it, Jon. I know you want to.”

Slowly he lowers his head, following her words. “I've never kissed anyone before.”

“You kissed me the other week,” she hushes, closing her eyes.

“Right,” Jon breathes, “then let's hope this is some kind of improvement.”

And despite his firm grip and the tension they feel, his kiss is soft as he finally puts his lips atop hers. Shyly and sweet. Tender and carefully. It’s an improvement indeed but it’s so much more than that. It’s like she can hear his heart beating, like a bridge of energy being shared between them. Her stomach flutters as she reaches up and throws her arm around his neck, pulling him closer. 

Jon does the same as he secures his hold around her neck and devours her. 

The gesture makes her moan in pleasure and him grow more reckless. The tip of his tongue pokes against her lips and she grants him entrance without a second thought. She welcomes him and the heat he ignites. She lust for it and grinds herself against him; his fine muscles, his solid body. His scent envelops her, manly and musky. She wants to drown in it and kisses Jon harder to make him know how she feels. 

But at that he pulls away. “Stop, Dany– we… we can’t.”

She doesn’t understand.

“You’re a princess and I am–”

Knowing what he’s about to say before he even finishes the sentence, she does not let him but brings him down to her once more and their mouths back together in another sensual kiss. If this is her new method to shut him up, she doesn’t mind it at all. It seems like he doesn’t either. Every touch of his is marked by devotion.  

Yet sooner or later they need to come up for air. Foreheads pressed together, they lean against each other. 

“We can’t do this,” Jon repeats just as his breathing calms down. 

“So you said,” Daenerys grins as she strokes over the stubble on his chin, “and still you keep kissing me.” 

“You kissed me again.”

“Only the second time.”

He detaches himself, so he can look into her eyes, and even if his next words lack any foregone lightness, there is still a slight smile remaining on his lips. “I’m going to take my vows, Dany. I’m going to pledge myself to the Night’s Watch. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.”

“Yes, I know.” She moves back too, but keeps her smirk upheld. “But can’t we have both? Be together, living and dying at our posts but also be in each other's arms? Shouldn't we hold on to everything that makes this just a little more bearable?” 

Jon chuckles as he lets their hands drop, now dangling between them instead of glued to her chest. “That sounds rather dramatic, don’t you think?”

“The whole vow of the Watch sounds rather dramatic. And grim. And lonely.” Just like her whole life would be if it weren’t for him.

Their eyes meet once more and the gaze Jon returns at her makes her believe that mayhaps he's thinking the same.

They say their vows together, as the last light of the day fades in the west. Sam kneels beside him in front of the heart tree, snow melting through the fabric of their breeches and dampening the strands of their hairs, swirling around their heads. 

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.”

The words fall out of Jon's mouth like a prayer, a song he'd sung countless times before, without him remembering when and how he'd even learned it. It goes without thinking. He just retells it as he's asked to do. Yet his mind is occupied with something else entirely, wandering through past and present, hopes and fears and if anything of that will ever come true. 

“I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post.”

He thinks of Benjen out there, maybe dead already. He thinks of his future within the Watch and if Mormont truly has some bigger plans for him, like Sam made him believe. Will he be satisfied as a steward instead of being a ranger? Will he be trained to lead them one day? Will he meet this challenge and master it at last?

But all that seems secondary compared to another person occupying all his waking thoughts these last few days as well as his dreams. 

When Jon speaks his vows, he mainly thinks of Daenerys.

“I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.” 

He will be all that for the king and their country, just like she is it for him throughout all their time together. She's the fire that keeps him warm at a place where everything else seems frozen and stiff. She's the light that makes him smile when he sees only darkness and the danger it brings for them and their future. Though he'll never marry her, with or without the oath he's taking. She's the heir to the throne and he's a strain on his father's reputation. There's no happy ending for them. 

He should let her go but he can't.

Because when she seeks him out, again and again, night after night, who is he to refuse her? He's weak when it comes to her and it took only a handful of her kisses to accept this as given. One morning of her waking up in his arms for him to see that he's powerless. One moment of pleasure, with his head between her legs and her gasping his name, that he knew it.

He loves her.

“So I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”

Chapter Text

Previously…

After Jon and Sam have taken their vows, the group is about to head back to Castle Black, when Ghost joins them, carrying a strange object in his mouth. It turns out that it's the severed hand of one of their brothers, whose presumably lifeless body they find close nearby. Though the man is not as dead as he seems. A few days later, while the rest of the castle is fast asleep, he comes back to life.

In the meantime Jon and Daenerys lay together in Jon's chamber, talking about the worrying news coming from King's Landing and the imprisonment of Jon's father, Lord Eddard Stark. They get interrupted by Ghost and follow the wolf to Commander Mormont's quarters, where the undead man attacks them. Jon tries to fight him but he seems unable to be killed. As a last resort, Daenerys grabs a burning lantern and throws it at the creature, which bursts into flames but surprisingly, she remains unmarked.

In gratitude for their bravery, the Lord Commander gifts them each a Valyrian steel sword. Jon gets Longclaw, which was the ancestral weapon of House Mormont, its pommel remade, replacing the bear with a direwolf. Daenerys gets Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword belonging to Visenya Targaryen, allegedly lost during the Blackfyre Rebellion but found by a ranger on a mission beyond the Wall.

Where Jon feels honoured by the gift, Daenerys becomes furious as she considers the sword her bequest and is enraged that it was kept from her for so long. She storms off to confront her uncle, only to find out that another present has arrived at Castle Black: a box with three petrified dragon eggs from an unknown ally across the Narrow Sea.

All this, the gifts and also the knowledge about the upcoming war down south, make her think that maybe her time at the Wall has come to an end. Deciding to reclaim the throne of her ancestors, she says her goodbye to Aemon and gathers her things, about to join the fighting. When she arrives at Jon's chamber to tell him about her plan, she finds him in a similar situation, packed and determined to leave the Watch and join his brother Robb to avenge the crimes committed against his family. 

Together they saddle their horses and ride off into the night. But they're quickly caught up by their friends and asked to head back to Castle Black. Sam, Grenn and Pyp do their best to convince them that now the Watch is their family and that with them it's where they're needed the most. Filled with guilt and obligation towards their sworn brothers, Jon and Daenerys agree and go back with them.

They're among the people going on the great ranging beyond the Wall a few days later.

The sound of the whetstones resting on steel fills the air around them as they sit beside each other, cleaning their swords.

For hours now, they haven't exchanged any words. Only a few glances and some sheepish smiles passed between them. Soft snow falls down from the clouds, replacing the last days’ rain. It melts from their warm breathing, curls the strands of their hair and dampens the fur of their cloaks. But Daenerys doesn't mind any of it. In fact, it's quite soothing to her, to spend their time like this instead of riding through mud and storms, inspecting Wildling villages, just to declare them abandoned in the end. 

Jon's body is a solid presence at her side. She can feel the heat radiating through their leather from his upper arm pressed against hers. It makes this moment all the more peaceful. And as nobody seems to take notice of them, she slides even closer. As close as possible. If it were night already, darkness a familiar shelter around them, she'd dare to put her head on his shoulder. But now, during daytime, such a gesture would attract too much attention. 

Still, her shift makes him pause. His gaze drops to her hands, clasped around her stone, and she smirks. “Are you gawking at my sword, Snow?”

“Better I'm gawking at your sword than staring at you,” he chuckles.

Her smile turns softer at the implication. “I don't mind you staring at me.” 

She really doesn’t. Although she knows to be careful, she is always pleased whenever she catches one of his glances. To show him, she reaches out and strokes the back of his hand, just slightly, with her pinky and hears how his breath hitches at the touch.

He turns his head and their eyes meet. There she can see both his warning and her challenge, the conflict of him wanting her to continue and to stop all at once. She lowers her gaze as his lips draw her in. The need for them on top of her own is always there, not just when night has fallen and they can sneak away unnoticed. How much of a risk would it be, just a single kiss out in the open? 

“Now who's staring?” Jon teases her and they both lean back at the same time. 

Too much, apparently.

And as she says nothing more for the time being, he sets his focus back on his previous task. His hand caresses the steel with smoothing strokes. She watches him for a bit until she goes on and scans their surroundings, studying the keep and its inhabitants walking around them. 

Whatever she’d been expecting of Craster’s when they’d still been travelling, it certainly wasn’t this. A midden heap, a pigsty, an empty sheepfold, a windowless daub-and-wattle hall scare worthy of the name. A disappointment foremost. Castle Black is a dreary place but compared to everything they’d faced beyond the Wall so far the stronghold appears like a palace. This though… 

Bones, ashes and empty houses.  

And she's definitely not the only one realising.

They’d left in high spirits but after so many moons on foot, there’s hardly anything left of that mood within their group. Instead their brothers become wary. A sense of dread is spreading among the men of the Night's Watch and Dany too feels it slowly creeping into her bones. She's restless and fidgety. Troubled by the uncertainty of what awaits them and the fear that she has already come into contact with it, those things that drive all the Wildlings out of their homes. 

Burning blue eyes and cold black hands. 

Jon bumps against her shoulder and thus pulls her out of her musing. “What are you thinking so hard? About those dragon eggs again?” The guess isn't far-fetched. Many times he has caught her reminiscing about them. “Trust me, it’s best that you left them behind with your uncle.”

He might be right, still she shakes her head. “I wasn’t thinking about them.” Although she can’t deny that she wishes she’d taken them with her. Never forgetting that pull she’d felt towards these objects and parting from them has pained her more than she likes to admit. “I was thinking about Othor, actually.”

“Oh.” The name makes Jon stop in motion, letting the sword rest on his lap. 

“He’s not the only one of those creatures,” Dany continues. “We’re all thinking the same, don’t we? That this is what the Wildlings run from?”

“We’re here to find out,” he replies matter-of-factly and then the corner of his mouth lifts as he keeps glancing at her. 

“What?”

“Nothing, just… I never thought I’d live to see the day where you’re the one brooding and I’m not.” 

“I’m not brooding,” she objects, which makes him laugh. “I’m just telling the truth.”

Still, she can’t help but grin too. Just from his reaction, she feels a bit warmer and also more hopeful. Mayhaps being in love unleashes such emotions, making people become lightheaded and foolish. Probably for this reason they have been forced to renounce it. Yet looking at Jon, with the same dopey expression on his face as the one she’s wearing, she knows that this is a battle they've lost countless times by now. 

“Ahem.” 

They both flinch as someone clears their throat beside them. Swiftly, they slide away from each other, detaching their gazes. With their cheeks blushing, they glance up at the one interrupting and find Sam standing there with a girl at his side. Gilly, if Daenerys remembers correctly. 

She noticed her already at their arrival, sticking out between all the other women maintaining the keep. Several times since then, their stares have met. Her big brown doe-eyes are watchful and curious, gleaming with an unpleasant urgency. And it doesn't take long for Sam to translate that insistence into words. 

“She’s pregnant,” he says. “We have to take her with us when we leave. I know it sounds a bit mad but–” The way he sustains eye contact contrasts sharply with the nervous tapping of his foot. 

But Jon won’t have any of it, no matter what’s the truth and what’s just a false play. All humour vanished, he jumps back on his feet and Dany follows him shortly, albeit less upset. 

“A bit mad?” he claims, “it’s impossible.”  

Consequently, the exchange goes by very quickly. Unsettled by Jon's visible repulsion, Gilly gets cautious. When he confronts her with the reason for her need for help, she gives no explanation but darts off without a glance backwards. And as strange as the behaviour may be, for Daenerys, it only confirms her previous suspicions. The danger is imminent.

So she ignores the stupidity of Jon’s arguments, for being unable to take her with them because she’s a girl, and interrupts his and Sam’s quarrel. “What did she mean? What happens if the child is a boy?”

The two men stop in their speeches but give her no answers. One remains furious in his posture, the other’s now glum. Sam's courage seems shattered by Jon's rejection. Though where he sees defeat, Daenerys sees a chance to finally gain certainty about the things that are merely rumours so far. She also feels an urge to react. Because it's not in her nature to wait for evil to strike, but to be ready and prepared when the time comes to face it.  

When she gets no clarification, even after some more seconds have passed, she follows Gilly to find out for herself. 

Jon calls after her, “Dany! Oh, for fuck’s sake, where are you going?!”

But she’ll tell him later. For now she has to know what’s happening here, what's really happening, and whether there's a greater reason for them to worry than the one they're aware of. 

Since their encounter with the Wildling girl, Jon hasn't seen Daenerys for the rest of the day. At about supper time he gave up searching. But he remains sitting outside by the fire, waiting, instead of finding his rest inside the barn or beneath a tree like all the others. Even though he would very much prefer to join them. Yearning to be anywhere else, some place where he can't hear the screaming so clearly, the terrible wailing filled with agony and pain. 

He remembers when Lady Catelyn bore his siblings, the birth went on for hours and hours so he braces himself for an equally long suffering. At least in Winterfell he could escape the scene. He could run off into the Godswood with Theon and Robb to pretend to be knights or any other silly play they came up with to distract themselves. But here, there's no such distraction. 

There might be. But the one person who could provide such, is choosing to make herself rare for whatever reason. 

It makes Jon fret, not knowing if she has got herself in any trouble. Pursing his lip, he pokes around in the embers of the fire burning in front of him until finally the desired figure takes its place to his right. He lifts his head and sighs, “where the hell have you been?”

Dany shifts closer and rubs her hands, holding them up to the flames. “Looking for answers.”

“Answers to what questions?”

“The same as I asked earlier.”

He turns to give her a proper look. “You didn't talk to Craster's wives, did you?”

“I have,” she says and meets his eyes. “Who else would I have talked to?”

She appears too calm and it riles him up even more, realising how reckless she'd been. Jon clasps her arm and pulls her towards him. She flinches at his firm grip but he doesn't let her get away, not yet. “Are you mad?” he snarls, “do you realise what would happen if Craster had caught you?”

His voice lacks the intended authority but shakes instead, reflecting his fear. That's presumably why she doesn't scold him but puts her hand on his thigh. “I'm pretty sure he doesn't mind me talking to them.”

“Really? And why would that be?”

Her lips curl up just slightly. “I think he knows I'm a woman.”

Maybe this was meant to soothe him but it does not. Another shock of panic shoots through his body. “He what?!” Then realising how much he raised his voice, Jon scans their surroundings, but still they're alone and nobody took notice. He repeats his words more quietly, “he does what?”

“I guess it's quite obvious.” At this Daenerys tears her arm back. “Everyone who's not blind or forced to accept it by following Mormont's example can see it.”

With her face directed back at the flames, she seems unbothered by the fact where he feels quite the opposite. His breathing gets harder as another kind of dread seizes his heart. 

“Has anyone touched you?” he whispers.

Now it's Dany's turn to snap her head. “What? No!”

“You would tell me, wouldn't you?” He balls his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking. “I swear, if someone did only as much as try–”

“Nobody,” she says and places her palm against his cheek, “did any such thing, I promise. And if they'd make a move, I'll cut them open myself.” Her other hand reaches down to her boot where she keeps her dagger strapped to her leg. “I’ve known how to do so since I was six, Jon. Ser Alliser made sure of that. All men joining the Watch are well aware of that matter.”

“Craster doesn't know,” he grumbles but leans into her touch, welcomes it, if only for a second. 

“Yet he saw me cleaning my sword all through the morning.”

He gives in for now. Trying to be satisfied with her answer and a little calmer too, Jon offers a nod and refrains from kissing her palm like he wants to. He keeps sitting closer than before though, their hips pressed against each other, the white clouds of their breathing almost mingling in front of them. 

“So, what information did you get?” he asks after a few moments of silence.

Daenerys shakes her head. “Worse than I'd feared.” She removes Dark Sister from the sheath at her waist and places the sword's tip on the ground. Slender fingers brush over the rubies to buy herself time. Whatever she’d heard makes her nervous, Jon realises.

He lowers his voice and says, “he’s killing them, isn’t he? The boys?”

“He sacrifices them,” she speaks under her breath. 

“Sacrifice?”

“So they get spared.” Her hands fold over the blade’s handle and she places her chin on top of them, eyes fixed on the fire. “He made a pact with them. That’s why his keep is the only one still inhabited.”

Jon frowns, “a pact with whom?”

“What do you think?” She raises her head but only to turn it, resting her temple now on her knuckles to watch him. 

He holds her gaze in search of his answer. But what he finds makes no sense. “That thing,” he starts, “the Wight who attacked us, that’s not able to form such a deal. I doubt its ability to even think.”  

“No,” she agrees, “it must be something else then. Something that’s turning them. Othor, the children, and who knows how many thousands more.” 

A shiver runs down his spine as he processes what this means. “White Walkers.” It sounds too absurd to be believed. “But those are old wives' tales?”

“Based on truth, it seems.”

The cold gods. The ones in the night. The white shadows.  

Jon remembers Old Nan’s stories well enough. A warning to prevent them from doing something stupid. But could it have been more all along?

“We have to tell Mormont,” he decides and gets back on his feet. 

“And tell him what?” Daenerys challenges, “that the women here share children's myths? We have no proof.” 

“Aye, and we won’t get any. But still he has to know.”

“But what if we do?” Supporting herself on the blade, she takes her stand beside him, stows the sword where it belongs and peers at his face. “They must be around here, somewhere close. Certainly now that another baby is coming.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What if I am?”

Again he makes sure that no one is watching before he vanquishes the distance between them, hovering above her. “It’s too dangerous.”

But it doesn’t scare her, he sees. The flames of the campfire are reflected in her eyes and yet it’s as if a blaze burns there all of its own. “It's worth the risk if it saves another child's life.”

“Dany.”

“We could go now. Nobody will notice. The chances of spotting them are higher when it’s only us than with a horde of two hundred men dashing through the woods.” And because she knows that it usually leads to success, she comes even closer and reaches for his hand. “Aren't you tired of it? To be kept in the dark for gods know how long?”  

Of course he is, but as he lifts his eyes to face the black trees behind them, a sense of gloom creeps up on him too. A cold wind that lets chills break out on his skin. An unwanted foreboding. It’s called the Haunted Forest for a reason. And now they are about to find out whether the name is authentic.

Hours pass with them working their way along the narrow trail, leaves sliding across their cloaks like wet tongues. Though he can’t tell how late in the night it has become. The moon is hidden behind the thick canopy of the trees, sheathing the woods in shadows, pines stretching up like towers into the sky.

In the distance he hears a wolf howling but it remains unknown whether it’s Ghost or one of his fellow species. A while ago his white fur blurred with the milky fog enveloping them and Jon hasn't seen his tail since then. 

“We should go back,” he demands, losing count on how many times he's said it till now.

But like before Daenerys intends to ignore it and keeps on walking. He flexes his fingers before closing them again around Longclaw's pommel. 

“Dany,” he says, raising his voice, which makes her stop. “It’s enough now. Nothing’s here.”

“There has to be.” 

Suppressing his groan in frustration, he bites his tongue as he watches her turn in circles. She certainly sees no more than he does. Dark tree trunks and overhanging limbs across the path, clumps of bushes covered in a thin layer of snow. An owl hoots above them in the treetop and shortly afterwards something cracks ominously a few steps away from them. 

As if that isn’t a sign enough to make them leave. “We need to head back before a boar strikes us or worse.”

“Are there even boars in these woods?” she asks and stretches to peer between two firs.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, flinches as he hears another twig snap and approaches her. “But no need to find out.”

“No,” she says, “you’re right. We want to find something else. Let’s go this way.”

Her boot is already in the air, about to set forth on the path between the trees, when Jon blocks her. “Enough. We go back.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now.”

Of course, she doesn’t like his tone. “And who are you to decide that?”

Many things come to him, to say in return but none he dares to speak. Your sworn brother. Your friend. Your lover… Yours. He goes for something different, something he'd consider quite stupid if he were in his right mind. “I'm older.”

At that she rolls her eyes.

But then branches thrash and snap anew in the shadows, vehemently, almost deafening, and thus prevent Daenerys from arguing anything back. Which she surely would have done. Instead, she too pauses, holding her breath. In contrast, Jon spins around and draws his sword. 

His pulse quickens as he tries to make out something in the darkness. 

He waits and listens. 

His eyes narrow.

Sweat gathers on his upper lip while his throat goes dry, trying to catch a glimpse of something. Some sign, a silhouette, anything. But he can't see further than a single step ahead. It's all black. And still he feels it's coming closer towards them. 

Knees slightly bent, hands clasped around the hilt of his blade, he prepares to strike and whispers, “get behind me.”

Thankfully, she does.

The sound of steel scraping against the leather of her sheath reaches his ears as Daenerys copies his pose. The leaves rustle again. She shuffles her boots across the forest floor. Jon does the same as he strengthens his foothold. 

His senses are sharpened, picking up on every indication of a threat. But it is like the world around them has grown quieter, almost silent. Or just drowned out by their strained panting. Heart slamming against his ribs, he gulps at the air, trying to slow his breathing enough to hear at least.

Seconds pass while nothing happens.

A cold breeze finds its way through the thick trees and branches, caressing their cheeks. It makes them both shiver. As if winter itself is getting ready to attack.

Jon's eyes dart from right to left.

Then Daenerys gasps behind him, “there.”

Directly in front of them, the bushes start to move. Slightly at first and then more and more hastily. They tremble together with the beat of Jon's heart. He takes a deep breath. Not allowing himself to exhale it as he feels like an arrow ready to be shot. 

His eyes dilate as the bushes break apart into gaps. 

It's first just one, then three more, following behind. Their sounds are bigger than their actual size, but nimble on their white paws as the hares scurry right past them. As quickly as they appear, they fade into the woods and Jon stares after them with his jaw dropped open. Adrenalin is still pumping through his body. 

Is that all there is? Some rabbits?

He’s frozen in his stand until Daenerys’ laughter fills the night. “Oh, some fine Watchmen we make.” 

Of course, she can't refrain from making fun of it. His shoulders slump as tension leaves him. “Could have been something else.” 

“Aye,” she giggles, “a grumpkin or a snark, perhaps?” Another fit of laughter overcomes her. “I guess you're right and neither will show tonight. Nothing’s here indeed.” 

He shakes his head and rakes his hand through his hair, finally exhaling. But he swallows his retort as he takes in the gleam of her face. 

Her lilac eyes are still sparkling with joy. Her lovely lips, full and pink, are turned into the brightest smile. It shines as brilliantly as her hair, standing out vividly amongst the darkness, as if it’s made of moonlight itself. So this time it’s not panic but her ethereal appearance that makes him humble and speechless. 

She lifts her brows, still grinning, as she catches his expression. “And what are you thinking now?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. That you're too gorgeous to be real.

But like so often, he can’t say it. She'd take him for a fool if he did. Instead he goes for the first thing his brain can conjure, “I just… I realised your hair, it got longer.” Which is true, at least. It has almost reached her chin, curling beneath her earlobes.

Obviously, she sees right through him but spares him the embarrassment by exposing his sidestep. 

“I have to cut it again, don't I?” comes her reply as her hand goes up and two fingers snatch out a strand. “Also, Uncle Aemon told me there are folks who never cut their hair unless they’re defeated.”  

And there he can’t help but chuckle as well, “but you got defeated. At least… once or twice.”

“Only once or twice,” she corrects him and moves closer until she can place her hands on his chest. “And still here you are, pulling me behind you to protect me. As if that isn't a reason enough to cut it, I don't know what is.”

The absurdity of the situation becomes even more clear and a blush rises in his cheeks as he admits, “I'm sorry for that. I just… I couldn't help it.”

“I know,” she smiles back. “I don't mind. Could have been a bore after all.”

And despite all the times he has praised her beauty, it’s this what has charmed him, right there, beaming at him like the rays of the sun. This look on her face. Tender and sweet with just a hint of amusement. From the first moment he laid eyes on her it had enchanted him, bewitched him, consumed his every thought. Even when he’d hardly understood what was happening between them. 

Standing here, staring at her, he understands it though. There's a name for this feeling. Another thing he doesn't say but shows her more often than he should. 

Jon cups her face in his hands and tilts up her chin. “Still, maybe next time I get behind you then? Undefeated as you are.”

“Hmm, I think I like you best right here.”

With her arms wrapped around him. With his hands on her cheeks. And just like that, all dangers are forgotten as she gets up on her toes and captures his lips in a kiss.

Her body lights up as the last bit of fear leaves her, desire mingling with his tenderness, her arousal tangling with his need. Which begins to flare, but nothing more, not yet. He is better practised at keeping his control in check. Maybe he has more patience in general. And for a few moments she allows it as their tongues dance in a stirring slow rhythm. Letting her excitement grow while Jon holds back.

He reaches between them, opens first her belt then his and takes their swords in one hand to lean them against the stub of a tree to their right. 

“Can't have you sliced by our blades after I protected you so heroically, can I?” he hushes against her mouth and she smirks.

But every smart comeback gets stuck in her throat as he pulls her closer with some little pressure against her lower back. His other hand moves back to her face. His lips are so soft against hers. Gently, he strokes her hair behind her ear, like she's the most precious thing in this world and he’d be able to break her if only he pulls hard enough. 

Which he wouldn't. Even if she wants him to. For that beast inside him to come out and take what is his.

Because there's a fire burning between them. One that calls to her ever since she saw the first flick of its flame. One with the power to destroy entire worlds if they don’t brake it. One she yearns to see, to feel, to be engulfed in, right this very second. To give him a hint, she pulls his lip between her teeth and bites him. 

A small hiss leaves Jon's mouth at that. He secures his grip, tightens it, as he understands her intentions. 

And then their kiss grows rather desperate in just a few heartbeats. His force makes her stumble back but he catches her. One arm snatched around her waist, the other locked around her neck, he guides her until her back presses against a tree trunk and her front against his chest.

They clash in a way in which they truly match best.

His strong hands hold her firmly as his lips descend on hers. He surrounds her, devouring her with his heat. Her fingers clutch his curls to match his eagerness as he fumbles with her leather straps, to get past her cloak. But there are too many layers and he groans in frustration. She shares the sentiment, impatient to feel his muscles beneath her hands. 

In a desperate attempt to have him be somewhat closer, Dany hooks one leg around his thigh and starts grinding against him. Jon moans at that and thrusts back. His hard cock rubs now deliciously against her. She feels herself getting more wet with every buck of his hips. And then she's the one moaning into his mouth as he reaches for her bottom, squeezing her cheeks through her breeches. 

Her other leg is still down, but her toes barely touch the ground as he pulls her up by her ass and thrusts up against her. Another rush of arousal makes her dizzy. She pushes back against him but most of their rhythm is due to him. And it's an inebriating feeling but how perfect it would be without all the clothes separating them. If he could move inside her, making her cunt grasp for his cock every time it leaves it. 

Sadly, it has never happened. Maybe it never will. Remaining just a fantasy as she knows he won't do it, especially not here. Yet just thinking about it sparks her desire and makes her even more desperate to feel him. 

It's just been too long since the last time they'd shared a bed. Since they'd lain in each other's arms, drenched in sweat, with their cum gathered between their stomachs. This now is only a small substitute in comparison and definitely not enough friction to get them the relief that they're seeking.

“Jon,” she pants, “touch me.” Nipping at his bottom lip, licking and teasing it.

“Gods,” he says breathlessly, speaking her thoughts, “I wish we were somewhere else. The things I'd do to you….”

“I don't care,” she whimpers as she holds onto his shoulders, “just do them now.”

So he puts her back on the ground and pulls his glove off with his teeth while his other hand remains on her waist. 

She gets the idea when his broad hand moves down to her stomach and into her breeches. Making her shiver as he teases her slit with practised ease. Her wetness coats his fingers and quickly he pulls his hand back up to taste her. His cheeks hollow as he sucks on the digits, all the while his eyes rest on her face. 

They're almost as black as the night around them and this look makes her shiver in anticipation, foretelling that soon she will get what she'd asked for.

As he lowers his hand again and starts to circle her clit, she exhales sharply before it turns into a whining mewl. One he swallows with a kiss. It draws out another shudder from her body while his fingers slide easily against her, so wet is she by now. And she's throbbing as her pleasure keeps growing, her breathing accelerating more and more. 

She's getting closer to cresting at rapid speed and so she reaches for the front of his trousers, pulling at the cords. Once they're loosened, she gets rid of her gloves the same way he did and closes her fist around him. His groan is her reward. And immediately, Jon arches into her touch, resting his chin on top of her head while she buries her face in his chest, inhaling his scent.

He smells of wood and leather and she closes her eyes to let it envelope her, this sense of home pressed against her nose. The world shifts as its edges start to blur. Everything narrows down to the erupting heat between her legs and Jon's heart beating violently right beside her ear. It pulses in time with his dick as she strokes him. Remembering the first time she did this as he wrapped his hand around hers to guide it back and forth along his shaft.  

“Just like this.”  

She followed his instructions as she does now, moving like she knows will give him the most pleasure, causing him to shudder and gasp.

She's always been a quick learner, but so is he. These days, he knows how to treat her, how to push her, how to make her come undone in the most satisfying way. Her legs begin to tremble with every touch of his fingers against her swollen nub. She clutches her free hand around the fur of his cloak to keep herself upright as a sob climbs up her throat, and then another and another. 

She flakes out into that haze, drowning, as she feels it coming. Tremor after tremor runs through her body. She squeezes Jon tighter, strokes faster. 

“Dany.” He pants her name like a prayer. He moans it, raps it, growls it, repeats it and does it then all over again.

Yours, she thinks. 

“Gods, yes,” she cries and cums with her body curling in itself. Jon groans above her as he finds his release just right along with her.

For a few more seconds, the euphoria stays with her as she nuzzles her face against his chest. Sweet bliss folds itself around her. She's drifting off into the sweetest dream as she stands there sheltered from the cold by his warm body. It's that state where no thought makes sense. Words fall out of her mouth with a sigh, without awareness they've even been spoken. 

“Ao mazverdagon nyke sōvegon,” she murmurs, “ñuha jorrāelagon (You make me fly, my love.)”

His chuckle vibrates against her cheek and she looks up with sleepy eyes. “Hmm?”

“Jorrāelagon,” he repeats in his thick northern accent, pronounced all wrong, “what does it mean, huh?”

His gaze is clouded, as is her own, a crooked grin on his lips and a delicate blush on his cheeks. Her own intensifies as she realises what she'd let slip. “Oh, that means… um, nothing, just…”

“Just?” He leans down to rub his nose against hers. “Can't mean nothing. You've said it before, after we have…”

The sense of the word is reflected in his glance and she can't prevent the smile spreading on her lips as she says, “actually, it's Valyrian for–”

But then, she stops. 

They both raise their heads as they hear the sound of footsteps coming closer from a distance. It's a swift movement. Boots slip on wet leaves and mushrooms, tripping on bumpy roots. The unease of the causer is palpable. His march must have been audible for longer if they hadn't been too distracted to notice. 

Not an animal this time, there’s no question about it. Equally hasty, Jon and Daenerys get dressed. 

As she wipes her hand on the hem of her cloak, he takes the few steps to the side and retrieves their swords. Their fingers brush as he hands it over. No words are exchanged. They don't have to. Their eyes meet and an unspoken agreement passes between them. 

This is why they set out in the first place. Now they’ll come to face it. Now they'll find out the truth.

Because something’s here with them. 

Very likely something dead.

Every part of his skin breaks out in gooseflesh. That unsettling feeling is back and Jon wonders if that thing, whatever it is, has been there all the time, only hidden, concealed by the darkness. 

He can sense it, taste it. The deadly cold fills the air again, causing the temperature to drop abruptly. Just like before, when the hares came rushing out of the covert, startled. Running away from something. For a brief moment he had convinced himself that he’d only imagined it. That his panicked mind had played a trick on him. But now he knows better. 

They're not alone.

The feeling of those deathly blue eyes cling to him with every step he takes. Jerking noises hiss both in front of and behind them. It’s almost like they’re the chased and not the ones hunting those creatures. 

Still, they keep going.

Shadows flit over their heads. Crows are squawking in the treetops. Their heavy breaths freeze in front of their mouths as they slink through the forest. Dany stays close by his side, but her familiar warmth from before has vanished, replaced by a new rush of a frightening portent. 

Which turns into reality as they stumble towards a small clearing amidst the bushes and stop. 

The steady drumbeat of his pulse picks up, a clipped tempo as his vision fixes on something dark and limp, peeking out from the undergrowth. Daenerys spots it as well and halts. Gloved hands placed on the trunk of the nearest tree, she finds shelter behind it and peers cautiously around.  

He follows her gaze.

Dim moonlight falls on a small bundle, trembling and crying. But even if the sound weren't all that familiar to him, Jon would instantly recognise what it is. And he feels Dany twitch, ready to storm forward. He holds her back, seizing her arm.

“Wait,” he whispers. 

For as much as he wants to save the child, he senses something else moving in the thicket. Danger prowls around them. A cold wind pierces their bones even though there is no breeze blowing anymore. Something screaks, muffled but bloodcurdling and close.  

It finally emerges into the light. A figure, barely recognisable. A black silhouette that slowly bends down and grabs the bundle. As soon as the child is in its arms, its wailing stops. Everything around them goes quiet. There is no more rustling, no more howling of animals or any other sign of life happening around them. 

Death is silent, Jon thinks. Ready to take another soul. 

If they want to prevent this, they must react fast. So he reaches for his sword as Dany steps out of their hiding place, Dark Sister’s steel already drawn and poised to attack. 

They both make a leap forward but then suddenly, something grabs Jon by his collar. 

He gets yanked around. His eye sockets expand. A sharp gasp leaves his mouth when he catches Craster’s fist and the mallet he brings down to hit him. Just an instant later, Jon feels a fierce pain cut through his face. It knocks him out so hard that he falls backwards. The impact is forceful enough that the world starts spinning around him. 

And in his mouth, he tastes the metallic tang of blood. 

Immediately, she spins on her heels as she hears his cry. Stopping means decreasing the chance of saving the baby, but she can't comply. She can’t leave him behind. It’s not a decision of her mind but of her heart. Whose beating doubles at what she comes to face with. 

The scene sets a fury rising within her, a flame as hot and deadly as that of the Black Dread himself. And she forgets everything else. Perceives nothing else. The old shit is lucky that she doesn't relieve him of his head outright but only hits him hard enough so that he collapses on the frozen ground with a painful groan.

Every fibre of her body screams to strike him again. But she holds back, fighting the impulse.

When he turns around and looks at her, the tip of her sword is already at his throat. “One false move,” her lips pull up in a snarl, “and I'll slice you up like the pig that you are.”    

Her voice barely sounds like herself. But she doesn't care. It has the desired effect. Even when he glares at her with his eyes so full of hatred, he takes her warning into account, remains quiet and does not stir. 

Daenerys exhales a quick breath, then risks a glance at Jon. “Are you alright?”

He's back in a sitting position at least but gives no reply. 

Worry blends with anger, so she asks him again, “Jon? Are you alright?”

Instead of saying anything in return, he struggles to get back on his feet and then spits a lump of blood on the ground beside him. Slowly, he rises to his full height. His jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed. In them shines the same wrath that she'd felt, so she knows what’s coming, before it even happens. 

In two long strides he’s with them. 

And a loud crack fills the night as his fist comes down on Craster's nose, putting the man out cold with one single blow. 

He’s still trembling as they make it back to the keep. Every moan coming from the man hanging limply between them, sends another flash of rage cursing through his veins. At least he will now have to answer for his crimes. Even though they'd been too late to save the infant, there’s still hope that it’s the last life that the old scumbag has on his conscience. 

May the gods be just, Jon thinks as the gate with the bear’s skull comes into sight.

The few of their brothers, still awake, stop what they’re doing as they pass them by. Their looks are perturbed while the women struggle to catch their breaths in shock. All eyes are on them as they drag Craster to his shed. Inside, a fire is burning and around it, Commander Mormont sits with his officers. They all jump up as they enter. 

With more force than necessary, they throw the old man at their feet. And it is hard for Jon to suppress the urge to kick him as he cringes until he eventually gets up. Mormont’s eyes cling to each one of them and ultimately remain on Craster, waiting for him to speak.

He does that then, with a tongue full of venom. “Get out. All of you.”

But the Lord Commander defies as his gaze flits from one entrant to the next, first to Jon, then to Daenerys. “What have you done?”

“Should ask that of him,” she says, pointing her chin at the man struck down by her sword. 

A fact the latter seems unable to cope with. “That whore raised her hand against me and I’ll have it cut off with my axe–”

“Careful,” Jon growls and takes one step forward. 

But then he pauses.

That whore…

The sneer on Craster’s lips tells more than enough. Rotten teeth flash at Jon, covered in blood. 

“Whore,” the raven croaks on Mormont's shoulder, “whore, whore.”

And everyone around them is aware of what that means. More than just a threat. More than just an insult. An exposure with dire consequences. The looks of their brothers underline it, as does the concern that’s written on the Lord Commander’s face. 

He closes his eyes for just a second. “Wait outside.” 

Jon doesn't need to be told twice.

In advance of Daenerys speaking her protest, he grabs her by the hand and drags her along. They stumble into another bunch of equally puzzled expressions. 

Of course, everyone listened. Of course they heard what’s been said. The truth about her is spilled out, no longer a secret. And as that slowly seeps in, Jon feels his panic rising anew. He turns his head, watching their audience. Some of the looks he meets speak of betrayal, but most of them just appear completely bewildered. 

There is a sad smile on Sam's face and pure horror on Grenn's. But both leave hastily, as do the others, when Mormont joins them. Black crows scoop up like a wild flock of birds. 

“Got nothing better to do than stand around here like fools?” his deep voice rings out. 

Though it’s obvious that not all of them are being referred to.  

Stubborn as ever, Daenerys straightens up as he reaches them. But Jon feels less confident in his actions, now that his anger is gone. And he shrinks even more as their Commander takes his stand in front of them, tight-lipped and fuming. “What did you do?” 

“We followed him,” Dany reports right away. She has her arms crossed over her chest, as if she’s the one giving the reprimand instead of being its recipient. “He took the baby into the woods. His newborn baby. Sentenced to death. And when we tried to stop–”

“How is that any of your business?”

“We had to do something.”

“You had to stay at your posts as you were commanded to do.”

At that, even Jon can't help himself. “You don’t understand. He’s killing them. All the boys.”

But to his own dismay, all that follows is a long meaningful silence. 

The anger that marked Mormont's features gets replaced by regret as he says, “wildlings serve crueller gods than you and I, Snow. Those boys are his offering–”

“Offering?” In contrast, Dany sounds like a volcano on the verge of exploding. “He murders them. Small children. Stolen from their mother's breast to save his sorry ass. That piece of shit–”

“Is sometimes the only difference between life and death for some of our rangers,” Mormont finishes her sentence. “And now I’ll have none of this anymore, you hear me? The Night’s Watch has other wars to fight.”

“Fights against those monsters that he makes his deals with,” she snaps back, pointing her outstretched hand at the entrance of the barn. “We saw it, my lord. We saw that thing creeping through the forest.”

“Aye, and Craster saw you.” The Old Bear narrows his gaze. His eyes dart from her to Jon, who senses another threat coming, one entirely unrelated to the cold. The feeling grows as Mormont lowers his tone. “You think I’m an idiot? That I don't know what’s going on between the two of you?”

“Lord Commander,” Jon starts but gets cut off.

“Shut up.” Mormont comes even closer and speaks with a hiss, “we need men like Craster, whether you like it or not. But what we don't need is a riot among our own, caused by some foolish actions because you two can't remember the vows that you took.”

“We didn't break our vows,” Dany says under her breath.

“And how long until you do?” When neither of them answers, Mormont adds quickly, “I took a risk that day I allowed you to stay and may the gods help me, I fear now's the time that I come to regret it.” 

He strokes over his beard while Jon observes his reaction. It’s a sadly familiar one. Though never has he seen it on the wrinkled face, but witnessed it in another situation. His little sister, standing in Winterfell’s courtyard, her eyes fixed on her feet, her new dress covered in mud. The fatherly concern in Lord Stark's voice sounded then exactly like their Commander’s does now.   

“I can't watch out for you, Daenerys, in what is ahead of us, do you understand that?”

“I do,” she replies softer, addressed by her real name. “But I don't need your protection. I can defend myself, you know that.”

“Aye,” the Old Bear sighs, “against two, maybe three. But what if it's more? We're marching with two hundred men. What if ten of them attack you? Hold you down? Force themselves on you one after another?” He shakes his head as if he can't stand the prospect. “Are you that keen on following the fate of that Flint girl?” 

“I won't let that happen,” Jon steps in. He's got his hands balled into fists to prevent them from shaking but his voice comes out steady. “I'll protect her.”

“Aye, and get yourself killed in the process. Stabbed to death and marked as a traitor.”

Jon keeps to himself what he wants to respond as he catches the look on Mormont's face; hard as stone with no room for back talk. 

“Whatever this is between the two of you, it ends tonight,” he says, remaining in eye contact with Jon throughout. “Protecting her is not your duty, do I make myself clear?” And without waiting for a confirmation his gaze shifts to Daenerys. “You keep your head down, no more sneaking off, no more looking at each other. If I see you together again, I'll send you straight back to Castle Black or find another way to separate you, is that understood?”

They have no choice but to agree. Still neither of them can bring themselves to give the final acknowledgement. Instead their eyes find each other's glance. Hers shimmer with that feeling which they do not dare to speak out loud and he knows his do the same. It proves that Mormont is right. They have neglected their duty in favour of this thing, so much sweeter and so much less honourable. 

He must withdraw, for both their sakes.

But may the gods help him, Jon can't do it. He can't look away. Her eyes, so fiercely fixed on his own, are a mirror to her soul and what he sees there is everything he ever longed for, dreamed of, wanted for himself ever since he'd been old enough to want anything. 

How is he supposed to give that up?

The Lord Commander's scowling eventually breaks them apart, “is that understood?”

Though everything inside him protests against it, Jon forces his head to bow at last and give the sign requested; a single yet hurtful nod. But it feels far bigger than that. Because deep down he knows that this is a vow he might not be able to uphold. Not forever… 

… not if she needs him.

Chapter Text

Previously…

They leave Craster's Keep first thing in the morning and, as the Lord Commander has instructed, Jon and Daenerys try to maintain a proper distance throughout the ride. But both barely manage to accomplish the task. Caught once again sticking together late at night, Mormont puts his warning into action when they arrive at the Fist of the First Men. 

He orders Daenerys to go with Qhorin Halfhand and his men to accompany one of the three scouting parties into the mountains and thus separates the couple like he promised. Jon objects and wants to go in her place but is dismissed since he’s only a steward and is supposed to stay at Mormont's side. Reluctantly, he gives in but sends Ghost along with the group to look after Dany on his behalf. 

While Jon remains at the Fist, Qhorin's party makes its way over the Skirling Pass and comes across a group of wildling sentries. Daenerys is one of those assigned to take them out and strikes down one man, but discovers her second target is a woman named Ygritte. When the girl yields, Dany can't bring herself to kill her and takes her as a prisoner instead. 

During the night, Ygritte asks many questions about Ghost and eventually Daenerys tells her about Jon. The two talk until dawn and form a mutual understanding of each other's situation. 

A short time later they rejoin with Qhorin and the rest of their brothers. Dany’s told to kill the prisoner as they have no food to spare and that one shout from her at the wrong time can mean the death of them all. She is left alone to carry out the execution, but again she can't muster the heart to do it. Secretly, she lets Ygritte go. 

Before she leaves, Ygritte informs her that Mance Rayder would accept her, if she wanted to join the free folk. There she wouldn't have to hide who she is and would be free to love whoever she wants. But Dany declines. She stays with Qhorin, who decides that they’re about to return to the Fist as the enemy approaches and they are outnumbered to defend themselves.

Meanwhile, albeit subconsciously, Jon watches everything through Ghost’s mind while he’s dreaming…

He can hear his heart beating, literally, not just feel it, but actually hear it. And so he sits up straight before he even opens his eyes. 

The sweat, sticking to his face, makes him shiver as the cold night’s air caresses his skin. Blood pounding in his ears and short of breath, Jon pushes himself onto an elbow as his other hand reaches for Longclaw by force of habit. He looks around the camp, suspicious and paranoid, that the horror he witnessed may have followed him here. But nothing’s there. Only his sleeping brothers. 

It was just a dream.

Yet it seems more real than any dream he has ever experienced. He can still sense the talons, the pain, from the eagle's attack on the back of his neck, where they’d torn a bloody path through fur and flesh.

Not mine, but Ghost’s.

Still, it’s quite difficult for him to tell the difference. 

Everything was black and then he was back in the mountains. His paws sunk deep in a drift of snow, standing upon the edge of a great precipice. He was no longer human and yet somehow he was. Alarmed as a sudden gust of cold made his fur stand up, the air thrilled to the sound of wings as a shadow plummeted out of the sky. 

But what was he even doing there? Why wasn't he with Dany?

He is with her. This was only a dream, a voice inside his head scolds him anew.  

And Jon exhales a long sigh.

Cautiously, he rubs a palm over his face as he tries to fully awaken. When he finally gets up, he buckles on his sword belt, pulls on his boots, shakes the dirt and dew from his cloak before he fastens it around his shoulders. Slowly, he begins to feel more like himself again. 

A few of the men grumble in their bedrolls as he sneaks past them and takes a stand behind the ring wall, far from the sleeping camp, on the outer edge where no guards are stationed. As he looks down on the icy wasteland before him, he can hear the wind whistling through cracks in the rocks. Apart from that, the Frostfangs lie dormant at his feet. 

Though the calm can't be trusted, he knows. War is looming on the horizon. 

He expects it to rise while he’s staring into the darkness. As if a fire will break out at any second, engulfing everything between him and the lake he saw in his dream that divides the Milkwater into two separate rivers. A flame ignited by the host he’d watched as they tore great holes in the half-frozen ground.

No army, but a town. A whole people come together.

And Daenerys, far too close to them. 

He groans as he realises where his thoughts drifted off to again. It’s like he’s losing his mind with every passing day that she’s gone.

“It wasn't real,” he tells himself under his breath.

“What’s not real?” someone asks quietly behind him and he turns around to face the intruder.

Sam blinks the sleep out of his eyes, as Edd pulls his cloak tighter around his chest, accompanied by a heartfelt yawn from Grenn, “why are you up?”

“Couldn't sleep,” Jon mumbles, half-lies, and resumes his previous position as the others come to join him. 

They stand there for a while, watching the landscape with a moonless sky and yet countless stars shining above them. The mild breeze makes strands of their hair twirl around their heads. But nobody bothers about it. Instead, the silence settles over them like a leaden blanket until Sam can't take it any longer and whispers, “you think they're still alive?”

Everyone's aware of who he's talking about. 

“I guess. Dany's a tough guy,” Grenn replies gruffly. “If any of us can make it out there, it's him.”

“Her,” Sam corrects.

“Huh?”

“Her,” he repeats and for a brief moment his eyes dart to Jon before he continues, “she's a girl, remember?” Sam slides back and forth on his feet as his voice comes out, sounding a bit meek, “knew she was one right from the beginning.”

Edd puffs, “sure you did.”

“She's far too pretty for a boy!” 

“Still we all believed she was one,” Grenn says. He rakes his fingers through his shaggy blond hair. “I mean, you ever saw a woman fight like that? Or drink like that?”

“Or joke like that,” Edd deadpans. 

“But she's too kind for one,” Sam muses. “She always gave me her second piece of bread.” He props his elbow on the stonewall and rests his chin on the palm of his hand, eyes turning softer from reminiscing about this. “I remember the first time I asked her for it and after that, she always saved it for me.” 

The others nod, each of them had experienced her benevolence in one way or another. But Jon stays quiet. 

I remember the first time she kissed me, he thinks instead. 

And although it does him no good, he can't stop lingering in those precious moments, to summon them at every free second in which he has time to ponder about them. The way her skin felt beneath his fingers. The way her body fit so perfectly against his when they'd fallen asleep with his arms wrapped around her. The way her voice sounded after he'd pleasured her with his hands or his mouth. The way she looked at him like–

Someone nudges against his shoulder and he lifts his eyes to find Sam smiling at him like he already knows, “you miss her badly, don't you?”

Badly, doesn't even come close. 

It's like she took a part of him with her that he needs to stay alive. And mayhaps that's why his mind is making up all these things, to give him a reason to run after her. But even acknowledging this, he simply can't shake it off. Because…

What if she dies?

He chokes on his reply and thus only swallows, then bows his head.

“So it's true then? The rumours?” Sam keeps pushing to his utter dismay, “you've really been with her, like, you know, a man and a woman do?”

“I'm not telling you that,” Jon grunts back. He'll take it to his grave if he has to.

“Of course, he has,” Grenn gives the answer in his stead, with his tone so clearly reflecting his amusement. “The pretty girls always want the little lordlings.”

At that Jon's unable to hold back his frustration. “It's not because of that,” he hisses. But he has no clue how else to explain it. 

Why did she want him?

She’s brave and sweet and gorgeous, fighting wildlings and monsters out there, while he's sitting here tight like a coward. She deserves someone better. Someone who doesn't let her run blindly into her doom. Someone who doesn't waste precious time, indecisive what to do. He buries his face in his hands and groans. 

Then he straightens up. “I have to go.”

“What?” Sam’s eyes grow huge. 

“I have to go. I have to warn them,” Jon says. 

And what an idiot he is for still standing here talking. 

Quickly, he turns on his heels. With long strides he hurries off in the direction of where they keep the horses, close to the forest. A plan is forming in the meantime, its dire consequences only an afterthought. Besides, who knows, maybe he’ll never live to meet them.

Behind him, the camp remains asleep with all its men, officers and the Lord Commander himself, unaware of the betrayal that’s taking place right here on the outskirts. It makes Jon’s heart grow heavy. So with all his might he has to banish Mormont's face from his thoughts, staring at him full of disappointment. 

He doesn't dare turn around but accelerates his steps.

The others rush after him, no less upset.

“You can’t leave,” Sam protests, blocking his path. 

Jon glares at him. This time he has no horse to push him out of the way, but he’ll do it with his bare hands if he has to. “Move.”

Sam shakes his head. “You’re not making any sense. You don’t even know where they are.”

“I do.” He's studied the maps to the point of exhaustion. But even if he didn't, somehow he knows, feels, he will find her regardless. 

Though, no one seems convinced by his statement. 

“Look...” Grenn steps forward. “We know you're worried. So are we. She's our brother too.”

“Sister,” Sam remarks, then bites his tongue as he catches Grenn's scowl.

“Makes no difference. She's one of us.”

“She's more than that,” Jon says. 

It's mainly pity that is shown to him in return. And perhaps it's deserved. Perhaps he's a fool to even consider this action. It doesn't matter. 

“I saw what's coming for them,” he adds more steadfastly.

That gives the rest a pause. 

“You saw it?” Edd asks.

“I did.” 

And, even if somewhat reluctantly, Jon finally tells them about his dream, the wildling camp, the thousands of people and about the eagle that attacked Ghost before he woke up. 

“I know it sounds like madness. But if there's only the slightest chance that it's real, then I can't stay here waiting. I can't find out when it's already too late, don't you understand?”

It seems like they do. Where before there was shock and disapproval, now some narrow smiles are formed, meeting his eyes with sympathy. 

Grenn tilts his head and grins, “you love her, don’t ya?”

An unpleasant twinge pierces Jon's chest and he averts his gaze. “That’s not the point.”

Even if that is precisely the point and he’s just too stubborn to admit it. 

Sam comes closer and pats him on the back. “It’s alright, we won’t tell anybody. Let’s…” he sighs like he can't believe his next words, “let’s go then– and saddle your horse?”

They do so, as quietly as possible. And since they don't want to cause a stir, Jon can only take what the others can spare: Grenn's cloak to sleep in, a flask of wine from Edd, a bit of dry meat from Sam. 

“Why do you even have that?” Grenn grouches.

“To be prepared when something unexpected occurs.” He stresses every syllable with that strange sing-song in which he sometimes speaks as if he were a Grand Maester giving them a lecture. 

They all roll their eyes. 

And then Jon hugs each of them goodbye, a part of him unwillingly to let go, even though he knows that he must. He just hopes that this is not an ultimate farewell. That he’ll come back in no time and that it is to meet them still as his friends, that Mormont will show mercy and that he is saved from the gallows.

Technically, it’s not desertion if one intends to return?   

He tries to hold on to this as he rides off into the night. Bound and determined that they’ll make it back, he and Dany. Together.

But first though, he has to find her.

The children run past her squealing and laughing, but their joy diminishes when they see her gaze resting on them. With a small smile, Daenerys raises her hand. But only one of the two waves back, the other frowns and then hastily pulls his playmate onwards. She watches them go before she returns her attention to the rope in her hands about to become a snare.  

Not particularly successful. Her thoughts keep straying too much. This time they go back to when she last saw such children. Was she still in Braavos? Did she play with them then? 

All that feels so long ago, she can’t answer the questions. She can't dwell on them either. Because when she does, she starts to think about home and home leads to Aemon, Castle Black and the Watch.

It leads to Jon.

When Ghost had still been with her, it was easier to bear. But a couple of nights ago, he had left her, just took off while she was still fast asleep, presumably hunting but returning soon enough. When he didn't, she knew that he’d finally grown tired of serving as a watchdog. And she doesn’t blame him. Despite feeling even more alone as a result. Missing Jon more than she already does. 

So many things have happened ever since they'd separated, one thing more implausible than the next. And all that only because she couldn’t resist giving the man she likes a kiss goodnight. Like a stupid fool.

For this reason she had not protested when Mormont sent her away with Qhorin Halfhand. He did warn them, after all. 

If she had known what she was in for, however, she would at least have tried to argue against it. Instead, she has stumbled headlong into a complete disaster. From hunting Wildlings to being hunted by them, from capturing one to being the one captured. It's like the gods are playing a very cruel trick on her, the result of which she hopes she might live to see. 

Should she do so, then she has the Halfhand to thank for it. 

Killing him was truly the worst of it all and without Ghost she probably would not have made it. Every night the man's gaze haunts her dreams. Those last words, spoken with a trickle of blood running down from the corner of his mouth. 

We are the Watchers on the Wall.

She keeps holding on to the belief that she still is, even if it's getting harder and harder with every day she spends here living with the enemy. 

Of course, she knows that Qhorin was right. One spy among them is more valuable than four hundred men fighting against them. And after they’d lost Dalbridge, Ebben and Stonesnake, once it was clear that they wouldn't make it back to the Fist alive, what other choice did she have but follow his command?

Still, it leaves a bitter taste.

Because most of those around her are no soldiers but old or women or children. They are no threat. They are no danger. Only a group of people trying to survive now that winter is coming. Don't they deserve to be protected as well? Does she fail to protect her family if she attempts to help these people? 

Whatever she decides, she is a traitor anyway. 

“Pay attention, crow girl,” a voice yells in her ear and Dany flinches. 

She can just catch Ygritte's smirk as the woman snatches the rope from her hand, only to smack her on the head with it a moment later. 

It stings.

“What was that for?” she frowns, rubbing the spot.

“You've got your head in the clouds again.”

“I've got no such thing,” Daenerys objects and earns herself another hit for that. 

One may be deserved, but two is too many. She feels her temper rising as she glares at the redhead. “Is there a reason you always have to be so mean?”

Ygritte grins wider, “it is part of my charm.”

“It is your head in the clouds if you think that you're charming.”

If Ygritte is offended by that, she does not let it show. She merely throws the rope back into Dany's lap. “Go on. Try again.”

She does as ordered and after demonstrating that the knot is tight enough this time, she throws the coil on the pile to the others, ready to be distributed by them in the forest later. 

Ygritte nods approvingly, “maybe you're not as stupid as your pretty face suggests.” 

And that's when Dany finally has enough. 

She could justify it with the fact that she was raised by men and that they settle their disputes with fists foremost. But actually she's just fed up and wants Ygritte to shut up. That's why she doesn't think twice, but strikes. Hooking her foot behind the calf of the other, it takes only one hard pull and the gobshite is lying on the ground. 

Dany jumps up too, towering above her, her boot hovering above Ygritte's throat. “Guess, you're as slow as your stupid face suggests.” 

What she gets in return is only a sneer and so they keep staring at each other until eventually Daenerys' anger subsides. She puts her boot back on the ground and offers a hand to pull Ygritte back on her feet. “Better watch your mouth next time.” 

“Aye,” Ygritte agrees surprisingly. Though she doesn't let go of Dany but pulls her closer to whisper in her ear, “and you better watch your back, Lady Crow. Right now, you're attracting too much attention.”

All jest is gone from her eyes as Ygritte detaches herself. The words hold some honest warning and are not just another way to rile her up further. It's a painful reminder. Be more careful. Daenerys scans the people around them to see what their scene has evoked. It's not that bad but still it's not good either. 

Many still distrust her and this suspicion is evident on the faces of those who have paused their work, observing their squabbling. Their eyes are narrowed, their lips thin. To them she’ll always be a crow. And it makes no difference whether she has swapped her cloak for sheepskin, her blood runs black.  

She averts her eyes, settles back on her previous seat and grabs another rope. As she continues to tie it silently, she feels their stares leave her one after another. With them the tension is easing from her shoulders. But only just a bit. When Ygritte takes her place to her right, Daenerys clenches her jaw in fear of what's coming next. 

Naturally, her companion makes no long digressions before she gets to her point, “what's with that brooding face, huh? Dreaming about your crow boy again?”

“Jon's not a boy, he's a man grown.” 

Like so often, Ygritte throws her head back, barking with laughter. “Oh girl, you know nothing.” Once recovered, she grabs Dany's chin to guide her head. “See that?” A few steps away from them Ryk, a man from the village Ygritte grew up at, walks up, carrying a big truck of a tree over his shoulder. “That's a real man, is he not? He'd bone you so hard, he'll make you forget all about little crow boys, I promise.” 

Cheeks blushing red, Dany tears her head out of the grip. “Thank you, I'll pass.”

“Once Ryk broke the arm of a boy from our village, who tried to sneak into my tent. I've been with the boy before but he didn't deserve a second time,” Ygritte tells her without being asked. 

“That doesn’t make Ryk a proper lover but only shows your first was a bad one,” Dany states.

Ygritte just shrugs, “he was alright, but nothing special.” She slides closer and lowers her voice. “Now, what’s so special about your crow, I wonder.”

With a long exhale, Daenerys turns so that their eyes can meet. “Is there nothing else you can talk about?”

“What else would there be?”

“Well, for example–” 

But she stops mid sentence as she catches sight of another group arriving at their camp, a glimpse of white fur flashing up between the men. And there is an all too familiar black cloak walking right beside him.

The picture makes her mind go blank as her body stiffens.

Ygritte follows her gaze and puts a hand on her shoulder in a rare burst of compassion. 

The touch breaks Dany's freeze. 

As if stung by an adder, she drops the rope and speeds ahead, eager to reach the group. She doesn't know what she'll say if she does but only that she has to. Apparently, they’re on their way to Mance's tent.

When she’d walked inside there herself the first time, she’d been in a similar state, tense and shaking from panic and anticipation. She remembers how hot it had been and smokey. Baskets of burning peat had stood in all four corners, skins carpeting the ground. On one of those skins Mance had sat playing his lute.

He had looked nothing like a king, nor even much a wildling. No crown on his head, no gold rings on his arms. The King-beyond-the-Wall was a simple man.

And so it hadn't taken much to convince him of her intentions, they shared the same story after all. Both raised at the Wall, both choosing to betray their families in favour of their own freedom. Dany had played her part well. All her life she'd been trained to pretend a thing far more farcical. 

This was no challenge. 

She’s an excellent liar.

But Jon’s not.

With skidding soles, she comes to a halt in front of the tent and almost bumps into Tormund who has already seen her coming, and is now blocking her passage. 

“Let me through!”

“I don’t think so,” he baulks, firmly and yet smirking.

“What are they doing with him?”

Ygritte joins them, slightly out of breath, and Tormund seeks her gaze. “Anything I need to know?”

“He’s the one,” she tells him. Of course, she's smart enough to put two and two together. “The bastard. Her lover.”

Tormund grunts out a laugh, then he shoves Dany's shoulder with his fist, hard enough so that she stumbles backwards. “Har! That's what he wants. Sneaking around to steal you, crow girl?”

Back to a firm stand, Dany looks from one wildling to another. “Steal me?”

“To prove his worth,” Ygritte explains and shakes her head. “You really know nothing.”  

“I know that I have to get inside that tent,” Daenerys snaps back and, showing her disinterest in prolonging the conversation, she grabs Dark Sister’s pommel, “so you better let me through.”

From one moment to the next, Tormund's grin disappears. Not many people dare to talk to him like that. “Careful, now. I like your fire but don't start causing problems.”

“The only problem is that you're in my fucking way!” She really can't say whats got into her. This is not keeping a low profile. But her body is so much faster than her mind. 

And again all eyes are on her, staring with caginess. 

But then it doesn’t matter as the entrance of the tent moves and a black snout appears, pressing itself against her trembling hand in greeting. Though she can’t return the touch. Instead she draws in her breath as the gap widens, big enough so that she finally sees him. 

And he sees her. 

“Seems we can save ourselves the search,” Mance jokes, directed at Jon. 

But he replies nothing, just keeps looking at her.

So she just looks back and takes in his appearance. 

His hair is longer, his beard thicker than she'd ever seen it before. He’s thinner too and exhaustion marks his features. But his eyes are wide open, alert, full of emotions that he can hardly hide. It makes her wonder what’s been said in that tent. 

It makes her suddenly reflect on why he’s even here. What it means that he's here. 

Desertion.

And while the concern for his safety slowly fades, another feeling grows. Again, it puts her composure on trial. 

The others look at them mildly confused. Expecting a heartfelt reunion or at least the slightest sign of affection. Instead, the air between them is about to freeze. Not even Tormund or Ygritte, never without a joke on their lips, seem to know what to say. 

It's Mance then, who makes the first suggestion. “We need to find him a new cloak.”

He says it to Dany but it's Jon who answers, “I'd prefer to get some rest first, if you don't mind.” His voice sounds strange, lacking its usual warmth. 

She matches the tone when she says, “follow me then,” after Mance gives his approval through a short nod and a squeeze of Jon's shoulder. 

They make their way through the camp with her gaze set straight ahead, ignoring all the glances trailing behind them. Some snarl at them but stop as Ghost bares his teeth. Jon stays quiet. 

The march takes a while, and feels like half a lifetime with the tension so palpable hanging between them. But neither of them is compliant enough to make a move to change that. They match in many things. Their stubbornness is only one of them. So they walk the rest of the way, past more tents, defiantly and in silence. 

The camp goes on forever, but it's more like a hundred camps than one; a sprawling jumble of cookfires and piss pits, children and goats wandering freely, sheep bleating among the trees, horse hides pegged up to dry. There’s no plan to it, no order, no defences. Just men and women and animals everywhere.

At one fire they see a man hardening the points of long wooden spears and tossing them in a pile. Elsewhere two bearded youths in boiled leather are sparring, leaping at each other over the flames, grunting each time one lands a blow. A dozen women sit nearby in a circle, fletching arrows.

Not far from there, they reach their destination. Like many of the lesser tents, Dany’s is made of sewn hides with the fur still on. Jon surveys it with great aversion as he finally speaks, “this is yours?”

“Aye,” she replies curtly but says no more.

His gaze wanders past her. “You share it with someone?”

Her frown deepens, “no?!”

“Who owned it before you?”

“A man named Orell.”

Jon lifts his brows just the tiniest bit. “And what happened to Orell?”

Daenerys crosses her arms over her chest. “He's dead. I killed him.”

Without any response and without an invitation, Jon pulls back the flap and disappears inside. 

She suppresses her groan of annoyance, gives Ghost a quick scratch and goes after Jon as the wolf lays down in front of the entrance. 

There's not much space. None of them is able to stand up to full size. They both crouch on the floor with their legs crossed, each at the opposite end. And where before every bit of distance between them had been too much, now they insist on maintaining it, on avoiding any physical contact.  

Countless questions run through Daenerys' head while they sit there. But only one grows too forceful to keep to herself any longer. “Jon, what are you doing here?”

Immediately, he explodes. 

“What am I– what in all seven hells are YOU doing here?” he yells but she interrupts him with a raised finger. Hold on. Pressing it first to her lips, then raising it to her ear before she twirls it in a circle. Despite all their emotions, they have to stay cautious. 

And thankfully, he gets it. Pinching the bridge of his nose in his typical manner he chooses his next question more carefully. “Just tell me, are you part of the Free Folk now?”

“I am,” she says with her voice raised so loud that anybody who might be eavesdropping certainly won't miss it. All the while shaking her head. 

At that, Jon's eyes turn softer. “I… I don’t understand it. I thought you were captured.”

“We were.” She swallows. “They asked me to kill the Halfhand, if I wanted to join them.”

“And you did it?”

She nods and averts her gaze. 

Notwithstanding her anger, shame is now the dominant feeling. Jon must see it, because he slides a little in his sitting position until his calf is leaning against hers. And she hates how much she pushes against it, how much she is drawn to him. Although that is exactly the problem. 

That's why she needs to hear it. “Tell me, please.”

And now he’s the one who appears self-conscious. “You already know it, Dany.” He bites his cheek, folds his hands in his lap, taps his thumbs against each other. 

But she doesn't let him off that easily. “I need you to say it.”

“Fine,” he sighs, then finds her eyes again. His gaze holds that look she missed so much. As if in this world, there’s nothing more important than her. Which makes it plain that he’s speaking the truth. “I’m here because of you.”

Just like she feared.

And first she wants to kiss him. Then she wants to smack him. She does neither of those but just breathes, “so you've really deserted?”  

A small, almost sad snort escapes Jon's lips as he bows his head. “Aye, I guess I did.”

And thus he signed his death warrant. 

For her. 

Which means they can't go back.

Or he dies. 

The fool.

Her whole body vibrates, first starting in her chest, but it quickly spreads all through her body. The sensation is growing with the urge to scream or to break something. To vent her anger and frustration. Because, by all gods, how could he be so stupid? Just how?

And all of a sudden, she can’t stand his presence any longer or she’ll break their cover. It’s already on the tip of her tongue as she reaches the tent’s entrance. Only stopped by Jon’s hand on her wrist. “Where are you going?”

“I… I’m gonna get you that cloak,” she raps. It comes out through clenched teeth as she pulls her hand out of his, the gesture unmistakable. “And you should get some rest.”

Then she storms off without looking back.

It’s dark when he wakes up. He must have slept for a while. At some point, exhaustion had overwhelmed him, even though rest didn't come easily, lying there brooding after she'd left. 

But now he feels less shattered, his mind and body recovered. And Daenerys also seems to have calmed down a bit. At least the terror and panic have disappeared from her face. There's only a small frown left as she lies there by his side, watching him. 

Jon turns and tucks an elbow under his head, copying her pose. 

Again, they’re both quiet. It's less uncomfortable, not like before. Instead of a blazing inferno, there is uncertainty, almost shyness, lingering between them as they both try to figure out what to do next. 

He decides to leave it to her. Let her break the silence whenever she's ready. He takes the opportunity to simply look at her until she does. Because she’s here. Finally within reach. And if it’s possible, she has gotten all the more beautiful in the time they've been apart. 

Her silver hair has become long enough for her to wear it in a little braid over her shoulder. And her features have grown too, sharper now, less childlike. Her cheekbones are more prominent, making her heart-shaped face look more womanly. Though her plump pink lips are still just as sweet as he remembered them to be. As is her voice when she speaks, although it still contains the hint of anger. 

“I’m still mad at you.”

“Aye, I know,” he nods, waits, then asks, “can we… I mean, are they still…?” He twirls his finger in a circle like she'd done it earlier. 

To his relief, she shakes her head. “I think most are asleep or getting drunk by a fire.” But unlike him, the fact has no effect on her emotional state. “Just what were you thinking, Jon?” 

So they're not done arguing about this. 

“I thought you were in danger,” he replies honestly, “there wasn't much thinking beyond that.” 

Which is an answer she doesn't seem to like. “And now you're the one in danger.”

Legitimate or not, her complacency annoys him. “Didn't appear very dangerous when I walked into Mance's tent and he let me join his ranks.” 

“Aye, but I didn't mean here,” she hisses, lowering her voice some more. “I meant once we return to–” she doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to. “If we don't go back, then Qhorin died for nothing.” 

The words soften his mood. “Then we must do everything we can to achieve that,” Jon says under his breath and watches how tears well up in her eyes. 

“But they're going to kill you if we do.” 

Thus she kills every meagre shred of his defences. 

Maybe she has a right to be upset. 

It's not like he's unaware of it. The subsequent punishment is always lurking in the back of his mind no matter how hard he tries to suppress it. Which is completely impossible now, confronted with Daenerys' painful reaction. And so every possible next word dies on his tongue. Heartbeat increasing, his confidence slips as she so bluntly forces him to face his fate.  

She must see it, pulls out her right hand, until then clutched under her side, and places it between them. Without hesitation, Jon puts his on top of hers and interlaces their fingers. 

Her grip almost hurts as she whispers, “we can't go back.”

“We have to try, Dany.”

“No, we can't. I know what they do to deserters. I saw it… more often than I'd like.”

And so did Jon. All too well he remembers how his father took the head of that boy the day they'd found the direwolves. 

“Maybe Mormont will show mercy if he hears our explanation.” He hardly sounds convinced himself, but any hope is better than nothing. 

Daenerys scoots in a little closer and he follows her. “Then please explain it to me. Because I've been racking my brains all day, but I don't get it. What, by all gods, made you leave without an order?” 

He bites his cheek then says, “I dreamed about this.” Unlike with their brothers, he knows that she won't judge him, as strange as his reasoning may sound. 

Nevertheless, she looks puzzled. “What do you mean? Like a prophecy?”

“I… I don't know. I saw the camp and its size.” And he feels rather stupid that he thought they weren't aware of that matter. “So I came here to warn you.” 

She studies his face, searching for more information. He lets her resolve it on her own. There is none.

Then, to his confusion, her expression twists, as if she doesn't like what she came up with, her voice turning wary, “you think it was a dragon dream?”

It lets him become the confused one, “a dragon what?”

Her grip around his hand loosens. 

“Aemon has this book,” she tells, averting her gaze, “it says that those with the blood of the dragon can be affected to have such dreams. Daenys Targaryen, she saw the doom of Valyria. And Aegon the Conqueror had a dragon dream that contributed to his decision to unite the Seven Kingdoms.”

It takes him a bit to understand what she's implying. “And you think I had one of those dreams?” He leaves the bigger meaning behind it unsaid. She's already slipping away from him.

With a small shrug, Daenerys continues to speak, a light strain added to her voice, “well, you don't know your mother, do you?”

He doesn't. 

But could this be? 

He considers it for a moment. Could he be a Targaryen? Blood of the dragon? What would this mean for them?

Is she pulling away because she's repulsed by the prospect of us being related?

Suddenly, he becomes reluctant to the possibility of learning more about this. Not to mention that it's too far-fetched. 

He shakes his head and then grabs Daenerys' hand harder, forcing her to meet his eyes. “It wasn't like a dream exactly,” he says quickly, ignoring everything mentioned after that, “more like I actually was here, physically. I watched everything through Ghost's eyes until he got attacked by an eagle.” 

Immediately, the words change Dany’s posture. Thank the gods. She returns his hold, her eyes go wide as she sits up, pulling him with her. Sometimes he forgets how strong she is. “By an eagle? Jon, that wasn't a dream, that really happened.” 

“Yes, I know,” he says, rubbing his neck with his free hand, the same spot where he felt the evil bird’s attack, “I saw Ghost's scar.” 

“Maybe this means you're a warg?” 

For whatever reason she's desperate to find a greater sense behind this. Mayhaps she loathes the idea of him following his unbreakable urge to protect her. She never liked that trait very much. 

Jon offers a soft smile, “dragon dreams and wargs, that all sounds a bit ridiculous, don't you think?”  

“Like White Walkers,” she challenges. 

Fair point.  

“You should try it,” she says and shows him the first hint of a grin. “See if you can do it again.”

He clicks his tongue. “I don't know how I did it, I was dreaming.”

But she's too excited to be dissuaded from her plan by such a simple statement. “The Wildling, Orell, who owned this tent, he was also a warg. It was his eagle.” 

“And where's that eagle now?”

“I shot it with an arrow. Ghost had it for breakfast.” Dany narrows her eyes. “Now stop diverting from the topic.” Shifting in her seat, she puts both feet under her knees and her hands on his thighs. “Come now, don't you want to see if I'm right?”

Obviously, she wants to see if she's right. But Jon's glad that they're no longer mad at each other, talking about his unavoidable death or any unwanted relations. So, he does her the favour, closes his eyes and tries to focus. 

Of course, nothing happens. After only one heartbeat he lifts one eyelid and squints at her. “I don't really know what to do.” 

It makes her chuckle. Which makes him smirk. And also wonder if now is the time to finally kiss her. But sadly, she seems more interested in finding out if he has any hidden magical abilities. Maybe kissing comes afterwards. 

“Close your eyes again,” Dany orders and he follows her command. “And now think of Ghost.” 

He tries to do that. To relax. He tries to summon their connection, tries to revive it like he’d often done during the time when the wolf was not with him but with her. 

It doesn't work.

Because, now that they're past the fighting, with her sitting this close, her hands on his legs, a whiff of her sweet smell wafting over to him, he can't think about anything beyond that. Her touch sends lightning bolts straight through his skin. His stomach flips as he puts his hands atop hers and peers his eyes open.

“This isn't working.” 

She looks disappointed. “Maybe if we–”

“No.” His breath shudders as he stares at her. And the longer he holds that glance the more urgent his need becomes to stop the experiment and do something else. “We'll try another time.”

“Oh?” she runs her tongue over her lip. 

He wants to bite it. “Come here.”

The change of mood is evident. Yet she lets him suffer. Instead of agreeing to his request, she tilts her head. “But I'm still mad at you.”

“No, you're not.” 

And he's this close to telling her that she's never lied worse. But then, eventually, she gives in and every other reply keeps getting stuck in his throat. Swinging her leg over his lap, straddling him, she must feel his stomach muscles tighten as she places her hand there. The other goes up to his hair, playing with a loose curl falling across his forehead. 

“And what about you? You're no longer cross with me either?” she asks, flattening her palm on his chest.

He rasps back, “I was just irritated.” 

And yes, maybe a bit cross, but he's not interested in elaborating that further. Instead he reaches up, stroking his fingers down her cheek, over her jaw until he secures them at the back of her neck. It makes her shiver. It makes him drift into this wonderful mixture of lingering lust and something warmer. It's a glorious place. 

“I've missed you,” he breathes.

Daenerys leans closer and rubs her nose against his. “I've missed you too.” She sighs, “and as much as I hate what this means for our future, I….” She pauses, swallows hard, “I'm glad that now we're in this together.”

And together they move like they’re sharing a mind. Feeling that pull. Giving in to it, finally. When he lifts his head, she bends hers and completely in sync their lips collide in their middle. 

His hands dive into her hair and he crashes into her, devouring the heat of her open mouth and the brush of her lips, sharing her air in a way that has his heart slamming in his chest. It makes his self-control snap and he thrusts his tongue against hers. The sound Jon gives when he tastes her is pure guttural relief and it echoes through every bone in his body. 

When he pulls away, he smiles, leaving her jaw wide as she gapes at him. “I really missed you.”

That stirs her back into action, pulling at his leather with a sudden urgency. “Then I guess we should make use of the one good thing that comes from all this.”

“And what would that be?” Jon asks, helping her release him of his brigandine.

“That this,” she says, shrugging the cloth off his shoulders, whispering against his lips, “we don't have to hide here.”

He blinks at her, a hint of surprise in his eyes, before one side of his mouth pulls higher and he wraps her waist with his arm, flipping her onto her back. Then he's on her again, without hesitation. The kiss is hard, all tongue and teeth while he undoes his belt, shoving his breeches down over his hips. She fumbles with her own clothing, where he's little to no help. Too many layers. Too impatient.

Jon groans and Dany laughs, “hold on we...” She snickers again in that adorable way, flustered and breathless. “We don't have to rush.” 

She's right, they don't.

And we don't have to hide.

It's what he'd told Mance after all, his reason to be here, that he needs to be with her. They took the woman he loves, so they have to take him too. Which wasn't a lie. Because it's exactly how he feels. Without regret, in spite of his wrong assumptions, consequences be damned. And if this also means that being with her, like this, adds up to their cover, nobody will hear him complain about that. 

He lets her slip free from beneath him and takes off his boots while she strips out of her new wildling cloak.

Her hair gets tousled in the process. He wants to dishevel it some more, to bury his fingers in its strands, to stroke them off her face once her skin turns into that lovely rosy colour. Now, however, she is covered in goosebumps. Shivering, she waits for him while he has paused in his process of undressing, too lost again in his thoughts about her and them. And what they're going to do.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath at the fantasy of her marvellous body pressed up against his. His gaze drops to her nipples, erect in the cold night air. 

She's so gorgeous, he thinks.

And then he hurries to get rid of the last piece of leather, shifting the furs around them so they can slip underneath, his cloak draped over them as well. They're both still freezing, but not for long. Their body heat warms the little space they've created, spun around them like a cocoon. It dampens their skin, creating a wonderful friction as they kiss again, grinding against each other. 

When they'd last been this close, without any fabric between them, they were still at Castle Black. Judging by their eagerness now, it seems they both want to make up for the time that has elapsed since then, hands and mouths unable to stand still for just a single heartbeat. 

They pant against each other’s lips, lust clouding their minds. Jon kisses her hungrily, strokes his tongue against hers, nipping and licking. She mewls and he swallows the sound with a groan of his own. His hands map her hips, waist and then cup her bottom. But it's still not enough. He's starving for more.

And she must see it in his eyes as he leans back, that raw desire, this undeniable need. He feels nothing of the cold anymore. Instead he's burning with the same fire that flashes up in her gaze. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says hoarsely. 

Daenerys smiles back. “One day, I'm going to get bigheaded from all your compliments and sweet talk.”

He highly doubts that, still he can't help but add, “here's another compliment.” Flexing his muscles, he lets his cock twitch in her palm. “You feel that?” His voice trembles now too. “How hard you make me?” 

She giggles so he goes for her neck instead, kissing her there, then kissing his way down to her stomach. He pauses on his way to capture one of her tits inside his mouth. Feasting on as she writhes underneath him. Her legs close around his torso and she moans as he teases her nipple with his teeth and tongue. 

“Oh, gods, Jon, yes– yes!”

She doesn't try to muffle any of it and it excites him. Never has he heard her like this, so noisy. It does things to him, these sounds she makes. 

Maybe I can make her scream, he ponders as his hand moves further south.

He starts to roam her wet centre, touching her little nub. It's already pulsing and swollen. Her arousal coats his fingers. The sensation increases his urge to not only feel but also to taste her. So he pulls the furs over his head and slides down, kneeling at the end of the tent with her naked before him. Her scent is all around him.

Jon pushes her legs up and spreads them out, her lips spread apart too. His fingers tease her slit again before he flicks his tongue against her clit. She whimpers in pleasure. He doubles his efforts. She tastes delicious. Ravenous and unrelenting, he licks and sucks at her until her back arches, her whole body shaking. He crooks his fingers. 

And then she cries out, high-pitched and loud enough to make probably half the people around the fire choke on their drinks. A gush of wetness hits his tongue. He drinks it all, not a single drop wasted. 

He continues until she pushes his head away and with a silly grin on his lips, he crawls back up, hovering above her. “I bet they heard you.” 

“Good,” she says breathlessly. Her eyes are dark, pupils dilated, all emotions laid bare before him like they're pouring out from every part of her soul.

He hopes she sees the same in his own glance. That she realises what she means to him. “Dany, I…”

“Yes?” she hums, reaching between them. 

Her hand closes around him and gives him a squeeze. His eyes roll to the back of his head as a deep moan stumbles out of his mouth. Pressure builds and his own need for release bubbles to the surface. But then he freezes as she doesn't begin to stroke him like he anticipated but guides him to her dripping entrance, his head kissing her lips. 

Forgetting his wish to confess, his hand shoots between them and clings around her arm. It demands everything of him to stop her, but he must. “Don't.”

“Why not?” she purrs, her thoughts still foggy from her previous high. 

“You know why,” he hisses, throbbing against her, so he tightens his grip.

“Don't you want to?”

He sighs, “I do. But we shouldn't.”

Like so often, she doesn't understand his restraint. This is not the first time they've found themselves in this situation, even if the environment is admittedly unique. But he doesn't blame her. In the end, they do come from different places. Though to him this is the last line he swore not to cross, the last bit of his honour still intact. To protect her honour. He won't defile her in that way. Because even if he'd find a way around to get her with child, if he'd pull out before he finished, he would still take something from her that no one could ever give her back. 

And he doesn't deserve to take it. 

“We can do something else,” he suggests.

“But I don't want something else.” Daenerys lifts her other hand, weaving her fingers through his hair. “I want to feel you like this. Like your mine. Like I'm yours. Don't you want that too?”

He does. Gods, how much he wants it. Yet one thought keeps holding him back, you cannot be mine, not in this way.

Because he's a bastard and she's a damn princess.

But then she says something that drives every clear thought out of his brain. “Jon, I love you.” 

“You– what?” Grey eyes wide open, his pupils are blown to the extreme. 

The reaction makes her frown, “does that really surprise you?”

It actually does.

Mayhaps it's another thing, hard for her to believe, but in fact he is somewhat overwhelmed by her confession. She loves me? No one has ever told him these words. He has felt them, yes, in Robb's smile or Arya's embrace. But he has never heard it spoken out loud. And now Dany's the one revealing it, something he has longed for all his life.

Jorrāelagon.  

She had said it before.

She'd said it with the same expression as the one she's wearing now. Like she means it. Without her walls pulled up. With a stare so full of affection. It's this look that made him fall in love with her too. 

“Gods, Dany,” he chokes and lets go of her wrist, “I love you too, of course I do.”

“Then what is it?” She pulls her hand back as well, puts both of hers on his cheeks after he has lowered his head, forcing him to look at her again. “Just tell me.”

He doesn't want to. Never before has he detested the term this much. “It's… you're… you're a princess, alright? And I–”

“It doesn't matter,” she interrupts him.

“But it does.”

“Not to me.”

“It does to the rest of this world.”

“Then screw them all,” she snaps. A burning rage flares up in her eyes. “Their names do not define who we are, whatever they say about you or me or us. Words are wind, uncle Aemon once told me and he's right.” She leaves one hand off his face and places it on his bare chest, right above Jon's heart. 

“I know the truth. I know you. That you're a good man, that you're brave and gentle. I know you'd never hurt me. And I know that I'm yours, whether you accept it or not. So…” Daenerys exhales a long breath, “just screw them. They do not define who we are.”

For a brief moment he answers nothing, just soaks up her words and bathes in the wonderful sensation they give him. Her praise, her devotion. Warm and comforting. Encouraging in a way he'd never thought possible. It brings a smile back to his lips. Growing so wide, soon it literally splits his face in half. And so he moves closer until his mouth is right atop hers. 

“Alright,” Jon says.

“Alright?” she asks.

“Aye,” he grins, nods and then he closes the last bit of distance between them, “screw them.”

Though in contrast to these harsh words, he kisses her tenderly. Rather sweet and almost shy, but only at first. Quickly it becomes more demanding, charged, wanton and, above all, possessive.  

When she makes the offer again, he takes it without hesitation. With her legs wrapped around him, he welcomes her heat. Pushing forward. Holding her gaze. And with a sharp intake of breath he finally sinks inside her. They moan in unison. She shivers. He gasps. They’re melting together. It's like they're sharing a body. 

It's like we're sharing a soul.  

And then, in that sweet, sensual moment of bliss, the world stops in motion, time slows and everything around them comes to a standstill.

Chapter Text

The air around them is filled with their ragged breaths and whimpers, the slapping sound of naked skin against skin. Scorching hot and trembling, they're both coated in sweat but neither of them stops their pace. No intention to slow down anything.

They're relentless in their thrusting, every touch urgent and needy. It's almost like they're fighting. Like they're sparing again, facing off in Castle Black's courtyard. Though now, instead of their swords, it's their bodies that clash.

And clash, they do.

A hot shiver wracks her again, blazing a path through her belly and straight down to her toes. Pushing her closer. Heart pounding wildly, breathing erratic. Jon slams into her again and Daenerys doesn't muffle her scream. She doesn't even bother. Her mind is filled with lust and that tingling sensation is still running through her veins, buzzing from her last intense climax.

She has peaked two times already, first from his mouth and then another time with him deep inside her. The next one she wants to share with him. But it's approaching so fast. It's not within her control. 

Jon holds her gaze as he plunges into her, pressing himself forward until he can't climb any further. There's possession, with familiarity. He's growling when her heels dig into his ass, nails scoring his scalp, then his back. Yet he keeps thrusting, snapping his hips. Over and over and over again. She keens, twitching and winding her legs around his waist.

His hard, muscular body is coming down on hers, mouths moving feverishly together. It's barely a kiss anymore. Because she needs all the air she can get, drawing a sharp inhale between each cathartic moan, blending with his gulping, gasping, shuddering breaths. On and on, as his hips rear back and rock forward.

He makes a sound in his throat. “Fuck, Dany, I– I won't last.”

“I'm right behind you,” she pants.

With a fluid twist, she rolls them over and they just keep on going. Their mouths lock. Flush. So they’re trading breaths in a rush as she rides him. Greedy. Desperate. Twisting their tongues, right then left, hers conquering his and then the other way around. 

She's rasping when they finally break away, sucking down lungfuls of air. But Jon doesn't let her retreat very far. He wraps her hair around his fist, holding her steady where he needs her, raking his teeth up the side of her neck. It makes her pulse around his cock. He's grunting with every thrust now. Hot humid air pricks her overly-sensitive skin.

She feels him buck inside her, palming her ass. He yanks her hips to just the right angle. Then his lips pull up in a snarl. “Shit.”  

It tells that he's close. He's always cursing like a sailor when he is.

“Like this?” she asks. 

He nods. Then his shouted groan turns into a devastated moan, “yes, oh– oh, fuck me.” 

Another desperate sound tumbles from her mouth as well and she buries her face in his neck.

But then he throws his head back, lets loose a howl and suddenly she's lifted off of him. Her back hits the furs as he tosses her off his lap as if she weighs nothing. The only noise he emits is another guttural cry. Dany just watches him, still in a daze, incapable of looking away. 

His lips part and his chest heaves. His throat works around a silent exclamation of pleasure, travelling hot and fast up his shaft and exploding from his tip. His seed spurts out of him, spilling over his fist. 

And gods, she thinks, he looks so beautiful when he cums. 

Her big smile is unable to be held back in that moment.

So when Jon finally recovers, turning his head and catching her expression, he snorts a laugh, “that was…”

“Amazing,” she finishes the sentence, strands of sweaty hair sticking to both their foreheads.

He glances back with that silly grin on his face, the one he seems powerless to get rid of whenever they're alone and corrects her, “close.”

She chuckles.

After that, he places another kiss on her cheek. Then he makes his way towards the tent's entrance, fills a horn with water from the bucket they keep there, and drowns it with heavy gulps. He fills one for her too and hands it over before he cleans himself with a rag. Wetting another one for her, he returns and runs the damp fabric over her heated skin. He is particularly thorough between her legs and a new wave of arousal ripples through her. 

It seems they never reach the point where both of them are satiated. 

“Jon,” she says, half in warning, half in excitement, and immediately he throws the cloth somewhere behind his back. 

With one arm under his head and another wrapped around her middle, he lies down on his stomach. His mouth is so close to her breast. He only has to lean forward just the tiniest bit and her nipple is back between his lips, suckling gently. 

But it's still too tender from all his previous attention. Daenerys reaches for his curls. “Enough, for now.”

“Apologies.” Though he doesn't sound the least bit sorry, buries his nose in her flesh and makes himself comfortable. “Can’t help it,” he smiles. “Iksā sīr gevie (You are so beautiful).”

Of all the things she has tried to teach him, it’s only this that he has somehow remembered. 

“Sīr issi ao (So are you),” she replies with a grin of her own and strokes back his hair. 

It makes him lift his head, one brow raised in question. But he doesn't come to ask whatever it is on his mind as the flaps of the tent start to shift and a red head appears between them. “Oh, good, you're finally finished.” 

Ygritte's glances first to Daenerys but then her eyes quickly drift over to Jon's naked body, lingering on his exposed backside. “Well, hello there.”

He reaches for the furs and pulls them up to cover himself, where Dany just frowns. “What do you want?”

“A little sleep would have been nice, but unfortunately you two can't keep your mouths shut.” Ygritte smirks at Jon. “You can make it up to me, though.”

“No way in hell,” he grunts and averts his gaze. 

Daenerys gives her a narrow-eyed stare, hoping she’ll cower and slink away, but Ygritte never does her the favour. “What do you want now?”

“You have to get ready, we march on.” 

“Fine, anything else?”

“I could use a little help taking down my tent,” she says and lowers her voice. Even though she dismantles the thing faster than most of them. 

“I think you'll do alright on your own,” Daenerys states. “Now leave us.”

Ygritte wiggles her brows.

“Go.” She grabs the first best thing nearby, which is the horn they drank from, and throws it in the direction of the nag. “Get. Out.” 

“Alright,” Ygritte laughs while she catches the object effortlessly and drops it to her feet. “Get. Ready.”  

She finally turns around and leaves. Her barking laughter accompanies the sun as it rises behind the hills. And in these moments Dany wonders if having an older sister might be somewhat like this.

“I'm going to strangle her one day,” Jon mutters, sits up and puts on his clothes.

Sharing the sentiment, Daenerys follows his actions.

She slips into her sheepskin and her worn boots. The frozen dew cracks underneath them as she takes the first step outside. Her breath leaves some white clouds in the air. Still, she takes a deep inhale, and then another with her eyes closed, a pleased smile forming on her lips. 

They remain curved upwards as she heads off to fetch their horse whilst Jon stays behind to pack up their things. 

A few moons before, she had clung to the hilt of her sword on such walks. Now she leaves Dark Sister behind, accompanied only by the dagger strapped to her calf. For there is no reason to come heavily armed. Actually, no one pays much attention to her. Just here and there a head lifts. Some nod as they greet her. Even a few people smile wryly when they notice her pass by, but most ignore her. 

Ever since Jon had joined them, things have changed within the camp. 

With him at her side, they've created a cover neither of them could have come up with on their own. To be not spies but just a young couple, madly in love. And sometimes they really are only just that. 

Somehow, this made them trustworthy. 

It helped them in ways Daenerys would never have managed without him. 

Because once people realised that Jon and her seem to share a similar liking as them regarding their favourite pastime, the rest of them became willing to share other things as well, at night, gathered around a roaring fire, after several horns of fermented goat's milk. 

There were tales of fighting bears and shadowcats but also about a king and how he’d spent years assembling this vast plodding host. 

Stories about how he'd talked to this clan mother and that magnar. How he'd won one village with sweet promises and another with a song and a third with the edge of his sword. Mance has achieved the impossible by bringing them all together. And Daenerys has to admit that she admires him for this, wondering if she herself would ever succeed in such a challenging mission. 

Though his story is not painted in only victory and glory. Where Mance has succeeded, he has also failed. 

As the Halfhand had told her, the wildlings had gone up into the bleak and barren Frostfangs in search of some weapon, some old sorcery with which to break the Wall and he’d been right. Joramun's horn, the Horn of Winter. But apparently, they'd never found it, not for all their digging. At least that's what Ygritte had told her, looking crestfallen, sipping her ale. 

The reveal has twisted a strange knot in Dany's stomach, one that has stayed with her until the present day. Because even though this outcome means less danger for her family back at Castle Black, it means more danger for her new friends found among the Free Folk. It makes every smile feel wrong and foreign on her lips. 

It makes every shared meal taste like betrayal. 

She returns to their sleeping place with this thought still tormenting her mind and their Clydesdale in tow, a strong, grey breed, capable of carrying them both and their luggage. For this reason she has named the animal Ser Alliser, much to Jon’s and her own amusement. But today, even this jest doesn't lift her spirits. 

Jon must see it on her face as he stops tying the poles together that held up their tent. He tilts his head and watches her approach. Ghost sprawls on the ground beside him nibbling with relish on a bone that he has most likely stolen somewhere rather than hunted himself. But he too pauses and looks at her.

Daenerys shakes her head. “Don't let me spoil your breakfast.”

He takes it to heart and continues with his meal, but Jon stands up. Slowly he walks up to her. “Everything alright?”

It’s not, but she can't say it. He wouldn't understand. He wouldn't empathise with her getting attached to the enemy, feeling moody about their fate and the prospect of fighting them. He is a soldier through and through. He won't get it, she knows.

So she just shrugs. “It's our poor Ser Alliser, I feel sorry for.” She reaches out a hand and strokes the stallion's sprinkled forehead. “Every day he has to carry us. So much weight. It's just unfair.”

Jon raises his brows. Obviously he's irritated at her for talking such nonsense. But then surprisingly he grins and approaches her, “well, I think I've got a solution for that.”

She can't react fast enough, even if she'd wanted to. One moment her feet are still on the ground, the next they're high in the air, one of Jon's hands in the hollow of her knee, the other against her back. She has no choice but to cling to his shoulders. The squeak that escapes her is high-pitched and loud, “what are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” His grin widens as he leans closer. “I'm going to carry you, of course, to give our friend some rest.”

“You're mad,” she laughs, her sorrow replaced by a twinkle in her eyes.

“Oh, am I now? Maybe I am.” His whiskers tickle her skin as he nuzzles her cheek. “But mayhaps I'm just desperate to see you smile, my love.” Jon kisses her enthusiastically. “Even if that means carrying you through the whole bloody Frostfangs.”

In the end, he left the task to the horse and did so again the day after and the following ones too. 

Their lives go on like this until eventually they're about to reach the Fist of the First Men, the pointy mountain towering above the snow covered ground. Ahead of them, many have already climbed up to its peak. Daenerys and Jon are still a little further back in the column. 

Beside them, a pair of giants sway slowly atop their mammoths as they ride past them. Ghost backs off a step, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. But Daenerys just stares at them. Her eyes grow big at the sight of these creatures, more bearlike than human, and as woolly as the beasts on which they are mounted. Seated, it’s hard to say how big they are exactly. Shaggy pelts cover their bodies, thick below the waist, sparser above. 

It makes her consider if their hair feels soft or rather abrasive, if they like to let some strands slip between their fingers when they're lying with their partner, like she loves to do with Jon's raven curls. So she doesn't think as she says, “I wonder how they make love to each other.”

Behind her, Jon coughs and she knows without seeing it, that he reddens on her behalf. She also knows that his eyes linger on the giants as well, turning curious as if he's wondering just the same thing as she did. 

Ygritte only snorts. “Is this what you kneelers call it? Making love?”  

By now used to the mocking tone of the woman, Daenerys rolls her eyes. “You know how I meant it.” 

“Oh, do I?” Ygritte's gaze shifts to Jon. “So that's why you two can't get out of your tent, huh? Too wrapped up in the act of making love?”

Jon clears his throat. Even if he has also become accustomed to the frankness of the free folk, he clearly thinks this conversation is inappropriate. Though Daenerys doesn't mind. She turns in her saddle to give Ygritte a proper look. “You've been eavesdropping enough, does it sound like we're just making love to each other?” 

“No,” Ygritte says, her eyes resting on Jon as her smirk grows smug. “Not when he does that thing with his tongue.”  

The last word rolls off her lips and Jon's hands tighten around Dany’s waist. It makes Ygritte laugh again, that loud and bark-like laughter, while Dany just smiles, taking a hand off the reins and patting his arm with fondness. 

“I'm going to request a horse of my own,” he mumbles into her ear. “So I won't have to ride with you two gossips any longer.” 

She knows he won't do that, of course. That he likes it far too much to spend his whole day being pressed against her like this. To prove it, she scoots a little closer. Her bottom rubs against his groin. He lets out a low hiss. And she grins, “you do what you got to do, ñuha prūmia (my heart).”

The only answer she gets is a soft snort against her neck. 

At which she leaves him be, shifts so she won't tease him with every further roll of her hips for the rest of their journey. Like this, they continue to travel in comfortable silence. 

Until another horse appears in her line of sight, riding towards them in the opposite direction to that in which the host is marching. Harma sits atop of it, with her round face and big cheeks, looking grim as always. However, Dany does not expect any kindness. She herself has little sympathy for the woman since she learned the origin of her nickname, Dogshead.  

But she is also a captain, commanding Mance’s vanguard. 

Never before has Daenerys met a woman holding such a position and it is hard to hide how much it fascinates her. Another thing that adds to Ygritte's entertainment. Because she’s a warrior as well, a spearwife, fighting with a bow instead of a sword like Dany, but still fighting, just like most of the men around them. To think a woman is not allowed to do that seemed like a true novelty for her. 

No woman here would be denied the chance to fight in battle. In fact, they're not deprived of anything. They’re simply free. 

Though now is not the time to ponder about this. 

“What’s the matter?” Ygritte raises her voice.

Harma's face appears even darker as she's come close enough to address them. “Mance needs to speak with the crows.”

The title hardly means anything good.

“What about?” Ygritte demands to know.

Yet she only gets a sneer in return so their group has no choice but to follow the command.

Daenerys hands over the reins to Jon, since he’s the more experienced rider. He guides them up the hill at a faster pace, while a renewed pang of worry spreads through her body. And it increases quickly. Her throat goes dry as they come to witness the aftermath, the remnants of the horror that must have taken place here not more than just a few days earlier. 

Not battle but slaughter.

Outside the ringwall they dismount to squeeze through a crooked gap in the stones. Inside they find more dead horses, dismembered, their limbs separated from their bodies. The carcass of a shaggy brown garron is impaled upon the sharpened stakes the Old Bear had placed behind every entrance. Where they find more, and worse, after they've stepped through. 

“The snow is pink,” Jon gasps beside her.

Drenched. 

He doesn't hesitate but takes her hand as they walk closer together than usual. A crust of frozen blood crunching beneath their boots, Ghost right on their heels, Ygritte behind him. Again Dany wonders about her reasons for being so constantly present. To watch her or to protect her? Right now she hopes it is the latter, because it seems that she’ll need it.

The look Mance gives her is grim and cold as they finally find him surrounded by his court. Tormund is with him, Jarl too, and Harma the Dogshead; Styr and Varamyr Sixskins with his wolves and his shadowcat. They all flaunt their weapons. So Daenerys too reaches for Dark Sister's pommel. Her grip tightens as she keeps her gaze fixed on Mance Rayder. 

Until suddenly, Jon is pulled from her side. 

Styr’s knife is pressed against his throat, faster than Dany has a chance to draw her own blade. Which is a useless action and more of a reflex. They’re completely outnumbered, but still… Jon must realise the same as he makes no attempt to defend himself. With his hands raised, he makes no other move. Or maybe it's his way of showing Ghost to keep calm. 

The wolf does so. 

Daenery does not. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” she snaps at Mance. “Let him go!”

“We will, once you’ve told me the truth about this.” 

She's too upset to understand him. “What truth?”

“How many men were here?” Mance asks sharply. “For real this time.”

Her mouth goes dry as she remembers the moment they've talked about this before. Where she told him another lie. One of so many, by now she's given up counting. Yet she recalls what she'd said. When asked who she was travelling with, she told nothing about Mormont and his men. She only mentioned Qhorin and her three accompanying brothers.

"I’m losing patience, Dany Waters," the King-beyond-the-Wall says, "and what truth is plain enough. Your brothers died. The question is, how many? So you better speak quickly."

But she can’t speak at all as her eyes flit to Jon again. Her own conflict is reflected in his gaze. What should they do? What should she do? Whatever is asked, the Halfhand had said. Still, the words get stuck in her throat as she forces herself to say them, "three– three hundred."

"Good,” Mance lauds her, “a truer song than the one you sang in my tent." He looks at Harma Dogshead. "How many horses have we found?"

"More'n a hundred," that huge woman replies, "less than two. There's more dead to the east, under the snow, hard to know how many." 

“Still some have escaped.” Mance eyes return to Dany. "Who had the command here?"

She bites her tongue.

He steps closer. "Who led here?"

But instead of revealing the desired information, her fingers twitch close to her sword as a thought fills her mind. If I kill him now, it's all over. Then everything will fall apart. Mance is the one who holds everything together. Then they don't have to pick a side. Then they don't have to fight.

Just one more step, Daenerys thinks. Another foot.  

"Reach up for that sword and I'll have your man's head off before it clears the scabbard," Mance warns her. 

She halts, immediately.

"Tell him," Ygritte urges. "He's dead, whoever he was. No need to keep his secret."

But it's more than that. Despite all their pretence, they have never betrayed the Watch, not really, giving this information would change that. So she doesn't know what to do. Her gaze hurries back to Jon, still in the grips of his attacker. He appears equally lost. 

How do we play the turncloak without becoming one? Sadly, Qhorin had not told her that. 

She sighs as she makes her decision. "It was Mormont himself who led the mission."

"That old man?" Harma's tone shows that she hardly believes it. "He came himself? Then who commands Castle Black?"

"Ser Alliser Thorne," Daenerys answers at once, her voice filled with pride, even if she cannot say it with certainty. But to think her uncle and friends are protected by Ser Alliser himself gives her confidence and courage so she clings to it. Her shoulders pushed back, she stands taller as Mance studies her. 

“You know what these men are now?” He changes the subject. “To them, we're all the same, meat for their army.”

“I know,” she says quietly, holding the king's gaze, “another reason why we're here.”

Mance studies her expression, searching for the lies. But he finds none because her mask is placed back on her face. She only lets it slip for a second as Jon is released and she rushes to his side, checking for any injuries. Thankfully, he's unharmed. She swears to herself, that she'll keep it that way, that she'll be more careful in the future. 

They're still walking on dangerous ground. And she was stupid to forget that. 

“Tormund,” Mance addresses the man with his voice raised. “Climb the Wall. Take 20 good men.” His glare almost burns a hole in Dany's head as it returns to her face. “Take the bastards too. They know Castle Black's defence better than any of us.” His eyes gleam as if he's able to look right through her. “If they're useful, good. If not… throw them off the Wall. See if crows can fly.” 

It's hardly surprising that Tormund seems pleased with this announcement. “So we're finally going to war?”

Mance nods. “Hide near Castle Black. When I give the signal, hit them in the night. They’ve got a big old wall to hide behind but only guards stationed at one side.” 

“Aye, they do,” Tormund grins. “And your signal?”

“When it’s time, I’m going to light the biggest fire the North has ever seen.” Mance smirks now as well. “I'm sure you won't miss it.”

The flames dance in a wild mixture of colours, while the wood cracks and the embers blaze. But none of this is as threatening as Mance Rayder foretold. This fire is much smaller than the one announced by the King-beyond-the-Wall. It only provides warmth and light, which is all Jon needs as he moves closer to improve his vision.  

“What are you doing there?” Ygritte peers over his shoulder.

He turns away from her and grumbles, “nothing.” The thin leather cord slips anew from between his fingers and he curses under his breath, “for fuck’s sake, dammit.”

Across from him, Ryk grunts into his jug of fermented goat's milk. “Told you, should have stolen an axe for her instead.”

Jon likes the man, so he doesn't lash out but simply ignores him, and tries again to fiddle the string through the small hole he has carved into the wood for this purpose. But it escapes him once more. And frustration builds. 

He considers tossing everything straight into the fire.

It was a stupid idea to begin with. 

Yet before he can turn his thoughts into action, Ygritte snatches the material out of his hand. “Give me that.” 

With clever hands, she inserts the string and lets the necklace dangle in front of her face. “For your lady crow?”

“Yes,” Jon says and takes it back, “thanks.”

Ygritte shakes her head, “she'll hate it.”

“Leave him be,” Tormund barks as he slumps down on the log beside Ryk, his voice coming out in a mild slurring tone, “the boy’s in love, he can't help acting the fool.” Sadly, the man rarely minces his words. 

Jon feels his cheeks blush at the statement and closes his fist around the heart he carved for Dany out of a piece of weirwood he found while hunting, now made into a necklace for her to wear. That is, if she likes it. Nights on end, he has worked on it, brought it into shape, polished it. But will she appreciate the gesture? Or will she truly hate it, just like Ygritte has said? 

“Where is your woman?” Ygritte asks. 

“She went up the hill to look for Ghost,” Jon replies. 

“An excuse, she's likely getting bored of you,” Ryk snorts. But he says it with a wry smile on his lips that shows he hardly means it seriously. 

Nevertheless, Ygritte jumps right in. “So you’re making her jewellery? You should steal her like a real man if you're afraid she’s running away.”

“I'm not afraid,” Jon snaps back, unwilling to admit that some part of him is. “I just want to make her happy,” he adds. “She's a beautiful woman, she deserves beautiful things.” 

Things I can't give her. 

“Give her some beautiful babies then,” Tormund suggests with a wide smile. 

But Jon can't bring himself to share the excitement. 

How could he, when it's all just a wonderful dream, yet it will never be more? They'll never have children. He'll never marry her. He'll never wrap his cloak around her shoulders to make her his wife. They won't take another vow beneath a heart tree.

He thought he'd accepted this as given, but these days it stings. A painful stab in his heart whenever he ponders too long about it. Sleepless nights of him thinking how they could still make this work, how they could be with each other, forever.  

A fool's fantasy.

Abruptly, Jon stands up. “I'd better go and check on her.”  

He shoves the necklace inside his pocket, makes his way up the hill and finds them atop, cuddled together, after a bit of walking.

The wolf’s massive head rests on her lap, his hot breath rises in a white mist as his eyes find Jon’s in the dark. Without making a sound he stares at him. Daenerys instead, does not seem to notice his presence. She strokes through the white fur, leaning her head back and watching the stars, clearly lost in her thoughts. Jon can't help but watch her for a bit.

My beautiful girl.

“You're not good at sneaking up on people,” Dany says then, when a few heartbeats have passed. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

He smiles and shrugs before he finally approaches her. Mindful not to drive Ghost from his chosen spot of comfort, Jon takes his seat behind her, his chest against her back, one leg bent on each side of her body. “Not that I recall.”

“Well, someone should have.” 

She presses herself back against him as he buries his nose in her hair. Her sweet scent envelops him. It brings back all those memories of them wrapped around each other, of bliss and devotion and pleasure in between. 

Inside his head, a voice tells him to stop thinking about it. The same one that told him to not do it in the first place. But these days, he stops listening. 

“Is this normal?” he breathes and hears her soft chuckle when he says, “to love another this fiercely? To want another person as much as I want you?”

That night, when he'd felt it the first time, he had vowed to himself, it was only this once. But he'd been too much the fool Tormund claims him to be. Too overwhelmed by her telling him she returned his feelings. Too drunk on her sweet words, he hadn't cared about anything beyond her. Only this once. Yet it happened twice more that night, and again in the morning, when she'd woken to find him hard. And many more times thereafter. 

Now he can't imagine a world where he has to be without her. Which might be their problem.

He kisses her neck and sighs.

Daenerys utters one of her own as she says his name, “Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“We'll climb the Wall tomorrow, won't we?”

“Aye, I guess so.”

“This means we have to part with him.”

Lifting his head, Jon looks first at her, then at Ghost, who returns his gaze affectionately. It's not easy to say, but it seems that there's a hint of compassion in those red eyes. Like he can sense why this is another thing Jon's reluctant to reflect about.  

“We'll meet again at Castle Black,” he whispers. 

“If we ever make it back, that is.” A heaviness resounds in her voice, which he doesn't like, even when he knows where it comes from. 

“We will,” he tells her, “and so will Ghost.” 

Jon reaches out to stroke over the big white muzzle when all of a sudden Dany spins around and glares at him angrily. “How can you say that?!”

Stunned by the harsh reaction, both wolf and man raise their heads, exchange a glance and then stare at her in bewilderment. “What do you mean, how can I say what?” Jon frowns, which deepens as she gets up and he has no choice but to follow her further up the hill. “Dany?!”

“How can you say it like you're looking forward to it?” She's shaking, trying and failing to keep her temper in check. “How can you talk about it like it's the most natural thing to do?”

“I did not. You know that's not how I feel.” He says and moves closer. “But we knew this day would come. What else can we do?” 

Her eyes drop down to her feet. “We… we could run away? Leave everything behind. Go to Essos or somewhere–”

“You don't want that.”

“I don't want to lose you!” Her desperation shows clearly. He doesn't stop her this time. “And even if they do believe us, if they don't hang you, I don't want to return to a place where we have to hide what we are. Where nobody can know.” 

Everything in him wants to agree with her, to grab her and run away, to never look back. But it's not that simple. “What about Maester Aemon?”

“I think he'd understand.”

“What about the others? Commander Mormont? Sam, Edd, Pyp, Grenn? Even Ser Alliser.” Because Jon knows she holds a certain fondness for the knight. “What about them?”

To her they're family. 

Where she is all that I have left.

Because he'd lost everything else, really, all the others dear to him. His brothers, his little sister, his father. All of them he put aside to join the Night's Watch. Saying his words, he left his old family behind for a new one. 

Brothers he'd lost now, too. 

For her. 

Though there's a chance to get them back, if he's lucky enough.

Jon closes the distance between them and takes Dany's hand in his. “We must warn them. We can't let them face Mance's army unprepared.”

Their confrontation at the Fist made clear what's coming for them, how dangerous this host can be. They're not among friends here, however friendly some may seem towards them. Just one false move and Mance won't hesitate to strike them down like Hamar does her dogs. 

“So we'll go back and fight them?” Daenerys tears her hand back. “And then kill them if we must? Tormund, Ryk, Ygritte?” She shakes her head. “They're just trying to save their people. Like we are.”

At a loss for an argument, Jon rubs his palm over his face. “But you said it yourself, if we don't go back, then Qhorin died for nothing.” This can't be what she wants. “I wish we didn't have to choose, but we do.”

Daenerys bites her lip. “Only because some thousand years ago they built that stupid Wall and said whoever lives on this side is the enemy. How is this right?”

“Aye, but what can we do about it now?”  

Nothing. As much as Jon hates it, as much as they both do. 

It's not like they can walk back to Castle Black and tell Mormont to open the gates 'cause from now on they'll live in peace with the bloody Wildlings. “We swore an oath to protect the realm, Dany. So that's what we must do, isn't it?”

Like always when he brings up their vows, her gaze turns furious. 

“You know what,” she spits. “fuck that oath. Just fuck it. Who are we to decide who deserves to be protected?”

With this she turns her back on him and stomps back down the mountain, retaking her previous spot and leaving him behind. 

Jon remains where he stands and watches her disappear as his mind processes everything they'd just said. How he wishes they could act on it. Just ignore that they have sworn these things and instead live the life they both want. Just forget about the dangers that await them. He knows, of course, that they can't do it. Too many others depend on them. 

So he's left with their initial questions unanswered. Should they stay? Or should they go? Searching for an answer, he lifts his head and takes a long breath before he looks sideways.

There the Wall is looming high and dark like a great shadow. If he remembers the maps correctly, they must be somewhere between the Shadow Tower and Castle Black, likely closer to the former. By rights he should be up there standing sentry. He should be raising a horn to his lips to rouse the Night's Watch to arms. To shield the Seven Kingdoms, and everything Daenerys and he have sworn to defend.  

But do I still want to do that? 

Do I still want to be a brother?

He thought that he did, but now he's no longer so sure. Not when there's something else to long for, something bigger than anything before. Her. Making him choose love above all else. She gives him a way out of this struggle, with Dany he's just free and isn't that enough to live a life fulfilled? A life without war? 

A life without honour.

And the reasoning is like a damn bucket of ice water poured over his head. 

A knot tightens in Jon's chest as he realises the implications of this thought. For it sounds too familiar. Wasn't he born because of this, a rather similar attitude, one his father regretted for the rest of his life? The result of a man putting love above duty. And how much hurt it had caused their family. A pain so sharp, they'd never recovered from it. 

“I can't be like that,” he says out loud. 

This is not right.

What's right is to go back and warn their brothers. To share what they've learned. To help protect the realm, whether from the Free Folk or the other threats waiting for them. Because their vows bind them. And Jon intends to stay true to his word, just like his father had taught him. Even if it means fighting against those they call friends now. Even if it means he and Dany have to go back into hiding. 

Even if it could mean his death. 

When he climbs down the hill eventually, he finds her and Ghost in their earlier position. Both of them look up as he takes his place beside them. 

Apparently, she's calmed down too. “I'm sorry for what I said. For snapping at you.”

He presses a kiss on top of her shoulder, lingering there. “It's alright. I understand… But we have to–”

“I know,” she breathes, “I know.”

And then neither of them says anything for a while. They just sit there, curled around each other, watching the stars; countless small sparkling diamonds. Jon has one arm around Dany, the other hand scratches the thick white fur on Ghost's neck. Now and then he gets his face licked in gratitude for that. It makes his next words even harder to express.

"Ghost," he says quietly, "we go over, on the morrow." Jon pauses and waits for any reaction. His hand is nudged for him to continue. "There's no way for me to get you to the other side. We have to part. Do you understand?"

In the dark, the direwolf's red eyes look black as he nuzzles at Jon's neck, silently as ever. Daenerys joins their embrace. Ghost's wagging tail stirs up the snow. None of them show interest in detaching themselves from the others, even if they know that they have to. But Jon just holds them a bit longer. Like he's holding on to everything he'll be forced to let go of.

At least for a bit.

You have to go to Castle Black, he tells the wolf with his eyes closed, speaking through their connection. Can you find it? The way home? 

By now the wildlings call him a warg, but it's only for Daenerys to have pushed him this hard that he manages to do it. Though never with a real distance between them. Always with Ghost within reach. But that's about to change.

We will meet you there, but you have to find the way by yourself, Jon explains. I'll stay with Dany. I'll watch after her for now.

With that the direwolf twists free of Jon's grasp, his ears pricked up. And suddenly he's bounding away. Daenerys looks after him, quite puzzled, gasping, but Jon knows what has pushed him. They watch him lope through a tangle of brush, leap a deadfall, and race down the hillside, a pale streak among the trees. Until he has merged with the darkness. 

Until it's only the two of them left.

“We'll see him again,” she says.

“Aye, we will,” Jon assures her.

“So, should we go back to the others?” she asks but he hesitates. “Find some rest for the night?”

Of course, they should. They've been gone for a while and they'll need all their strength for tomorrow. But somehow he feels he has to tell her something else first, before they return to their camp. Before they start their journey back home.

He shifts so he's able to look into her eyes. “There's another thing I need to say.”

She arches her brows. “Alright? What is it?”

“I want…” he starts, taking a deep breath. “I want you to know something.” The words become quite heavy on his tongue, so he has to force them out of his mouth. “That is, if I could, if, I mean, if I were someone else, or… if we'd met differently, I–”

Seeing how nervous he is, she cups his cheek, “Jon, I told you, it doesn't matter to me.”

Still, he has to tell her. “Just let me say this, please.”

With a small nod and a smile, Dany lets him continue.

He puts his hand above hers and steadies his voice. “I want you to know that if I could, I would steal you in a heartbeat.” 

There it is.

And to his great relief, she only snickers at this particular phrasing. At which he feels his lips curl up too. Like this, he becomes brave enough to add, “if I could, I'd ask you to marry me and to never return.”

Dany stares at him, holding her breath. Her gaze turns softer but also more serious. “I want you to know something too,” she says quietly, “if you'd ask me, I'd say yes, without a second thought.”

There is no reason to doubt her. 

The truth shines in her eyes; her love for him, which proves these words. Thus every bit of self-control is needed not to throw his good intentions overboard. Because Jon wants to snatch her, to make her his, truly, once and for all. But instead, he reaches inside his pocket and pulls out the necklace. 

“I… um, I made this for you, so you… so you won't forget.” The wooden heart shimmers like her silver hair, but also the bark of the tree under which he would marry her, if only he could. “No matter what happens, I want you to know how I feel about you, Dany.” 

Very carefully she takes it, with a teary look, letting her finger brush over the smooth surface. “Jon, I– I don't know what to say.” Raising her head again, she seeks his gaze. “You made this? When?”

“While you were sleeping,” he confesses. “Do you– Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she says, beaming now at him as he emits another sigh. “Ziry iksos gevie (It's beautiful).”

“So are you,” Jon tells her as he leans down for a kiss, having already secured the necklace around her neck. 

It is resting now atop her heart. Where it belongs. Her heart beating right next to his, one thing that is unlikely to change. No matter what hard decision they have to make in their future.

He only hopes that she'll not forget this.

Chapter Text

Previously…

After Ghost parts from them, they climb the Wall and enter the Gift. Every day their group moves closer to Castle Black but despite the decision made earlier, Jon and Dany hesitate to betray their new friends and delay the flight to warn their brothers of the upcoming attack. 

But once the wildling party prepares to raid a horse breeder's home for his horses and gold, the young couple has no other choice left. Jon is ordered to execute the man to stop him from alerting the Night's Watch. He refuses to do that as does Daenerys, which leads to Ygritte killing the man instead. It makes Tormund realise that Jon and Dany are still loyal to the Watch so he tells his men to kill the two.

Right when they’re about to follow the order, they’re attacked by the direwolf Summer. The whole group is unaware that it is due to the efforts of Jon's half-brother Bran Stark, who is hidden in the village's tower. The confusion allows Jon to steal one of the horses for him and Dany to escape. 

They're almost out of sight, when Daenerys gets hit by arrows, one in the leg and two in the shoulder. They turn around to spot the archer, just in time to see Ygritte lowering her bow. 

The scent of blood is one he has smelled many times before. He has tasted it in his mouth, sensed it in the air, his own and that of others too, so he knows it's iron-like and salty, as if one bites into an old piece of metal. He'd never thought that it could also smell this sweet. 

It’s an unpleasant kind of sweetness but sweet nevertheless. And it drifts up towards him from his hands strained in it and from behind him, from all around him actually. The stench envelopes him for days.

Because he never stopped to wash off the substance.

Because Dany has lost too much of it already.

They'd made no pause; not for sleep and not for water. The effect of this decision is palpable now as Jon fights to keep his eyes open. While he tries to ignore his nagging headache and instead concentrates on the beating of the hooves, hitting the ground in a steady rhythm like war drums.

The mare is blown, but he can’t let up on her. Behind him Daenerys grows weaker with each passing second. Her breath brushes the back of his neck, while her skin is ice-cold under his touch. And he’s sure that it’s only his sheer stubbornness that keeps them both ahorse. For every bit of strength that leaves her, he clutches her twice as hard and tightens his grip on her arm.

Bound and determined that she's not going to die on him. Not after all they've been through. He can't let that happen.

During the only break he'd dared to make, he'd tried to free her from the arrows but ended up just breaking the shafts off and bandaging the wounds with scraps of his tunic. Then he'd lifted her back onto the horse. While he'd done all that, she hadn't screamed, his brave girl. 

But now it’s obvious how much the pain affects her. And how much she needs the rest that Jon has denied her. He'd thought it was necessary. Her condition requires a Maester and the Free Folk are still close on their heels. But maybe he'd been wrong.

“Hang in there, love. Don’t give up. We’re almost there,” he tells her again and again. Whenever he feels like she's drifting away.

Her reply is a soft tap against his hand. It’s the smallest sign to show that she’s still there. But only the gods know how long she'll be able to do that. And it pushes up his panic, adrenaline rushing through his body. In these moments the fear for Daenerys eclipses everything else, every need his own body calls for.  

Still, he's barely conscious when the Wall finally appears before him, rising above the trees and the morning mists. Moonlight glimmers pale against the ice while a thick fog is clouding his vision. His voice comes out in a rasp, “Dany… we– we made it.”

This time, she doesn't even respond anymore. She remains still, half draped over his back, her face resting on his shoulder, quiet as the night around them. When Jon rides past the outbuildings, no sentries challenge him. No horn is blown to signal that their brothers have returned. 

No one comes forth to bar their way. Castle Black seems as much a ruin as Greyguard, where they'd come down after climbing the Wall. Looking up, he tries to make out if sentries are walking the seven hundred feet above, but he sees no one on the huge switchback stair, scrambling up the south face of the ice. 

Where is everybody?

Just as he finishes the thought he feels Daenerys’ body slip. Exhaustion takes over and instead of keeping her upright, she pulls him with her as he has no strength left to hold her back. Together they fall off their horse and collapse on the muddy ground. No longer conscious, she doesn’t make a sound and he hardly feels the pain either as the world begins to spin. 

We've come so far.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was all just a dream and they never left in the first place. 

He sees it in his mind's eye; them kissing, then riding besides the giants. It blends with Ygritte's face, contorted in pain and anger. She snarls at them. Her mouth transforms into the muzzle of his brother's direwolf. Yet Jon can't say if any of that has truly ever happened. 

Blindly he reaches for Dany while his dizziness increases. It’s impossible to focus on anything but still he tries his best to focus on her at least. It's all he can do as he lies there, his lips pressed against her hair and waits. For help. For waking up. He clings to her body as he thinks she clung onto him for the last couple days. 

“Stay with me,” he pleads. “Stay with me, love.”

When finally someone rushes towards them, his eyes are almost closed. Those people hovering above them remain no more than some shaded contours. They are a blur of darkness. And he can't even reach out to touch them, let alone explain what to do.

Help her, Jon wants to say, but his mouth is too dry and sticky, making it difficult to speak or swallow.

Sam's figure is the last thing he sees before the world around him fades into blackness.

When his eyes flutter open, he’s wrapped in furs and his head is no longer pounding. The surface beneath him feels like a bed. Candles are burning around him, illuminating the otherwise dark room together with some well-known faces. 

“Sam?” he asks. Then another moves closer and peers over his friend's shoulder. “Pyp?” Grenn and Edd are also standing close by.

They all smile at him and Jon is equally happy to see them, but his throat is too dry to speak further. “Water,” he gasps and Sam helps him to sit up before a cup is led to his lips. “How long was I out?”

Slowly, he starts to come around as the shapes in front of him transform into actual human beings.

“About a day? Maybe a little less?” Grenn shrugs and Jon nods. 

In order to steady himself for his next pressing question, he takes a deep breath. It only helps to a limited extent. Because while his senses are sharp again, so is the fear for what they might tell him. The possibility alone lets his voice sound foreign, and yet he must know. “How– how's Dany?”

“Resting,” Sam tells without delay. And overcome with relief, Jon sinks back into the cushions. Because she's alright. She's safe. He presses his lips together and his palms against the mattress while Sam continues, “Aemon took care of her. She's sleeping now. She’s going to make it.”

She’s going to live.

Filled with gratitude, his glance also holds some unshed tears. In silent understanding, Sam squeezes his hand. Nobody is in need of further explanations. At least concerning Daenerys' physical condition.

Wavering on how to approach the subject, Pyp slides back and forth where he stands. “We heard you'd gone over to Mance Rayder,” he finally says without meeting Jon’s stare.

Words travel faster than horses it seems.  

“Who told you that?” Jon asks. He wipes at his eyes and clears his throat.

“Jarman Buckwell came back a fortnight ago. His scouts claim they saw you, riding along the wildling column.” It's Edd's choice of phrasing that shows his obvious disappointment. “What happened? You left to save her but you never returned. We thought you both were killed and then we heard that you joined them.” 

“It's not what it looks like.” And still it's hard to understand. Anyway, the words fall from his mouth as Jon tells them their story. He sounds like a madman, but they believe him regardless. Sam's expression is warm and full of sympathy once he’s finished. 

Pyp's too, who looks at him with a crooked grin on his lips. “So, she really is a girl. And she's your girl now?” He shakes his head, looking at the others in search of backing. “The only woman in the whole damn castle and you didn’t even bother at giving us a chance with her?”

“And nor will I.” There’s hardly anything that can be done about it. “I love her, and I’ll fight for her if I have to.” The smile disappears from Pyp's lips at the serious tone and returns only when Jon himself offers a chuckle. Grenn joins them and even Edd's lips curve upwards into a little smirk. 

But Sam doesn't get in on the banter. Instead, he confronts him with the bitter truth, “you know that Thorne will have your head if he finds out.” 

Accordingly, all humour vanishes. “Aye, so for her sake we have to keep this a secret.” Jon casts his eyes down and swallows hard. “My head is lost, not hers. I’m a deserter and we know how the Old Bear fares with such. But Dany can be spared.”

Everything else doesn't matter, he tries to convince himself, as long as Daenerys is safe. I brought her back. I did my duty. 

After that, depressing silence fills the room. Though once he glances back at his brothers, he senses that there's more to it. 

“Jon… it’s…” Sam begins a short second later, “Mormont, the Lord Commander… he was murdered at Craster's Keep, at the hands of his Sworn Brothers.”

His jaw drops, “Bro… our own men? Who?” 

“Karl Tanner, Garth of Oldtown… thieves, cowards and killers,” Green spits out their names. “Edd and I were there, able to escape and tell the tale, but nothing more. We couldn’t save him.”

Jon remembers the Old Bear as he'd last seen him, standing before his tent with his raven on his arm croaking for corn. Gone. He has feared it ever since he'd seen the aftermath of the battle on the Fist, yet it’s no less a blow. And one with dire consequences. Fear grips him suddenly. Because if Mance stops off at Craster's, their former brothers will tell him all he wants to know. They will tell him who's really waiting for them at Castle Black. 

Not a thousand men but a hundred, if that. 

Before he's even speaking again, he's out of bed, reaching for his boots. “Who's in charge then? Who’s the Lord Commander now? Is it still Marsh or has Ser Alliser taken over?”

As much as he hates him, Jon hopes for the latter. Thorne knows how to fight. Regarding Marsh, he's not so sure. When they’d left for the great ranging, while Thorne had been sent south, red-faced Bowen Marsh, the plump Lord Steward, had been made castellan in Lord Mormont's absence. They thought it was temporary, but…  

“So?” Jon keeps pushing, grabbing his belt and sword, but they all avoid his stare. 

Instead Grenn starts to rub his neck while Pyp inspects his fingers and Edd looks out of the window. Sam, of all people, is the only one brave enough to express how miserable the situation truly is. “Marsh held command but he left. Thorne is still here but he’s not– Most set out to defend the Wall.” 

At that Jon remembers the empty yard they'd returned to. That's why the place feels deserted. Because it actually is.

“Where did they go?"

“Like I said, defending the Wall.”

“Yes, but where?” He’s getting impatient.

“Everywhere?” Sam lifts his arms just to drop them again. “Harma Dogshead was seen at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, Rattleshirt at Long Barrow, the Weeper near Icemark. All along the Wall… they're here, they're there… but one glimpse of a black cloak and they're gone. Next day they're somewhere else.”

Aiming to hide his frustration, Jon swallows a groan. “Because that’s exactly what Mance wants us to do, to spread ourselves thin. But the gate is here. The attack is here!”

Again, they all avert their gazes, demonstrating that this is worse than he'd feared. And so he realises, as much as he cherishes their friendship, they're all no help in this. Only one person would know what to do. But she’s not here. Dany would know how to sort this out and keep a clear head. 

Yet for now Jon has to figure it out on his own. 

Leaving him with the decision on which mess he should fix first. The mutineers? The defence of the castle? Not to mention that it's still unclear whether or not he’ll be spared the noose. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he exhales a long sign. “Alright, if Marsh is gone, and Ser Alliser is not in charge, then who is named as castellan?”

Grenn's expression turns sour. “Some cunt named Slynt.”

Jon never heard the name but the title tells enough. “Well, where do I find him?”

Merely a little time in his presence and he knows Janos Slynt is really a hell of a cunt.

Sitting in the leather chair behind the table where the Old Bear wrote his letters, the man is the worst thing possible in such a situation. He’s big, jowly, and just as presumptuous as he’s ignorant. Each of Jon's warnings falls on deaf ears. “You've been charged with oathbreaking, cowardice, and desertion. Do you deny that you abandoned your brothers to die on the Fist of the First Men and joined the Wildling Mance Rayder?”

“I did not abandon anybody.” Jon almost chokes on the word as he repeats himself. “I went to help my fellow comrades in need. It was with the certainty of our return in mind.”

“And yet she returned half dead, while you, Lord Snow, are standing here, making demands.” Thorne's gaze is piercing as his blade, yet it is not the expression that makes his breath catch. It's the way the man is talking about her.  

So used to refer to her as nothing other than a woman, it still feels strange coming from someone in a black cloak. It makes him anxious. It worries him, unaware of what’s been discussed here before. No question, Thorne is loyal to Dany, but what about Slynt? 

Cautiously, Jon admits, “I did everything I could to protect her.”

“Ser,” Slynt yells immediately. “You will address Ser Alliser as ser, and myself as m’lord. I am Janos Slynt, Lord of Harrenhal, and commander here at Castle Black until Bowen Marsh returns with his garrison. You will grant us our courtesies. I will not suffer to hear an anointed knight like the good Ser Alliser mocked by a traitor's bastard.” 

Even when said knight seems annoyed by the pomposity of this braggart. But the man is unstoppable. 

“You arrived here holding the– the girl in a rather intimate embrace.” He winces slightly at her mention but continues nonetheless. A meaty finger is pointed at Jon's face. “Do you deny that you broke your vows while joining the Wildings?”

“I do,” Jons replies without blinking. 

Because he meant what he said. He did everything he could to protect her and he still intends to do so, until his last breath. Even if that makes him a liar. Even if it means to reject what he holds most dear in this world. “I left the Fist to find Qhorin Halfhand and warn him, since I saw Mance’s army through the eyes of my direwolf.”

“Through the eyes of your beast?” Ser Alliser sneers. “Do you think us daft, boy?”

“Actually, I do,” Jon spits back, then turns at Slynt. He's had enough of this farce. “My Lord. That night I saw the same army as the one marching against us now. The one that is about to reach Craster's any day, where they'll find out the truth, how easy it is to crush us. Because, despite what we've told them, we don't have the numbers to defend ourselves! We need to act before it’s too late!”

The more he'd spoken, the more Jon had raised his voice. He ends up slightly out of breath while Slynt's face is burning red. “How dare you speak to me like that, bastard!”

Gods be good, he wants to punch him so badly. 

Without doubt, if Dany were here, she’d have done so already. But she’s not, so he swallows his anger. “We need to ride north and kill them all. She told Mance we had over a thousand men at Castle Black alone. Those mutineers know the truth as much as we do. They won't keep that information to themselves once the Wildlings reach them.”

“Stupid woman,” Slynt growls. There’s such disgust in his voice as if he’d like to throw up, just thinking about her. “Should have kept her mouth shut. They should always keep their mouths shut.”

It's the first time that Ser Alliser's death stare is not directed at Jon as his flinty eyes fill with a withering rage. But he gets no chance to vent as in that second, the chamber's door opens and Maester Aemon appears, guided inside by Sam. An old skeletal hand grips the arm of his steward, a sight at once relieving and daunting all the same. 

Because the Maester, always old and frail ever since Jon has known him, looks sick now and pale as milk, as if he can barely keep on his feet, like every step is a torment. 

Without reservation, Ser Alliser hurries to his side. “You must conserve your strength.” 

“And use it when needed,” the old man replies with a trembling voice. Sweat is on his forehead. He's feverish as he's led to a chair next to the burning fireplace where he takes a seat, panting heavily. “A blanket, Samwell.” 

At once, Sam rushes off to fetch one. Jon keeps standing by the window, frozen and shocked by this another fateful discovery. 

Thorne, however, does not give up. “You shouldn't be here, you should be with her. Who's there when you're here?”

“A group of gallant young men. All swore to defend her heroically.” 

Despite his miserable health, Aemon smiles and turns his head in Jon's direction. Even blind he seems to see all there is. Maybe he always knew about Jon's feelings towards his niece. He certainly identifies his lie as such when it's told anew. But he does not blow his cover. Neither of theirs.

“The halfhand was convinced the only chance to stop Mance Rayder was to get a man inside his army so Dany did what needed to be done,” Jon explains.

Encouraging Slynt to snort, then raise his brows and address the Maester. “The bastard is the son of a traitor. You cannot believe what he says.”

“While we stand here debating, Mance marches on the Wall with his army. He has giants,” Jon barks back. “We can't waste any more time.”

And yet that is what they do. With complete indifference, Slynt leans back in his chair and rolls his eyes. Thorne remains surprisingly quiet and so it's Maester Aemon again who speaks up, saying something neither of them reckoned with. “I think we owe you our thanks, Jon Snow.” 

“I...” What? He stumbles over his reply. Thank him? “I don't understand?” 

“You both took a great risk to gather this valuable information. It almost cost her her life.” 

And there he realises that it's more about Daenerys than actually about himself. Thorne's look confirms this, shifting between approval and protest. 

Slynt, on the other hand, is obviously displeased. “I must state my objection,” he bleats. 

But Maester Aemon ignores him. With two against him, he won't offer much resistance. Presumably the reason her gender is not much of an issue, at least until now. “We have to ensure that her sacrifice wasn't in vain.” 

“It won't be,” Jon promises as a big hunk of weight lifts off his shoulders.

Giving a satisfied nod, the Maester continues, “then go and gather your men. We have to act fast.”

Which is true but still… 

This is too fast, Jon thinks.

And thus hesitates. 

Somehow he pauses even though his head knows he needs to hurry. He said so himself over the last hour. In his mind, he's long out of the door. It's in his heart, where he wants to stay. Because all of a sudden the idea of leaving, of leaving her behind, in this state, without having seen her again, is almost painful enough to make him step back from this mission. 

It's then he notices that her blood is still on his hands. The sight sharpens the urge inside him, visible on his face. And the request settles on his tongue, about to leap from his lips. He knows the cover is to show indifference, but how can he? Hoping for assistance once more, Jon asks with restraint. “May I… say goodbye?”

To his great disappointment, Maester Aemon shakes his head.

When he's finally dismissed, a deep felt sadness takes root in Jon's stomach. He walks back to his own room but feels not a shred of comfort concerning his pardon. It is too small a consolation. The distance forced between him and his love is already tearing at him. 

It might be necessary.

He knew this was coming.

But now, as he actually experiences it, it's completely unbearable. 

Lifting his head, he turns his gaze in the direction of her chamber. And like that, despite having just escaped the gallows, he realises that staying away from her is simply impossible. So without further ado, he sets out, ready to break the rules once more. 

She hovers in and out of consciousness. Reality blends with dreams and memories, without a chance to distinguish one from the other. 

The body beneath her vibrates as she cuts through the clouds. She flies. She burns. She breathes fire on her enemies. 

Viserys clings to her hand, three and ten, almost a man grown and yet trembling like a newborn, with his skin so grey and his voice so weak. “You’re the last dragon. Remember Aegon’s Dream, the Song of Ice and Fire. Remember it. Remember it.” Those are the final things she hears him say before a bald man, who smells strongly of rosewater, leads her away and her brother dies with a shuddering breath.

The night is dark and her shoulder throbs painfully but Jon’s words are sweet in her ear. “I love you, Dany. I’ll be back, ñuha jorrāelagon, and I miss you already.” He’s like a shadow that mingles with the black around her, kissing her like a ghost she cannot grasp. Sneaking away like a shifting shadow. Touching her, then gone again.

A knight kneels before her, his sword lays at her feet. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be.” She doesn’t know what to say so her uncle has to guide her. He tells her the vow and she repeats after him. Then a few days later, she swears another oath. It lets her refuse all those things she had wished for till then but she has no other choice so she tells the words and acts as required. 

One lifetime later, she steps before the heart tree again, but here she rejoices instead of despairing.

“Who comes before the Gods this night?”

“Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble.”  

The face of the tree bleeds. Floods of the red liquid flow over the white bark, over her hands, along her thighs, down her legs as she cries out in pain. The sound is drowned out by the wailing of a child. Dany laughs and weeps but then off in the distance, a wolf howls. Her world twists until all she sees is Jon’s face, emotionless, frozen in time. 

The wound in his chest is too big to be covered by her hands and so she wakes with a jolt, screaming his name. 

Ser Alliser is with her. He sits beside her bed. When she asks for Jon, he tells her he’s gone. At that she breaks out in hysterics and they have to give her Milk of the Poppy to calm her again.

Next time she comes back to her senses, she feels more like herself. 

Her leg is stiff and her shoulder feels sore but she knows this is real, that she’s back at Castle Black and that it’s her uncle's soft voice, telling her what had happened whilst she was gone. When he informs her about Mormont's death, she's unable to hold back the tears. At which Ser Alliser leaves the room because he hates to see her cry. But Aemon holds her, despite his own weakness. “Zȳhon urnēbagon emagon keliton. Ziry's rȳ nykeā sȳrkta dīnagon sir. (His Watch has ended. He's at a better place now.)”

She nods and sniffs but says no more. Deep down she hopes that Jon avenges him and brings justice to those traitors. If only she could do it herself but her healing is far from over. 

“We drowned the wounds with boiling wine. We closed you up with a poultice of nettle, mustard seed and mouldy bread, but unless you rest…”

“You need to rest too and yet here you are!” 

Ranting like this, she sounds like a miffed child and despite his poor condition, Aemon makes no fuss about what he thinks of this behaviour. The hardening of his features is enough to understand. Immediately, she regrets her tone and apologises meekly. But still, after that, they don't really speak for a few days. 

A fact which she regrets even more. Because the further she recovers, the worse his state of health seems to get.

Everyone can see that he’s sick. It’s the same trembling voice, the same damp skin, cool and clammy to the touch, as Viserys had before he... But she can’t finish the thought. Aemon dying makes her want to run away. Instead she tries to take care of him as soon as she can. Before long, it’s she who limps to his bed rather than the other way around. 

“What a pair we make,” she whispers, snuggled up to his side. 

And she knows that he’s smiling as her uncle caresses her hair. They feel better by being miserable together. Fortunately for them, Sam looks after them both.

He’s reserved, not talking much when Ser Alliser is present. But he always brings them soup and books and her precious dragon eggs. Sometimes she spends hours just cuddling them. Their heat gives her comfort and Aemon seems to feel similarly, he’s less shaky, less disturbed when he holds them. 

Still, she has to support his grip, because his fingers are like twigs now, sheathed in spotted skin. “I remember, my dear.”

“Remember what?” she asks softly.

“Dragons,” Aemon whispers, “the grief and glory of our House.” He utters a long sigh. “I see them in my dreams. I see their shadows on the snow, hear the crack of leathern wings.” As if he's talking to a stranger, he sounds so far away. But then he comes back to them and his tone gets spiteful. 

With newfound strength he clutches her wrist. “My girl, we tremble on the cusp of half-remembered prophecies, of wonders and terrors that no man now living could hope to comprehend… or…”

“Or?” She seeks his gaze even if he cannot return it. Her fingers stroke over his brows pulled together, smoothing the lines and the muscles relax.

“Or not,” Aemon chuckles, letting go of her and patting her cheek. “Or I am just an old man, feverish and dying.” 

But she feels like it’s more than that, since she'd suffered the same wondrous dream. Is that what’s in store for us? The House of the Dragon, a bunch of mad and sickly fools haunted by visions? It’s a staggering prospect, one she doesn’t dare to accept. 

“Rhaegar also dreamed of dragons, didn't he?” She brings up the subject again a few days later. By now, they no longer share the bed but her place is next to her uncle on a chair or on the floor in front of the hearth. “They called him the last dragon.”

“Meri kivio darilaros oz maghagon kostas,” Aemon replies weakly.

“Only the prince who was promised can bring the dawn,” Dany translates for Ser Alliser, who has raised his brow in question. “And you thought him to be that prince?” she asks her uncle. 

At which he nods. “Born again amidst smoke and salt, to wake dragons out of stone.”

Tragedy at Summerhall, Daenerys remembers the story including the birth of her brother. Fire and Blood. With a touch of sadness, she stares at the egg in her hands, deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that come and go depending on how she turns it. If it's true, and Rhaegar was indeed the promised prince, then their future is doomed. Then maybe it's best if Mance comes for them first. Before the Long Night swallows them. 

Sensing her streak of melancholy, Ser Alliser clears his throat and makes her look up. “Don't believe in such nonsense.” It's his twisted way of cheering her up. “Only believe in what you see with your own eyes.”

The corners of her mouth twitch as she tilts her head towards Aemon. What about him? she mouths. And just like he'd felt it, her uncle answers with dry humour. “A grim prospect for a blind man, I must say.”

Instantly, Ser Alliser realises his ill-chosen phrasing. His frown deepens. It makes Daenerys snicker, which soon intensifies, as Aemon joins her. Not before long, they are laughing out loud, enjoying themselves too much for the knight, so eventually, he leaves them. With moist eyes, Dany puts the egg away and sits down by the bed.      

“Nyke jorrāelagon naejot rȳbagon ao sōpagon,” Aemon says, reaching for her hand. “Dōrī ojughagon aōha sōpagon, issa prūmia. (I love to hear you laugh. Never lose your laughter, my heart.)”

She squeezes back and holds on to him. “Nyke jāhor daor. (I won’t.)”  

“Aōha lēkia ojūdan ziry ñuhoso tolī aderī. (Your brother lost it way too soon.)”

He must be talking about Rhaegar again. “Skorkydoso istan ziry raqagon? (What was it like?)”

“Ziry rual naenie naejot rȳbagon ziry, yn nyke ryptan ziry istin.” A soft smile forms on his lips at the memory. “Ziry istan rōvēgrie, raqagon elēni. (He didn't allow many to hear it, but I got the pleasure once. It was loud. And captivating, like music.)”

Imagining the sound, she can't help but be reminded of Jon and like always when she thinks of him, she wraps her free hand around his necklace, holding it close to her heart. 

“Jon's laughter is also like that,” she says in the common tongue. Just as rare and yet one of the most beautiful things she knows. She hopes he’ll return soon so that she can hear it again. Just the thought alone makes her happy.

And, familiar with her feelings for him, Aemon's smile softens too. “Hold on to it then. And make sure… he won't lose it either.” 

It's one of the last few and clear conversations they have. After that he sleeps a lot more, or his mind wanders to places where she can't follow. Which pains her to witness, so she visits less often. Sam keeps him company when she’s somewhere else or they do it together, sharing their grief. 

“Anything new?” she asks as she sees all the scrolls he carries, leaving Aemon’s chamber after he'd fallen into a deep, peaceful slumber. 

Sam shakes his head. “No findings. No answers.” 

“We need to send for aid,” Daenerys says then, “send a raven to Jon’s brother.”

“I’m not sure the message will reach him in time.” They stop at the end of the corridor, where in front of them in the courtyard, Ser Alliser is training with the new recruits. But Sam will hardly come with her. She knows he’d rather go back to the library. “Last I’ve heard he was still at Riverrun for his grandfather's funeral.”

“Then we need to send ravens to all southern kings.”

At that Sam grins, “southern kings, huh? You talk like a Wilding.”

“Write to them, Sam,” she tells him, ignoring the comment, before she makes her way towards the others, unsheathing her sword. “We're more than lost without them.” 

Once she's out in the open, many stop what they’re doing. It's another new thing that, whenever Daenerys joins them, they all begin to stare at her, some even go as far as licking their lips. It makes her angry. But even more, it makes her uncomfortable. With every step, she can sense their eyes gliding over her body, along her hair twisted into a thick braid, clinging to her breasts no longer bound. 

Her body has changed in the year they’ve spent beyond the Wall. Her hips are curvier, the baby fat in her face reduced. But all her feminine features, they’ve been there even before the Great Ranging. 

Maybe the gawking comes because she doesn't hide them anymore. Or they just feel more reckless without Mormont's looming presence. Whatever it is, for the first time in her life, his warnings feel justified. That's why she trains twice as hard.

Never show them your weakness. Never show that you’re scared.   

Her leg has healed in the meantime. Sometimes it twinges a little, but actually it doesn't bother her much. It's her shoulder that's giving her problems, throbbing after only a light exertion. So she changes hands more often and fights with her left instead, which Ser Alliser, of course, does not miss. His attacks are less aggressive than she's used to and she hates that even more than the unbridled glances. 

It always filled her with pride, the fact that she’s skilled enough to defeat him. Knowing he’s letting her win now makes her blood boil and so she doubles her efforts, hitting him harder.  

When they take a break for water, she’s drenched in sweat. Her lungs are burning and her skin is flushed. More stares turn her way due to this, sticking on her form, including that of their acting Lord Commander. 

Dany wipes her mouth with the back of her hand as their eyes meet, but he doesn’t rest there. He lets his own move south, leering at her from the other side of the courtyard. Her fingers itch to separate his frog-face from his neck. It's like Dark Sister glows in her palm. 

But before she can act on the impulse, Ser Alliser steps up beside her. “Put the sword down, that's enough for today.”

“Slynt is a creep,” she points out after she has secured the blade in the scabbard at her belt. “A coward and a fool.” There is no objection. “How can you trust him?” 

“Who says that I trust him?” The knight's eyes are back on their brothers, resuming their training.

Daenerys copies his stand. “You helped to make him castellan, did you not?” 

“Because he’s a fool, like you said. Not because I trust him.” 

“That makes no sense.”

“He does what he's told if it comes from the right person.” 

And perhaps this is true, Slynt is easy to manipulate. The man's as fatuous as he’s smug. Yet it doesn't seem like Ser Alliser Thorne to butter up such a simpleton when there's a way he could take the lead himself. “Wouldn't it be easier to just take the position?”

He waits a moment and delays his answer. But knowing her well enough, he's aware that she won't let go until he tells her. Thus he forces his answer out between clenched teeth, “conflict of interests.”

Which is not nearly enough to satisfy her curiosity. She raises her brows and he finally detaches his gaze from the men fighting. When his eyes meet hers, she can't help but flinch. The last time he looked at her like that, she was eight and had been caught stealing lemon cakes from the kitchen. 

“If I were your Lord Commander, Your Grace,” he hisses under his breath, “I’d have you hanged for what you did with the bastard.” 

Sometimes she should know when to stop pushing. Most of the time Dany appreciates his honesty, now is no such a moment. Consequently, they keep quiet for a bit, standing side by side without sharing anything more. 

It makes her wonder if there are days where he regrets the oath he swore to her. To this day, she doesn't know what made Mormont allow it. It could be that he knew how much it meant to Ser Alliser. Perhaps he knew how much it gnawed at his pride to be sent here, where, had the war ended differently, he'd be living in King's Landing, hailed as a hero.  

Mayhaps deep down he hopes that somewhere in the future she'll grant him that title? That she will rise, take back the throne and restore his honour? 

Dany studies his profile in search of a hint. “Mance Rayder has women commanding in his army.” It's a first approach at testing the waters.

To which Ser Alliser responds with a snort, making her next question pointless.

“You think… maybe one day… I could lead the Watch?” she asks him anyway.

His eyes move sideways to survey her figure, then he stares back ahead. “The Watch has never accepted women, much less allowed one to lead it.” He pauses while Daenerys tries to hide her disappointment. “And you need to cut your hair.” 

Clutching it protectively, her hand flies up to her braid. As if he'd cut it off himself right now and there. So obviously he doesn't want her as a queen. Maybe he's just pissed off about the fact that she ran away with Jon of all people.

Which stirs up more defiance than all leering glances and half-arsed training sessions combined. Raising her chin she turns to meet his gaze. “You know what, I think I like my hair just fine as it is.” Then, overcome with a sudden confidence, she tilts her head and grins. “And perhaps till now the Watch has been run by men only–” 

But before she's able to go on or before he can say anything back, the horn is blown above them. Looking upwards, they hold their breath, all muscles tense. 

No one moves until it’s clear that no further blast resounds. The signal is definite and her heart skips a beat as she spins around. Right in time for the first men to enter the yard.

And Jon’s right among them. 

His glance darts across the open space, searching while she stands there waiting until his eyes land on her. When they do, a swarm of butterflies takes off in her stomach. A mix of joy and excitement rushes through her at his expression. For that one beautiful moment, all her worries disappear. 

She smiles a bit shyly and he smiles back, taking in the sight of her as she does the same with him. He looks familiar, which is a relief. His raven curls are still as wild as she remembers, falling down to his shoulders, broad and strong beneath his cloak. There are abrasions on his cheeks but if anything, they make him appear even more striking. 

Neither of them dares to avert their eyes even a little. She doesn't even dare to move. 

Still, her heart begins to race with all the things she wants to do. Everything in her yearns to run up to him and throw herself into his arms. She longs for his kiss and Jon looks like he's suffering from the same desire. To make up for lost moments. But when he approaches her slowly, she remembers their audience. Reminded, that she has to hold back at all costs.

To show him still how she feels, her hand goes up to her necklace, squeezing it once. Jon’s chest rises and falls as he takes a heavy inhale, biting his bottom lip. And her voice too is thin when he finally reaches her. “You’re back.”

“Aye,” he says, appearing equally dazed. “You look… good. Are you… are you good?”

She nods, unable to speak without confessing her love. 

“Good, that’s good. That you recovered, I mean. I really miss–” he stops mid sentence, where she can't stop her chuckle.

And when he smirks back, looking so handsome and charming, she knows their behaviour is as obvious as if he'd take her right here against the stables' wall but she can't help herself. She wants to touch him so badly, her skin tingles and her pulse starts to race. She doesn’t act on it though.

Instead, beside her, Ser Alliser steps forward. “Lord Snow…” 

It gives Dany the chance to calm down a bit, rubbing her hands against her breeches. Jon's gaze remains on her face so she's the first to break eye contact as she follows Ser Alliser's vision when it wanders past Jon. And then neither of the men can say anything further. 

Again all eyes are on her.

But she couldn't care less.

It's like a volcano exploding inside her. Everything she held back she can no longer suppress as she sprints towards him. Ghost meets her in the middle of the way. She falls backwards as he jumps against her, climbing on top of her, showering her face with kisses and nudges. She can't remember the last time she had laughed so carefree. Stroking his fur and hugging him, she returns the heartfelt greeting. 

“Oh, my boy, I've missed you too.”

Wherefore Ser Alliser's next words lose all their meaning. “This is no place for wild beasts. Lock him away.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Jon replies. Everybody hears the clear amusement in his tone.

Needless to say, the wolf stays where he is. 

As much as he'd tried to prepare for it, coming back to Castle Black is still rather different than what he'd expected. 

Though it's good to be home. Despite all the hardships and all the restrictions he faces, this is his home and so is Daenerys. But it’s also a home that comes with many limitations. 

Because since his return, she has a hawk attached to her, following her every move, going as far as sleeping in a chair in front of her chamber. Not even Ghost is allowed in. He’s back to sleeping in the stables as Ser Alliser keeps up his watch all the time, every waking hour.

Even now Jon can sense his burning gaze on him, while he shares this one last drink with his friends. Unbothered, Thorne keeps an eye on them from the other side of the common hall. And slowly, Jon’s losing his patience. If he dies tonight, he’s going to haunt him, that much he knows. But it's only a small satisfaction. 

Because Mole's Town is burning and he hasn't kissed her yet. Mole's Town is burning and the last time he'd kissed her, she wasn't even conscious. Hardly any other thought despairs him this much. And that while thick tears run down Sam's cheeks, sitting beside him as Daenerys tries to calm him down with softening words.

She cares for Gilly too or cared, depending on how hopefully one interprets the situation. “Maybe she escaped?”

“Aye,” Pyp agrees. “She may have been hiding.” He shifts on the narrow bench. “I mean, I thought all of you were dead too. You went north with Mormont but no one came back for ages. But then you did.” 

“See,” Daenerys squeezes Sam's arm.

“She survived Craster,” Edd joins the conversation, placing a jug of ale in front of each of them, “she survived a White Walker. So… she might have gotten out.”

“She might have,” Sam snuffles. All of a sudden he sounds more optimistic. 

Without wanting to dampen the joy, Jon feels the need to tell him that it could be, but that he better prepare for the worst, just in case. However, when he catches Dany's gaze, it’s enough for him to keep his mouth shut. The last thing he needs now is to argue with her. Even if Ser Alliser would probably love that. Instead Jon takes his jug and twirls its contents. “Now that they passed Mole's Town, it means that we're next. Could be a few hours or less.” 

Nobody dares to object. 

“Well, whoever dies last, be good,” Edd raises his cup, “and burn the rest of us. Once I’m done with this world, I don’t want to come back.”

They drink to that in silent agreement. And remain quiet afterwards. So it's not long before Jon is back to his brooding again, until he feels her leg under the table, pressing against his. A surge of warmth shoots through him as he lifts his head and looks at her, finding her gaze already resting on him. 

His hand curls into a fist as he fights to hold back and restraints himself from reaching out.

“So, what are you two still doing here?” Grenn interrupts their… whatever it is.

Dany sighs at the question and averts her eyes as Jon does the same. “Drinking with you lot it seems,” he replies gruffly.

Apparently grateful for the change of subject, Pyp joins in, lowers his voice and leans over the table. “You're tired of him already?” His head nods in Jon’s direction. 

In response, Daenerys bites her lip, letting them all fidget a little, before she negates. “Never,” she whispers, making Jon’s heart leap in his chest. “I'm just punished with a guard who insists I follow the rules… whether I like it or not.” Afterwards she takes a big gulp of her ale. 

And Grenn frowns. “But why?”

“Because we took that bloody oath,” Jon scolds him.

“No, I mean–” their friend shakes his head, “I mean, why is he guarding you? It’s not like you’re highborn or something. What does he care about the fate of a bastard girl from the Crownlands?”  

Subsequently, Jon stiffens beside her. But Daenerys just shrugs. “I grew up here. And I’m a weak little woman,” she smirks, “we girls need a strong man to protect us, you know?”

Each of them laughs about it, some more honestly than others. 

But neither can say more in return, when suddenly a commotion at the other end of the hall catches their attention. It seems that a group of men have gotten into a fight. Voices get louder as their words get heated. Jon recognises Hobb among them. Normally, the cook is a peaceful fellow, but in times like these, even the friendliest of tempers seem decidedly irritable. 

Not long after, the first punch is thrown and a carafe of ale comes flying towards them. 

Ser Alliser's dark voice roars across the room, “stop this nonsense, you fools!”

But nobody cares about his instructions. Instead, more and more brothers dash into the chaos, Edd and Grenn too. Just as Dany makes an effort to join them, Jon holds her back. For something else has happened. No one's watching them now. Except Sam, standing next to them with a soft smile. 

It's their opportunity.

“Go,” he mouths at them, and neither needs to be told twice. 

They run outside, hand in hand, adrenaline coursing through their veins. To their luck, the courtyard is empty. After preparing everything for the upcoming attack, most men gathered in the hall or disappeared to their chambers. But that’s a place too obvious for them to go to. Jon's eyes dart from right to left, feverishly considering another plan. 

“Where to?” she asks but there’s no time to decide. 

Going anywhere will take them too long. Already they can hear the hasty sound of footsteps following them. Hence, if they don't want this to end here, they have to hide and they have to do it quickly.

His fingers dig into her wrist as he drags her into the cleft between the next two buildings. With haste, he pushes her backwards and shields her body with his. Just in time for the door of the hall to burst open and for Ser Alliser to storm out. Both of them hold their breaths as Dany peeks over Jon's shoulder. Standing on her tiptoes with his hand on her waist, she tells him in a whisper what happens that he can't see, “he's going up the stairs to our quarters.”

So he hasn't seen them yet. Jon's determined to keep it that way.

But then, he postpones his next move. 

When she leans back, he becomes aware of their proximity and pauses. With her hand resting on his chest, she must feel the increasing pace of his heartbeat. Like he can feel the way she trembles. He can count her long lashes, kissing her cheeks as she blinks. And he can finally touch her like he's imagined doing ever since the day he was forced to leave her. 

Never again.

His hand grabs the back of her neck and her back hits the wall as his lips crash against hers. For a second, her eyes find his, heavy-lidded but open until they fall shut. Then they pull closer at once, tasting the previous ale on each other's tongue. 

“Gods, I’ve missed you.” His teeth nip at her bottom lip, voice low and strained. “I feared I'd lose my mind over it.”

But intense and long-awaited as it is, the kiss does not satiate them, it only soars their rampant desire. He can feel her ragged breath on his skin. And when he opens his eyes and lowers his gaze, he finds her smiling, “if there's nowhere else to go, I'll have you right here, just so you know.”

He grins back, shaking his head. “There is a place,” he tells her, “come on, let’s go.”

The Lord Commander's Tower has been a shell since the night where they'd saved the Old Bear from the dead man. Fingers of soot streak the stone walls where the smoke had boiled from the windows. Mormont had moved to the King's Tower after the fire. That's why his previous chambers now lie abandoned, and to their advantage, Jon still knows the hiding spot of the key. 

Fetching it from beneath one of the broken tiles of the leaning roof, he hastily puts it into the lock, expecting that they will be discovered any second. But the door opens without anyone noticing. 

Just as it shuts behind them, they're on each other again, and this time without inhibition. 

Their mouths meld and their bodies press together as if they can't get close enough. Incoherent pleas and moans are slipping from her lips. “I need you, Jon. Gods, I need you so badly.”

Hands travel along arms and shoulders, tearing at cords and fabric. As she leans in, he keeps her there, while his entire body feels like it's filled with frantic, untamed energy. The urgency of her makes him grow even harder as he wraps his arms around her. 

“Let me make you feel good, Dany,” he murmurs affectionately, pulling back only as much as necessary to speak. “Let me taste you. Let me fill you.” 

He gasps as she whimpers against his lips while he guides her backwards until they reach the table by the window. It's no longer in the best condition but she's such a lightweight, it will do. The glass is dirty, opaque from dust and soot. Nobody can see them so he doesn't hesitate but sweeps the various small items to the floor, and lifts her up to sit her down on the wood. 

Their lips stay locked all the time. Even when he starts to fumble with her clothes. Even when she frees him from his leather doublet and pulls his tunic out of his own trousers to release him of that too. But when her boots come next, they break apart for a moment. Jon lets her do it. He lets her slip out of her breeches and small clothes as well before she hops back on the table. It gives him a moment to collect himself.

But then she seeks his gaze and when those violet eyes beam at him, his breath hitches. It's hard to accept he's not dreaming any of this. Because she's so damn gorgeous and he's such a lucky bastard to call her his… against all odds. To be with her in this way. Seeing this side of her, debauched and flushed already, with her plump lips pink and swollen. Her silver hair is a mess on her head.

Cupping her cheek, he strokes back some strands. “I love you, Daenerys.” It feels so good to call her by her full name again.

And there it hits him with full force how much he'd really missed her. How much of his heart she owns. How overwhelmed with relief he is to be with her again like this. Something he thought he could give up, but at this moment he knows it's impossible. Nothing around them can even reach his senses anymore. There's only her. There's no room for anything else. 

“Come here,” she demands, hushed and breathless, and he obeys straight away.

He kicks her legs apart and slides his hand up her naked thigh before he reaches her centre. She's wet and his cock gives a hard throb at the realisation. His fingers stroke between her legs almost idly but still Dany begins to tremble. He hovers over her, kissing her deeply just one last time, before he begins to move his lips down her body. 

Without taking his eyes off her, he reaches for the chair behind him and sits down, spreading her legs like she's a feast for him, one he's about to devour. Which he does. His tongue explores her, getting reacquainted with her taste until he goes for her clit and sucks hard. She keens. One of her hands goes down to hold his face there, fisting his hair. The other shoots up to her mouth to muffle her screams. 

Another pity, because he'd loved to hear her cries. 

Nothing sounds sweeter.

His fingers skim over her folds and soak in her arousal as he laps at her. And knowing where he's going, she spreads her legs wider. A sense of pride flares up inside him, to see how much she trusts him, submitting so easily. Slowly, he fits a finger inside her, then another, and another.

As he listens to the way Dany's sex squeezes him, he can't help imagining it's his cock that's giving her the pleasure. He's painfully hard now. But just when he's about to stop, get up and release himself from his own cage, ready to push inside her, she tenses up, showing that she's close. So instead of leaving her, Jon crooks his fingers. He licks her vigorously as her thighs start to shake. 

When her orgasm overcomes her, he smiles and continues to suck her until it's getting too much, slowing gradually and easing her down. Afterwards, he stands up again and kisses her tenderly. 

She grins at him from ear to ear, “I almost forgot about the things you can do with your tongue.”

“Liar,” he breathes a laugh that slips over her collarbone. “I bet you’ve thought about it, every time you touched yourself while I was gone.”

It makes her snicker, as she shakes her head, “my, what happened to that boy who blushed just from the mere thought of kissing me?”

Jon can't help but smirk back, “he's not a boy anymore.”

He detaches himself and their eyes lock in a long, intense stare, throwing them back in time. Where he can see himself, green and angry and nervous around her. And she, disguised and inscrutable, still stealing his heart. Of course, he never had a chance to escape her. He never had a chance to not fall completely head over heels in love with her. 

Because she's everything, right from the beginning she’s been his strength and his weakness.

He bends down to kiss her again and to secure his arms around her, pulling her against him. Caressing her tongue, once, twice, three times, before Dany joins him, brushing his tentatively, still dazed from her high. But he doesn't mind. He holds her, leads her, until he's sitting back in the chair and she straddles his lap. 

The rest of the world fades away in that moment of pure connection. A moment where no words are necessary to express how they feel. Their kiss is enough to tell. So deep and intense that they can almost taste each other's love. Savouring the moment before finally they have to break away, catching their breaths.

Jon groans when her hand wanders downwards to squeeze the bulge between his thighs. More blood rushes to his cock as she begins to stroke him and her hips start to move. So he lets go of her, long enough to pull his pants down. He wants to be inside her when she rides him. Fortunately, she doesn't keep him waiting, once he's freed.

As her tight heat envelopes him, he tilts his head back, chest heaving. “Seven hells, fuck.”

It's been a while, so it's a bit overwhelming. 

And for a few heartbeats, she lets him drown in that feeling, but not for much longer. Because she's eager again. When Jon looks back into her eyes, he finds there that typical fire burning for him, like he's burning for her. Leaning forward, he holds the back of her head to keep her mouth next to his. And absorbs her cries when she lifts her hips before he slides back into her, stretching her slowly.

Her nails sink into his arms. When she bends her back, she pushes their stomachs together. Her muscles flex as her clit rubs against him. “My Gods,” she gasps.

“Oh, fuck,” he replies as his head falls to her shoulder, “shit, I missed this. Seven, I missed to feel you like this… To love you like this again… so fucking much.”

Pressing a kiss against her collarbone, then up her neck, Jon licks and nips at her skin until their mouths are crushed together. It's another desperate thrashing of tongues and lips. Her hips swirl and come down, and he meets her halfway. He's driven by the feeling of his cock pounding into her and the stifled sounds she makes as she takes it all.

The bottom of his spine twists and he groans, knowing that the end is near. But when he forces his eyes to open again, there's suddenly another arch, now piercing his chest. It’s a memory of the last time he held her so desperately. His arms wrapped around her on the dirty ground of the courtyard. It’s a memory of the last time he’d thought he’d failed to protect her. Waking up from a dream, scared and trembling, lying between their brothers at the Fist of the First Men. 

Too many times he's feared he'd lost her and tonight might be the moment when he'll lose her for real. 

Just at the hint of the thought, a world without her, he tightens his grip around her. Which she notices and stops, “Jon… what's… what's wrong?”

Daenerys has her arms around his neck. His left hand rests on her lower back while the other holds her shoulder. His fingers can feel the newly formed scar tissue and his throat goes dry. “Does it still hurt you? Has it healed?” 

“It just stings now and then, but nothing to worry about.” She removes her hands and pulls them forward to frame his face.  “I'm here now, alright?” Taking his hand from her shoulder, she guides it to her heart. He can feel its beating, the steady rhythm and his necklace dangling beside it. “I'm here, my love.”

And he knows she's right, but it's still not enough. 

“I…” he begins, but halts. Because how can he say it, how can he express it? It hits him like a ton of bricks, his mind racing to process it. All his previous actions, he comes to understand them, fully understanding them now. Love is the death of duty, Maester Aemon once told him, but what's duty compared to a woman's love?  

And it's true. It’s nothing in comparison. 

Jon takes a deep breath as he tries to steady himself, as he grapples with the implications of it. I love her more than life itself.

And it's the reason they had to renounce this. It's the reason they had to swear off marriage and family and everything they wish to have with each other. Because if he'd been forced to choose between the Watch and her… 

“I… I want you more than I want my next breath, Dany,” he whispers, scared to say it louder than that. 

And looking at him with eyes dark with lust, her mouth curves in a reverent smile. “Then it's good that you don't have to choose. You'll have me, ñuha jorrāelagon. I’m not going anywhere.”  

“How can you be so sure?” His voice quivers as tears fill his eyes.

She comes closer and kisses them away. “I love you, Jon. I'll always love you. I'll always be here, don’t worry.” 

And he wants to, he hopelessly wants to believe her. Then she's kissing him again, with her mouth rough and raw and starving. She starts to move her hips too, slowly at first, but picking up speed rather quickly as she rolls them against him. Despite his troubled mind, Jon's cock twitches inside of her and a moan escapes his lips.

“I'm right here, my love,” she repeats and it finally pulls him out of his gloom. 

He thrusts into her and goes deeper this time as she places her hands on his stomach, lifting herself up and down. The bolt of pleasure crashes into him, and so he grabs onto her hips harder, every rock is the perfect rhythm. They’re grinding against each other. Going faster, his every movement brings the base of his cock into hot, damp, desperate contact with her clit. Her inner walls begin to milk him and he groans. “Fuck, Dany, I–”

“Yes, gods, yes,” she chokes, “don't stop, don't leave. Stay, Jon, stay with me, please.”

“I will,” he swears, pushing her thighs open as he thrust, thrust, thrust. He listens to her cries of his name, treasuring the husky awe of them in his ears. “I will never leave you. Never.”

He can't think beyond that. Her body goes still, before quaking violently. And clenching so hard around him, she pulls him right along with her.

It's mesmerising, staggering. 

It's too much pleasure. 

It's too much relief. 

Love and doubt and loss seem to pour out of him with his seed, at once euphoric and excruciatingly intense as he can't hold back. He's frozen, every muscle, every fibre trembling with sensation. He sobs as he cums and cums endlessly, while Daenerys shivers through her own release on top of him.

He never came this hard before. And he never came inside her before. Still he doesn't pull back but holds her as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. Jon brushes back her hair and kisses the crown of it. Until the last possible second they remain like this, with his arms around her and her lips above his heart. 

When the horn of the Night's Watch echoes across the castle, he closes his eyes and tightens his grip. He waits until it sounds anew. Without saying a word they both know that they're time's up. 

Mance's army is finally here.

Chapter Text

The freezing wind mourns and shrieks as it sweeps around their ears. It bites sharply but nobody dares to complain about that. They all rush from one place to another, running and sliding on the ice, seven-hundred feet high above the ground. The torches flicker beside their heads, a sparse light, but nobody cares about that either. 

“The last one,” Jon rasps as he straightens up.

Sweat is on his forehead and on hers too as they set down the barrel of oil in front of the catapult. Strands of silver hair are sticking to her skin. Dany pushes them off with the back of her hand. A shaky breath escapes her before she exhales another one, closing her eyes and opening them again. Then she steps forward onto the nearest plateau, while her gaze falls back onto the burning forest.  

The biggest fire the North has ever seen.  

That's what Mance had called it and he did not exaggerate. Every single tree is set ablaze as far as the eye can see. Yellow tongues twine and coil, black smoke rises up to blend with the stars in the night sky. 

As if he can taste the ash on his lips, Ser Alliser frowns beside her. “A hundred thousand, you say?”

She knows he's referring to their numbers, so she confirms, “aye, one hundred thousand, more or less.” 

Guided by instinct, she reaches for the hilt of her sword and feels the cold steel soothing her taut nerves before she tightens her grip around it. Restless fingers brush over the sparkling rubies with her jaw clenched. Jon bears a similar expression once he joins her side.

His dark curls whip around his ears. If he's cold in his thin leather doublet, he hides it well. Or maybe he feels like her, heated from the adrenaline coursing through their bodies. Neither of them bothered to grab a cloak when they’d heard the signal. Hastily, they'd slipped into their few clothes before rushing to their chambers to fetch their weapons. After that, they went straight for the lift, out of breath, nervous, even though they knew what to expect. 

But that's the thing that makes it so difficult. It’s worse for them because they know what's coming rather than merely assuming. They've seen it. The impending danger. Lurking in the darkness like a beast ready to attack.

It's the uncertainty of when that makes her this fidgety. Especially since the answer is so close within reach. 

Though for now, despite the fire, the forest doesn't move. And the longer they remain there waiting, staring into the distance, the more time there is for anticipation to unfold. Until the point where Dany barely dares to blink anymore. Her eyes are focused on that first line of trees while every second she expects an opponent to show up. 

Her pulse is racing. She can hear the pounding of her heart and her own sharp breathing.

She can hear Jon's too. 

His hands are balled into fists at each side of his body and when he speaks, his voice sounds strained. “I think… we're on our own tonight.”

“Sam wrote to all of them,” she replies quickly. Maybe one will show up, remains left unsaid.

Ser Alliser clicks his tongue anyway as Jon gives another sceptical snort, “how many are there now? Kings, I mean.”

“Still five, I think,” Daenerys explains. “Joffrey's little brother has the throne now. Then there’s Stannis and Balon Greyjoy, both calling themselves kings… even though the latter joined forces with the Starks.” 

“That makes four.”

“And there’s your number five, Lord Snow,” Ser Alliser sneers, craning his chin towards the fire before he roars his command, “archers… nock your arrows!”

The men, standing around her, do as they’re told with their nerves on edge while Dany’s gaze is back on the forest. 

Slowly, one after another, the enemy comes into view. They're small black dots on the snow-covered ground with their glowing torches casting long shadows on the battlefield. She just stares at them, spellbound. They're too many to count. There are no banners, no drums or anything alike. In front of her is just a raging mob determined to kill her, but that alone sends a heavy shiver running down her spine.

And her tension increases when she hears the familiar sound of another horn being blown. They all pivot, facing towards their brother, a few steps away, hands closed around the mouthpiece. But he shakes his head. “Wasn't me,” he shouts, “came from below!”

For Jon and Daenerys, it only takes the exchange of a brief glance to realise what's going on. Just as Janos Slynt runs up to them and yells at Thorne, “they’re attacking the southern gate!” 

All of a sudden, Mance's plan hits them with full force. She can see it in Jon's eyes and the consequence he'll certainly not accept without coaxing. 

While they stare at each other, Ser Alliser comes to the same conclusion. His tongue kisses his teeth as he ponders. Downwards, Dany spots one of the giants riding into the open on his mammoth, innumerable members of the Free Folk charging towards the Wall beside it. Meanwhile the men of the Night's Watch wait for further instructions. They're looking at their Master-at-arms as if he's the one most capable to give them, but instead of giving them, he looks at her.  

“You're needed down below,” Daenerys says firmly. 

Ser Alliser nods, “and you're coming with me.” 

It sounds more like a command than a suggestion, but since there's no time to argue, she bows her head and agrees. In silent understanding they know that their fates are bound. Yet going with him indicates she has to part from another. 

As he turns to Slynt to hand over the command on the Wall, Dany turns to Jon just as he takes his sword from its sheath. She stops him, steps closer and speaks in a hushed voice, “you must stay here.” 

“Without you?!” 

“You have to.”

He shakes his head. “Definitely not.” 

“Yes. They need you,” she continues, rushed and quietly, “he's a fool.” She peers sideways. “He won't know what to do.”

“As if he'll listen to me,” Jon hisses.

“I’m sure, you’ll find a way.” And then she hugs him fiercely, because she knows it's goodbye, at least for now. 

Though it takes a few seconds, before he returns her touch. “I don’t want to part from you.” The words are emphasised by the strength of his embrace, muscular arms wrapped around her tightly. 

Her face is pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her cheek, as she murmurs, “I know, me neither.” Then she pushes away, because she has to or she won't go at all. “But Ghost is with me. And you're needed up here,” she adds in a whisper. 

A sense of sadness fills the air as they look at each other. If they were alone she would kiss him but instead, they just hold on for a moment longer, taking in every feature, every tiny little detail. 

“Avy jorrāelan (I love you),” Jon says since nobody close by can translate it but her, “be careful, Dany.”

“You too,” she replies, giving his hand a last squeeze. Then she turns on her heels, walking away with his eyes on her back until the last possible second. 

He watches her until she's gone. 

She was right, of course. As soon as they disappear inside the lift, Slynt starts to mutter under his breath, insults and complaints but no commands. And none follow as he wastes more and more precious time with his cowardly manners. So Jon pushes his feelings aside, ignores his worries for her, for all of them, and does what Dany has asked him to do. 

In fact, she's not the only one who sees him fit for the task. 

There is hope in Grenn's eyes, and also in Edd's and in all of their brothers', after Slynt leaves them, lured down by Grenn's lie that he's needed somewhere else. It still looks bad though, with or without him. But Jon tries his best. He gives the instructions. He leads them. An arrow the size of a horse shoots past his head, fired by none other than the king of the giants, Mag the Mighty himself, but still Jon keeps going.

He tries not to think about Daenerys and how she fares down below. He tries to only think about how to stop the Free Folk from breaching the bloody gate, yelling for the men to kill the damn mammoth with the oil barrels. Shortly after, the giant who led it dies with an arrow through the heart. 

But Mag is still left, determined to get past the barrier even if he has to tear the bars apart with his hands. So Jon tells Grenn to hold the inner gate and sends him into the tunnel with five more men. Maybe he sends them straight to his death. But he tries not to think about that either. He tries to hold the Wall, come what may, at any cost. 

Then Sam arrives by his side. He stutters and shakes as he reports about what happened; the courtyard is overrun and so she's back on his mind.

Jon can't help it.

He cannot ignore it. 

Without another second's hesitation, he gives Edd the Wall and heads towards the lift. 

There’s chaos around her, dying men, screaming and bleeding. She can’t think any longer. She can only react. 

First, Ghost had been with her. Her loyal companion had been protecting her back but somehow they’d been forced apart. Just like Ser Alliser, who’d been pushed away from her side, now fighting at the other end of the courtyard. She's on her own. Tightly, Dany holds her sword as she charges against the next opponent. 

At this point, they're all faceless, easily replaceable, one just as threatening as the other. She'd thought she was prepared for it, but she certainly is not. And her shoulder can't stand up to the assault. It stings badly. She has to switch hands more often as her heavy groans mix with the sound of clanging metal that echoes through the night.

Unfortunately, there is no let-up in sight. 

She spots another Wilding coming closer and rushes towards him, Valyrian Steel slices through the air with precision. He raises his weapon to block her attack, but she's too fast – her blade meets him with a loud clash. She pushes forward, determined to take him down. Which she does.

Yet more enemies appear, climbing over the gate. Their spears and swords glint in the moonlight as she hears a deep, manly burr of a well-known voice speaking to her, “well, well, little crow girl, you've come a long way.”

She utters a sigh. 

Twirling Dark Sister in her hand, she tightens her grip around the hilt and shifts in her stand to face Tormund. He grins at her. Though this time the expression is more deadly than friendly and it makes her shudder. A hint of fear overcomes her and for the first time she regrets her decision to part from Jon. 

But even so, she dashes forward. 

He clenches his fists and unclenches them, gnawing on his cheek, before he finally draws his sword and readies himself for the battle. Impatiently, he waits for the courtyard to appear in his field of vision. He's anxious. He’s worried sick to his stomach. Not about his own fate. It's Daenerys he's afraid for, now that the situation allows him to think about her longer than just a second. 

“You saw her, right?” he asks again, “before you came upwards?”

“Yes,” Sam assures him once more, “she was fighting near the rookery, holding her own very well. Of course, she does. You have nothing to–”

But Jon doesn’t wait for Sam to finish the sentence. As soon as he’s sure that they’re low enough, he opens the cage, pushes the bars aside and jumps out of the lift. 

He's big where she's small, but he's also slow, where she's faster. 

Constantly on the move, she ducks and weaves to avoid Tormund’s attacks. Her movements are fine and calculated where he fights like a butcher. And so the longer it goes, this exhausting dance they find themselves in, the more frustrated he becomes with his inability to land a blow. 

He growls like those bears he’s so fond of, his sword raised high, when he tries to hit her hard but again Dany dodges to the side. As soon as she’s back to a firm footing, she retaliates with a quick swipe of her own sword. But Tormund blocks it as well. 

His strength is evident in the force of the impact. Every time it spirals through her whole arm as the steel clashes against steel. Though now, weary as she is, she can't help but wince, her face betrays the pain. 

Blue eyes go wide as he sees it, her weak spot. 

Then he takes advantage. 

His senses are heightened – every sound, every movement, is amplified as he strikes down one man after another. It’s like an invisible force that's driving him on. It refuses to let him slow down. It pushes him closer to her, while her silver braid never disappears completely from his peripheral vision.  

Hold on, he thinks, hold on a bit longer.

His emotions are a mix of relief, fear, and determination. Relief to see her still standing, tired out but still fighting and unharmed apparently. Fear, since he can see how she exerts herself. The familiar stubbornness is evident, but so is the intent to kill in Tormund's gaze. It lets Jon fight harder. His muscles ache, but he keeps fighting, fueled by his determination.

He'll reach her. 

He'll help her.

She'll lose this, there’s no doubt about it. Sooner or later, but at some point she'll lose.

The pain radiates through her body like that searing fire at the other side of the Wall. It consumes everything in its path as she struggles for air. A gut-wrenching sensation expands from her shoulder. Her vision blurs, while her body wants to convulse in response. 

She tries to suppress the impulse. 

She tries to keep up against Tormund. 

But by now she's only desperately trying to ward off his strikes. 

Then she slips. 

As her head hits the stony ground, his heart stops beating. 

Not for long, only the blink of an eye, but enough to reflect what’s happening. His greatest fear comes true in front of him. 

And Jon turns cold. 

Hasting, he searches for the quickest way to get to her as he sees Tormund raising his arm, lunging for the final blow. But everywhere he looks the way is jammed by battling brothers. Panic seizes him and grows and grows. 

No, please. No.  

“Dany!!”

He cries her name, as a last ditch attempt to get their attention. But in all the chaos, the sound doesn't carry far enough to reach them. Though it does reach another. Someone whose blade Jon has felt before pressed against his throat. He'll never forget that smell of rotten flesh that had clung to Styr's breath but shakes off the memory.

With his pulse hammering in his veins, he looks back to Daenerys. Tormund hasn’t made his move yet and she’s half sitting now, Dark Sister is still in her hand. She scoots back as Tormund towers above her. It's a matter of time before he’s fed up with the game. 

But whenever that is, Jon won't be able to be there. The distance is too great. The hurdles impossible to overcome.  

Feverishly, his eyes fly over the courtyard, but this time to find someone else, because if he won’t get to her, another must do it. When he spots him, he sends a quick plea through their bond. Save her. While Styr rushes towards him. No second later, Longclaw collides with his axe.

For whatever reason, Tormund hesitates.  Maybe he feels some kind of remorse or it's just the desire to savour his victory, she cannot say. But she knows that if he really wanted to, he could have struck her down already. Just one well-aimed blow and that's it. But instead, he waits. And studies her. He hovers above her and stares at her with his blue eyes drilling through her skull.

Then his reluctance is his undoing.

Sensing him before she sees him, Dany rolls to the side quickly, as a flash of white fur leaps over her, sending Tormund crashing to the ground. The Wildling screams but Ghost holds him at bay. And so, she's finally able to wrestle her way back to her feet. Though it hardly gives her any advantage. Around her the world keeps spinning and even after taking several deep breaths it doesn't stop. 

Every figure appears in double before her while she scans the courtyard, leaning against the nearest wall. Blinking, she tries to focus, while more Wildlings swarm the castle, wielding their old rusty swords. Screaming in the Old Tongue, they storm the barricades. A dozen black brothers have remained atop the crates and barrels, blocking the entrance to their quarters, but the Wildlings are pushing them back brutally. 

One shoves his spear up through Rast's belly so hard he lifts him into the air. Young Henly is dead too and Old Henly is dying beside him. Easy is spinning and slashing, laughing like a loon. A bronze axe catches him just below the knee and the laughter turns into a bubbling shriek.

At that, something breaks inside her. 

Something that has foolishly believed that they could somehow win this madness. The sight before her proves her wrong. All these men, some she has known since she was a little girl, being slaughtered like this, creates a numbness that prevents her from moving. 

But it has no chance to grow. Because it's then that she spots him. 

“Jon.” His name falls from her lips. “Jon!” she cries louder. 

Relief overcomes her to see him fighting this close but it's a short-lived sensation. Another strangled cry leaves her as she watches how Styr takes his head and slams it down on the anvil placed in front of the forge, before throwing him inside the building. It doesn't look good. She screams anew, his name again and something more desperate, which might be a word or just a sound reflecting her fear for his life.

Longclaw lies abandoned in a dirty puddle two steps away from her and despite her terrible condition, she fixes it with her eyes and sets a foot towards its direction. Because she has to help him, even if it's the last thing she does. Ignoring the protest of her arm, she lifts Dark Sister, ready to surge forward. Ignorant of the black spots forming in front of her eyes. 

She makes one step towards her designation but then she's pushed back. Strong hands shove her backwards until she's standing beneath the rookery's porch, pressed against the wood. Ser Alliser is blocking her view. His hand clutches her good shoulder. There are specks of blood on his skin and a wild look on his face.

Nothing makes sense until he speaks.

“Go inside,” he pants and fumbles with a cord hanging around his neck. “Go hide. Now!”

“What?” she rasps. “No.” 

There’s no strength left in her voice and still she tries to escape his grip. Squirming and squinting to check on Jon, she tries to catch a glimpse of him but it's impossible while he's still inside the forge.  

“I have to get him. I have to help him!” she demands.

“You are no help to anybody.” Ser Alliser puts a key in her hand. “If you stay, you die, so go.”

His words hurt even though she understands that he’s right. But this is not a decision of the mind but the heart, “I can't… Please, don't make me.”

“Stop it,” he counters. “You fought bravely and now it’s over, go.”  

She keeps refusing until she sees Ghost running across the yard. Like so many times before, the sight of his huge white form reassures her in a sense of protection. And so she knows he'll come to Jon's aid like he came to hers. Her knees give almost way. He'll save him too. 

He'll save us both.

Only after this thought has settled does she offer Thorne the desired nod, steps aside and eventually, stumbles backwards towards her uncle's quarters.

They're located right under the rookery, accessible through a short, narrow passageway, leading there from the courtyard. She holds onto the walls as she drags herself along. One foot in front of the other with laborious breaths. That final attempt to join the battle, to save her love, drained the last bit of energy out of her so she needs to support her weight. A trail of blood follows her, smudged on the stones from where she had cut her palm when she’d fallen during her fight with Tormund. 

But Dany barely notices. 

The sound of the fighting behind her blurs into a dull hum in her ears, while her vision alternates between sharp and fuzzy. Staggering, she comes to a stop at Aemon's door. Her hands are shaking so badly, she needs a few tries to put the key into the lock and doesn't comprehend that it has already been opened. She simply pushes against the wood until it caves in, revealing a room which is so familiar and yet at the same time it is not. 

At least not anymore. 

The sight pinches her heart. 

Like a piercing cut from a dagger, although she can't even fully grasp what she's witnessing. She can only list the facts without understanding their meaning. The body of her uncle lies there on the floor, lifeless, eyes wide, covered in blood. Shards of broken glass are scattered beside him. The chamber is in ruins. Someone has broken the window. 

That someone is still there.   

He doesn't seem bothered by her presence, or maybe he hasn't even noticed her yet. Too busy, clearly hurried, Slynt stows the last of her dragon eggs into a leather pouch, lifts it and turns to leave but she's blocking his path so he halts. Then their eyes meet. 

And as they stare at each other, everything else – the room, the battle, the pain – just vanishes as if it'd never been real. All of a sudden, the ache in her hand and her shoulder is gone. It fades with the worry about Jon or the others out there until there's nothing left. 

Nothing but rage. 

It's a raw thing, hot and all-consuming, building up, growing inside her like an inferno. Red and burning and deadly like a dragon's wrath. Her eyes narrow into slits as she takes one step forward, guided by the presence of someone who she can't see but feel.

A shard of glass breaks under her boot and concern erupts on Slynt's face. He tries to hide it, but he doesn't succeed. “Don’t come near me,” he snarls, “I warn you, don't get in my way.”

She moves closer.

“I said don’t come near me!” he yells now. “They– they should have killed you!” He adds, “you and that bastard. Traitors, the both of you. No woman should be allowed here. You are a disease!”  

She raises her sword and senses the power of the blade flooding her body. As if all her ancestors are steering her arm. Like a swarm of dark shadows, they circle around her. They push her to the edge of something dangerous and irreversible. But even as she tries to rein in her emotions, a part of her relishes the energy that comes with the feeling.

Slynt is a trembling mess as she reaches him, timidly raising his sword. She knocks it out of his hand with a single blow and it clanks to the ground. It makes him back away, but he’s trapped in a corner with only the chamber’s wall behind him. And although he is taller than her, it’s as if she is looking down on him. 

When she speaks, her voice sounds foreign, almost hollow, “any last words?”

There he crumbles. His posture changes and his arrogance gets replaced by sheer terror as he begins to see that he'll die.

“Please, don't.” The bag with the eggs slips out of his hand as he falls to his knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don't– don't kill me. Please!”

His whimpering makes her sick. His tears are like poison to her soul. In that moment, she's consumed by that darkness and the rages within her, there's no room for more. There's nothing in this world but that. And it makes her hate the squeak of his voice, dreading the sound, as she sets her blade against his neck. 

“Please, I’m–”

It's a clean cut.

And yet it gives her little satisfaction.

His head rolls to the far end of the room, away from his body, but victory feels different. Though the rage disappears. It takes something with her as it leaves, floating out of the broken window. And when she looks again over her shoulder and sees her uncle there on the floor, the pain comes crashing back, hitting her so hard, she cries out, unable to stand, speak or even breathe anymore.

He died alone, she thinks. He died alone, by the hands of that coward.

It makes her want to kill Slynt all over again. But instead the weight of it pushes her down, until she collapses beside Aemon, fingers clawing into the cloth of his shirt as her sadness overtakes her. It bursts out of her and lets hot tears roll down her face, drenching the fabric. 

“I’m sorry,” Dany whispers. Her forehead rests on his chest as if she can make his heart beat again, if only she wants it strongly enough. “I’m so sorry.”

The noises she makes are bloodcurdling and desperate, but she cannot suppress them. Because he's gone. He's gone. Even though he still feels warm to her touch and smells like himself, herbs and parchment and ink and smoke. She can still hear his voice in her head.

Wind and words, ñuha jorrāelagon, wind and words, don't forget that. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love.

He was the first to love her, unconditionally, the last of her house. Her only family. Who told her stories late into the night when she couldn't sleep. Who could make her laugh even in her most challenging moments. Who taught her right from wrong. Who always had her back. 

And now he’s gone. 

Dead.

The implication rips the ground out from under her feet and drives another fit of sobs out of her mouth, drowning her in a sea of emotions. 

She cannot say how long she sits there, holding him. Time passes or maybe it doesn't at all. Whatever the truth, she's incapable of perceiving anything else besides her grief. Unable to hear someone approaching. She doesn't react until she detects the tip of a boot in the corner of her eye. 

Slowly, Dany raises her head and blinks. 

Ygritte returns the glance with a matching pain in her eyes. Her lip trembles as she stretches the string of her bow. “Who's that?” 

“My–” Dany starts, sniffs and tries anew, “my uncle.”

She doesn't let go of Aemon, not a bit, even when Ygritte raises her weapon and points the arrow straight at Daenerys' face. 

“I promised I’d kill you,” Ygritte hisses while her own tears get in danger of spilling over. “I swore I’d kill you–”

“I know,” Dany replies quietly. 

Finally, she releases Aemon from her grip and lowers him gently, closing his eyes, pressing a tender kiss on his forehead. Dark Sister remains on the floor when she stands up again. 

“If that's what you're here for then–”

“You were like a sister to me,” Ygritte says with her bottom lip shaking even harder. “I protected you and you betrayed me.”

“I had no choice, you know that,” Dany explains. She tries to step closer, but pauses as Ygritte's hand twitches, her bow pointed at her in a threatening way, still she continues, “they are my family.”

“I could have been your family.”

Maybe in another reality, but not in this one. And yet, she starts, “you were as close as–”

But Dany gets no time to finish the sentence as suddenly, a hiss cuts through the air, narrowly past her head. She stares in shock as the arrow pierces Ygritte's chest. And Ygritte looks down too. Her mouth drops open while her bow slips from her hands. She collapses but Dany can't catch her, instead she flinches back as another arrow shoots across the room, followed by two more, all coming through the broken window. 

And all burning with a dangerously glowing tip.

In no time, fire spreads around them, since half of the room is built of wood, as is most of the furniture, only two of the walls are made out of stone. Even the ceiling, supporting the rookery, is constructed of oak boards. Everything ignites in just a few seconds. A rising heat pouffes at Dany’s face, soft at first, but quickly it grows hotter, almost too hot to bear. She steps further backward. The wood crackles, louder and louder. 

With a last look at Ygritte, whose empty eyes can no longer meet hers, she rushes towards the window and tries to escape outside. Hastily, she breaks the last piece of glass out of the frame. But when she makes an attempt to leap over it, her shoulder gives way. She falls and lands on her back. The pain radiates all along her spine while around her the flames whirl and writhe, racing each other up the walls. The air itself seemed to liquefy from the heat as logs spit and crack. The fire sweeps now over every surface. 

Daenerys groans as she tries to sit up, but even that she can no longer manage. 

In the end, she simply lies down and closes her eyes.

Sweat runs down her neck and between her breasts and in rivulets over her cheeks, where tears had run only moments before. But after a bit, enveloped in heat, she no longer feels sad. Surprisingly, she feels at peace. As if nothing can harm her anymore. Not here, where nothing else matters but the flames, singing around her like a lullaby rocking her to sleep. 

And she welcomes it. 

Sighing contentedly, she wraps a hand around Jon's heart to protect it, which rests in its usual place next to hers on her chest. Holding on to it, she keeps drifting away. On and on, while the fire grows and hisses around her. 

Until something cracks beside her head. 

It is a sound like a stone breaking, loud and sharp like thunder. It is a sound that no one has heard for over a hundred years and yet, without even knowing it, she understands where it comes from and understands what it means. Something she can't miss despite all her exhaustion. 

So with her last strength, Daenerys forces her eyes to open again.  

It's hard to tell what's going on as he stumbles out of the forge. Covered in Styr's blood, as well as his own, which keeps running out of his nose. Jon wipes it off with the back of his hand. Meanwhile, he tries to understand what has happened. He won against the Thenn. More by luck and instinct than actual skill, but tonight that makes no difference, it seems.

He leans against the wall behind him and takes a few deep breaths before Ghost nudges him gently with his snout. 

“I know,” he murmurs. No time for a break.

The battle is ongoing, yet the number of individual fights have significantly decreased. And as he watches his brothers brave these challenges, some sort of hope grows inside his chest. 

Maybe we'll win?

He keeps looking at each man while at the same time searching for one person in particular. But where he'd left her, she's no longer to be found. Her absence awakens a new tinge of panic, even though he knows Ghost wouldn't have left her in harm's way only to help him. 

So, where is she?

Tormund lies motionless near the place where they'd fought earlier, dead or just wounded is anyone's guess. Thorne is absent as well. Jon asks a passing brother about his whereabouts, who then hastily reports that Ser Alliser has been injured and taken inside. He doesn't know anything about Dany but Jon's sure that she went with the knight. 

“She's alright,” he tells Ghost, who waits patiently by his side. “She's alright.”

She's out of danger, and Jon's grateful for it. In spite of needing every hand left, it doesn't have to be hers to decide the battle in their favour. He'll fight twice as hard, if only she'll be safe. Filled with a new sense of purpose, he fishes Longclaw off the ground and dashes forward, joining the rest. 

Despite his exhaustion, he doesn't falter. 

Those left around him follow his example.

Morning dawns and slowly but surely an end seems in sight. 

Then the smell of smoke fills the air and not long after, it mingles with the screeching of birds. 

Jon pulls his sword back out of a man's stomach and raises his head. His eyes need a bit to understand what they're seeing. Wiggling like a bunch of snakes, the flames splutter through the window of the Maester's chamber, stones glowing and wood melting. Both are cracking dangerously. 

When they spot the archer it's already too late. He dies from an arrow through his neck, fired from Sam's crossbow, but that doesn't change a thing. His fall doesn't mitigate the terror he’s unleashed. Soon the blaze engulfs the building and the crows scream violently in their cages. Yet there's nothing they can do to help them except to shoot them too, one after another. 

The more fights come to an end, the more brothers begin to notice the fire. Some stare at it frozen, transfixed by the dread. Others run to the water well, frantically scooping buckets of liquid. But every drop evaporates in seconds, since the heat is too intense.

They have to wait until it burns itself out. 

Standing in line at the other end of the courtyard, the remaining men of the Night's Watch gather to observe the destruction. It marks the end of something once so solid and permanent in their middist. The end of a man unlike no other before him. Because even without saying it out loud, they all know who else is trapped inside that building.

Maybe it's right that he dies in a fire. 

Still it feels wrong that it's a fire like this.

Sam's voice is the first to break the silence, trembling slightly as he struggles for composure. “And– and now his watch has ended,” he says.

“Now his watch has ended,” Jon repeats, along with the rest. 

There's no doubt that Castle Black won't be the same without Maester Aemon. The whole Night's Watch is going to be a different place without his wisdom and guidance. A pang of sadness and loss overcomes them all. Jon can only imagine how Dany will feel, once she finds out about her uncle's fate. He has his suspicions. They've talked about it after he'd returned from his mission at Craster's, back when they'd thought they had more time to say goodbye. 

“I need to get her,” he informs Sam, overcome with an urgency, stark in contrast to his mangled appearance. But she needs to be here. She needs to know what happened and he needs to be the one to tell her, away from prying eyes. “I’ll be right back.”

A few have started to remove the barricades to clear the stairs for taking injured and prisoners alike up to their quarters. Jon sets out on this path with Ghost right behind him. Halfway on top, he stops as he spots a familiar face not far ahead. Ser Alliser’s bruised fingers cling to the railing. He looks older and sadder than Jon ever thought possible, all colour drained from his face. 

Because of the Maester, Jon tries to reassure himself. He knew him better than most of us did.

Yet deep down he senses that this is not the only reason. It's something else and that something seizes him all of a sudden. An ominous darkness, fear or foreboding or both. A thing that makes it almost impossible to keep going. His legs grow heavy and his head starts buzzing as he climbs up the last stairs until he comes to a halt next to Thorne.

He croaks like the dying birds behind him, when he asks, “where– where is she?”

But the man makes no reply. His eyes remain on the fire as if he's under a spell, incapable of looking away. 

Eventually, Jon collects himself and asks another question, more forcefully. “She was with you, was she not?”

Thorne's face contorts in pain. “I sent her away to hide with her uncle.”

With her uncle.

The words make Jon flinch just as if he'd been struck by the knight's hand.

It cannot be.

It's like a knife plunged in his heart. Sharp as the tip of a blade, even when he doesn't understand where it comes from. Because…

She's safe. She's–  

It's impossible. 

“That can't be true.”

Again, he gets no answer.

“You're lying,” he adds, unwilling to accept what the man is implying. “Why would you do that?”

Again, nothing comes in return.

And the longer he waits for further explanations, the more frustrated Jon gets, the more his anger boils up inside him, overpowering the confusion. It swells like the fire and lets the wound in his heart gape open. It makes him snap like a beast. He emits a low growl as he grabs Thorne by the throat, lifting him off the floor. 

“You're lying,” he hisses. “She's resting, she's safe. Why are you lying?!” 

He would have throttled Thorne if Sam and Edd and some others had not joined them, pulling him off the man. But it only heightens Jon's rage. 

And his desperation. 

“Where is SHE?!”

Ser Alliser staggers back, rubbing the marks Jon's fingers have left on his neck. “I told you, boy.”

It's the resignation in his voice and the lack of insult that tips Jon over the edge. He yanks his arms away from his brothers' grips, then turns on his heels. He staggers down the stairs. Then stops anew. As if he notices the fire for the first time, he stares at it and gasps and trembles, his heart racing with shock and disbelief, while ash swirls around his head like little snowflakes dancing in the wind. 

Slowly everything else dissolves into nothingness. 

He just stands there. 

In silence.

He sees no castle anymore, no ruins, no remnants of the battle. All he sees is Daenerys. Her smile. Her laughter. Her grief. Her pain. His mind keeps filling with memories of her, but quickly it all blends with the glowing timbers and yellow snakes until it consumes her whole and nothing's left. 

And now she's gone?

Jon hadn't even realised that he'd closed his eyes but when he opens them again, all there is around him is grey. Grey and dark. Maybe even darker than before the time he'd ever met Dany. Because she'd made the world open up for him. She showed him colours he'd never seen, new levels of happiness he couldn't have imagined. Now darkness plugs the hole in his heart. And the thirst for vengeance runs fiercely through his veins. 

If only they'd killed Mance when they'd gotten the chance. 

He swears, now he won't fail a second time.

Ghost gives a sad whine beside him but Jon shakes his head. “No, boy. Stay here.”

Fortunately, he obeys.

Some watch the exchange, some continue to watch the fire. Others begin to clean up the mess, collect the fallen and stack them for burning. Whatever they do, no one but Sam follows Jon as he unsheathes his sword and heads for the tunnel. For a short second he's grateful they didn't seal it. But then he reaches the inner gate and finds there the massive body of Mag the Mighty and Grenn's smaller one beside it. 

Both lifeless. 

Both gone. 

That's when Sam finally catches up with him. “What are you doing?”

Jon kneels down to close Grenn's eyes, then continues to move on. “What does it look like?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Jon replies, without a glance back but marching on in long strides. “There's no army without Mance. He united them. If they lose their leader, they'll lose their purpose. They go back to fighting each other, scrambling back home.”

“So you mean to kill him?” Sam’s getting out of breath as he tries to keep up with his pace. “That's madness. And even if you succeed, even if you managed to kill him–”

“They’ll kill me too?” Jon interrupts him. “They’ll kill me anyway.”

“But they won’t just kill you!” Sam complains further. “They'll boil you or flay you. They’ll make it last for days.”  

“So be it.”

“Look… she wouldn’t have wanted for you to die like this.” Sam sighs as Jon stops and turns around to glare at him. “I know how you feel–”

“You know shit,” Jon snarls.

“I know! Just thinking about Gilly– It makes me feel the same as you do now, trust me.” Sam softens his voice as if he's speaking to a wild animal trying to tame it. “I want to chase them and hurt them and kill them too, but throwing away your life doesn’t help anybody.”

“I’m not throwing it away. I’m going to do something.” Jon can see what his tone does to Sam as the man winces but he doesn’t care about that either. He cares only about one thing. “I’m going to avenge her.”

Then I’m going to join her.

And nothing in this world can stop him from that. 

Nothing except Stannis fucking Baratheon. 

A twist, he really didn't see coming.

Because he'd been so close already, sitting inside Mance's tent. The opportunity at hand, the man within reach, trusting him after they've drunken to their losses. 

But then the roaring of a warhorn had stirred the camp and they’d all rushed outside. Men on horses. Men in steel and men in black. The Wildlings had been overrunning as a swarm of riders had cut through them like a hot knife cuts through butter. Then another wedge of armoured riders had come along and floating above them, the largest banners as big as a sheet; a yellow one with long pointed tongues that showed a flaming heart with a stag.

Stannis fucking Baratheon.

Of all those self-made kings, he’s the last Jon expected to come to their aid. Yet here he is, leading their column back to Castle Black. A convoy full of soldiers and prisoners, whereby Jon doesn't know to which of the two he even counts himself. Though it’s not like he cares. He doesn't care about anything anymore. 

All he feels is exhausted and empty. The corpses he passes, strewn amidst broken barrels, are all shadowed by the Wall, but to him it's like they don't even exist. He feels no sympathy. There's nothing. 

He just wants to be left alone.  

And maybe Ghost can sense it, for he doesn't show up when Jon gets off his horse, finally back inside the castle’s courtyard. Only Sam waits for him, particularly euphoric to see him. Jon tries to avoid his gaze. He tries to avoid his whole person, which is easier said than done, as Sam can be quite persistent when he wants to. Jon has to block his attempts several times, raising a hand without facing him directly. “Tomorrow, alright?”

“But listen–” Sam keeps pushing, “there’s something you should know…”

“For fuck's sake, I said, tomorrow!”

There's no more trying for a conversation after that. 

His head hangs low as he makes his way up to their quarters, avoiding to look at the rookery, or the place where it'd been standing mere hours before. While he walks away, he feels all their eyes resting on the back of his head. Presumably one of them belongs to Stannis. Jon doesn't intend to verify that assumption. Not now.

He enters the hall, without anyone following.

It's dark and dusty, but the barricades have served their purpose. Not a thing has been damaged during the battle. He takes it all in. The dim light of the rising sun falls through that one narrow window, dust grains swirling around in the cone in front of it. It could have been a calming sight yet the further he goes, the more painful it gets, as every step lets the arch in his heart flare up, making his eyes sting. He whips his hand over his nose, but the grief is unstoppable.

Because here, she's everywhere. 

She's arguing with him outside Hobb's room before he pushes her inside, where he kissed her the first time. She's kissing him in the alcove two doors down a few hours later. She's laughing with her head against his chest after they ran away from Mormont. She's clutching his hand, ready to leave the Watch and join Robb and his forces. She's kissing him again, so many times, it’s impossible to count them, caged between his body and his chamber's door.

Jon rests his forehead against the wood as if he can summon Daenerys back like this. Fists clenched beside his temples, he tries to bring her back to life within his sheer imagination. As if, with enough willpower, he can make her return to him. She's safely tucked under his furs, resting in his bed, sleeping, maybe dreaming of him. He tastes the salt on his lips as he squints his eyes more forcefully. 

When he finally gets over himself and enters the room, he finds her there exactly like he fantasised.

Covered in mud and blood and ashes but breathing. 

It feels so real.

She wakes as she hears the door squeak.

In the corner of his eye, Jon spots Ghost lying on the carpet in front of the fireplace. But then she makes a sound, something between a sigh and a sob, and he doesn't bother to look closer. Instead, he rushes across the room, promptly collapsing to his knees beside the bed. And when he touches her, as his fingers brush her cheek and recognise the warmth of her skin, he's unable to fight off the prickling feeling threatening of his own tears.

“Oh, Dany,” is all he's able to squeeze out between his lips.

Moisture clouds his vision and hers too as they stare at each other. She’s covered in soot, her hair burnt in places, dishevelled and smeared with blood where she must've thwacked her head. There is a cut on her lip too, the first he can see, but he's certain there are more. Though he’s unlikely to look any better with all the abrasions, the swollen nose and the dried blood still caked in his beard. Dirt and sweat have matted his hair, curls gone even darker and unruly. But none of that is of any importance. None of their wounds are deep enough not to heal. 

Except maybe one. 

“Jon… He's– he's dead,” she says and her voice breaks. “He's dead. And I– couldn’t do anything.” 

Then her hands pull him closer and he doesn't resist her. He climbs into the bed and wraps his arms around her body as Daenerys starts to cry, her face pressed against his chest. Jon just holds her tighter. His jaw is locked tense, but he manages a nod. “I know, love. I'm sorry.”

She's shaking more violently now. “Ygritte died too, all because of me. I couldn't help them. Neither of them. And now they're both dead.”

His nostrils flare, so he buries his face in her hair. Kissing her temple, he defies the ache in his own battle-worn muscles, tries to comfort her, placing another kiss right where he placed the first with more pressure. But the words crawl up his throat without any chance to prevent them. “I thought I'd lost you too.”

There she lifts her head to look at him. “What?”

“I thought I'd lost you,” he says in a whisper. As if she'd disappear again if he dares to speak louder, catapulting him back into that grey world where she no longer is. “I feared this would happen. And then it did, you were gone and I–”

“I'm still here,” she sniffles. “It's alright. I'm still here,” she repeats before she hugs him again.

“But how?” he asks, clutching her equally intensely, still in need of some sort of explanation. “I saw the fire, Dany. Thorne swore he ordered you inside that building. How did you escape?” 

“I didn’t.”

Jon hiccups out a humourless snort. “Then I must be dreaming.”

“I can assure you, you're not. Even when…” She hides her face in his neck and her breath tickles his skin. “It sounds a bit unreal, I suppose.” 

Seconds pass as he waits for her to continue, but she doesn't. She starts crying again, more softly this time. And he'd gladly let her have this moment of sorrow but first he has to know the truth. He leans a little to the side, wipes away the tears with his thumb and nudges her chin. “What happened?”

She sighs before she looks at him, eyes big, nose red. 

“I… I killed him, Jon,” she confesses. “Slynt, he– he murdered my uncle to steal my dragon eggs so I… I killed him.” Anger flashes up in her gaze, but underneath there's something else too, shame and fear.  “I took his head, even when he begged me not to. I executed him like a headsman and felt nothing about it.”

The words hang in the air between them as he tries to imagine her there. Which is not particularly difficult for him. He knows all too well how she felt. Miserable. Heartbroken. Consumed by that overwhelming striving for vengeance. They've been thrown into the same darkness only mere steps apart from each other. So Jon shifts, then cups her jaw, “he deserved far worse than your blade for what he did.” 

Her shoulders slump relieved and yet she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead now. Just like all the others.” Her sadness returns as she adds, “Ygritte found me there. She had her bow ready to hit me again, though I don't think she actually wanted to kill me. We'll never know.” At that Dany crawls back to sit up. “She was hit by one of those burning arrows and then a second later, the whole room was in flames.”

“But you got out?” Jon mimics her pose.

She shrugs, “I… I didn’t. When I tried to climb out of the window, I fell and couldn't get up anymore, so… I just lay there until it was over.” 

His eyes go wide, “until it was over?” 

Averting her gaze, she shakes her head again, while he suppresses the impulse to search her body for burns. But then he remembers the night they got attacked by Othor, when she threw the burning lantern at him. 

“You're immune to fire,” he gasps. 

“It seems so,” Daenerys replies sheepishly, “like I said, it's a bit unreal.” She pauses. “I, um, I assume… nobody told you before you came here?”

Tell me what? Jon lifts his brows. What else could there be?

Instead of an answer, she pushes the furs aside. He sees now that she's wearing one of his cloaks. Underneath she's still dressed in her old clothes, or rather what's left of them, clinging to her body in burnt shreds. But he can't study her for long as she grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. Standing in front of him, she commands him softly, “but you must stay calm, alright? I don't want to scare them.”

Scare who?

He has no clue who she's talking about, yet, in spite of the new tension arising inside of him, he nods, “I promise.”

Seemingly pleased with his answer, she leads him to the other side of the room, where Ghost is lying in front of the fireplace. The wolf lifts his head, but Jon pays him no further attention. Because finally he catches sight of what rests beside him. Curled around themselves, he can't identify them at first. And even when he does, he barely believes his own eyes. Until one raises his head and the others follow. 

“Seven bloody hells,” he chokes. 

There in front of him sit three little dragons.

Chapter Text

Previously…

With Stannis at the Wall, Daenerys has no choice but to hide inside her chamber together with her dragons. She's scared that he will kill them once he sees them, as Jon fears for her life once Stannis discovers her true identity. The mood is tense and the situation unpredictable. For now the men of the Watch remain loyal and keep her secret, while Ser Alliser continues to guard her door, day and night. But Jon assumes it's just a matter of time until this changes. Once Stannis begins to ask questions, promising pardons or similar temptations, the men's loyalty might shift. 

Yet time passes and nothing happens.

Stannis doesn't ask about Daenerys but seems only interested in getting the Wildling prisoners to join his army. To achieve that he forces Mance Rayder to bend the knee but the King-Beyond-the-Wall refuses. As punishment, Stannis burns him alive as a sacrifice to R'hllor, the god Stannis follows. Unable to watch Mance suffer, Jon shoots him through the heart with an arrow, just as the fire begins to fully consume him.

It attracts the attention of the Red Woman, Melisandre, who accompanies Stannis. After the gathering, she seeks out Jon to inquire about Daenerys.

Initially, Jon feigns ignorance, but quickly it becomes apparent that the witch already knows everything there is to know. She confesses that she controls Stannis by telling him that the dragons will be his to command in due time. Which, in fact, she has no intention of letting come to pass. Melisandre reveals to Jon that there is power in a king's blood and that everything is unfolding as her Lord of Light intended. Leaving him alone and confused, undecided how to react to this revelation. 

But then, during the night, after Mance's death, and even before Jon can make a decision on how to proceed, Stannis falls sick, heavily enough that not even his own Maesters can help him. He dies three days later, leaving behind his wife and their daughter, the princess Shireen. Bowen Marsh, castellan of Castle Black, who has returned to the Wall, sends Ser Davos Seaworth, the king’s former hand, to escort them back to Storm’s end, together with their household and army, while the lady Melisandre stays behind. 

Eventually Daenerys leaves her hiding place as the danger seems to have passed for the time being. Yet the men of the Watch are divided on how to act around her, after seeing the miracle she has performed and without Aemon's wisdom to guide them. This, above all else, makes it increasingly urgent for the Night's Watch to elect a new Lord Commander.

It's still dark outside, but not long until sunrise, when he opens his eyes. An hour or maybe two, before the dawn. Jon lies awake staring out of the window, certain that he won't fall back asleep anytime soon. These days his mind doesn't come to rest easily. In spite of the fact that life at Castle Black has rarely been this peaceful. No Wilding attacks. No talk of darker creatures lurking in the forest. Nothing of the sort. He could enjoy this respite for once but sadly he cannot, because it's only a matter of time until the next foe is going to hit them. 

For the nonce, they're left alone to let their wounded heal. They're left to themselves to rebuild all the destruction caused within battle. As if all of Westeros has simply forgotten about them. Ignorant of the dragons Daenerys hatched and of the king that died in one of their chambers little more than two moons ago. How can nobody care about that? Yet the realm never cared much for the men of the Night's Watch. The crown loves to ignore the fact that they even exist. 

But instead of rejoicing, Jon fears a plot behind this absence of interest. It's what keeps him awake, pondering about it until the early morning hours. 

And still, these circumstances are just one of many things on his long list of distress depriving him of sleep. Countless sheets of parchment he could fill with his troubles. Maester Luwin would be proud, or maybe he wouldn't. Since every worry on his list revolves around Dany. He only sees the way she's looked at by some of their brothers and his fingers itch to draw Longclaw, ready to start a bloodbath if he has to.

He tightens his arms around her and inhales her sweet scent. His breath caresses her neck and runs down her spine, just there between her shoulder blades, where his mouth lingers. She shifts in his arms and exhales a pleased sigh. Beside her on the pillow, one of her dragons, the black one, lifts her head and stares at him over Dany's shoulder with her red eyes shining brightly. 

Just like her namesake, Aemax is the most observant among her siblings. Nothing goes past her sharp recognition.

She never sleeps by the fire, curled around Ghost like her two brothers do, but always next to Dany's head, her tail wrapped around her wrist. When Jon raises his hand and rubs the spot under her chin with his finger, she chirps happily. Then she hops down the bed towards his direwolf. Ghost blinks but doesn't move until Aemax begins to nip at his ear. He lets her do so for a while until he's had enough, grabs the little dragon with his jaw and sets it down between his paws. 

The message is unmistakable and the whole play undeniably adorable. Jon can't help but chuckle and hears Daenerys utter a snicker of her own.

“He's such a strict father,” she whispers quietly, then turns slowly to look at him. “I certainly can't say where he gets that from.”

“Criticising my lack of compliance, are you?” Jon raises a brow, smirking. 

She smiles back. “I would never. It's the best sleep I've ever had.”

It is the best for him too, little as it is. Even if it comes with some hurdles, he takes them gladly if it allows them to be together. He takes them all, climbing into her room and climbing back out every night. He never speaks above a whisper once he's inside. He keeps his distance during the day. To make sure she is protected while she sleeps, this is all worth it. Every obstacle is worth it, as long as she's safe.

Leaning down to finally kiss her good morning, he lets his thumb stroke over her cheek, tenderly. “How do you feel?” She's been sick the last couple of days and he'd feared the whole castle would come down with the flu, but thankfully the rest of them got spared.

Daenerys caresses his beard. “I feel fine. Gilly gave me some tea.”

He bows his head in agreement and kisses her again, more deeply, feeling her rolling her hips beneath the furs. They both pause to check for the familiar sound of her sworn shield sleeping in front of the door. Ser Alliser's deep snoring cuts through the silence. 

“Can you be quiet?” Jon asks under his breath and grins as she nods eagerly. 

Reaching down, she shrugs out of her breeches while he fumbles with the cords of his own. Once he managed the task, he shoves his leg between hers, propping her right knee up. His chest presses against her back. His hand moves from her stomach down to her cunt. One finger slips inside of her and a shudder runs through Dany's body as his thumb finds the sensitive bundle of nerves high above her opening. Spreading her wetness over it, he starts moving in slow circles. 

She tilts her head back and moans, seemingly all good intentions forgotten. 

He grins and adds another finger, “hush, love, or this is over far too quickly.”

Stretching her, feeling her juices coat his fingers, he strokes them in and out of her, first slowly then faster and faster, until her hips start lifting up to meet his hand. There he knows she's almost there. So he replaces his fingers with his cock and swallows his own groan of pleasure. Immediately, she pushes back against him to encourage him, flexing around him. 

A breathless, “yes” slips past her lips.

Jon sighs, as he plunges into her, gasping at how wet she is. His eyes roll to the back of his head as she grips him tightly. As she starts to push back, to use him to get off, holding back her cries.

He groans low in his throat and his head falls forward. The sound of her skin slapping against his gets louder, only muffled by the covers. But now his mind is too clouded from lust to notice. It's the only time when he can just be without thinking. Inside her. He slips his hand between her legs again and rubs her swollen clit, using his other hand to tilt her head back and capture her mouth. 

Her movements become sloppy and rough as she slams herself down on him. Her body is trembling, arms reaching behind her to sink into his hair and tug tightly. Then she clenches and practically screams against his lips. That’s all Jon needs for her to tip him over the edge too. Hastily, he pulls out as he explodes over her back, sweaty forehead falling on her shoulder once more. He's shaking until his orgasm subsides.

His heart pounds hard enough, he can't hear anything besides its beating. “We were too loud,” he gasps eventually.

“Worth it,” Dany coos with a smile. 

Though she wouldn't say that if Ser Alliser actually came bursting through the door just to find them in this compromising position. But once Jon's able to listen more closely, he can verify that the snoring is still there. Relief washes over him. Dany pats his cheek as if she's able to read his thoughts. After another few breaths she seeks his gaze, making him lift his eyes.

“You made a mess.” She doesn't appear like she cares.

“Sorry,” he says, kissing her. “Yet better than taking another risk, right?”

“Right,” she grimaces. Her voice sounds disappointed, even with her whispered tone. But before he can argue, she waves him off. “Just help me clean up?”

He does as she pleases and gets up, takes a wet cloth from the water basin and washes her back until all evidence of what they just did is destroyed. After that he puts his clothes back on and rounds the bed, kneeling in front of her. She looks sad. He can't blame her. He knows what she wants and what it is he can't give her. Doesn't mean they can change a damn thing about it.  

Rubbing his nose against hers, he gives her another gentle kiss. “It is not what you wish for but it's better than nothing.”

It could be so much worse.

“It's much better than nothing,” Dany repeats and returns the kiss with more force than he'd expected. “See you at the Great Hall?”

“Of course, my lady.”

As he walks over to the window, opening it, she sits up. Like every other day, there's movement at the fireplace as soon as he throws a leg over the sill. 

Rhaegal, another one of her three dragons who strangely favours Jon the most, flies over to see him off. And like so often, Ghost snorts in response, but Jon only shakes his head in amusement. He gives the little green dragon a rub under his chin, just as he did with Aemax before. Dany watches the exchange with such fondness in her eyes that Jon can't resist but hurries back inside to give her another quick and firm kiss on her rosy lips.

“I love you,” he breathes.

“I love you too,” she returns.

Afterwards, he finally departs.

When he first made the climb down, he was clumsier on his feet than tonight. However, after daily training, he knows the steps he has to take. He knows which stone sticks out where, which foot to place and how. Within seconds, he stands at the bottom of the castle, in the vacant courtyard, with no one around but him.

Jon lifts his eyes and finds Daenerys watching him from her window, with her feelings written all over her face. Suppressing any impulse to ascend to her again, he withstands her gaze for a few more moments. He just looks at her, the woman he loves so desperately, and can't help but wonder if their connection has always been destined to become their downfall. 

I'm sorry, he thinks. I'm not the man to steal you out of there.

Conflicting thoughts and emotions consume him even before he averts his eyes and heads across the yard to break his fast. They're like his shadows, various in size but always there, filling him with sorrow. Because he cannot deny his feelings for her, yet he feels burdened by the knowledge of the risks he is exposing her to. Pursuing this love can't go well in the long run but what other choice does he have?

The more he reflects on it, the stronger his longing to be with her becomes. Sometimes he even contemplates running away, as she had suggested when they were still living with the Wildlings. But actually, he knows he'd never go through with it. Not to mention the fact that Dany herself wouldn't want that anymore. She feels a duty to the Watch, especially now that Aemon and Commander Mormont are gone, as if their legacy rests on her shoulders.

Thus, her safety rests on Jon's.

Carrying its weight, he steps through the massive oak doors and finds the Great Hall almost empty, only a few Watch members sitting at the long, sturdy tables. At the head, raised on a dais, the Lord Commander's table remains empty as well, but he hopes that this will change within the day. In his mind's eye, he already sees it occupied, and the image fills him with pride. 

He knows she'll be the leader they need. When the time comes for them to cast their votes, Jon can only hope that these stubborn fools will see it too and look past their prejudices. But while he glances around, what little optimism he’s had begins to diminish. Grim faces stare back at him. It could be for any reason though. Most prefer silence in the early hours of the day.

Only at the other end of the room, where the food is served, four rangers sit close together, engaged in a heated discussion. They're too distracted to notice him approaching. Huddled together, they wolf down their breakfast while speaking in lowered voices, but still audible enough for Jon to understand. He listens attentively as he loads his own plate, but his motion stops once he fully grasps what they're talking about.

“I swear to you, she is a Targaryen,” one of the men says; Tim Stone, if Jon remembers correctly. He's one of the few who survived the mutiny at Craster's Keep.

“Bullshit,” another, Ulmer of the Kingswood, disagrees, sitting to Tim's right. “She's a goddamn bastard from the Crownlands. Everyone knows that.”

“She can be a Targaryen and a bastard,” Tim corrects him. “How else could she have hatched those dragons? She also has the sword to match.”

Encouraged by this, a third man named Grubbs joins the conversation. “Maybe the dragons hatched because of Maester Aemon. He was a Targaryen too, or so I've heard.”

“And the sword she got from Mormont,” the last within the group adds. They call him Mawney, and Jon remembers Sam telling him that he saw an Other riding Mawney's dead horse as they came upon him, Grenn and Small Paul after the great ranging. “I bet she showed him her pretty cunt for that.” The smug smile vanishes from his lips as his head hits the table. “Fuck, are you mad, boy?”

“Don't talk about her like that,” Tim scowls, pulling his hand back.

“Why not? Hoping she'll let you catch a glimpse of that silver cunt for you defending her honour?”

Grubbs snorts at the comment. “Go stand in line with the others. You're certainly not the only one eager for a taste.”

“I bet she's always hot down there. Remember how she looked coming out of that fire?” Mawney says longingly. “Never before have I seen such a perfect pair of tits.”

“You saw shit,” Tim snaps. “Tollett and Tarly covered her up before you could even think about her tits.”

“I'm thinking about them right now.”

“And you better leave it at thinking and only at that.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Ulmer shoves away his empty bowl. “Unless you're keen on meeting Ser Alliser's blade.”

“Or the Red Woman's magic,” Tim says proudly. The other two nod while Mawney leans back on the bench, rolling his eyes. “And don't forget the fire of her dragons. Or the direwolf never leaving her side. Not to mention her own sword. Have you seen her fighting? She'd slice you in half.”

Instead of serving as a warning, as presumably intended, the mention of Dany's skills triggers that dopey grin on Mawney's lips to reappear. Jon puts his plate down, having heard enough. He takes a step forward, ready to wipe off the expression from Mawney's face, when a warm hand touches his arm, holding him back.

Without checking, he knows who it is behind him. Yet, he does not turn around, keeping his eyes fixed on the group as she starts to speak in her deep, soothing voice. “There's no need to worry, Jon Snow. The princess is safe. I saw her destiny in the flames.”

“Don't call her that,” he grits through his teeth. The last thing he needs right now is for someone to hear her refer to Dany in that manner.

Nevertheless, Melisandre ignores the comment. She always does, and just continues, “have faith. The Lord of Light knows what he's doing.” Leaning closer, her breath caresses the exposed skin of his neck.

His muscles tense. “You or your lord?”

“It makes no difference.” She presses her breasts against his arm, reaching for his hair to stroke it back. “I act as my lord commands me.”

With a jerk, he pulls away from her. Detaching his gaze from the men, he glares back at the witch. “I know what you did to Mance and that you killed him for Stannis. I know you killed Stannis for her. But make no mistake... If you try that trick again, once another monarch catches your interest–” He tosses his plate among the pile of dirty dishes without taking a mouthful, his appetite gone. “You will be the one who burns, and there won't be any arrows to save you, mark my words.”

With that, he leaves her behind and walks out of the hall, unable to stand her presence for even a second longer. His feet carry him back to his own chambers, but even there he knows he won't find serenity. In this world, there's only one place where he's able to find peace. 

But maybe that's the price for loving so fiercely.

She covers her mouth as another wave of nausea hits her. It feels worse and lasts longer than the previous ones. Obviously, her body is undergoing some changes. And yet if Gilly hadn't mentioned the possibility, Dany wouldn't have noticed any of it until the cause for her upset stomach started to poke her from within.

Aemon would have known right away, there she has no doubt. But her uncle is no longer with them, no matter how terribly she misses him every day that he's gone. 

Dany misses them all: Grenn's laughter, Pyp's jokes, even Ygritte's teasing but most of all, her uncle's smile and his guidance. She wishes for him to be here so badly and help her, not just with her newfound condition but also with the Watch and the war against the Others. He would be able to tell her what to do. But more so, he would provide a thorough remedy to alleviate this dreadful sickness.

Instead, she has to accept the tea that Gilly places on the table before her.

“Thank you,” Dany murmurs and takes a hearty sip. It tastes as awful as she feels, but she forces herself to swallow it anyway. Gilly is her first female friend since Ygritte, and Daenerys doesn't want to ruin that new-formed bond over a cup of distasteful liquid.  

“It will pass. It won't be long,” Gilly returns in compassion.

“Aye,” Sam agrees. “One moon, maybe two.” He doesn't look up but remains bent over their notes. “But then come the leg cramps and the backaches, not to mention the swollen feet and ankles. Do you know that–”

“Sam!” Gilly interrupts him. 

She glares at him, while Dany’s gaze shifts towards Ser Alliser, standing guard by the door. He looks unaffected but that doesn't mean a thing. Unchanged since their arrival at the library, the grip on his sword's hilt is firm, his back stiff, even though he could take a seat. They have been at it here for more than a few hours. But not even a muscle twitches. She suspects he hasn't noticed anything. 

Placing a gentle hand on her still-flat stomach, she turns back to Sam and their notes spread on the table. “Alright, what do we have?”

Yet in the short time she has averted her gaze, his focus has shifted as well. His eyes are set on Gilly and their little boy, now a few steps away from them, starting to play with each other. His look is filled with unmistakable affection. Just when he finds her waiting does he blush, “oh, um, apologies, I didn’t mean to–”

“Please,” Daenerys lowers her voice. “Don't be sorry. I'm glad you’re happy.” Her eyes shift back to the scattered pieces of parchment, containing the names of all the Night's Watch members and their expected choices for the upcoming election. “Let's hope I'll be equally fortunate as you.”

“Are you not already?” Sam asks curiously, moving around the table. Now that they stand side by side, with their backs to Ser Alliser, they can communicate in hushed whispers and speak more freely. “I thought you wanted to tell him?”

“I couldn't bring myself to do it,” she admits shamefully.

She remembers their time together early this morning and Jon's behaviour. His usual efforts to prevent fathering a bastard were, as always, hard to overlook. Thus she’s afraid to reveal that, despite his precautions, that is exactly what has happened. Even though, deep down, she hopes it won't matter to him. If all goes according to her plan, it won't come to that anyway. 

Knowing her thoughts, Sam nudges her shoulder. “Don't be afraid. He'll be overjoyed, you will see. He loves his family.” 

But does he also love this new one?

Right after Aemon's death, she felt as if she would crumble under the weight of being the last of her house. The last dragon. Alone in the world. Her uncle had always told her that was a terrible thing. So, she can't help but see it as fate that this outcome has been prevented. The moment her dragons were born, Aemon drew his last breath, and that very same night, another dragon was sired. This can't be a coincidence? Dany has never been particularly religious, but it feels as if the gods themselves tried to ensure the survival of her bloodline.

At least, that's what Melisandre tells her every day. Maybe Jon will see it too. Who's going to argue against destiny? 

“Time’s running out,” Daenerys interrupts her own thoughts, refocusing her attention. “Let's continue, shall we?” 

Sam agrees with a nod. “Right.” He brings three neatly written papers closer and begins to read. “So, the men from the Shadow Tower are backing Denys Mallister, while those from Eastwatch are supporting Cotter Pyke. Bowen Marsh plans to maintain his role as castellan of Castle Black and Lord Steward, so there are rumours he'll favour whoever secures him those positions.” 

“But you spoke with Mallister and Pyke, didn't you?” Dany's concern is evident in her voice.

In return, Sam gives her a half-smile. “Of course, I did.” He makes a dramatic pause to increase the tension and if he weren’t such a good friend, she might punch him in the face. “They will vote for Jon, if only to prevent the other man from being named Lord Commander.” 

She sighs in relief. “Others take me. Don’t scare me like that, Sam.” 

He only shrugs. “They also asked about you.”

“But we're not discussing this again.” Daenerys shakes her head and sets her gaze back on the papers at hand.

In spite of her desire for the position, she made her peace with it. There are more important things that she has to take care of; for them to be together and for them to be a family. And if there is anyone for whom she would step aside, it is Jon. Because she trusts him to be an exceptional leader. She also knows that he would never accept her changing the rules in his favour. So she will do everything she can to ensure his appointment and hope that he won't hesitate when it's his turn to bend the rules for her.

“What about Yarwyck?” she asks, noticing the name on another list. “Still undecided?”

“Everyone knows he wants Thorne, just like the rest of ‘em,” Sam replies in a hushed tone, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. “They will follow his lead.” 

And he will follow mine.

“Perfect,” she says, collecting the papers and handing them to Sam. “Then all that's left is to get rid of the evidence.” 

He follows suit, standing upright. “Then I'll meet you at the Great Hall.” 

Dany waves to Gilly, before she heads out of the door. Mid-stride she pauses, waiting for her sworn shield to catch up. While she waits, she glances through the frosted window to her right. In the courtyard, she catches sight of Ghost's white fur, with her dragons not far behind. And a snicker leaves her, no chance to hold back, as warmth spreads through her body.

They're rapidly growing in size and yet these days they still cause most of the men to grin as they march past them, instead of spreading fear and terror as their ancestors once did. 

“Like a flock of ducks,” Ser Alliser snorts. He makes no secret of his disapproval as they watch wolf and dragons heading towards the tunnels that lead into the forest, about to go hunting. 

“I think it’s amazing,” Dany replies softly.

The first few times this happened, she wasn’t keen to let them go without her protection. Even though she knows that Ghost is an excellent guardian. Mayhaps every mother feels that way – scared to send their children out into the world, yet equally excited to see them grow up. It makes no difference whether they walk on two legs or soar through the sky with their beautiful wings. 

“This can’t be good, a wolf raising a dragon,” Ser Alliser complains.

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “Please, remind me again, what is there to object to?” 

And engaged in a lively discussion about the strength of each animal, the two of them leave the library. They make their way through the keep in quick strides. As often, it doesn’t take long until another person comes to join them. 

“Sȳz tubis, dārilaros. (Good morning, princess.)” Melisandre’s typical smile plays around her lips as she greets Dany. “Se āeksio's rijnor mazverdagon ao jehikagon tolī. (The Lord’s blessing makes you shine ever so brightly.)”

“Nyke zūgagon, ziry iksos se bāneves bona mazverdagon issa jehikarys. (I’m afraid, it's the heat I’m feeling that makes me glow like this.)” Daenerys wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.

The witch's smile remains unaffected. “Daor syt bōsa, dārilaros, se aōha riñar jāhor udrāzma se jēdrar arlī. Nyke ūndan ziry isse se perzyssy. (Not for long, princess, and your children will rule the skies again. I saw it in the flames.)”

I saw it in the flames. That’s what she always seems to tell her.  

The past, the present, and the future. The Wall, her dragons, the rise of the dead, a crown on her head. Melisandre witnessed Stannis saving them, but she also witnessed his eventual death from a fever. All this and more is revealed to her in the fire. Whether everything is actually true remains questionable; a healthy amount of worry is certainly appropriate. And yet it would be foolish not to be thankful for this power. Dany knows that without the priestess's intervention, soon enough Stannis would have claimed her life and perhaps even that of her dragons. 

“Kirimvose, hae va moriot, syt sharing aōha sylvia. (Thank you, as always, for sharing your wisdom.)” She tells her in the mother tongue they share and receives another smile in return.

When they reach the Great Hall, they find it already filled to the brim. Even from the courtyard they can hear the heated debates going on inside; raised voices, curses, someone pounding on a table. Unnoticed, Dany enters the room with Ser Alliser trailing close by, while Melisandre stays by the door. The benches and tables are stuffed with their brothers, more standing and shouting than sitting. Only a few at the back, where Hobb serves food, manage to hurriedly finish their breakfast.

Since Dany herself hasn't eaten, she seizes the opportunity. There might be a few minutes left before the official gathering starts. Now that the tea seems to have done its work and her sickness has subsided, she heads straight for that area and refrains from searching the crowd for Jon's figure, even though she longs to see him again. Stubbornly, she gazes ahead. It's what she has to do these days. 

But still she can feel all those eyes on her as they stick to her figure.

Regret fills her as she realises she shouldn't have left her cloak in her chamber. Despite the discomfort it brings during the recent heat that she feels, right now, she misses the protection. Clad in nothing but her leathers, all her curves are prominently visible. She hasn't even bothered to braid her hair. Instead it flows in waves down over her shoulders.

Never before has she looked more like the woman she is, and yet this might be the worst possible moment for everyone to see that.

It’s tempting to reach for Dark Sister's pommel but she's suppressing that urge. Determined to hide her worry, she approaches the food tables. When she does so, the brothers nearby take notice of her presence and fall silent, those further away continue their quarrel. Dany keeps her face neutral but only manages until she comes to a halt in front of Hobb. Until she's able to actually smell the food.

The second she's catching a whiff of his cooking, her mask collapses. Because…

It's stew.

Instantly, her stomach turns. A new surge of nausea sweeps over her, heavier than before, and she can't help but gag. 

“You got something to say?” Hobb snaps gruffly, drawing the attention of the men around them even further towards her. “Now you don't fancy my stew anymore? Shiny dragons make you turn your nose up at my stew?”

“It has nothing to do with–” Daenerys responds but mid-sentence she has to place a fist in front of her mouth, taking a deep breath. This is not good. She needs to get away from that scent. But Thorne remains right behind her, blocking her path. Running around him would cause an even bigger scene. And Hobb will hate me if I leave now.

Truth be told, she actually likes his food. Not because he's an excellent cook, but because whatever he prepared for her always tasted like home. Just like this entire place. Just like the men around her. They're her family too, and now they look at her as if they're no longer sure about that.

I'm no different, she thinks so often. I’m still one of you.

She's a brother of the Night's Watch, just like the rest of them. So she has to make a move and she has to make it fast.

“I won't vote for you, if you don't eat my food,” Hobb grumbles. 

“It's not me you shall vote for,” Dany hisses back, taking a deep breath, trying to calm her stomach. “Didn't you hear what I said last night?”

“I don’t hear anything because you reject my food.”

They stare at each other and eventually she sees his point even though it is rather stupid. Rolling her eyes, she makes a decision, takes one step forward, grabs a bowl, even though her body protests, and scoops up some food. A few bystanders murmur, while others chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. Most, however, are pleasantly surprised. Dany tries to ignore them as she raises her spoon, making eye contact only with Hobb, arching an eyebrow. 

His lips twitch as she guides the stew to her mouth.

I’m no different, she wants to yell at his face. I’ll eat the damn stew. 

Her stomach rebels. Her eyes well up with water. She is on the verge of bending over and retching, but her stubbornness prevails. It feels like forever but eventually she finishes the whole damn bowl. She places the empty thing back on the table with a sharp exhale, and in an instant, a wide smile spreads across Hobb's face. “Not so bad, huh?”

“It tastes like feet,” she spits and the men around her burst into laughter.

“It always tasted like feet,” Ser Alliser says, as grumpy as ever. “And now enough of this nonsense.”

Hobb winks at her, as Thorne guides her away, and there she grasps the true purpose behind this encounter. He did her a favour, even if she couldn't see it at first. But it becomes evident in the way she's greeted as she finally takes her seat. Some pat her back, others whisper words of praise. Owen the Oaf even squeezes her shoulder, telling her, “well done, lass,” while offering her a sausage he had stashed in his scabbard. With a giggle, Daenerys declines but appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

She's still one of them. Because she's still willing to eat their stew. Even when it tastes like some old man's feet.

And there she finally notices Jon, sitting a few tables away. Sam’s seated to his right, but his gaze is fixed on her, his brow raised in a silent question. She shakes her head and only mouths, I'm fine. But of course, it doesn't seem to convince him. Worry makes him frown.

Yet before she can try to convince him some more, Bowen Marsh stands up at the Lord Commander’s table and slams his fist down on the wood, demanding quiet. Hardly anyone pays attention to him. After all, it is Ser Alliser's bark that resounds through the hall. “Shut your mouths, you worthless cunts.”

And so one after the other does as he said. Marsh gives a grateful nod in their direction, then raises his voice again. “Does anyone wish to speak before we cast our tokens for the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”

Dany exchanges a quick glance with Jon and sees his frown gone. Instead he's smiling just the tiniest bit. It’s supposed to be encouraging, she knows. Little does he know that she won’t need it anymore. She won't speak for herself today. She will speak for him and finding the right words for that doesn't take any courage or effort.

A few men around them get up before she has a chance; a man called Mawney, whose candidature is obviously supported only by his friends sitting around him. Yarwyck, after him, lines up as well, but he's only half-assing it. Five times in a row he says that he’ll only take the post if no one else wants it, which is hardly convincing. Though Edd, sitting next to Jon with a sombre expression, nods empathetically, seemingly sharing the sentiment more than anyone else.

Quickly it becomes evident that there's just one true candidate and thanks to her and Sam's preparation, everyone is just waiting for him to be announced. She smiles to herself. Drowning the jug of ale in front of her, Dany prepares herself to get up.

But then someone beats her to it. 

“Brothers! Friends!” Jon’s voice rings across the hall. “I have no doubt that many of you will make some good leaders, brave men that will carry us faithfully through those challenging times ahead. But regardless of that, we all know that there’s only one true choice among us.” His gaze finds hers and her eyes widen as her breathing stops. 

What is he doing?  

“Dany is the leader we need, chosen to guide us by the men that came before her. She is our only choice. She is the only right one.”

Around them now, many begin to clap or bang their cups on the table. Those sitting next to her bump her arms and shoulders, but she can hardly react. Goosebumps spread over her skin. Where her heart was just about to conk out, it now pumps heavily inside her chest. Adrenaline almost makes her dizzy, but unaware of the fact, Jon continues with his praise.

“She was raised by Maester Aemon and learned from his wisdom. Commander Mormont taught her how to lead and Ser Alliser trained her how to fight. Qhorin Halfhand picked her for his mission beyond the Wall. And if all that is not proof enough of her capabilities, the three dragons she birthed are. If there is one person who can make the impossible possible, it is Dany. And we need a leader like that.

“The Watch needs a leader who understands the true nature of this threat that is coming for us and she has shown time and time again that she does that.” 

He looks around the room before he turns back at her with another one of his soft smiles and it takes some effort to hide how she feels about that gaze. “But it's not just about her. It's about all of us. It's about the survival of the Night's Watch and the realm itself. We need a leader who will inspire us, who will unite us against the coming darkness, who has the courage to do what is right, no matter the cost. She has shown that she’s willing to put her own life on the line for the greater good. And that is the kind of commander we need.”

The applause that follows leaves her speechless and it still goes on when Jon takes back his seat. It roars in her ears and makes her unable to do what she had intended to do. Is this the right decision? Is she the leader they need? But when she catches Jon's gaze again, so full of admiration and love, she knows she doesn't want to risk it. No matter how much his speech affects her, if she can only pick one of the two things she wants, then she knows which one she's choosing. 

So she stands up as well and waits for their brothers to fall silent. “Thank you for your words.” She hopes he can see how much they mean to her. “And thank you all for your trust in me but I have to decline.” 

Nobody seems to be surprised by this turn of events except for one man. His grey eyes widen and the smile disappears as he realises what she is about to do. Shaking his head slightly, he tries to stop her. But his fears are unfounded. He’ll notice that in a moment.

“It is true that I was lucky enough to learn from all these great men. But it's wrong to say that I was singled out to do so. Another was though.” And this time it's Dany who looks at him with heartfelt affection. Their eyes stay locked when she says, “you know who I’m talking about. You know who it is, the only true choice for our next Lord Commander. Mormont himself chose Jon to be his steward, because he saw something in him and I’m sure now we all see it too.”

Though he looks away, closes his eyes and casts his gaze down, desperate to avoid the embarrassment of no one backing him up. But of course this is not the case. Although a little more reserved than with her, many start to clap again. Others murmur their approval. Instantly, Jon raises his head again and she grins at him when she says, “Jon Snow is the best among us, and he deserves our support.” 

She lifts her chin and takes a glance through the room just like Jon did before her. “He’s the commander we turned to when the night was darkest. And now he's the commander we need, to bring back the light.”  

When the count is done, Jon finds himself surrounded by their brothers. Some clap him on the back, whilst others bent the knee to him as if he's a bloody lord in truth. Owen the Oaf, Halder, Toad, Spare Boot, Giant, Mully, Ulmer of the Kingswood, Sweet Donnel Hill, and half a hundred more press around him. Hobb wants to know if he's still eating with the men, or if he wants his meals sent up to his solar from now on. Even Bowen Marsh comes up to say he would be glad to remain Lord Steward if that is Jon’s wish.

“Lord Snow,” Cotter Pyke says, “if you muck this up, I'm going to rip your liver out and eat it raw with onions.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jon replies, but he’s only half listening. Because the one person he longs to share this with is missing all the celebrations. 

He’d seen her last when they’d counted the tokens. A torrent of arrowheads, a flood of arrowheads, arrowheads enough to drown the last few stones and shells. He’d been too overwhelmed to react, where Daenerys had beamed at him, brighter than ever. The announcement had echoed through the room and that’s been when his face had registered the actual meaning of this unexpected result. 

I am the new Lord Commander. 

A genuine smile had spread across his lips, which is still placed there. A whirlwind of gratitude and appreciation races through his mind for those who believed in him. For her to believe in him. Overwhelmed by the victory, he can barely talk or form any words but just listens to those chattering around him until eventually it's time for him to take up his new quarters.

Once he has climbed the stairs, he pauses briefly. His gaze is set on the door, his hand raised to open it, but Jon waits a second longer. He’s glad he left the others behind to experience this moment without any audience. His shoulders relax, and a deep sigh escapes his lips, a tangible release of tension. Whatever made her do it, now it’s up to him to prove himself worthy of the position he never saw coming.

I won’t disappoint you, Jon swears as he steps inside.

And it doesn’t come as a surprise that he finds Daenerys just right there in front of him, sitting behind the Lord Commander’s desk, her chin resting on her palm, elbow propped up on the wood, smirking. “There you are.”

“And there are you,” he grins back, closing the door behind him.

She gets up and walks around the table, then gives him the most shameful curtsy Jon has ever seen and says, “Lord Commander, at your service.”

He cannot suppress his laughter even if he wanted to. “If you're applying for the post of my steward, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. I already gave it to Edd.”

Dany blinks at him through her thick lashes and lowers her voice. “Perhaps there’s another thing I can do for you.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll come up with something.” He pulls her closer by placing a hand at her back until their chests are pressed together. “Where is your champion?”

“I slipped away,” she says. “And I am sure he won't come barging into his Lord Commander's chamber.”

“Clever.” But before Jon can give in to this sweet temptation that she is, he has to know, “what made you do this? I know you’ve wanted this for yourself, what changed?”

“I want something else now,” she confesses, reaching for his neck to pull him down. “Something far more important.”

In answer, he grabs her face between his hands and kisses her. And though Jon’s never been the best with words, this is how he can tell her. His gratitude is written in his touch just like his love. Just like his desire. Worshipping her with his lips and hands, he licks her, kisses her and sucks her, all over her mouth and down her throat. The cords of her breeches are quickly untied, by now he is practised. 

But then she stops him. 

Her hands on his chest make him halt. Leaning back, Jon catches her gaze. Wide-eyed and flushed, she gasps for breath, chuckles and shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “We need… first there’s something–” He can't help but smile in response.

“What do we need first?” he asks, curiosity piqued. And yet he reaches for her breeches again. Who says they can't do both? Talking and whatever they have just started here. 

Unfortunately, she pushes his hand away. “There’s something I need to tell you first.” Dany takes a deep breath and releases him, taking a small step back to look at him properly. As her hands are freed, she begins to fidget with her clothes. She binds the cords back together and keeps twisting one around her finger, her cheek disappearing between her teeth in nervous anticipation.

And as he’s sensing her unease, he grows nervous too. “Is everything alright?”

“I, well, yes,” she nods. “Yes, it is. It's just, I… don’t know how to say it. It will scare you, so… I’m trying to find the right words, I guess. This… it’s nothing you want. At least not like this but… please try to see that it is some good news, alright?” Her smile returns and her eyes light up in a way he's rarely seen before. “This is happy news, Jon.” Then her hand moves down to her belly.

And suddenly the world stops turning. 

He freezes on the spot. 

All previous joy is gone. Everything that comes after that he cannot understand. 

Unable to comprehend what follows, he watches her lips move soundlessly. Her gesture alone is enough to make him drown in panic. The mere possibility, the little chance that she’s trying to say what he fears she might say, makes the blood rush to his ears, making them ring. 

“Sorry,” he chokes, “what?”

“I said,” taking his hand in hers, Daenerys looks into his eyes, “that I'm with child.”   

This can not be.

This cannot be happening. Unable to speak, barely able to remain standing, he stares at her, wishing that she’ll take it back but she doesn’t. At least her smile diminishes slightly when she notices his horror. But it’s hardly a consolation. 

“Are you– are you sure?” he manages to press out. His voice is shaking as much as his hand, which she must feel, still holding onto him. 

“I am.” She gives him a reassuring squeeze. It does little to calm him. “My moonblood stopped and Gilly confirmed the theory a few days ago when I asked her about it.”

“So Gilly knows?” His mind races as the initial shock subsides. His grip around her tightens. “Who else?”  

She flinches slightly, but doesn’t pull back. “Sam knows, and Melisandre. I think Ser Alliser has his suspicions but I haven’t told him yet.”

“Good.” 

Jon lets go and walks over to the table by the window, where she was sitting at until recently. Hastily, he pulls open the drawers, searching for ink and parchment as a plan begins to form in his mind. Sam is loyal; he’ll keep their secret. Gilly probably too. Melisandre might pose a greater challenge, but he meant what he said earlier today. If she betrays Daenerys, it will be the last thing she does. 

“Jon?” Her hand around his forearm interrupts his thoughts. “Look at me.” He does. “What are you doing?”

It’s almost impossible to tell her. His heart beats too fast, breathing shallow and rapid as his anxiety increases. “You have to leave.” Just saying that almost breaks him, but he has no choice. They have no choice. He tried everything to protect her, to save her from every evil, and still in the end it was he himself who brought forward her doom. 

He turns to face her, reaching for her, cupping her cheek. “Go to Winterfell,” he urges. “Take your dragons, Ghost and Ser Alliser, and leave before sunrise. I’ll write to Robb. I’m sure he’ll protect you. He might be sceptical at first, but–”

“I'm not leaving.” With a jolt, she pulls away from him. “Are you mad? Castle Black is my home.”

“Dany, you can’t stay here,” Jon pleads.

“You're sending me away? Seriously?” 

The hurt in her voice almost drives him out of his mind and maybe that's why he says the following. Or it's the despair he feels, accumulated over the last weeks, months actually, if one gets right down to it. Either way, his voice no longer sounds like his own but that of a stranger, as if it's a complete other person speaking, he says, “then you have to get rid of it.”

Punching her would have had less of an impact. 

Her hand shoots to her stomach as she backs away. Terror fills her gaze, as though he might tear their unborn child from her womb. His child. Jon feels as if he's going to vomit at any second.

“You don’t mean that,” Dany whispers. 

But sadly, he does. “You can’t stay here, having this child. It means both our deaths.”

Tears well up in her eyes as she shakes her head. “Why do you say that? Why do you talk like that?”

“Because it’s the damn truth!” Something snaps inside him. The fear for her mixed with her lack of understanding makes it impossible to keep his temper in check. “This proves that we broke our oaths, don't you see? It’s not just bending the rules anymore; it’s breaking them on all counts. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.” 

“Well, fuck the bloody oath,” she spits. Then adds more quietly, “technically, it doesn't apply to me anyway.”

He cannot believe it. “Because you fathered no child but only conceived it?” Frustrated, he runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands before he links his fingers behind his head. “They won't care about the damn phrasing.”

“Who are they?” Mirroring his stance, she lifts her chin defiantly. “You’re the Lord Commander. Who will execute this sentence if not you?”

“The ones who gave their vote for me today,” he replies sharply. “Those men out there who made me their leader, they can unmake me just as easily.”

“As if they would!”    

“They fucking will!” His whole body trembles by now. “You can't seriously think they'll just accept it and give us their blessing? The whole Watch is divided because there’s a woman living in their midst. What do you think will happen when they find out that said woman is pregnant?” Cautiously, he takes a step toward her. “It's either the life of the child or that of all three of us, Dany.”

A long pause ensues, punctuated only by their heavy breathing.

Until she lifts her hand and closes it around the chain around her neck, his heart encased in her palm. “You said if you could, you’d ask me to marry you.” Her gaze turns darker, piercing through him. “Was that a lie?”

“You know it wasn’t,” he says quietly. “But I can’t. Even under different circumstances, I’m still a bloody bastard.”

“So am I,” she frowns. 

He shakes his head. “You’re not. You’re a princess.”

“No one will ever find out about that.” 

“It doesn't matter.” Even if her admission has sparked a glimmer of hope, he can’t give in. He must stand firm. He must protect her if she's so unwilling to do it herself. “I cannot marry you. And you cannot have this child. Oathbreaking is punished with death. These are the rules and you know that.” 

It literally makes her explode.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you make the damn rules, Jon!” Obviously, she is at the end of her wits. Face flushed, fists raised, she looks close to spitting fire. “You are the bloody Lord Commander.”

Something hurtful and twisted strikes him at that, a deeper meaning, holding a bitter taste. “So this is the reason you vouched for me? The real reason you gave up the position? Not because you think I'm capable but because you want me to make an exception for you?”

“You know that’s not true,” she replies, way softer than before. “But we can have both, don’t you see it? Isn't this what we talked about back then, the day all if this has begun. The day you kissed me, the real me, for the first time? For us to be in this together?”

He remembers well and still, “this is different.”

This is not breaking the rules and sneaking around, this is a death sentence. There's no future for them where this works. Where he claims this child and marries her and they live together, keeping the Watch together, protecting the realm together. It's the stuff that fairy tales are made of. This is nothing of the sort. This is life. And the cards they've been dealt are not in their favour.

“I’m sorry.” He rubs a hand over his mouth before he continues. “But if you want to stay here, there’s only one way. Because I will not wait for them to demand me to kill you. And I'm not going to wait for a mutiny where we both get killed once they find out that the child is mine–”

“Then I'll deny that it's yours,” she interrupts him, pushing his frustration to new heights.

“For fuck's sake, don’t you understand?!”

“Don’t you understand?!” All of a sudden she pulls the necklace off her neck and throws it at him. He’s only just able to catch it. “All you’re talking about is breaking the stupid oath of the stupid Night's Watch. But what about us? You swore an oath to me! What about that?”

He doesn't give her an answer and that seems to be enough for her. 

As her posture changes, her anger vanishes from her face. What he finds instead is something way more frightening. Something he knows, but has never seen directed at him. It may be what Janos Slynt saw last before he died. Darkness meets him, so profound that it sends a shiver through his body.  

Her voice sounds as cold as her stare when she says, “fine. But just to be clear, I’m gonna keep this child and you will let me. I will bear it right here at Castle Black. Because this place is my home.” Her hand closes around the hilt of her sword, flames blazing in her eyes. “And you better not get in my way or try to harm us, Lord Commander, or you will deeply regret it, I promise you that.” 

“Daenerys, please–” He makes an attempt to approach her, and immediately she draws the blade from its sheath. His heart nearly stops. Her eyes fill with tears and so do his. “Dany…”

“I mean it.”

“Please.”

“Move aside.” 

“Don't do this, I beg you.”

“I said, move aside!!”

With a quivering lip, she positions the sword's tip against his chest, and they slowly turn until she stands with her back to the door, and he is left standing in the centre of the room. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches behind herself, tears streaming down her cheeks, and opens the door.

Before he can stop her, she slips outside. Leaving him behind, his hand clenches around her necklace, while his own heart shatters, with no idea how to mend the broken pieces.

By all gods, what should he do?

Chapter Text

Three months later, Jon still has no clue how to fix this. 

It's been three months of anguish, of piercing glares. Three months with that persistent ache in his chest that never subsides. Dany makes sure that after their fight they're never alone again and because of this, he gets no chance to talk to her privately. 

After a while he gives up searching for an opportunity, even though it's killing him. 

His skin feels too cold and too tight. But it's the hatred in her eyes that threatens to bring him to his knees. The betrayal is evident there. He can see it clearly how much she loathes his existence and everything they've shared. Nights find him sleepless, pondering about the past and the future, looking for a way out of this nightmare. 

Sometimes he resents her for putting him in this wretched predicament.

Sometimes he misses her so much, he feels like giving his life for only another second with her back in his arms.

But now is not the time to wallow in despair. More urgent matters demand his attention. Jon pushes his previous thoughts aside and looks back at those in front of him. The hall is packed, dimly lit and charged with tension. His grey eyes lock onto each man's gaze. The torchlight casts shifting shadows across their rugged faces, their expressions glare back at him, full of despise.

Hers, most of all, resembles a violet fire that is blazing in the back of the room.  

He glances in that direction just fleetingly. 

That's what he does now. He keeps his distance and watches only from afar. It is a role he has practised since he was a little boy; sitting in a dark corner, observing, quiet and careful not to attract unwanted attention. This feels oddly familiar. Only now he's not sitting in a corner, and attention he has plenty, though still unwanted. 

Because so far, Jon has found little joy in his command.

“I know what you're thinking,” he raises his voice. “But men, women and children will die by the thousands if we do nothing.” 

Another murmur of disagreement ripples through the crowd. “Let them die, less enemies for us,” Bowen Marsh speaks up the loudest.

“But… we cannot do that?! And we don't have to,” Sam returns, one of Jon's last remaining allies. “There is some good farmland in The Gift, land that no one uses, a dozen abandoned villages–”

“And why do you think these villages are abandoned, Lord Tarly?” Ser Alliser barks, positioned with the rest of Daenerys' entourage at the back of the room. He’s standing to her right, while one of her dragons sits to her left. Hobb is with them, Tim Stone, Owen the Oaf and a dozen more. All fiercely loyal and eager to protect her. “The Wildings have slaughtered those villages. They’ve slaughtered our brothers.”

Jon meets Ser Alliser's gaze. “And we’ve slaughtered theirs.” 

A tense silence lingers, but he can sense the doubt and fear clinging to his fellow brothers.

“Those of you, who have been fighting at the Fist, know what they become if we abandon them. We can learn to live with the Wildings or we can add them to the army of the dead. Whatever they are now is better than that.”

Instead of agreement, only renewed protest breaks out. Jon is at his wit's end. 

He has no choice but to seek support from her. His gaze sweeps across the room, ultimately landing on Dany, because he knows she shares his stance. She's been the only one to speak passionately in favour of the Free Folk. But now, she remains silent. Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, she glares at him as if she'd like nothing more than to see him choke on his ale. 

And under normal circumstances, he'd probably look away, but not this time. This goes beyond their personal feud, their fractured relationship, and the child growing visibly inside her. Too many lives hang in the balance, and thankfully she gets the gravity of the situation. Jon cannot hear it, but he can see the way she puffs out some air before she pushes herself off the wall and raises her voice. 

“The Lord Commander is right.” Not Jon, but the Lord Commander, because that's all he is to her these days. “If we don't let them through our gates, the Others will take them. We cannot afford for their army to grow further… just as we cannot risk the lives of our own brothers marching to Hardhome. We need ships.” This last claim is obviously directed at Jon.

“Stannis had ships,” someone murmurs. 

“Stannis burned Mance,” another chimes in. “He wouldn't have wanted his ships used to save those ‘savages.”

“He wanted Mance to burn,” Tim Stone agrees before pointing at Jon. “But he prevented that from happening!” 

Jon's attention shifts to the Red Witch at Thorne's side, her lips curling up when their eyes meet. He quickly averts his gaze, returning his focus to Daenerys.

“Stannis' ships are gone,” Dany asserts sharply. “And Mance had once been a man of the Night's Watch. By rights, his life belonged to us.” 

Reluctant nods come from a few, but scepticism lingers among the group. The atmosphere, at least, begins to cool. Jon had hoped for more acceptance but perhaps it's simply too much to ask from such a thickheaded lot. 

He’s about to dismiss them all, when another voice cuts through the grumbling of the crowd. Words that make him freeze in his tracks. 

“And your cunt belonged to him, did it not?”

The whole room goes silent. It’s broken only by the men standing near the door, aligning behind Mawney. Their movements are unsteady, all slightly swaying. It seems like they’ve had a drop too much, with their leader right at the forefront. 

“It’s the traitor’s spawn you carry!” he slurs, pointing at Dany's stomach, unable to keep his arms straight. The fumbling gesture might look ridiculous, if only the accusation wasn't so serious. 

This is it, Jon thinks. Accusation, punishment, death. What he's been waiting for ever since she told him the news. Probably much longer, if he’s honest with himself. And now it's here. 

His eyes dart around the room. Sweat breaks out on his forehead as he anticipates the following reaction. He had hoped to delay this fatal clash, even though it was only a matter of time for this to happen. Especially since Daenerys makes no effort to hide her condition. Dressed in her usual black leather, the bump on her belly is hard to miss. 

Their child. And now the object of everyone's stares.

Except for Daenerys herself. With her hands clasped in front of her, long silver waves running down her back, she seems almost amused, when she says, “you have proof of that?”

In an instant, Jon's hand reaches for Longclaw to pull the steel out of its sheath. And he's not alone. Numerous blades flash to defend her. Some little part of him is almost grateful for his suffering has come to an end. No more waiting. With luck, she forgives him in these last seconds they have left. 

Daenerys, however, doesn’t look his way. She looks back at the group of men by the door, calmer than ever, watching how their cockiness fades in the face of the resistance. 

“You call me an oathbreaker?” she says and suddenly it’s so quiet, one could hear a pin drop. Taking one step closer, she inclines her chin in their direction. “Then go on, say it.”

Seconds pass but no one speaks. 

Half of the room is holding its breath. 

Jon feels like an arrow already lodged in the string, ready to shoot forward. And he’s not the only one. All their brothers seem ready to cut the man’s tongue out before he can utter only the first syllable of a thread. Mawney’s smirk is gone, as well as that of his friends. They all look as if they’d rather scram than say what is required out loud. 

And then suddenly a voice rings in Jon's head, would they ever dare say it?

They may be criminals, outcasts, and more. A few are gruesome, selfish cowards, but most, especially the older ones, are also loyal. Loyal to the Night's Watch, and loyal to Daenerys. What is unfolding before him is ample proof. 

Would they dare to betray her?

She grew up here among them, knows this place, knows these men. They're a family, bound together. Even if they disagree with her actions, they won't rat her out, not in front of their new Lord Commander. 

It should be a relief to see such unity at least regarding this matter. Yet, for some unknown reason, Jon cannot accept it.

This isn’t right?

He stands there, knuckles white from gripping Longclaw so tightly, his ears ringing, as adrenaline keeps coursing through his veins. His mind cannot accept this solution, going against all his rules and high values. His body begs for an outlet that never comes. Because there is no fight. Just like that, the confrontation is over. As if there is nothing in the way of her bearing this child. 

This isn’t right!

She meets his gaze across the hall with a mix of victory and sadness in her eyes. Of course, she can read his thoughts. Somehow he’s now the one who feels cheated. He can't decide what to make of it. It all seems so absurd. He seems absurd.

It is as someone handed him the keys to a castle, only to find the gates wide open. As though he prepared to battle against some horrendous creature, yet all there is, is a wounded kitten. He was ready for the fight and now there is none? There’s never been one?

Where is the moat? 

Where is the drawbridge? 

Where is the bloody monster?

Days pass with Jon waiting for the big clash, the mutiny, the raging mob standing outside his door demanding Dany's head, but nothing happens. After another month he stops waiting for that. Instead he waits for Robb, to whom he has written in request for the ships they need to travel to Hardhome. And while he does so, he feels more and more like an idiot. 

All those values and ideals Jon has so desperately clung to, it seems they don't matter and he doesn't know how to cope. He broke his oath, but he felt terrible about it. It wore him down. It troubled him day and night. Now it seems there's just no consequence for breaking it? Or maybe it's her missteps they don't care about? Maybe the verdict would be different if they knew he was half to blame? 

The odds are high. Because ever since his election, it's all back to square one. 

They call him Lord Snow. He eats his meals alone in his chambers. He's an outcast again. His position should be the one to unite them but instead it sets him aside from all of them. There's hardly been a time in his life where he's felt this lonely. Sometimes Sam keeps him company, but more often than not he spends his days with Gilly and Dany in the library, looking for ways to defeat an enemy that half of the men don't even believe exists. 

Meanwhile, Jon's doomed to read stupid reports about the condition of the Wall, or that one of the horses is lame, or that there's a hole in the roof of the King's Tower that keeps popping open no matter how many times they fix it. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. Two long breaths. In and out. Then he reaches for pen and ink to write down instructions for another repair, when suddenly his door bursts open. 

“He is here!” Edd gasps, one hand pressed to his ribs. “Your king brother, he's here!”

Immediately, Jon's out of his chair. “You're sure?!”

“He just rode through the gate.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Jon snaps.

Edd frowns. “I'm telling you right now?”

“Why didn't anyone blow the damn horn?” 

At that, Edd only shrugs as Jon rushes outside, forgoing his cloak in the process. On hurried steps he leaves his chambers and climbs down the stairs. It's surprisingly quiet in the Castle's courtyard for how packed it is. Filled with people; brothers of the Night's Watch and northern soldiers alike. But only two are engrossed in a lively conversation. Jon catches sight of them and stops in his haste.

The first thing he sees are their smiles: Robb's, a little crooked but easy and charming and Daenerys', so beautiful, and something Jon has missed painfully since the last time he saw it. 

There are no fancy gowns or brilliant jewellery. Both are dressed in heavy fur, their hair slightly dishevelled by the cold wind, and still they look regal together. Robb's curls are long, almost shabby, his jaw covered in a thick reddish beard but he has the stand and confidence of a king. It matches Daenerys' current queenly demeanour. And here, with this confrontation, Jon is reminded again of what it is he's so terribly lacking. 

But then they both raise their heads. Daenerys' smile falters, but Robb's remains in place. It resounds in his voice when he calls to him, “there you are!”

And just like that, any resentment, jealousy, or whatever other grudge has arisen inside Jon vanishes into thin air. It makes it all so irrelevant. It's the effect Robb has on people. Another thing he and Dany seem to have in common. Being so honest and warm and welcoming, he wishes for both of them to glance at him like this, but Jon takes what he gets. Right now that is a friendly face, looking his way.

Neither brother hesitates when he reaches the end of the stairwell and they embrace in a heartfelt hug that knocks the air out of their lungs. 

“Seven, it's good to see you,” Robb tells him.

“Aye,” Jon returns. “It's good to see you too.”

“All in black,” Robb laughs as he detaches himself, holding Jon by his shoulders. “You’ve come a long way.”

“So have you, Your Grace,” Jon replies. Then, with a soft smirk of his own, he looks past Robb at his other companions. 

He spots Grey Wind and Ghost prance around each other, happily reunited, near the tunnel leading to the other side of the Wall. The Greatjon Umber stands next to Bowen Marsh surveying the condition of the King's Tower, causing Jon to cringe involuntarily. Beside them he sees Theon Greyjoy, quietly joking along with another man who's wearing House Mallister’s silver eagle on his chest. Besides that, there are no familiar faces.

As if sensing his gaze, Greyjoy meets his eyes and his smile turns into his typical sneer. Jon knows from experience whatever might leave his mouth next will not be to his liking. Pushing out his chest, he straightens and prepares for the insult, when he hears him say, “oi, Snow!” 

But nothing more gets a chance to come past his lips. 

A sharp hiss cuts through the air, before all of a sudden a burst of fire shoots over their heads, followed by Rhaegal and Aemax, racing each other across the courtyard. The northern soldiers jump and crouch down, Greyjoy among them. While all the black brothers remain standing, grinning broadly. 

Jon feels the corners of his mouth twitch as well. His gaze drifts back to Dany, who is scratching Viserion under his chin like a cat, rarely involved in his siblings' shenanigans. They’re all far too big now to sit on Daenerys' shoulder, so he's taken a seat on one of the nearby barrels, pressing his head into her palm as she feels Jon's glance and turns. 

It pulls like a weight in his stomach to watch her expression change. And yet he cannot look away, no matter how much it hurts. She stares at him, her gaze filled with pain and anger and the hint of yearning. The anguish he feels is surely reflected in his own face too. Until he notices the hand on his shoulder squeezing him. 

“Let's have a jug of that famous beer uncle Benjen mentioned so often,” Robb suggests. “Shall we?”

And so Jon nods because suddenly, his throat feels too tight to give a proper answer in return.

In the dimly lit room of his chamber, they sit across from each other, his oak desk between them. At first, the topics remain light, memories from the past or funny anecdotes from the time since they left home. It feels good to laugh. No one is eager to talk about the horrors they've faced on their individual journeys. 

Edd brings them a huge jug of ale for them to share and Jon has to give it to his brother, because he doesn't make a face at the first sip. Instead Robb is the one who says, “so, how come you look even more sour than you did back in the day?” 

Jon can’t help but snort, “commanding a pack of stubborn fools does that to you, I’m afraid.”

It makes them both chuckle. “Aye, how true.” Robb leans back in his chair. “Then tell me, how can I help? Because that’s why I’m here, right? To help you, since I failed the last time you asked me to come.”

“I need you now more than ever,” Jon sighs. The previous ease of their chat leaves him. Folding his hands, he taps his thumbs against each other nervously. “Though you'll think me mad with what I'm about to tell you.”

“I saw the three dragons flying above my head,” Robb keeps smirking. “I think my imagination is sufficient for your request.” 

And so, with a deep breath, Jon launches into his tale. 

It’s not an easy thing to begin with but he forces himself to give as many details as possible, starting with the night Commander Mormont was attacked, when Dany killed Othor, ending with the battle at Castle Black against the Wildlings. “Many of them have fled back north. To Hardhome,” he explains. “We have to get them before the Others do. For that, I need ships and land for them to settle on, once we get them to the other side of the Wall.”

As he speaks, Robb's posture shifts away from amusement. “So you're saying that there's an army of undead men marching south? And we have to fight them when the time comes?”

“I told you it sounds like madness.” 

“Aye, you were right. It does sound like that.” His auburn brows furrow as he processes the words. “It sounds like one of those stories the Old Nan used to tell us, that ended with Rickon sleeping in my bed for a week.”

They both grin at the memory but Jon’s tone remains serious. “I wish it were just another story, but it's the truth. They're coming.”

“And that land you want for the Wildlings is The Gift, I suppose?” Robb asks and Jon nods. 

“Well, then let me ease your mind. You shall have it.”

“Just like that?” 

He trusts Robb with his life. Without doubt, if it were only about the two of them, they would give each other the shirt off their backs. But he’s named Lord Commander and his brother is a king. Neither of them is only responsible for themselves. That’s why it feels strange for Robb to give this so freely when half his subjects will start a riot because of this decision. Jon senses there's more to this generosity. “What is it you want in return?”

Robb clicks his tongue and fills their cups anew. “I gave my hand in marriage for a bridge. I don't have to hesitate about land and ships I have no need for?”

“And yet there’s something you want.” The more he’s talking, the more it’s evident to Jon that there’s a hidden agenda.

Robb pauses, places the pitcher back on the table, and his grin fades. They both wait for the other to continue as they lean back in their chairs. 

“Fine, have it your way,” Robb breaks the silence first. He licks his lips, buying himself a moment. “I want your dragons.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “You… the dragons?!”

“You heard me right.” Robb moves closer, resting both arms back on the table. “I need them. It’s the only way to end the damn war.” He racks a hand through his wild mane, letting his curls bounce. “Theon’s uncle is about to attack the Iron Islands. The Lannisters might be busy now, dealing with the Dornish and these religious fanatics down in King’s Landing but it’s only a matter of time until they look back north.” Robb sighs, “we can push them back. But we cannot defeat them. Those dragons, they can make the difference.”

“It's not my decision to make,” Jon replies. “If anything, Dany may be the one to–”

But Robb interrupts him, a knowing glint in his blue eyes. “I'm sure you’ll find a way to convince your woman.”

The words make Jon startle immediately.

Obviously, it is not the reaction Robb has hoped for. All colour drains from Jon’s face. He gapes at his brother, pale and shocked, his pulse picks up speed as more blood pumps to his heart, “my… she’s not…”

Robb stares back in irritation before he lowers his voice, “but it is your child she’s carrying, right?”   

His throat feels dry again as he tries to swallow the new lump that has formed there. Jon stammers, “what… what makes you think that?” 

Instead of an answer, he only gets another question in return, “is it not?” 

Which is enough to render him speechless. His jaw clenches involuntarily, Jon gets up, pacing the room. He places a hand in front of his mouth while he struggles to process the revelation. Then he stops. “Who else knows about this?”

“I thought it pretty obvious,” Robb returns almost casually and thus makes him lose the ground from underneath his feet. 

Jon slumps back into his chair, choking on his words. “How do you know about this?” Which is as good as a confession. 

Robb tilts his head with a hint of pity in his glance. “It wasn't a hard guess with the way you looked at each other. It can't be that surprising?” 

Mayhaps it shouldn't be, but it is. It's like another punch. Like a slap in his face. “But nobody said anything. Nobody accused me. If they all know, they should have claimed my head!” Jon speaks without a pause. “This is oathbreaking,” he goes on in a whisper, “this is treason.” 

At this, Robb's expression turns even more confused. “Do you want to be punished?” 

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you so shocked?” 

“What do you mean?”

And then he lays everything before him on the table. “I mean that they didn't say a thing about her being a Targaryen princess? I mean they didn't say anything about her being a woman? One must be blind not to notice that and still they didn't say anything for years. They chose to look past the obvious.”

“You know who she is?!” Jon gasps.

“Brother, she birthed three dragons, for fuck’s sake. She has silver hair and violet eyes. She is what, about eighteen years old? I'm not stupid.”  

No , Jon thinks, I am.  

With shaking hands, he reaches across the table, takes his jug of ale and drowns its content in one go. Then fills himself another one and drinks that one too. Only afterwards, he meets Robb's gaze. “How could I be so blind?” 

“Not blind but evidently foolish.” Robb grins in compassion. “An honourable fool, at least.”

And without saying it, they’re both thinking of the man who last held that title. Their father’s approval had once meant everything to Jon. Every rule of his, every wisdom, he had taken to heart. Is that what made him act like such a fool?

“Robert knew for twenty years of marriage that his wife was bedding her brother behind his back,” Robb continues. “He said nothing. Even with three bastards who looked nothing like himself he kept his mouth shut because he knew about the consequences. Our father found out about the fact, and two moons later, he had his head on a spike. Few men in this world care about honesty the way he did.”

A man must stand by his word, because it's what honour demands. No matter the cost. That is what Ned Stark used to tell them and Jon held on to this, to make the man proud, even in his grave. It's hard to set that aside. And even harder to accept that maybe it's not the only way to go. 

Just the mere thought lets his frustration boil over. “What else do they care about then? If words mean nothing?”

Robb hesitates in his response. A shadow clouds his eyes, a sad smile traces his lips. “Bravery, I guess? Loyalty… justice? Words are not nearly as valuable as a man's actions. Don't you agree?”

How could he not? And yet Jon doesn't reply but keeps gazing out of the window, suddenly lost in his thoughts. 

The sun is slowly setting. The guard on top of the Wall must change now any minute or it has already happened. Most of the men are probably at dinner. He wonders if Daenerys is with them. If she laughs more freely since he’s not there to witness it. Whether she misses him despite all her anger.

“You love her, don't you?” Robb breaks through the silence. 

“More than anything,” Jon confesses. It feels good to admit it. Even if it doesn't make any difference. 

His brother seems to disagree. “Then stop being stubborn and don’t let her get away.” 

“I cannot be with her, Robb. Not like that.”

“Why not?”

Eventually, Jon's gaze returns to his companion, and he sighs deeply. “Because I'm a bloody bastard, that's why. She's a princess and I'm a damn bastard. Even without the restrictions of the Watch, there is nothing I can give her. No name. No land. Only shame and derision.” 

“I could make you a Stark, name you my heir,” Robb leans forward, determination in his eyes. 

At first Jon thinks it’s a cruel joke but one look at his brother proves that he’s serious. And he doesn’t know what to say. For all his life this has been his dream, to be a true Stark. It is his wish handed on a silver platter and all he has to do is reach for it. But something’s holding him back. 

Jon shakes his head. “It's not that simple.”

“But it could be.”

“We swore an oath.” His shoulders tense, and he clenches his fists. 

“Then I'm going to release you from it.” 

With that, he loses his patience. “Do you even hear what you're saying?! It's not that simple.” 

“But, it is!” Robb responds with matching vigour. “There is this person you love and she clearly loves you back and yet you cling to some false honour–”

“Being with me will ruin her, can't you see? Even if you name me Stark, I was born a bastard. I have to protect her.” His breath comes out heavily, every word tastes like venom. “Wouldn’t you do the same for the woman you love? Wouldn't you hide what you have if exposure means only one thing and that is public humiliation?” 

Jon's fuming but he halts as he watches the heat rise to his brother’s cheeks. Quickly, Robb avoids his gaze and lowers his eyes to the floor. The sight is foreign and yet so familiar, the shame so obvious. It’s been a while since the last time he’d seen it, back when they were children. When Robb and Theon had pulled some mischief and got caught by Lady Catelyn or another member of the household. 

It eases Jon's irritation, replacing it with sympathy. “What have you done?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Robb says bitterly. “This isn’t about me.” 

With a sharp exhale he sits up from his hunched position and looks back at Jon. “Just let me say this, I know that you're scared. Loving someone like this is scary. And becoming a father might be the scariest thing in the world. But you said there's an army of dead people coming for us.” Leaning back again, his gaze remains steady. “It seems like there is no time to waste when there’s so little we have left. ”

It's not that simple, Jon wants to yell back again but bites his tongue at the last second. Because deep down he thinks that maybe Robb has a point. 

She can hear the wind howling outside of her window, but inside her chamber Daenerys feels nothing of the cold. The room is heated up, even though the logs in the hearth are barely glowing anymore. But a place full of dragons doesn't need fire to keep up the temperature. 

Her gaze shifts to her three children, sleeping on the floor, and a sigh escapes her lips. They’re nearly as large as shadow cats now, huddled together, eyes closed in their slumber. Their scales gleam dully in the low light, and the room is filled with the soft sound of their slow, rhythmic purrs. It won't be long until they're too big to sleep within her quarter. As it is now, they’re very much stacked on top of each other. 

“Then it will be just the three of us,” she murmurs. 

Tenderly she cradles her round belly, trying to calm the restless stirrings within her womb. She might get annoyed by it sometimes in the future. At least that's what Gilly predicted after she discovered that there were not one but two children growing inside of her. But Daenerys hasn’t reached that point yet. She revels in the sensation of her babies moving within her, it's like the greatest miracle she's ever experienced and she literally walked out of fire. 

“My two little miracles,” she coos, incapable of keeping her joy in check.

Whenever she has a moment to herself, she feels a smile stealing its way onto her face. Thorne chides her incessantly. Her brothers shake their heads whenever they catch her. But she just can't help herself. She’s happy, even with all the danger around them. Even though she should feel scared. Or vulnerable. Or tired. But with her children, for her children, she feels stronger than ever.  

Yet, amid her euphoria, her thoughts always drift to Jon. He is the dark cloud looming over her happiness and the prospect of what might happen once her children are born. Instinctively, she hugs her belly more tightly. “Nothing will ever happen to you two, I promise.” 

As if to assure her, Aemax raises her head. 

Her red eyes stare at Dany from across the room, shimmering like the rubies on Dark Sister's pommel. Daenerys seeks comfort in the sight. Over the past few months, their bond has grown intensely, their souls entwined. It soothes her, when she struggles. It grounds her, when she's angry. She smiles at Aemax. And her dragon blinks back, as if she understands. 

Then a sudden commotion interrupts her thoughts. Someone’s arguing outside in the hall. The voices grow louder. Sitting up in her bed, her brow furrows as she begins to recognize who’s speaking and her good mood fizzles out like hot smoke in the wind. She really doesn’t want to deal with him right now. Yet it seems that she has to. 

Tonight, Jon appears to be very much persistent. 

Daenerys approaches the door quietly, all three dragons lifting their heads. No doubt Ghost came along and that’s why they're suddenly buzzing with excitement. Dany places a finger to her lips but it is of no use. Viserion is the first to start wagging his tail like an over-enthusiastic puppy, and quickly his siblings join him. Rhaegal sends a chair flying against the wall. Aemax puts a thick notch in their cupboard. 

“Be careful… troublemakers,” Dany adds under her breath. 

“I know you're awake,” Jon insists right after that, his voice blooming from the other side of her door. 

With another last and very disapproving glance at her dragons, she straightens up and brushes down her wrinkled chemise. Apparently, she won't be able to sit this out, so she best get it over with. Taking a deep breath, her chin held high, she opens the door and asks harshly, “what is it?”

Both men in front of her seem taken aback by her tone. Only the wolf stays unimpressed by her rudeness. He licks her chin in greeting, before squeezing past her and then he pounces on her scaled children, who all start flapping their wings. More objects get tossed across the room. Daenery tries to appear unconcerned. 

Keeping her face stern, she raises her brows. “What do you want?”

“I need to speak with you,” Jon says, then glares at Ser Alliser, “alone.”

“Not gonna happen,” the knight replies.

“Are you disobeying my order?” Jon snarls back, obviously eager to have this confirmed.

Daenerys won't let that happen. She steps aside, indicating for Jon to enter. When Thorne tries to protest, she just raises her hand. “It’s alright.” Her head tilts in the direction of her dragons who sadly look momentarily unthreatening, purring contentedly while Ghost showers them with sloppy kisses. Her sworn protector only grunts as he takes back his previous position and she shuts the door, turning to face Jon.

But he doesn’t meet her eyes. Wrapped in his thick black fur, his appearance makes her painfully aware of her own current state of undress, so she crosses her arms in front of her chest. It also makes her realise that since the night of his election, they haven't been alone together. They haven't touched each other. They haven't done anything but glare at each other or fight. His current silence becomes quite unnerving. 

Clearing her throat, she tries to regain his attention. “I was already in bed, so…” 

At that, he finally looks at her. Though when his glance finds hers, her breath gets caught, because she's suddenly met with a tenderness, she’s never known eyes could be able to hold. All his emotions laid bare, shining brightly back at her. She can see them all: anger, regret, fear. The guilt is the worst and obviously the dominant one. And her heart stops, then jumps, making it hard to breathe.  

“What do you want, Jon,” she repeats in a quivering voice.

At that he blinks and shakes himself, wiping the expression from his face. “I, um, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh.” She hadn't reckoned with that. Disappointment settles in her stomach as he tells her his plans. 

“Robb provides the ships you requested. They’re on their way to Eastwatch. We'll ride there tomorrow. Me and Tormund and ten other men.” He avoids her eyes as if he cannot bear looking at her any longer and Daenerys finds it equally tough to have him this close. “Robb will take care of The Gift, so that there's a place for the families when we lead them through the Wall. I think…” Jon hesitates, swallows, and adds, “it would be good if you could assist him in this.”

“Of course,” Daenerys agrees. It comes out thin, emotionless. Her shoulders fall, as she begins to grasp his intentions to speak with her. He’s not here to apologise. He's here to give instructions. “How long will you be gone?”  

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, his gaze fixed on her dragons and Ghost. “One moon to get us to Hardhome, then maybe three more, since we have to walk back on foot from Eastwatch with all those people.”

“That means… you won’t be here when the children are born?” The words slip out of her mouth before she can stop them. She should be relieved, but she is not. Contrary to all previous logic, she feels panicked about his absence.

A feeling reflected on Jon’s face when he gaps, “children?”

She gives him a small nod and he pales instantly. Raising his hands, his palm placed overtop his mouth, his face droops in concentration. And Dany just stands there and waits for another outburst, like when she told him about her pregnancy. 

But it doesn’t come. 

Instead, he blows out a breath, meets her eyes and then… he smiles. 

It’s wobbling and tiny and she’s not even fully convinced that it’s there. Until it grows when he asks, “so, twins? Are you sure?”

“Aye,” she whispers. “I am.”

Jon takes one step closer and her heart begins to race. There's a whiff of his scent that tickles her nose and she shivers. Anticipation builds inside her as she wants him to touch her and she hates herself for wanting that but she does so regardless. As if her heart has a mind of its own. Hope begins to bloom at his expression. Hope that he changed his mind. Because she cannot deny how much she’s missed him, even when she cannot forget what he did. 

“I don't know if I can forgive you,” she blurts out, making him stop before he walks closer. 

Jon looks like he understands at least that. “What can I do?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Of course, she knows where it came from. After all they’ve been through, after everything they’ve shared, she needs no explanation for why he did what he did. Sometimes she thinks she knows his fears even better than he does so himself. Those that stem from loss and let downs. He never allowed himself to want something only for himself. But only knowing this does not lessen her pain. 

“How can I trust you again? You tried to send me away, you said–”

“I tried to protect you,” he breathes. “I will always protect you, Dany.” 

“But I don't want your protection.” All the pent-up frustration boils over once more. “I can protect myself just fine, even though nobody believes it.” 

“I know you can, but…” Before raising his voice any further, Jon exhales, then crosses the final distance between them. Instead of looking at him, she lowers her gaze, but he continues anyway. “I love you so much. Don't you see that? Every cut, every bruise, even all this misery, I will endure it. I’d throw my last punch protecting you if that means you are safe.”

“Is that truly what you want?”

“That is all I want.” He pinches her chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. It’s a risky gesture. Because actually, he’s not in a position to make demands but she still lets him guide her.

“It is not what I want,” she says as she meets his eyes. And it’s there in his proximity where her armour shatters. “All I wanted was your support, Jon. Ever since we’ve known each other, you're pulling me behind you. But I want you standing beside me.” 

“I can't,” he says. “I can't bear to think something's gonna happen to you.”

“Then there's nothing more to say.”

Immediately, he drops his hand and takes a step back. The silence lingers, while he seems to hope that she will change her mind. Just as she hopes that he will finally act as he’d promised, back when they were still with the Free Folk, when he gave her the necklace, when he promised her his love. 

But with every passing second, it seems less and less likely. Eventually, Jon tightens his jaw and turns. As if on cue, Ghost gets up as well. 

Daenerys feels the tears blotting along her lower lashes. Her chest aches. Placing a hand on her belly, she tries to calm down but the kicking of her children only increases, making the pain worse. As if they desperately want to make their presence known to their father, now so close within reach. And so close to leaving them for who knows how long. 

When Jon grabs the door’s handle, Daenerys is about to stop him. No matter what she said before, she doesn't want them to part like this. She opens her mouth but then shuts it just as quickly. Because what can she say? He watches her, brows knit together, lips curling inwards. As he speaks, his voice sounds utterly defeated. “You have command of Castle Black until I return.”

That's the last thing he says, before he steps through the door. 

And then he is gone.

“I didn’t even wish him safe travels,” she sighs, her gaze fixed on the vast expanse that stretches out before her. 

The chilly air fills her lungs as she looks out over the edge of the Wall. Her dragons glide gracefully above the snow-covered landscape. Their wings beat in unison, a sight that usually brings her joy, but not today. It's been too long, nearly three months, and her worry for Jon is now too much to bear. It torments her constantly. At the same time, the impending birth weighs heavily on her body. She's grown so fat that she feels on the verge of exploding.

Rubbing her lower back, she tries to ease the pain that started spreading there a few hours ago. It doesn't help much. Maybe it's time to lie down again. Sam told her that she shouldn't stand for too long, but in her current state, it's impossible to sit still. Nervous energy rushes through her body like water rushes through the Mander. 

“I’m sure he doesn’t mind,” Robb tries to comfort her. “I'm sure he's alright.”

Melisandre used to tell her the same, “bisa iksos daor zȳhon mōris, issa dārilaros. Nyke ūndan ziry isse se perzyssy. (This is not his end, my princess. I saw it in the flames.)”  

Yet her uncle Aemon's rebuke will forever be stuck in her ear. Only fools put all their faith in prophecy. Facts are what helps people make wise decisions. And so she's left with the question what to do when all facts are against you. Simply give up? Sadly Aemon's not here to give her an answer. And neither is Melisandre, now on her way to Volantis to seek guidance from her god in his chosen temple. 

“Hey,” Robb nudges her shoulder. “He’s stubborn enough to make it back, if only to prove that his idea wasn't a bad one.”

That makes her grin. “He's indeed very stubborn.”

“Something you two have in common, I think.” Robb chuckles, and for a moment, she joins him. It seems they both need that.

As it turns out, he too carries some burdens, heavier than his toothy grins suggest. Perhaps that's why he's stayed at Castle Black instead of returning to Winterfell. Why he rather works from here, planning the arrival of the Wildings. He says it’s mostly to get a break from his mother, but Daenerys suspects it’s more about getting a break from his kingdom. 

She doesn't mind, though. She enjoys his company. They work well together. He challenges her but always treats her with respect. He's been honest with her from the start, that he knows who she is and whose children she's carrying. It made their communication a lot easier.

“Rumour has it that Harrion Karstark is about to rebel against my crown,” Robb says then, staring into the distance. “When, in fact, the Umbers should be the first to complain since Last Hearth is much closer to The Gift than Karhold.”

“The Greatjon is loyal to you,” Dany replies, clenching her jaw. “And from what I've heard, Karstark is a fool.”

“He is. Harrion is still angry about his father but there was no other choice,” Robb sighs. 

“You didn't–” Another pinch in her back forces her to lean against the nearest post with a groan. “Tell me, what made you do it?”

“The beheading?” When Robb meets her eyes, he frowns at her. “Are you sure you're alright?” She simply waves him off, urging him to go on with his story. This is not the first time this has happened, even if not as intensively. But she’s grateful for the distraction and grateful when Robb continues. “He killed two of my prisoners. Two Lannister boys, to avenge his own sons who’d died in battle.”

Dany shakes her head. “He shouldn't have done that.”

“No, he shouldn't,” Robb agrees. “One of them was twelve. The other only ten. Who kills two defenceless boys and thinks this is justice?”

She studies his profile before she says with a shallow breath, “that is what kings and queens are made for, isn’t it? To protect the ones who can't protect themselves.”

One corner of Robb’s mouth twitches as he looks at her sideways. “Some kings make themselves though. Mance Rayder did. Robert did too." 

“Mance didn't name himself king, he was chosen by his people. But Robert took something he had no right to take. He was no true king,” she returns. “He protected no one but himself and even that he did poorly.”

“And you would? Protect all those who can't?” Robb raises his brows challengingly.

“We're trying already, are we not?” She straightens up and lifts her chin, attempting to mask the pain etched across her features. “The shield that guards the realms of men.” 

“But you could do more,” Robb states. He turns to copy her pose, watching her instead of the landscape.

With a certain guess what he's getting at, Dany says, “but we're not talking about this again.” She's in no state for this discussion. It's a wasted effort for them both anyway.

Considering that he’s asked her too many times by now, to help him defeat his enemies and to ride Aemax into battle against Euron Greyjoy and the Lannisters. She will always give him the same reply. She cannot leave the Watch. She cannot leave her home. She needs to stay here with her children and help prepare the fight against the Others. 

What she doesn't say, but doesn't have to, is that she cannot leave Jon. 

“Believe it or not, it's not what I had in mind,” the King in the North returns. “You're a great leader. You understand your subjects. That's the only point I was trying to make.”

An important point but she doesn't say that either. Because she refrains from criticising Jon in front of his brother. But she knows that this is what separated him again from all of them, his lack of understanding.

No matter how hard he tries to fulfil his duty as their new commander, they remain a bunch of criminals to him; dangerous and untrustworthy. It doesn't matter that only a handful of them have actually committed a crime. Most chose the black because there was no other place for them in this world, like Jon did himself. Like Benjen did. Or Sam. Or Pyp. Or Grenn. Even her uncle Aemon. And many more.

Daenerys knows all these men and their stories. That they resorted to theft out of hunger, not greed, and violence was often a retaliation for past harm. This isn't an excuse, but it is an explanation. An explanation Jon has little sympathy for. Because he expects them all to do better. But how can they when they've never had the kind of guidance that he had?

“Thank you,” Dany tells Robb eventually. “I'm sure not everyone agrees so I appreciate the encouragement.” 

A new wave of pain rolls in as her eyes flick over to Thorne, who stands a few steps beside them, stoic as ever, sulking in silence. He’s pissed because she ignored his advice and sent away their brothers to man the other castles along the Wall. Only those she does not trust and those eager to prove their capabilities. This is their chance. But if the wildlings attack them now, they’re greatly outnumbered. 

Ser Alliser didn't try to hide how he felt about this, but he is not in charge. She is. And so, one night after supper, she stopped on their way back to her chamber and reminded him. 

“You might have forgotten, but I'm not a bastard. I'm not a boy. I'm a grown woman and about to become a mother. I'm supposed to be a queen. And you are sworn to me, it's not the other way round, so stop telling me what to do or I’ll find myself some other champion.”

Ever since then, he hasn’t spoken a word, but remains at his post, offended and silent. She hates that they’re fighting, but she won’t apologise. Deep down she knows that she’s right. And so they cease to speak to each other until one of them relents. Which won’t be her, that's for sure.  

In fact, none of them says anything until they decide to take the lift back down. She feels the cold metal shudder as it begins its descent. The pain in her lower back intensifies, making her grip the side of the lift tightly. She takes a deep breath, tries to push it aside, but it's becoming increasingly difficult.

As they step out into the bustling courtyard, they see a crowd has gathered. A tall man stands in their middle with a distinctive white beard and grizzled hair. Dany is about to yell at them why the fuck no one blew the damn horn, but Thorne beats her to it. Unable to remain silent, he storms forward. Surprisingly though, it’s not their brothers causing his anger. 

“You, traitor!” he snarls, grabbing the newcomer by his collar. 

The argument between the two men escalates quickly, and even when Dany tells them to stop, they don’t hear her or choose to ignore her command. Robb stands by her side, his face marked with concern. He has his hand over hers, where she’s clutching his arm. At some point she has reached for him. She doesn't know when. No longer able to conceal her pain, her expression contorts with agony. It feels like forever until it finally subsides.  

“Let’s go find Sam,” Robb says calmly, even when his grip betrays that he is anything but. 

Dany just nods. She knows what's about to happen without either of them saying it out loud. 

And then, when she takes a cautious step towards the library, she feels a sudden gush of water between her legs. They both look down, then up again, back at each other. As it seems Ser Alliser's old acquaintance is not the only arrival for today at the Wall.

Chapter Text

Previously…

After three weeks of travelling, Jon and his companions finally arrive at Hardhome to negotiate with the clan leaders. Unfortunately though, it doesn't go as planned. The Wildlings still bear a grudge against Jon and blame him for Mance's death. Tormund has to stand up for him and explains that killing Mance was an act of mercy. After that, Jon offers to share the dragonglass weapons that he, Ghost and Dany found at the Fist of the First Men. He also allows the clans to settle on land south of the Wall if they promise to aid the Night's Watch in the battles ahead against their common foe. 

Five thousand Wildlings agree while the rest decide to stay behind, though Tormund hopes more will come around with time.

Suddenly, as they’re preparing to leave, the camp is attacked by an army of undead. After a desperate attempt, it becomes clear that fighting them is futile. While some, including Jon, Tormund, and Edd, manage to escape to the safety of their ships, the rest of the encampment is ruthlessly slaughtered. As the survivors retreat beyond the shoreline, a group of Others emerges on top of a hill nearby, using their dark magic to reanimate the fallen as Wights. Jon sails away, looking on in terror, as he watches the whole scene from his position on the boat. 

He knows what he just witnessed is merely a prelude to what is coming for all of Westeros. 

Meanwhile, at the Wall, Dany goes into labor, with Gilly and Sam by her side. The Night's Watch, along with Robb and his northern soldiers, anxiously await the outcome. Ser Alliser's worries for her, which leads to more tensions and arguments between him and his old comrade, Ser Barristan Selmy, who recently arrived at Castle Black, whilst Ghost and the dragons stand guard by Dany's door.

Thankfully, there are no complications. After sixteen arduous hours, a baby boy and a baby girl are born, followed by a big celebration at the castle’s great hall. But Daenerys is too exhausted to join them. Even in the subsequent weeks she has little time to do anything other than look after her children and wait for Jon's return. 

One and a half months go by until he and the others make it back to the north side of Castle Black on foot, where they’re welcomed by Robb. He orders the gates to be opened and then sets off with Tormund towards the Gift to show him and his people where they’re about to live, while Jon stays behind, overseeing the crossing to ensure the safe passage of all those who survived Hardhome.

Heavy snow falls down upon them as they watch the procession of Wildlings trudging through the courtyard. Jon’s muscles ache, he’s dead on his feet. He's hungry, exhausted and barely able to stay awake but he has to. It’s the least he can do after he's failed so terribly in his mission. 

“You didn’t fail him,” Sam says, nodding in the direction of a man passing them by. “Or her. Everyone of them is here because of you.”

It doesn't feel like that.  

It feels like sheer luck that any of them made it out of there alive. He almost didn't make it back either and it hurts to think of what he would have left behind.

His gaze drifts upwards to the top of the stairs and the door to his chambers, now guarded by not one but two anointed knights. Thorne maintains his grim demeanour, but Selmy gives him a small, almost encouraging smile, yet full of pity, like a benevolent grandfather. 

He's been the childhood hero of Jon's little brother Bran. Ser Barristan the Bold they used to call him, the greatest living knight within the whole Seven Kingdoms. But not even his presence will make any difference. 

Beside him, Sam nudges Jon gently. “You should go see her.” 

He shakes his head. Guilt and failure bears down on him enough as it is. “I don’t think she wants to see me. If she did, she'd have come out to greet us, wouldn't she?”

“Maybe she’s sleeping?”

“Then I'd best not disturb her.” 

“But don’t you want to see them?” Sam turns to Jon, his round face etched with empathy, and still his words feel like a knife pierced through his heart. 

“Of course, I do.” It's all he's thought about since leaving. 

Though he keeps this to himself and diverts his gaze to watch their brothers close the gate after the last Wilding has passed. At least this task has been successful. Now, Jon needs to rest, presumably in Dany's old room. She needs the space, thus she should stay in his. Hers must be empty. Yet Jon doesn't move.

He stays rooted to the spot and turns his gaze back towards the Lord Commander’s quarters. If only he could find the courage to walk up there. Just to see them, if only for a second. To see her again, despite the inevitable pain. He knows that among all his failures, he's failed her the most. 

“Just go,” Sam tells him softly.

“I don't want to intrude,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the wind. 

“She'll let you know if she doesn't want you there.” Sam inches closer and lowers his voice. “Go on and meet your children.” 

What's holding you back?

For a brief moment, Jon closes his eyes, exhales sharply, and releases a visible cloud of breath into the air. Strangely enough, he was less nervous facing an army of corpses. 

When Daenerys wakes up, she feels surprisingly well rested. A deep, satisfying yawn escapes her as she stretches. The tension in her muscles slowly unwinds. Her lips brush against her daughter’s soft tuft of hair, the tiny face nuzzled into the crook of her neck. 

She smiles as she gives her a kiss, careful not to wake her. Then she forces her eyes to open and startles.

Jon blinks back from the other side of the bed, staring at her after all these months of absence, while he cradles their son on his chest, the child’s fist clutching one of his father’s damp curls. It must have been snowing again, considering the drops of water drying in Jon’s hair and on his leather. He looks worn out and tired. There's dirt smudged on his skin. 

A haunted expression marks his features when he peers up at her, as if he's afraid of getting scolded any second. “I came to check on you but you were sleeping and he started to grizzle. So I… I can go now if you want–”

“No!” she interrupts him, perhaps a bit too loudly, causing both babies to stir. “I mean, no,” she amends in a whisper.

The air feels strange between them, less angry but still tense and uncertain. She says nothing more but just studies him closely. Slowly understanding settles that this is not a dream. With that another rush of emotions floods her. He’s really back, safe and sound beside her.  A heavy weight lifts off of her, while her fingers itch to reach out and touch him. “When did you return?”

“At dawn,” Jon says with a strain in his voice, once his gaze falls back on the slumbering child lying on top of him. 

She watches them, takes in Jon’s look, so full of devotion, and compares their resemblance. They share the same dark curls and the same nose and even their eyes match. And Dany’s heart swells with seeing this so plainly before her. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears and so do Jon’s, though his are filled with heartfelt sadness. 

“I’m sorry. Gods, Dany, I’m so sorry. If you had listened to me then–” His voice breaks and without thinking she lifts her hand and gives his arm a squeeze. 

“It’s alright,” she assures him.

And she means it. She feels his pain but the truth is, she still loves him, too much to blame him for anything in this moment. He sniffs, closes his eyes and presses his face against their son's head. Some part of her yearns to draw closer. She doesn't do it. Even when she desires an end to their fighting, she wants something more meaningful for them. And to forgive him is not the same as forgetting what he did. He broke her heart. Their truce remains fragile.

“Have you named them yet?” Jon asks, glancing back at her. 

She nods. “Nymeria and Daeron.”

He smiles back, a soft and genuine smile, and they both know why. 

“We always pretended to be the Young Dragon,” he’d told her, one of those early nights patrolling the Wall. 

“One of the greatest,” Daenerys had answered, beyond excited that this new boy seemed to share so many of her heroes. “I always pretended to be Nymeria of Ny Sar.”

At that Jon's eyes had gone wide. Obviously, he hadn't shared her enthusiasm about that, “my sister's wolf is named that. A strange choice for a boy, is it not?”

They both chuckle now, thinking back to that time. “It should have been the first thing to make me suspicious.”

“Just so you know, Nymeria was a great leader and is a splendid role model for both boys or girls,” Daenerys retorts with a grin and gives their daughter another kiss on top of her chubby little fingers. 

There's a subtle crinkle at the corners of Jon’s eyes. “Can’t argue with that.” Then he watches them cuddle for a bit, while he keeps stroking over Daeron’s back. When Dany lifts her head, she sees a soft, lingering sparkle in his glance, but sadly it remains overshadowed by worry. 

“So all went well?” His look shifts from their children back to her face. 

She gives him another curt nod, “it did.” 

And to reassure him, she shares with him all that has happened; from the physical part of the birth to Sam's assistance, Gilly's unwavering presence, and Robb and Thorne's management of Castle Black. Night has fallen when she’s finished, the world outside the window shrouded in a deep, calming darkness. 

“I’m glad they were here. I wondered when we arrived,” Jon says in a hushed tone, “where everybody went. The place feels deserted.”

“Because it is,” Daenerys replies while she soothes Nym’s back. Soon the baby will wake up, demanding to be fed. “I sent them away.” Then she bites her lip and waits for his reaction. He's still on the other side of the bed, still in the same position as he's been an hour ago.

“Why did you do it?” His tone carries no judgement, just curiosity.

She sighs. “I didn't want them to be here when you return. I heard them complaining . It was too high a risk to cause a dispute once the Free Folk arrived. So I sent Yarwyck to the Nightfort together with Tim. They can restore that castle together.” Jon looks impressed, so she adds with more confidence. “Marsh and Mawney I sent to Eastwatch. Let Cotter Pyke deal with them.”

“But Bowen is the castellan of this castle?”

“He was, and a lousy one at that,” Daenerys retorts. “He came to me twice in one week about the damn broken roof of the King's Tower. Even though that was his responsibility, not mine or yours! I asked Halder to fix it and he did so right away.” 

Just the moment her voice rises, a tiny whimper comes from the little person tucked to her side. And as every other day before, once his sister starts wailing, Daeron's close behind. It makes everything else around them freeze. There's no more room for any conversation, be it significant or trivial. All attempts to reconnect become secondary, as these two little things demand their full attention. 

Jon arches an eyebrow, but Daenerys merely shrugs. They're surprisingly loud for their size, but she's gotten used to it by now.

“How can I help?” he asks over his son’s piercing cries.

“I… do you know how to change him?” She's already sitting up, cradling Nymeria, and fumbling with her chemise cords. Jon nods, bowing his head. 

He wastes no time, gets up and carries Daeron across the room, his little head safely secured in Jon’s big hand. During the first few days, Gilly and Sam had assisted Dany and showed her how to clean the children and change the linen cloths wrapped around their lower bodies. But Jon appears to need no guidance. 

With practised ease, he lays their son down on the wooden table while the infant wriggles and bawls. It's quite overwhelming to watch. This skilled swordsman, trained to fight and kill, now humming softly while washing his son. She might have underestimated him. 

Dany's eyes remain fixed on this tender exchange, and perhaps Jon senses it because, a moment later, he glances over his shoulder. “Five younger siblings,” he explains.

“Right,” she replies, dumbfounded. “Of course.”

Her heart flutters. An urge inside her grows to reach out and yell across the room all the emotions that are suddenly about to explode from within her. Because this is exactly what she wanted. This is what she had in mind when she made sure he was elected. For them to be in this together. She can do it all on her own if she has to, but gods be good, it feels so much better when he’s with her. 

Unaware of her mother's sentimental moment, Nymeria grasps Dany’s breast. And amused at her daughter's impatience, she gives in. The mewling sounds stop, as does the squirming, when she begins to suckle, always extra hungry in the evenings. Daenerys’ body responds immediately, a gentle ache soothingly tender. A soft smile forms on her lips as she smooths out her daughter’s dark hair. 

When she glances back up, she finds Jon standing in the room’s centre, eyes wide and focused on where Nym is latched onto her breast. The look across his face, before he corrects it, quickens Dany's pulse. The tiniest, most wonderful reminder of another thing they loved to share. A soft blush spreads across her cheeks. 

He clears his throat and adjusts Daeron in his arms. “We’re, uh… we’re finished.” He tries to keep his eyes anywhere but her and fails. 

She licks her lips, “does this make you uncomfortable now?” 

He looks at her and then down again and back up. “Of course not. You… Are you… uncomfortable?” 

“No?” 

“Good. That's good.” His eyes stay on hers, and then, to her utter surprise a wry grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “It’s more envy than discomfort actually.” 

She can feel her blush deepen, not knowing what to say. And a matching one forms under his beard. Shyly, he averts his gaze. It's ridiculous for them to act like this, after all they've been through. But here she is regardless, turning red like a timid maiden, uncertain where they stand and what all of this means. 

Has he changed his mind? Is he here for her or just the children? Will he stay? Does she want him to stay? It's quite pleasing to see that he’s still attracted to her but is that all there is?

Her head is full with questions without answers in sight. So, for the time being, they remain silent. 

She lets Nymeria finish nursing and then takes Dae from Jon in exchange for their daughter. Once both babies are sleepy and sated, they lay them down in their cot and leave the bedroom with the door slightly ajar, moving back into the main chamber. Then they’re finally alone. No barrier between them. Nothing to distract them and nothing that lets them postpone the inevitable discussion. 

“Are you hungry?” Jon asks. 

Or maybe they can postpone it a little longer after all. 

“Famished,” Dany says. “You want to join me?” 

She points her head toward the food on the desk by the window; bread, dried meat, and cheese that someone must have brought for them. She takes the plate and carries it over to the fireplace, where Jon has laid out a rug for them to sit on. He stretches his legs, and she crosses hers beneath her body. Their hands are almost touching, resting beside them when they don't use them to eat. Their fingers lie at the same spot, with only a hair's breadth between them. Her skin tingles. It's like she can feel his touch on her but not really.

And it’s almost disturbing how much she yearns for him. How little she's able to concentrate on anything else but his proximity, realising how much she actually missed him. Not just when he'd been away on his mission but even before that. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“So, Ser Barristan Selmy,” Jon interrupts her thoughts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Only then does she realise she's been gawking at him. Quickly, Dany takes a gulp of her ale. “Right, um, yes. He arrived here the same night the children were born.”

“Is he planning to stay?” Jon holds out his hand to take a sip for himself. 

She gives him her jug and watches his throat as he swallows. “I don’t know.” Her mouth feels too dry even though she just had a drink. In order to dispel this wave of confusion, she shakes her head and sets her focus on the fire. “He said he came for me, but I have no use for him.”

“I bet Ser Alliser was thrilled to hear that.” 

“He thinks Selmy is a traitor because he didn’t take the Black… after Rhaegar fell at the Trident.” 

“And what do you think?” 

A pleasant shiver courses through her arm when Jon's fingers graze hers. She looks down, then up, meeting his gaze, his eyes twinkling even in the dimly lit room. “I think I want to trust him.”

“Then that’s what you should do.” Whether intentionally or not, his thumb strokes over her knuckle, and she draws in a breath. His fingertips are rough and calloused, yet the gesture is so tender and sweet. She really wants him to do it again, but he doesn't.

Instead, he gets up and refills their jug.

She watches him as he moves around the room. He doesn't return immediately but remains at the table for a moment, both arms braced on the wood, his head bowed, and his shoulders tense. Dany knows he's frowning, even without seeing it. 

Ghost, who until then has been sleeping by the door, looks up as well as if he’s sensing Jon's distress. And all this leaves no doubt that there are more important matters at hand that they need to discuss, matters that require a clear mind. Matters that are more important than either lust or love.

She sits up straighter when he returns and folds her hands in her lap. “I assume Hardhome didn't go as planned?”

“No,” he admits, keeps his eyes on the flames and lets out a deep, woeful breath. “No, it didn’t.”

A sinking feeling settles in her stomach. “How many came back with you?” 

“Two thousand,” he says, then takes a swig of ale, clutching the jug tightly. “But five thousand were willing to go.”

His desperation does something to her. It tugs at her heart. It's like a tiny twist, like the snap of a branch, almost imperceptible but enough to spur her into action. His pain is so evident in his voice that she doesn’t hesitate but changes her position and sits down in front of him. She sets the ale aside, then takes both of his hands in hers. “What happened?”

His eyes are glassy as they meet hers. “We cannot win this, Dany.” She can barely understand him, so quietly does he speak. “I saw them. An army like this, we don't stand a chance.”

Two sentences and it feels like the whole world has frozen from his words. “What?”

Goosebumps erupt on her arms. She shivers at the vivid picture he paints while he retells her his journey. She remembers the Fist and the horror they’ve found there. Yet what Jon describes, what he witnessed, it seems ten times worse than anything she could have ever imagined. 

“But we can’t give up?” It’s more of a question than an actual demand. 

He shakes his head. “There is no way that we can beat them.”

The fire crackles beside them. Their heavy breathing fills the room. Daenerys doesn’t let go of his hands but holds on to him, waiting for his eyes to seek hers. But as so often, he fights his battles alone. He grieves and mourns the losses all by himself, the ones that have occurred and the ones yet to come.  

“Jon,” she calls to him, lifts one hand and cups his face. 

It's then they both realise how close they are sitting. With the threat of danger, all shyness has left them. They stare at each other, with longing and pain. And with each passing heartbeat, the space between them seems to narrow. Their lips hover just out of reach and when his gaze drops to her mouth, hers does the same. 

Kiss me, she thinks. If this is the end, then just kiss me already.     

It doesn't matter whether he still feels for her the way she still feels for him. If he still loves her as deeply as when he wanted her to be his wife. She wants him so badly, it's enough for the two of them. If she were braver, she'd ask him, ask what all of this means. To him. For them. But for now, his kiss would suffice.

Because she knows something inside her will always be his. He owns that part of her. He will always own it, whether he wants it or not. 

“Jon,” she breaths. 

“I think I should go.”

It's more like a whisper and still it cuts like a scream. 

Disappointment settles over her like a mass of clouds blocking the sunrise. It shouldn't surprise her and still it hurts all the same. It doesn't make any sense. His voice is thick with regret and yet he pulls away.

Her heart clenches as she drops her hands and moves back. A gnawing emptiness opens up inside her. Desperate to avoid eye contact, she looks everywhere but at him while anger and frustration curl in her guts like a deadly snake ready to spray its venom. Maybe he'll be her first victim. A small voice in her head declares he deserves it.

As they get up and back on their feet, neither of them is able to hide what they’re feeling. He looks devastated and heartbroken. She knows she must look as if she’s going to strangle him any second.  

And it's sad that all of this feels so familiar. A force of habit that he keeps punishing himself.

“Haven't you had enough?”  

He gives her no answer.

“Alright,” Dany says bitterly, “then it might be best if you actually leave. Or maybe we should?” These are his chambers after all. 

“No, please,” Jon raises his hands. “Stay, I…” He doesn't finish the sentence, just tilts his head toward the door and takes two hesitant steps backwards. His gaze lingers on her. His shoulders slump. Then at the threshold, he pauses. 

With a voice that sounds so much softer than before, he tells her, “sleep well, Daenerys.”

Before he disappears.

As he steps into the night, his heart aches with regret. And so he manages just one stride until he halts again. His hands clasped in the back of his neck, he tips his head skywards, facing the stars. 

This doesn’t feel right. 

Snow adorns his lashes as he sighs heavily. But it brings no relief. He can’t distance himself any further. He can’t make himself descend these damn stairs in front of him, feeling an invisible rope around his chest yanking him back into that room.  

“Fuck,” he groans and slams a fist against his forehead. 

Stay, Jon, stay with me, please.

I will. I will never leave you. Never.

He’d sworn this to her the night they conceived their children. Shit, probably even the exact moment they were sired. He had promised not to leave but now he's doing just that. The way she looked at him left no doubt for what she’d felt. What she still feels for him despite all the pain he’d inflicted. She still wants him by her side and he wants her back, of course he does. 

He doesn't even know what he’s waiting for anymore.

I want you to know that if I could, I would steal you in a heartbeat. If I could, I'd ask you to marry me.

He had meant it. He’d meant every word, when he gave her that necklace. Nothing has changed in his feelings. If anything, they have tripled in the meantime. Suddenly, turning away seems impossible, so he has no choice but to turn around and beg her to forgive him. Act like he’d promised almost a year ago.

His hands start sweating and a knot forms in his chest. 

He’s scared to ruin her life and yet losing her, it scares him even more. Was this how it was for his father? Has he felt like this, when he dishonoured himself on his mother's bed?

At this moment, Jon understands what Maester Aemon had meant the day he’d left the Wall, eager to join Robb's forces, why the men of the Night’s Watch swore to never have neither wives nor children. But what is honour compared to a woman's love? Duty seems like nothing against the feel of a newborn son in his arms.

The second Jon held Daeron it was as if someone had put a spell on him. Watching Dany holding Nymeria did things to him, he never thought possible. It's been so profoundly overwhelming seeing these two little beings they’ve created. They made them. From the very first second Jon saw them, there was this urge to protect them. And to think that he had almost prevented them from being born, it makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

So what should he do now?

As the snow keeps falling, he watches the flakes blend with the stars above him. No telling what else might be out there. If unseen eyes observe him where he stands in that moment. We are only human, Maester Aemon had said, and the gods have fashioned us for love.  

Just then a strong hand grabs his shoulder and as he turns, Jon looks into the warm eyes of none other than Ser Barristan Selmy. “You alright, son?” 

No, he thinks. No, I’m not.

“Looks like the bastard is lost,” Ser Alliser sneers from somewhere nearby.

Sadly, the man speaks the truth. Because Jon is lost. Lost inside this world and lost inside his own head. 

What is right? 

What is wrong? 

Countless questions but no answer, he's lost to all of them and probably will be for the rest of his life or rather the little time they have left, unless he does something about it. 

Without her, I’ll be lost forever. 

And without them, he’ll never be happy again. 

Lips move before wits, Jon catches Selmy's gaze when he says, “would you mind looking after the children?”

Thorne snorts but Ser Barristan gives him a firm nod and that’s all the confirmation Jon needs. 

In the space of a heartbeat, he turns on his heels. 

And now there's no turning back.

Emotions swirl like a tempest while his blood roars in his ears as he opens the door and steps back into the chamber. 

As soon as she hears his footsteps, Dany comes rushing out of the bedroom. “What’s going on?” Her tone is sharp, her eyes red-rimmed and her posture tense, but it eases the longer they stare at each other. “Tell me?”

He moves closer. His pulse is racing so fast, she must hear the throbbing from the other side of the room. His voice quivers when he says, “please put on some clothes.”

Hands propped on her hips, she frowns, “and why would I do that?”

“Just do it.”

Her frown deepens at that. She’s repulsed by his harsh tone, but does as he says while he tries to calm his nerves. 

“Where are we going?” she gruffs, pulling at the leather of her boots.

“Would you just get dressed?” he squeezes out, hands clenched tightly together with his teeth. 

Daenerys raises her brows. “And what about the children?”

“Your two knights will take care of them.”

At least that seems to appease her. If only Jon could say the same about himself. 

As she dons her cloak, she retakes her stand before him, an air of anticipation surrounding her. There's defiance in her glance, yet a glint of something softer too. Her chin juts out, her eyes flit over his face, while she asks more quietly, “what are you up to?” 

Jon exhales a long breath. 

With a trembling hand he reaches out, gently brushing a silver strand behind her ear. They both shiver at the touch. He holds her stare for a second and loves the way her eyes round when he tells her, “I’m going to steal you.”

Then without further ado, he bends down, puts his shoulder against her stomach and throws her over his back in one fell swoop. 

She squeals as her feet leave the ground. He’s already out of the door, halfway down the stairs, when her breath catches up. “What are you doing?!” 

A few men, still awake at this hour, follow them with baffled glances; Ser Barristan amused and Thorne as sour as always. But Jon ignores them all. “I already told you. I’m stealing you.” 

He heads straight for the tunnel without looking back and feels how his heart flutters inside his chest when he hears Daenerys’ laughter. Gods, he really missed that sound.

“I can walk by myself,” she giggles. “Put me down.”

“No,” he declines. His courage will fail him if he has to look into her eyes now. “And stop squirming.”

Each of them is well aware that if she really wanted to break away from him, she'd be able to do so. He’s glad she doesn’t try. Perhaps she knows how desperately he needs something to cling to. The tunnel seems endless, and his nerves teeter on panic. It feels like a day has passed once they finally step out on the other side.

“I can make the rest by myself,” Dany insists. The smile is still audible in the ring of her voice. 

“We’re almost there,” Jon murmurs, then he says nothing more. 

Wings flap above them. The dragons fly in circles over their heads. Besides that, the night is quiet  when they reach their destination, a small clearing in the deep of the woods where nine weirwoods stand. Jon draws in another sharp breath as he recalls the last time he has knelt here before them.  

The forest floor is carpeted with snow and fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks are bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes is red and hard as ruby. It makes him shudder. Turning away, he places Dany on her feet. Her face matches the red leaves, but her smile shines all the brighter. 

If only he could return it. 

A whirlwind of nerves continues to churns in his stomach. His palms are slick with sweat, and he can feel the rapid thud of his heart beating against his chest. Each second passed feels like an eternity as he gazes at her. With shaking hands, he reaches inside his leather jerkin and pulls out the necklace he made for her and kept wearing ever since the moment she’d thrown it back in his face. 

“Are you sure you still want this?”

She looks at him as if he’d hung the damn moon. And even though she’s still smiling, her voice is firm and steady. “I’ve never wanted anything this badly.” So he places the cord around her neck and fumbles with it until she closes her fingers around his. “I love you, Jon.” 

It’s not a word enough for what I feel for you.  

The crisp air fills his lungs as he inhales and squares his shoulders, standing a bit taller. The leaves rustle above him as if to echo a whisper. As if they’re reciting the words he tries to quote from memory, while Daenerys watches him, full of awe and anticipation. “Who comes here tonight before the gods?”

Her gaze remains glued to his lips. 

Seconds go by while she doesn't respond like she has to.

And the more time passes, the more unsettled he becomes. His pent-up tension looks for an outlet, hence a strange snort tumbles out when he says, “you need to state your name.”

Stunned, she looks from his mouth up to his eyes. “Huh?”

It's such a small reaction but her gaze, her smile, it's soothing and sweet. Jon can't help but chuckle. “Your name, love.”

“Oh, right.” Dany blushes again, but keeps smiling and slowly he begins to copy that expression. “I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

“It’s alright. Just say who you are.”

“Will do,” she nods. “Ask me again.”

He does right away. “Who comes before the gods?” 

“Me, Daenerys.” And seemingly, that is all she's gonna say.

No mention of her house. No mention of her titles. It’s just her name, as if nothing but that is of any significance. Somehow, it grounds him. It calms him even more than her adoring expression. Finally, Jon's heartbeat goes back to a normal pace.

“What next?” she bites her lip.

“Now you go ask who comes to claim you.” 

Apparently, she’s a bit confused about the phrasing. He can see how she’s tempted to discuss the choice of words, but then spares him and does as she’s told. “Fine, who comes to claim me?”

“Me,” he says, repeating her previous answer. “Jon.”

It seems to be the right thing, evident in the widening of her smile. She’s still holding his hands tightly. His heart hammers against his ribcage but now it's no longer from fear but from glee and excitement. The impulse is there to smile too, so he doesn't hold back. Jon beams at her like the smitten fool that he is. 

And with nobody to give her away, only one question remains. “Will you take me as your husband?” 

Then time stops while he waits for her answer.

“Aye, I will.” A joyful sob escapes her when she frames his face with her hands. “Of course, I will, you silly man.”

And with this kiss I pledge my love.

Bliss rolls over him when she pulls him down to bring their mouths together. The feeling of her lips against his is like a tidal wave, crashing into every corner of his soul. Dany runs her fingers through his hair, tugging gently, drawing him closer. Their tongues entwine. All the while they can't stop smiling. 

So it takes them a bit to detach themselves from each other. Their fingers stay linked when they kneel in front of the heart tree, seeking the blessing of the gods. 

Rising, Jon realises he missed putting on his cloak. Then notices that she's already wearing one of his, a little too broad at her shoulders, a little too long at her legs. It makes his smile grow bigger. He has to kiss her again. He has to kiss her multiple times as they make their way back through the tunnel. Eventually back in front of his chamber, his lips are sore and his cheeks are hurting. Never in his life has that happened before. 

The room welcomes them, warm and humid, as they enter. A massive copper tub stands by the fire, filled to the brim with steaming water. Whoever prepared it must have heard his earlier prayers. 

The grime sticks to his skin from all the days on the road. He longs for a bath desperately. Without hesitation, Daenerys dismisses her two knights, who'd been playing cards by the window till then. As soon as the door closes behind them, Jon begins to strip off his clothes. But surprisingly, she doesn't join him. Instead she just stares at him. A crooked smirk plays around her lips while she leans against the nearest wall, head tilted, arms crossed in front of her chest. 

He stops, fingers clutching his undertunic. “You won’t just stay there and watch, will you?”

She doesn't give him an answer but moves closer until she stands in front of him. Her grin turns wicked as she lifts her arms in invitation. His wife. His hands tremble slightly when they make contact with her skin. Though his gaze remains fixed on her. He holds her gaze the entire time and sees how her breath catches as his fingertips brush over her hips, along her belly, still soft and a bit round, up to her breasts, big and full of milk. 

His desire grows with his wish to explore her. Seeking out every tiny new detail, he wants to suck and lick and devour her. It's not easy to hold back. He’s been craving for her ever since the day they separated. Now it doubles when he sees her like this, gloriously naked in front of him. His whole body tingles with the primal urge to just take her. 

“Iksā sīr gevie (You are so beautiful).”

A breath of a soft laugh escapes her rosy lips, “sīr issi ao (so are you).”  

Then she reaches for his belt, slides her hands inside his waistband and pushes down his breeches. Agonisingly slowly, she relieves him of every layer. It seems to take her forever. Once the last item is gone, there’s nothing left of his patience. He grabs her, bends his head to kiss her, not wasting another second. 

They've lost enough time. 

Dany seems to understand.

She matches his vigour, licks at his tongue and his hips jerk, grinding his cock into her thigh. Lust overtakes him. It feels like fire, all-consuming and blinding. His grip on her face turns greedy while her hands grip his hair. She gives the sweetest moan and Jon parts his mouth, taking her deeper before their tongues tangle. They act with only one goal in mind, as if they’ve been dreaming about this for the past eight months and longer.

He shifts around, and the next stroke of his cock hits her clit. Another shock of arousal runs through them both. 

“I… I don’t know if I can,” she gasps. “It might be too soon to–”

“Don’t worry.” He grabs her bum and lifts her up. Her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her over to the tub. “Just want to touch you.”

Their pace decreases as they settle in the water. Because his sore muscles sing once they're surrounded by the heat. Dany sits down on his lap, runs her finger through his curls and he sighs in pleasure. There’s a moment of perfect stillness before he puts one finger under her chin and kisses her again, soft and gentle.  

“I love you like this,” she murmurs.

“Wet?” he grins.

“Relaxed.” Her mouth wanders along his jaw. “And happy.”

Lazily, they both start their individual journeys of rediscovering. One hand of his stays at her hip, the other slides along her back over her shoulder, down to her breasts. The noise she makes when his palm brushes her nipple lets his cock jump between them. Jon yearns to hear it again. His thumb circles the bud until it stiffens and he can pinch it between two fingers, gently at first, then harder until she squirms.

Her skin is slippery and warm and the way she yields when he squeezes her makes him dizzy. But then her hand wanders along his chest, over his stomach, following the trail of hair straight to his cock. The second her fingers close around him, he's the one who tilts his head back and groans.

“Mhmm,” she purrs, “I really missed that tune.”

His hips buck just hard enough to ripple the water, which she takes as a sign to continue. Her grip tightens as she strokes him from root to tip. 

“Gods,” he grits out. “I’ve really missed this.”

“I’ve missed us,” she whispers, then takes his hand, her fingers on top of his. “I’ve missed us, Jon. So damn much.”

It’s a little clumsy, the way she guides him with so little space between them, while she continues to hold his cock in a firm grip. But then she gives the sweetest sound as he’s reached his destination, stroking her lips. He slides upward and she grants him another delicious, low moan. His mouth beside her ear, he strokes her clit again, this time with two fingers. “Is this alright?” 

She feels looser, softer and more open than he remembers. Daenerys just turns her head and nods while her hips push up and into his hand. Her mouth lingers right on the pulse point of his neck. She must feel how fast his heart is beating. His own hips begin to hitch. The need to trust is overwhelming.

Just like the desire to taste her. And to feel the way she clenches when she falls apart beneath him. He wants to engulf her entire sex with his mouth. He wants to move his tongue across every inch of her, from clit to slit, and to give her the all-consuming pressure and push her over the edge with his tongue and his cock.

“Shit, Dany, slow down.” Her touch and his thoughts nearly make him cum on the spot. 

“No, don't stop,” she pants. Her voice is trembling as much as her body. “Don’t stop, don't–”

No second later, her orgasm hits her. Her clit swells, her cunt throbs against his finger. He rubs her harder as she strokes him faster. He explodes right after her. Like a lightning strike, it shoots down his spine, then branches out in every direction, splintering his body. Jon spills his seed with a strangled cry leaving his throat. He jerks when she lets go of him, breath stuttering in sharp, short bursts.

Only when he calms down, does he look back at her, all flushed and hazy, lifts one hand and brings their mouths together.

He kisses her softly. He's smiling again. 

She’s smiling too as he carries her back to their bed, as quietly as possible, careful not to wake the children. They remain like this for a while. With his arms wrapped around her and their legs tangled underneath the sheets. Like this, sleep should come easily, especially after all his days on the road, but it doesn’t. He stays wide awake, feeling her breath against his bare chest. His fingers glide over her skin. He wants to enjoy this moment for a little bit longer.

At some point, he becomes aware that he’s staring out the window with a dopey grin and laughs at himself. It’s hard to comprehend the thought of spending the rest of his life this happy.

“What is it?” Dany asks quietly. 

“Nothing,” Jon says as she lifts her head to look at him. “I just don't know how I've become this lucky.” Gently, she strokes over his beard and he sighs, “I always swore to never father a bastard.”

“They are no bastards.” She halts in motion, ready to pull her hand back, when he stops her. Grasping her smaller hand in his big one, he lifts her fingers to his lips.   

“I know,” he keeps smiling. “That’s not what I meant... And even if they were, they’re mine, Dany. Just like you.” It feels so good to say this. It feels so good to finally claim them all as his. “I swear, I’ll never leave you again.”

Her frown vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. “Good.” Yet no smile comes back in return. “It’s important for you to stay.”

He doesn’t understand. 

“It… it might be the only way to save us.” Carefully, she detaches herself from his embrace and sits up. The sheet is tucked under her armpits. Her hair is wild and still a bit damp. Her expression, though, is all serious. Obviously, the mood is shifting. “Maybe I have to be the one to go now?”

What is she talking about?

“And where would you go?!” In his irritation, the volume of his voice rises and immediately Dany clicks her tone in warning. Jon flinches, then continues more quietly. “Sorry.” His confusion must be plain to see. He sits up as well, staring back at her. “What do you mean by this? Are you planning to leave?”

She can’t go. Not when she fought him so hard for trying to send her away. Not now, when they’re finally back together. Not when they’re finally a family. 

Instead of giving him an answer, she asks another question. “Do you remember the first night we spent together at the Wilding camp? I told you about dragon dreams and about  Aegon the Conqueror?”

Jon nods without the faintest clue what she's getting at.

“You know what his dream was about?”

He shakes his head, so she tells him.

“Aegon dreamed about a great threat coming from the North. One that can only be defeated with the Seven Kingdoms united. That's why he did it.” She reaches for Jon’s hand as his mouth drops open. “Trust me, I know better than to place all my hope in prophecies but… maybe this is what we should do?” Almost pleading, she seeks his gaze. Her tone is soft, yet determined when she adds, “maybe this is the only chance that we have?”

Of course, he doesn’t agree with her. Once Jon fully understands her intentions, his high spirits are gone with the wind. And with them, he also loses the low tone he used to speak in. Fear gets the best of him. Their children’s cries are what cut him off in the end and this time Dany welcomes the interruption. Even though the discussion is just postponed and not abandoned.

When they get back to it though, their approach is at least a bit more pragmatic. They both know winning this war hinges on an army matching their enemy's strength. And to form such an army, there's only one way. However, their opinions differ on who is going to carry out this venture. He wants to protect her. He wants for her to stay behind. How many times in their lives will he throw himself in front of her, she’ll never know. She understands his concerns and yet he has to see reason – the dragons forged this realm together and they will do that again. Mere talking won't help them. 

And still, that is precisely what they do.

Four weeks go by, which they spend in his chambers, huddled together, making their plans. They look after their children. They simply enjoy being married. Despite the threat looming over their heads, Dany can't remember a phase in her life when she'd felt like this, so blissfully happy. But unfortunately, time is against them and new duties demand their attention sooner rather than later. 

And so she has to say goodbye to her family, one early morning, her heart torn inside her chest, as descends the stairs with Ser Alliser in tow, ready to put into practice what she and Jon have discussed. 

She makes a quick stop at the forge, where she tries on her new armour – night-black, with the three-headed dragon of her house on her breastplate. It fits her like a second skin. She’s stunned by Noye’s craftsmanship and thanks him for his excellent work until he sends her away with a gruff smile. Still, whether he likes it or not, her praise is well earned. She feels more confident, more powerful wearing this. Dark Sister glints at her hip as she mounts her horse. The dragons fly over her head, her sworn shield by her side. 

They ride through the gate, just the two of them. Like this, they make faster progress but the tension remains. Ever since they'd fought about him overstepping his position, they’ve exchanged little to no words. They haven't been alone either. She's been busy with the babies. Now, Dany can sense the grudge still lingers. There’s a barrier between them and it bothers her. Maybe it bothers him too. 

Or maybe it’s just that he hates whenever things don't go the way he prefers and that's also why he can't keep his mouth shut for long. Ser Alliser addresses her just as they make their way past Mole's Town, entering the Gift. “Your Grace, I see it as my duty to advise you against this.” 

Daenerys refrains from rolling her eyes. “Noted,” she replies instead, spoken in a clipped tone. 

“It is too dangerous,” he adds. “Joining forces with the Wildlings–”

“Trust me, Jon and I have discussed this plenty.”

“I fear the Lord Commander is not in his right mind,” he grunts under his breath.

She looks over her shoulder and lifts her brows. “You remember what Uncle Aemon used to say?” Slowing her horse, she watches him purse his lips but tells him anyway, “sometimes, when you truly have nothing nice to say, you better just say nothing. Maybe you should try that?” 

Surprisingly, Thorne snorts, but then his lips twitch. “He was a wise man, your uncle.”

“He was indeed,” she agrees and feels her own lips curling up just slightly. It seems not all is lost between them.

Their eyes meet and his gaze becomes unusually gentle. “He’d be damn proud of you.”

There's more to this statement, unspoken and subtle, nevertheless she understands it. She has known this man all her life, she speaks his language. It is as close to an apology as she’ll ever get and yet she is grateful. “I appreciate you saying this.”

After that they stay quiet again for the rest of their journey.

The sun stands high up in the sky, when they reach Robb's camp. Two riders emerge, welcoming them and guiding them through the final stretch. The dragons already announced her arrival. A collective hush falls over the village as both Wildlings and Northern soldiers strain their eyes to witness a flash of wings above the clouds while their roar lets the earth tremble. Pride fills Daenerys as she dismounts, handing the reins to one of the waiting grooms. 

As she walks through the village, familiar faces meet her, and she takes the time to extend personal greetings to each. The scene feels too familiar. A group of men repairs the wooden structure of a hut nearby; a fresh thatch roof and mended walls. Children run around them, laughing. One of the men barks back joyfully and Dany, recognizing the sound, stops to meet Tormund.

He towers above her with his broad shoulders and a wry smile on his lips. Then he offers his arm. “Let us fight on the same side from now on.” 

“I’d prefer that too,” she says, returning the gesture. 

He guides them towards Robb’s tent and shares with them some insights on how his people have fared since they’ve arrived here. She's pleased to hear that all went well, considering the circumstances. A small mercy at least. Hope remains that the King in the North will grant her the same with what she's about to propose but actually she's not that optimistic. As she catches the look on his face, once he finally sees her, she knows that his anger is even worse than she'd feared. 

Though she can't blame him. He took on her duties, regardless of whether it suited him or not, this wasn't his job but hers. She was tasked with looking after this camp. Instead, she let him take over and let him down too, ignored him, left four ravens unanswered and sent off two riders with a half-hearted excuse. If she were him, she'd be seething as well. Probably even more than he is doing right now. 

The room is packed. His entire war council is assembled. A large, weathered table stands in the middle of them, strewn with parchment, inkwells, and miniature figures representing troops and fortifications. A map is spread out beneath which they must have discussed. Now, all heads lift, eyes shooting towards the entrance. Some appear surprised, others even delighted. Robb, however, just glares at her. 

“Oh, look,” he sneers, “who finally graced us with her presence.”

“My apologies,” she returns in a tone that sounds less emotional compared to his snarl.

They stare at each other while the rest of those present are holding their breath, waiting hesitantly. Only when their king finally averts his gaze, do they react. They’re dismissed, one by one. Some leave without comment, others make their displeasure known with a raised brow or a slight frown. Ser Alliser, the most reluctant to leave, does express it more plainly but follows her order eventually. 

When they're alone, Robb runs a hand through his curls and tousles them further. “I assume you're done playing house with my brother?”

“I am.” Daenerys still stands by the door. “Jon sends his regards.”

That seems to surprise him. “His regards, huh?” Robb utters a humourless chuckle. “He can shove that up his ass for all I care.”

“I think you better watch your tongue,” she warns back. Jon's her husband after all, no matter if they're brothers or not. 

Her rebuke sparks the tension and so only a second later, Robb’s ready to explode. “You don’t tell me to watch my fucking tongue!” he snaps, raising his finger. “Where the hell have you been?!” Bracing both arms on the table, the figures tumble over on the map by the force of the impact. “We had a bloody deal.”

“We had no deal,” she says calmly, even though it gets harder by the second to maintain her composure. “Jon asked for your help and you came. You asked for my dragons and I declined. Nobody had a bloody deal with anybody.”

“Seriously?” She doesn't falter. Robb narrows his eyes, lets them flit over the map in front of him before he lifts them again. “Then why are you here?”

“To make a deal now.”

His mouth drops open. “You’re kidding me, right?” When she gives him no answer, his anger flares anew. “This...” He takes a step away from the table and throws up his arms. “Are you aware of what I'm grappling with?” 

She is. But she lets him vent anyway.

“The bloody Kingslayer attacked Riverrun and now my uncle’s in chains. Euron Greyjoy took the Seastone Chair and half my men are plotting against me because I let a bunch of Wildlings settle on our land.” He inhales sharply before he continues. “Your deal better be good, princess, because I've got a lot on my hands just now.”

“As do I.” She rounds the table on careful steps. Cautiously, she approaches him until she stands in front of him. Robb turns so he can look at her. Exhausting marks his features but there’s curiosity as well, which gives her some hope. “I need your help as much as you need mine.”

“Then what's your damn offer?”

Dany reaches inside her breastplate and pulls out the pin she let Noye make for her, the one she picked up this morning. It resembles the drawing she found in a book at the library, but she's never seen the original one, so she's not entirely sure if it turned out right. Suddenly, a sense of shyness washes over her. It takes some courage to meet Robb's eyes again but she gathers it and gives him the speech she prepared for on her ride here.

“About nineteen years ago, my father was the last Targaryen to sit on the Iron Throne. Horrible things happened to my family back then,” she swallows. “The last time a Stark served as Hand of the King, horrible things happened to yours.” He stares at her, his face inscrutable. “We can do better than that. We can be better than them. We can serve the realm and its people like just rulers would do. Together. Sharing the burden.” She lifts her hand and pins the brooch to his chest, resting her fingers on it. “I need you by my side, Robb. We need you for this.”

He keeps holding her gaze and so she's able to watch the rage disappear, replaced by confusion. Maybe she misjudged him? He'd told her on more than one occasion how much he hates his crown even though he was raised to rule. He was supposed to be the lord of a castle, but has always been too close with his people, drinking with them, hunting with them. Ned Stark had taught his sons that a lord may love the men that he commands, but he cannot be a friend to them. One day he may need to sit in judgement on them, or send them forth to die.

Presumably, Jon will live after this forever, but she thought Robb would be grateful for the way out. To share the responsibility. For the opportunity to hand over the reins to her.

And slowly the familiar gleam returns to his eyes as he raises his hand to place it on top of hers, giving her a squeeze. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am.”

“This means, I’m no longer a king?” 

“It would. It's… it's a lot to ask of you, I know that.”

“It’d be my honour.” And for the first time since her arrival, the hint of a smile scurries across his lips. She can't help but hug him right after, relief floating her body.

Then he retells all the events of the past weeks which she's missed and fills her in with more details, explaining all things they're up against, his strategies and their remaining problems. He pours them each a cup of wine while she studies the map. For him it's hard to decide where to start. For her, though, it's rather simple. It's the first thing she and Jon had agreed on. 

“You have to go to Storm's End and negotiate with Shireen Baratheon.” 

Taken aback by the suggestion, Robb stops the goblet halfway to his mouth. “Pardon me?” 

“I cannot fight, not yet. The children are too small and Aemax isn't big enough for me to ride her. She needs to grow. And we need more allies.”

He puts the cup back on the table. “But what about my uncle?”

“He’s a valuable hostage. They won't harm him.”

It's plain to see that Robb doesn't like this plan. He grumbles, takes a sip, then drowns the rest of the wine in one gulp and goes for a refill. Eventually, he agrees, because he understands that it's not just the North and the Riverlands he’s responsible for. Now it's the whole realm they need to look after. 

“Fine.” He takes a dragon and a wolf from the map and places it near the stag, located in the Stormlands. “What then?”

“Dorne and Highgarden,” Dany continues. “Though, the former is probably easier than the latter.”

“How come?”

“Sam told me the Reach is divided. His father supports the Lannisters but I'm sure after what happened at Baelor, Ollena Tyrell hates them even more than we do. She will join our cause. She will want revenge for her grandchildren and her son.”

They both study the map as Robb rearranges the pieces. 

“Let's assume we’re successful,” he says. “Then we’ll hold the North, the Vale of Arryn through my sister Sansa, the Stormlands, Dorne and the Reach. We'll have to take back the Iron Islands and the Riverlands. And fight the Westerlands until we march towards the capital.” He peers up at her. “How long until the dead arrive at the Wall?” 

There is no precise answer, just a guess. And even that is based on wishful thinking, not on actual facts. “Little more than a year.”

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Robb studies their work from the last hour and, to her delight, looks surprisingly pleased. He even grins as he lifts his cup. “So, back to war in what… six months, roundabout?”

“It seems so.” Dany bows her head, before a matching smile tucks at her lips. She takes a drink of her own. Her grins spread around the rim of her goblet. “But not a war. I think we should call it a conquest.”

Chapter Text

Previously…

Over the next six months Jon and Daenerys remain at the Wall, negotiating with Dorne and Highgarden while Robb, accompanied by Theon Greyjoy and a small group of Northmen, travels to the Stormlands, in hopes of convincing Shireen Baratheon to join their cause. 

Eventually, Robb's persistence pays off. With the support of House Baratheon and their vassals secured, and once Daenerys’ dragons are big enough, she departs from Castle Black with the rest of Robb’s troops and the Wildlings. Jon stays behind with their children and Ghost as well as Ser Barristan, who'd sworn to protect them.

Daenerys and Robb march at Riverrun where they clash with the Lannister army, later known as the Second Field of Fire. This marks their first victory, and Jaime Lannister is captured for the second time, like he was after the battle of the Whispering Wood.

From there on they move to the Iron Islands, where Euron Greyjoy named himself king and took the Seastone Chair from Theon's sister Asha. Surrounded by enemies, Euron unleashes Dragonbinder, a magical horn with Valyrian glyphs capable of bending dragons to his will. The sound of the horn seizes control of Viserion’s mind, forcing him to turn on Daenerys and Aemax. 

Yet quicker and more agile, Aemax can escape while Rhaegal, driven by instinct, attacks his brother to defend their mother. In a harrowing fight above the sea, they finally overcome Euron, but at great cost. The victory has weakened Daenerys' forces and leaves her with the knowledge that a dragon without a rider can be a deadly liability. She makes the hard decision to send Viserion and Rhaegal back to Jon, where they’re safer. 

With her remaining army, Daenerys presses onward through the Westerlands, laying siege to Lannister strongholds, before eventually they make their way to King’s Landing.

Meanwhile, at the Wall, Jon tries to ready the Night's Watch for the inevitable battle against the dead. 

The candle flickers beside him as the letters blur before his eyes. None of the words make sense anymore. And yet Jon doesn't give up. He does his best to focus; blinks, shakes his head, and reads the sentence once again. But no matter how hard he tries, his thoughts are too foggy, slipping away from him, until there's really no point in pushing any further. A quick glance out of the window shows that dawn is almost upon them.

As if sensing his frustration, Nymeria lets out a small whimper. A sound that sends a chill down his spine as if a member of the Watch had blown the damn horn he’s forbidden unless the Others are spotted. With so many of their brothers patrolling along the Wall, it’s been used too often. Each time it has interrupted the babies’ sleep. And since their combined cries can be just as terrifying as any encounter with a Wight, no more horn sounds unless absolutely necessary.

Shoulders tense, ready to intervene, Jon peers down at his daughter's tiny face and holds his breath while he prays she might stay asleep. He’s never been a religious man, but lately, the gods have heard plenty from him. Over the past month, he’s sent up more prayers than a would-be septon. But it’s not devotion, it’s teething. All the while Daenerys isn’t here. Instead she’s off conquering the continent, and he’s left behind, handling this.

If only their roles were reversed. Because a bloody war he could handle. Though taking care of a baby, let alone two…

The twins keep him busy enough, but on top of that, he’s supposed to find some deadly weapon against an enemy he barely knows. And sadly, neither task feels like it’s getting anywhere. He's sure by now that the answer won’t come from a book, at least not one in Castle Black’s library. He and Sam have read nearly every single one of them. The last half-unread tome lies beside him as Nymeria sleeps in the crook of his arm and Daeron sprawls across his legs.

Rubbing over his face, Jon marks the page he barely skimmed. But it's just as he’s about to give up, closing his eyes, that there’s a knock coming from the main room. Daeron flinches, Nymeria throws up her arms, and Jon’s ready to strangle the intruder until he sees Selmy’s face in the doorway.

“Forgive the interruption,” the knight whispers, “but a rider was spotted. It's not a ranger returning.”

So much for sleep. Jon looks between his children, then meets the old man’s gaze. “Lend me a hand?”

“Of course,” Ser Barristan says with a warm, grandfatherly smile and lifts Daeron gently onto his hip. The boy stays asleep, and thankfully, so does Nymeria when Jon places her in her crib.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, grabs Longclaw and his cloak, then he steps into the cold night. 

Snow swirls around him. The frozen air bites at his skin. With every passing day, the words of House Stark ring truer.

Jon pulls his cloak tighter as he crosses the courtyard, but stops mid-step as he approaches the Great Hall, once he's able to peek inside. Such lack of sleep does things to a man's sanity, so he's not entirely sure if he’s dreaming. If what he sees is actually real? Slowly, he moves toward the table nearest the fireplace. Considering his state of mind, nobody can blame him for being a little cautious.

There, wrapped in some old woollen blanket, sits his little brother. Unharmed it seems. Alive.

With him is a dark-haired girl and Sam, who looks even more nervous than usual. But Jon will deal with that later. Because it’s been years since he last saw Bran; back when they were still in Winterfell, when Bran was still unconscious after his fall. That was before Jon left to join the Watch, before Dany, before everything that defines his life these days. Months later, he heard Bran had woken up, then ran away. They all thought him lost to the wilds beyond the Wall. But here he is, sitting in front of him like he just wandered in from the cold. 

“I can't believe it,” Jon’s voice cracks as he closes the distance and hugs him. 

He expects his younger brother to return the embrace, but Bran doesn’t move. His posture remains still. There’s something strange about him. Slightly irritated, Jon pulls back. 

“You're actually here.”

“Hello Jon,” Bran replies with a calm voice. Too calm. It lacks all emotions.

Jon kneels before him, hands on Bran’s knees, just as he used to do when he was younger. “We thought we’d lost you,” he says, looking for something familiar in his brother’s expression. But Bran doesn’t smile. He just stares back.

In search of support, Jon glances at the other two. Sam appears just as lost as Jon feels. When the girl meets Jon's gaze, she just gives him a curt nod, then turns her eyes back to the fire crackling in the hearth. After that, Sam is the one who fills him in as best as he can. Her name is Meera Reed. She accompanied Bran on his journey together with her own brother. Yet the fact that the boy doesn't seem to be with them anymore speaks enough for itself.

Once Sam is done, there’s a beat of silence; too long. Bran’s gaze doesn’t waver, and the warmth in Jon’s chest begins to cool. “What happened to you?”

Though he gets no answer as Bran’s eyes drift back toward the flames. Finally, when he speaks again, his voice is even more distant. “I am now the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Jon shares another glance with Sam then admits, “I don't know what that means.”

“It means I see things.” The hint of a smile flits across his brother's face. Finally. But it remains unfitting for a boy his age. It reminds Jon of Ser Barristan’s smiles. The rare ones Maester Aemon had offered. It reminds him of Maester Luwin back at Winterfell. Of men who have seen more in their lives than they should have. 

“I know things,” Bran continues. “Things that happened long before our time.”

A cold knot forms in Jon's stomach. “What things?”

“Everything.” Bran takes a breath, his eyes finding Jon’s again. “And there is something I need to tell you.”

“Tell me?”

“Yes.”

“About my past?”

“About your parents. Your mother.”

The words hang in the air like frost as Jon tries to process what Bran just said. He’s always wanted to know; who she was, where she came from. But now, he's not sure he’s ready. “What about her?” he asks reluctantly.

Sam clears his throat. “Maybe we should give you some privacy.”

“No, stay. It's alright.” They exchange a glance before Jon turns back to Bran. “What do you know?”

“I know you’re not a Stark,” Bran says plainly. “And I know you’re not a Snow.”

That's all he hears, before his world begins to crumble. 

The room around them begins to spin, though everything and everyone remains in place. Jon's hands slip from Bran’s knees as he leans back, eyes wide. Yet Bran keeps talking, while all the air is sucked from Jon’s lungs. He’s falling. The blood rushes in his ears. Every word Bran says feels like a hammer, shattering, and yet, he knows it’s true.

He’s not a Stark. 

He’s not even a Snow.

Jon’s mind races as he tries to piece it together. His aunt is his mother. And Rhaegar Targaryen… That makes him… And Dany…

He's not a bastard. He never was.

With his throat getting tighter and tighter he swallows before he forces himself to look at Sam, whose face holds no shock but only sympathy. 

“You knew,” Jon croaks. 

Sam hesitates, but nods eventually. “I had a suspicion. I mean, the dragons, they allow you to touch them? And Ser Barristan, he also noticed a resemblance to...”

But Jon doesn't want to hear it. He shakes his head and gets up. The room keeps spinning around him, too small, too full of things he doesn’t want to face. With clenched fists he turns and strides out of the hall. Sam calls after him, but he doesn’t stop.

He keeps on walking.

Anger rises. 

Mixed with fear. 

And betrayal.

He can barely see through the swirling snowstorm as he pushes forward. 

Ned Stark wasn't his father. All those years of loyalty, of love and respect… Jon was lied to. 

Deceived.

The snow thickens as he reaches the tunnel beneath the Wall, the wind howling through the stone archway like it's mocking him. Gripping Longclaw tightly, Jon continues until he emerges on the other side. Among the trees, he spots Rhaegal and Viserion resting. Their forms are hard to see through the haze of snow, but when Jon comes closer, he sees Rhaegal’s eyes glint in the dim light. 

His heart starts to pound faster. A nervous flutter grips him. 

What am I doing? 

His mind replays Bran’s words. 

He doesn't know what to think as he steps closer. While Rhaegal watches him approach, somehow the dragon seems to understand his turmoil. Their eyes lock. Fear makes Jon tighten his grip around his sword, but there’s something else too, some primal feeling, ancient. Rhaegal huffs, hot breath clouding the air, turns and offers his side as if inviting Jon to mount.

Still, for a moment, Jon waits and wonders if he should just turn on his heels and march back. But then his feet move before his mind catches up. He reaches Rhaegal’s side and the dragon lowers himself even more. Enough for Jon to grab hold of the scales along his back. His muscles tense as he hauls himself up, as if he's climbing a living, breathing mountain. Every shift of the dragon’s muscles sends tremors through Jon’s body as he settles into position.

And then, with a sudden, powerful surge, Rhaegal rises. Jon chokes on his scream. 

His breath gets caught in his throat as they ascend into the stormy sky. The wind roars around him and tugs at his cloak and hair, but it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming sensation of flight. His stomach drops, pulse quickens some more, as he clings to the dragon’s back.

As they fly above the clouds, the world shrinks below.

He doesn't know how long they've been up in the air. His face feels numb just like his limbs. It's probably been a while. He didn't even try to give Rhaegal directions. Somehow he knew the beast would take him where he needs to be.

Bathed in the dim glow of the setting sun, the city comes into view. Jon can smell the scent of salt from Blackwater Bay as he watches Daenerys' army unfold far below. It's a massive camp of tents and banners. The numerous soldiers seem to ripple like the surface of the sea, impossible to count. Behind them looms the capital with the Red Keep that Jon has heard so much about. Aegon built it during his conquest. Jon feels a strange pull in his chest as he looks at it, so he averts his eyes.

As they near the outskirts of the camp, he begins to get cautious. If anyone sees him flying a dragon other than Aemax, it won't take long before word spreads that it's not the Queen on top. And he can't risk rumours reaching Dany before he has a chance to speak to her. Scanning the skies for Aemax, he sees no sign of her. Likely off hunting. It gives him more room to manoeuvre unnoticed.

“Over there,” he tells Rhaegal, pointing away from the camp and into the woods just beyond. 

The dragon descends gracefully and lets out a low rumble as he crouches to let Jon slide off his back. With his legs stiff and slightly shaking after the long flight he's finally back on solid ground. 

“You truly ruined horses for me,” Jon murmurs and rests a hand on Rhaegal’s warm scales before the dragon rises again and disappears.

The air is much warmer here down south. Jon’s cloak billows behind him as he moves while the snow, still clinging to the edges, begins to melt. His boots crunch on the forest floor. The sound of the camp grows louder as he comes closer.

Ahead, he can see the glow of campfires flickering in the distance and hears soldiers talking, laughing, clanging weapons together. An army of such scale is intimidating enough, even though they haven’t invaded the city yet. But that's just a matter of time. Come next morning he suspects. And probably over rather quickly, hardly anyone stands a chance against this host.

Standing still, he studies the scene and thinks about the attack, what comes after it, whether he should actually tell Dany about his parentage or not, what it means for their future, while all this is buzzing through his mind, a stick cracks next to him. But he's not fast enough to draw his sword.

Luckily, he doesn't have to. The culprit has no intention of harming him, quite the opposite in fact. Not even a second later, a pair of thin arms wrap around his middle. Too perplexed, this time it’s Jon who is unable to return the embrace. Only when the person pulls away does he recognise their face. A face with grey eyes. 

A face that matches his own.

Then he breaks into a smile.

All her life, Daenerys has been surrounded by men too stubborn and too proud for their own good. Men who quarrel constantly. She'd watched her uncle judge them and Thorne put them in place. And been witness to Jeor Mormont silencing them with just a harsh word and a frown. So perhaps it's because of these teachers that she's able to endure this nonsense. And that she refrains from chopping some heads off or feeding them to her dragon. Though the temptation is there... 

“Watch your tongue, Imp, or I'll cut it out,” Theon snaps, his hands balled into fists, his usual smirk gone. Dany suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. If not for Robb, she would’ve gotten rid of Greyjoy months ago, maybe assigned him to latrine duty or some other equally menial task. Instead, she has to keep him in their ranks and suffer through another display of childish behaviour. 

“Are you threatening me, Greyjoy?” comes his opponent's reply. “Shouldn't we be more companionable, one hostage towards another?” 

Though if she's going to take Lannister hostage remains to be seen. It's truly another temptation.

Lord Tyrion arrived at her camp about an hour ago, accompanied by someone she has nearly forgotten. Another man, plump and bald, smelling of lavender and rosewater. It's a scent that stirred some memories inside Daenerys, and the reason she didn't put the dwarf in chains but listened to whatever he's about to say. Or at least why she had the intention to listen. So far she didn't get the chance. The presence of a Lannister in their midst had set everyone off.

“Careful who you’re calling hostage,” Greyjoy spits while he unsheathes his sword. “Or it's the last thing you say before you lose that ugly head of yours.” 

“First my tongue and now my head. Seems like you're rather fond of cutting things, are you? Want me to cut something off for you too?”

“Mind your damn mouth,” Robb joins in. “You stand in the presence of the queen and are speaking to one of her allies, dwarf.”

“Actually, he’s speaking to everyone but me,” Dany finally says, rising from her chair. The room falls instantly silent. Fighting among them and winning their battles has earned her enough respect. That and the dragon she rides.

“It shouldn't come as a surprise that you're not among friends here,” she tells Lord Tyrion, then lets her gaze sweep the room, meeting the grim expressions. “They all want your head. They all want revenge. Why shouldn't I grant them their wish?”

The dwarf swallows. “That’s certainly an option,” he says. “But I believe I’m more useful alive.”

Dany crooks a brow. “And what use would that be?”

Foolish or bold, the little man takes a step toward her. A dozen swords are drawn right after. He raises his hands in surrender. “Easy,” he says and steps back. “Just… let me help you take the city.”

“Have you seen our army?!” Robb growls. He's desperate to avenge his sister and what has been done to his father, that's why Daenerys doesn't blame him for his inability to hold back and let her do the talking. “We don't need your help, Halfman.”

Lord Tyrion, undeterred, looks back at her. “How many innocents will die if you storm the city like you’ve planned? I can prevent that. I know this place. I know its people. You could take the city without a bloodbath.”

“And what is your price?” She can already guess. And yet she wants what he offers, she's willing to listen. “What costs me your service?”

“The life of my brother.”

Loud protests erupt around them. And Daenerys herself feels a tinge of anger rising. “You know what he did to my family.”

“I do. He killed your father. And for that, I am grateful. The Mad King was a terrible man. As was my father, whom I killed myself.”

“If I were you, I wouldn't boast about that,” Greyjoy sneers. “Kinslayer.”

And yet Dany cannot deny that he speaks the truth, even as ashamed as she is to admit it. She finally sets her attention on his companion. Who also served her father. And who also betrayed him. 

“Lord Varys,” she says. “It's been a while.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” The bald man bows his head. “And you've since grown into a beautiful woman.”

“Which is thanks to you, I suppose,” Daenerys replies. “You came to Essos after my brother died and brought me to my uncle, did you not? Only the gods know where I’d be without you. And yet after that you stood by the false king Robert Baratheon.”

“I never served Robert. I only serve the realm,” Varys corrects her.

“Fair enough,” she gives him the hint of a smile. “But now you stand beside this man.” She points her head at Tyrion Lannister. “What should I do with him?” 

But before Varys can answer, a low murmur from the tent’s entrance interrupts them, quickly cut off by the yell of a woman, “don't you know who he is?!”

“Arya, please…”

Jon.

Dany’s heartbeat quickens at the sound of his voice. All heads turn towards the direction where it came from.

“What in seven hells?!” Robb curses beside her, his anger forgotten and without wasting another second, pushes his way through the crowd, Dany close on his heels.

He reaches the entrance before her and stumbles slightly as a small figure throws herself into his arms. They both rejoice. Daenerys suspects she’s the one who’d been yelling, but introductions will have to wait. Frantically, she looks around, in search of her husband, but finds only three other men. One with an eye patch, another in flapping red robes, and a third, much younger than the others, tall with black hair, carrying a steel helm shaped like a bull’s head. But no sign of Jon. Even though she was sure she’d heard his voice. 

Again, she looks around, bends her head, goes up onto her tiptoes. And finally finds him still standing outside her tent. He's wearing his Night’s Watch cloak. His hair is wild. His gaze is uncertain.

She knows right away that something is wrong. “The children?” she mouths.

He shakes his head but doesn't come closer. It's not how she had imagined their reunion. She doesn't even know how he got here.

“Leave us,” she says to those around her. But as all the lords and ladies take too long for her liking, she repeats more forcefully, “I said leave us… now!”

Robb gives her a look, as does the girl still clinging to his arm, but they both do as she asks. Ser Alliser is the last to step outside. He closes the tent’s entrance once Jon comes in, then takes his place before the pavilion, standing guard.

“What happened?” she asks again once they're finally alone. There's a trembling in her voice which she's unable to suppress. “Where are the children?”

But Jon doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring at her, which strains her nerves more than necessary. “Would you please–”

“They’re with Ser Barristan and hopefully asleep. At least they were when I left.” He takes off his cloak and hangs it over a chair. His hands keep clutching the backrest. “They’re well protected. Ghost is with them too. I sought him out a few times during my travels.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Dany says as she slowly approaches. “As happy as I am to see you, this can't be without reason.”

He meets her eyes but keeps his body turned away. “No, it's not.”

“Then speak.” She places her hand above his. Finally touching him, she feels him flinch but doesn't let him pull away. “Love, you're scaring me. Why are you here? What’s going on?”

He shakes his head again, presses his eyes shut but squeezes her hand back in return. “I thought I'd know once I was here but I… I don't know how to tell you.”

“Please try.”

Clenching his jaw, he shifts so now he's facing her. “You saw the girl Robb was hugging?” She nods. “That's Arya. She's been alive the whole time.” Jon sighs. “But she's not the only one who returned. Our brother Bran, he… He arrived at Castle Black this morning, had been on the other side of the Wall ever since he left Winterfell.”

And yet somehow he seems angry about it. 

Daenerys wants to smile. As confused as she is, she wants to celebrate with him the return of another sibling. Yet Jon is too tense. Thus she keeps silent and waits for him to continue. 

“He told me… he learned some things while he was gone. Some kind of magic.” Letting go of her, he runs his hand over his mouth, then drags it through his hair. Dany stays by the chair, leaning against it. “How is that possible? I mean, I can warg into a bloody Direwolf. You brought dragons back to life. For fuck’s sake, we're going to fight an army of corpses! But this…”

“Some things are difficult to explain,” she assures him. “Doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

At this Jon stops his pacing. “He can see the past, Dany. He can see everything that has happened.”

“Whatever he told you, it's alright.” Despite her words, a strange suspicion takes hold. “Whatever it is, we will deal with it together, Jon. Just tell me.”

“This could ruin us.” Her own worry is reflected in his gaze.

She tries to ignore it. “It won't,” she promises. “But you need to say it so I can help you.”

He exhales a sharp breath. “He knows about my mother.” 

Her heart skips a beat. “Your mother?”

“Aye.”

“So… you know who she is?”

“Was,” Jon corrects her. “She’s dead. She died the day I was born.” He straightens his pose, licks his lip, buys himself time. Dany knows every gesture, every subtle movement he makes to gather more courage. “Her name was Lyanna… Lyanna Stark.”

Daenerys stares at him, hears the echo of his words. Her mind takes a bit longer to process the meaning behind them. Jon stands stiff as a soldier. Now his gaze doesn't waver as he waits for her reaction. But a few more seconds pass where she just blinks, before she asks the one question that will erase all uncertainty. “How did you get here?” 

This time he answers right away. “I came on dragonback.”

Rhaegal.

Rhaegar.

The pieces fall into place, clicking together. Jon shifts uncomfortably. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he’s holding himself back from reaching out to her. “Now you have to say something, Dany.”

She hears him, but she can’t respond. Her lips part, but the words won’t come out. It feels as though the world has spun off its axis. And then, without warning, a laugh tumbles out between her lips.

Jon’s face falters in irritation. But she can’t stop. A bubble of laughter rises in her chest, and she lets it out, soft at first, then louder as she presses a hand to her mouth. It isn’t the laughter of joy, there’s nothing joyful about it. It’s absurd. The whole thing.

“The dragon has three heads,” she giggles, more to herself while Jon’s frown deepens as he watches her. 

“And why is this so funny?”

“It’s just…” She shakes her head, still laughing softly until it changes into a rueful smile. She meets his eyes. “The last three Targaryens, Jon. You, me, and Uncle Aemon.” She lets the words hang in the air, tasting the absurdity of them on her lips. “Hiding out in the coldest place of this gods’ forsaken continent. A Maester, a boy, and a bloody bastard.”

Jon doesn’t respond. His eyes soften, though his face remains serious.

“The last of our house and we've been together this whole time.” Dany’s smile fades as she steps closer. “We were doomed to die out. Our house was doomed to disappear. But fate brought us together. You and me.” Her gaze searches his. “Don’t you see? Against all odds, we found each other. Like we were destined to be.”

Jon takes her hand but his face hardens. “Don't say that. As if we–

“We’re made for each other,” she finishes for him.

And he winces. “Don't make it sound as if we had no choice.” Not letting go of her hand, he tightens his grip. “We chose this.”

She tilts her head. Her thumb brushes against his knuckles. “But isn't it a strange coincidence?” A pause, then a softer smile. “We’re both Targaryens, Jon. We should be dead but instead we fell in love.” Only then another thought comes up. “Are you repulsed by our relation?”

“Maybe I should be.” He lifts his hand and caresses her cheek. “But no, I'm not. I feared you'd be.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because we've talked about this before, don't you remember?” His thumb traces her jaw as he seems to calm down. “The night I arrived at Mance’s camp, we talked about the possibility that my mother was a Targaryen. And you seemed…” He looks hurt. “You pulled away.”

Dany puts her hand over his and kisses his palm. “I didn't pull away because I feared it to be true but because I wished it were.” Tears well up in her eyes. “Jon, I knew my uncle would die. He was too old to live much longer. With him gone I'd be the only one left. The last Targaryen in this world. And I didn't want to be alone. To think that you…”

Her brother. Her lover. Her best friend. Her soulmate.

He gives her no chance to finish the sentence but moves his hand from her face to her neck, fingers threading through her hair. Seconds later his mouth meets hers. He's testing at first, then increases the pressure. A single lick across her bottom lip, and she parts her lips. Their tongues get tangled in that familiar, beautiful dance. They both sink into the kiss. 

Her tongue flicks against Jon's as he nibbles on her lower lip. He groans. The sound seems to come deep from his chest as his arms wrap around her, hauling her close. And all this feels just as natural as breathing. She leans into the kiss, rising up on her toes as her arms band around his shoulders so she can climb higher. Her fingers dive into his curls, tugging at the roots. He slants over her and devours her mouth, licking and sucking and plundering.

They lose their swords at the same time. His hands come to her ass. He cups her as he hoists her up off the floor. Immediately her legs close around his waist. But his jerkin and his breeches are still in the way, as is her own leather. Daenerys stretches out an arm, waving for him to take her to the next table. He sets her down and pulls his lips away. Holding her gaze. His stare is intense. Full of lust. And love. And wonder. 

“Iksā sīr gevie (You are so beautiful),” Jon breathes as the corners of his mouth curl upwards ever so slightly.

Softly she smiles back, “sīr issi ao (so are you).”

Their next kiss is slower, more gentle, as he fits his hips between her legs, urging her knees apart. She moans against him as she feels his erection and reaches between them to release him of his breeches.

But suddenly there's another sound coming from behind his back. She hears Robb clearing his throat. And as if they have been burned, they break apart in an instant.

Dany tries to smooth out her hair while Jon turns away fastening his breeches before he picks up their swords. It reminds her painfully of that time Commander Mormont has caught them. Afterwards she was forced to leave with Qhorin Halfhand. And right now, Robb’s gaze is every bit as piercing as that of the Old Bear. 

“Seriously?” His golden brooch shines in stark contrast against his grey leather. “This is what we rushed out for?”

Heat rises to her cheeks, but besides that, she doesn't show him any shame. She's a queen. She doesn't have to justify herself. Not even in front of her Hand. “And yet you came back rather quickly.”

“I did indeed.” He makes one step towards them. “There was an incident that needs your attention.”

She thanks Jon with her eyes as he hands her Dark Sister. Then indicates for Robb to continue.

“Jaime Lannister escaped with the help of a Sellsword while we talked to his brother.”

Almost dropping her sword again, Dany's eyes grow huge. “What?!” That damn little creature. She should have known better. “How did this happen?”

“We’re still questioning the guards,” Robb says in a tone far calmer than the situation warrants. “But there's more.”

“What is it?” Now it's Jon asking.

Robb huffs out a small chuckle. “It's that…” He pauses mid-sentence and shakes his head before he says, “the Kingslayer is now a Kinslayer it seems… Cersei is dead. The city is ours.”

From all around him comes the echo of murmurs yet Jon feels a strange calmness that has settled over him, ever since his talk with Dany. Regardless of fate or circumstance, he’s glad he found her. Glad she’s by his side.

Just as he’s by hers. 

They marched through the city in the dead of night, and now the sun is about to rise. Representatives from all the noble houses have gathered before them. The grand hall fills and the air thickens with anticipation. Jon feels the looming presence of the Iron Throne behind him. Does she feel the same? He turns his head and takes in Daenerys’ presence. She’s breathtaking in her dark robes, silver hair cascading down her shoulders. She looks every bit the queen. 

He knows that he's no match for that.

But he'll try anyway. He changed as well, so now his cloak is red instead of black. Because he's not here as a member of the Watch but as her husband.

King Consort.

The title will take time to adjust to, but Jon hopes they’ll survive this war long enough for him to prove he’s worthy of it.

In the back of the room, he spots Tormund grinning at him. And just like that he's pushed back to that night right before they'd climbed the Wall. They're sitting by the fire and he's about to finish Dany’s necklace. In the end, it all came true. He stole her, they made some beautiful children, they became husband and wife.

As his eyes sweep over the crowd, he spots Ser Alliser, positioned in the first row. Stoic as always, though there's a glimmer in his eye now. Such pride is too big of an emotion to hide. Jon can't blame him.

He glances to his left to seek his brother's eyes. Because Robb will always be his brother, not his cousin or anything else. But his focus is on the woman standing in front of them, holding a small object wrapped in a silver cloth. It's been said that the crown got lost in Dorne after the death of King Daeron I Targaryen. But somehow the Martell's must have found it and now Lady Arianne presents it in a gesture of allegiance.  

Jon stares at it. So small. So powerful. His son bears the name of its last owner. He averts his eyes and finally catches Dany’s gaze. He doesn't have to ask what she thinks. At that moment, the understanding between them is clear. By lineage, it's his. He could claim it now, and claim the bloody chair as well. She would let him. But his fingers only brush the cool metal, while for a moment, he imagines what it would mean to wear it. Then his eyes return to her, and the image fades. She was born for this, like she was born to lead the Watch. She is the ruler.

It’s never been who Jon was.

Taking the crown in his hands, he turns and steps towards her. The entire room seems to hold its breath. He can feel all eyes resting upon them, feels the confusion. 

What is the bastard doing? 

They'll know soon enough. Without hesitation, he lifts the crown and places it gently on Dany’s silver hair. The rubies glint in the torchlight. 

His voice is low when he speaks. “Ñuha jorrāelagon, ñuha dāria (My love, my queen.)”

Daenerys’ eyes widen. Surprise flickers across her face, but it’s quickly replaced by a smile as her hand comes up to rest over his heart. She looks at him. There's so much warmth in her gaze, before the silence is broken with the sound of steel drawn. Robb unsheaths his sword and raises it high as the hall reverberates with his words.

“Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm. Rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.” There's a small pause as every knight, ever soldier, every high lord follows his example. “Long may she reign!”

Jon is the last to kneel but eventually he does. The tip of his sword touches the ground. More than once in his life has he sworn to protect her. But never before has an oath been this easy.

Chapter Text

Previously…

After her coronation in King’s Landing, Daenerys turns her gaze back north to the Wall and the threat beyond it. Together with Jon, Robb, and the rest of her council, she prepares the evacuation of all those unfit to fight, as well as the march of their combined forces toward Winterfell.

Just as they’re about to leave the capital city, an unexpected raven arrives from Castle Black. In one of the last books he's read, Sam believes he has found a way to defeat the Others: obsidian, also known as dragonglass, hidden in the caves beneath Dragonstone.

Dany and Jon fly there on Aemax and Rhaegal to see if it’s true. And it is. Now they remain on the island, helping to mine the dragonglass, while Robb and the other commanders lead the armies north to Winterfell.

On Dragonstone, Jon and Daenerys are finally reunited with their children. The twins, along with Viserion, Ghost, Ser Barristan, Sam, Gilly, their son and many others, have sailed south from the Wall to seek safety from the coming war. Lady Catelyn, Bran, and Rickon are also among the refugees, as is Jon's cousin Sansa, coming down from the Vale of Arryn, as well as the Lady Melisandre, who has returned from Essos to aid Westeros in its darkest hour.

But their time together is brief. Beyond the Wall, the enemy has already crossed much of the Haunted Forest. Jon and Daenerys share only a short span of peace with their family and friends before parting again. Their children remain behind on Dragonstone while Dany rides to Winterfell as Jon returns to Castle Black.

The wind bites at Daenerys’ cheeks as she stands atop the walls of Winterfell, looking out across the fields below. From here, the preparations stretch as far as her eyes can see. Soldiers move across the white snow with all their different banners waving around them. They march in perfect silence beside the shouting Wildlings, who drag some sharpened stakes from one place to the next, as they reinforce the barricades. Knights from the Reach and the Stormlands stand side by side, adjusting their armor and tightening saddle straps. 

Seeing this should feel like victory. It should make her proud, it wouldn’t be possible without her. Because she was the one to unite all seven kingdoms, just as Aegon the Conqueror once dreamed, accomplished what only he had managed before her. And yet…

Daenerys rests her hands on the frozen stone in front of her and sighs. Despite her gloves, her fingers feel numb. She knows that she should be thinking about strategies or supply lines or the thousand other tasks that remain before battle breaks. But Robb’s voice to her right washes over her without meaning.

“The left flank’s still light. We’ll move the Riverlands men there, reinforce with the Free Folk archers. They all need some dragonglass weapons but I think we have a few left to spare.”

Ser Alliser replies with a suggestion of his own, and Daenerys nods faintly, though she hasn’t heard half of it. Her mind drifts north to Castle Black and Jon. She can't help herself. She fears for his wellbeing more than she dares to admit. By now she  knows their separation was a mistake. She should have joined him. 

What were we thinking?

Just then her brooding thoughts are interrupted by a distant shriek, coming from above the clouds. Her breath catches before she even turns her head. Against the pale sky, the shape of a dragon emerges, bigger than Aemax and darker than Viserion. Her heart slams against her ribs.

“Rhaegal,” she breathes and spins on her heels.

She hears Robb calling after her, but his words blur in the wind rushing past her ears. Her boots crunch against the snow as she hurries down the steps. Her blood is pounding in her veins. At the stables, she seizes the reins of the nearest horse and vaults into the saddle. The beast surges forward and quickly they race through Winterfell’s gates. By the time she reaches the outer field, Rhaegal is just descending. The dragon’s roar shakes the ground beneath her. Dany reins in sharply just as his claws dig deep furrows into the frozen soil.

With a childlike eagerness she watches Jon slide from his saddle but her smile disappears as she catches the state he's in. His knees nearly give out as his feet touch the ground. His face is pale beneath streaks of soot and blood. Wet trails carve down his cheeks where tears have dried in the cold. His armor is dented and streaked with gore, his gloves are torn and blackened.

She’s off her horse before it fully stops moving. And still, despite his miserable condition, she throws herself into his arms. He catches her weakly and they stumble backwards against Rhaegal but once Jon regains his footing, he hugs her back just as fiercely. Her face is hidden in his neck, while his is buried in her hair. And for a moment she doesn’t care about anything else, not the battle, not the armies, not the world beyond this field.

“You're here,” she whispers and clutches him a little tighter.

When he pulls back, his eyes are rimmed red and his voice is raw. “The Wall’s gone, Dany.”

That makes her flinch. She leans back and stares at him, uncomprehending, until he forces the words out.

“The horn, the one Mance was so desperately searching for. They must have found it. The second they blew it, all the magic… it’s gone. The Wall has fallen.”

Her breath freezes in her lungs.

“And Castle Black?” she manages. “What happened to our brothers?”

Jon swallows hard. His gaze drops.

“They're all dead, Dany. I barely made it out.”

The words hang between them as she tries to understand what this means. That place was her home. And all those men she grew up with, her family, are gone? Hobb, with his horrible stew and his silly jokes. Owen the Oaf, Donal Noye, Edd. Oh gods, Edd. Dany feels the tears burning in her eyes and the pain in her chest as Jon drags a shaky hand across his face, smearing blood against his cheek.

“I only survived because of Rhaegal,” he says. “There's no way to stand against them except dragonfire and even that is just… There are too many.”

She closes her eyes as the weight of the truth settles over her. The Wall is broken. The dead are coming. And despite the sheer size of their forces, they're still outmatched. When she looks back at Jon, he's already watching her, and she sees the same fear she feels reflected there.

“We’ve got a day. Maybe two,” he says hoarsely. “Then they’re here.”

Daenerys tightens her grip on his hand while behind her, the distant roar of Aemax echoes across the field. It would be so easy to climb on her back and leave this place behind. They could get their children and simply disappear. But she knows they’d never be happy again. Wherever they might go, their cowardice would haunt them. Too many souls depend on them. So, as quickly as the thought comes, it vanishes again.

The night before the battle is cold but still. The wind is silent, and Winterfell’s courtyards are hushed despite the thousands gathered within its walls. No one talks much. Now and then comes the clatter of armor or the distant thud of hooves as scouts return from their rounds, but otherwise, the keep feels as if it's holding its breath.

Jon sits at a long wooden table in the great hall, close to the fire where the shadows are deepest and the light is soft. The warmth is welcome, though it doesn’t carry far; most of the hall lies in gloom. There’s no music tonight. Only the muted sounds of small groups huddled together.

Soldiers from the Reach drink alongside men from Dorne. Wildlings pass skins of ale to Northerners. Across the room, Jaime Lannister sits with a tall blonde woman Jon doesn’t know; when their gazes cross, they exchange small nods. There’s no room for grudges tonight. He knows that’s Daenerys’ doing. She’s eaten with her soldiers since the first day of her campaign, and here she does the same. They’re all just people. Waiting.

Jon tears a piece of bread and forces himself to eat, though he feels no hunger. 

Daenerys sits beside him, her silver hair catching the firelight, and across from them Robb leans back in his chair, nursing a cup of ale. Theon sits at his side, drinking as well, while Arya has claimed the space next to Jon, her legs folded beneath her as she picks at her food without really eating. The man beside her seems to be the only one with a healthy appetite still intact. Jon met him in King's Landing when he and Arya reunited. Gendry is his name and it turns out he's Robert Baratheon's bastard. 

Jon watches their interaction as Arya nudges the man with her elbow to make some dry comment. They exchange some smiles and hushed words, followed by a soft chuckle. Jon wishes he could share the sentiment. She always knew how to make him laugh again when they were younger, when he was sulking in the next best corner, feeling sorry for himself. But tonight, it doesn't work. 

He takes a slow breath and lets it out through his nose. 

He’d rested after returning from Castle Black. Daenerys had practically forced him into bed. But it hasn’t helped. His body might have recovered, but his mind hasn’t. Maybe it never will. Because he cannot forget what he’s seen. He still hears the screams of his brothers dying around him, sees their faces falling beneath waves of the dead. And along with the memories comes the truth he can’t shake: their chances are slim, almost nonexistent, to win this.

Under the table, Dany’s fingers brush his hand. She leans in close enough for only him to hear.

“You’re even more quiet than usual,” she says softly.

He swallows. “I can't stop thinking about them.”

She doesn’t ask who. She only laces their fingers together. And Jon squeezes back, grateful for the wordless comfort. Outside, the wind begins to rise again. It carries with it the faint, distant sound of the trees groaning under the ice. It won't be long until they have to take their post. 

Turning sideways, he looks at his wife. “I want to visit the godswood before it's too late.”

“Alright,” she says after a moment and rises from her seat. “I’ll join you.”

They say their goodbyes and make their way outside. A few familiar faces nod as they pass, but no one stops them. Even Ser Alliser, Daenerys’ ever-present protector, keeps his distance tonight. And under different circumstances, Jon might appreciate the solitude. But tonight, its reason is a constant reminder that this might be the last chance they get to be together. 

“Do you remember your first days at Castle Black?” Dany asks.

She has taken his arm, and they walk close together, like a lord and his lady. It’s such a stark contrast to how it used to be. Back then, she was just a boy, and he was a bastard, both of them hiding in black. Now, the only things that remain from those days are their armor and their swords, though even those are finer now.

“Of course I do,” Jon says, shaking his head. “I was a spoiled brat and a real dick.”

She rests her cheek against his arm. “Yes, you were. A spoiled brat I loved to best every day, when we sparred in the yard.”

He leans sideways and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “I think your memory’s deceiving you, darling. I bested you, most of the time.”

It's the first hint of something other than gloom, he feels today. His mouth curves into a smile, and it widens when Dany gasps and shoves at him, stumbling back half a step in mock outrage.

“I did beat you!” she insists.

“Just once,” Jon teases and his grin spreads across his face. That one time when he’d kissed her by accident. Everything changed after that. “I mean, you were good, but I trained my whole life with Ser Rodrik—”

Dany stops dead, eyes going wide. “Are you serious? You’re not even joking!”

She smacks his chest and Jon laughs. Somehow the sound breaks through the weight that’s been pressing on him all evening. It feels strange but good. “Alright, you win. What does it even matter?”

“It matters to me,” she fires back, and there’s that familiar gleam in her eyes, the one that used to drive him mad back in the day. The one he fell in love with.

Jon catches the look and narrows his eyes. “Don’t.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Don’t what?” A little smirk appears on her lips as she lets her hand fall to the pommel of her sword. “You’re scared?”

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Love, now is not the time…”

But she’s already stepping back, drawing Dark Sister from its sheath with a clean rasp of steel. “If you’re so sure of yourself,” she says, circling him slowly, “then show me. It can be over rather quickly.”

He hesitates, glancing around the godswood. The red leaves whisper overhead, and the face carved into the heart tree watches them in silence. There’s something absurd about it, doing this now, when the dead will be here in half a day or even less. On the eve of the end of the world. But maybe that’s why he can’t bring himself to refuse her.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, unbuckling Longclaw. 

“We’ll see about that,” she says, and her grin flashes sharp in the dim light.

Just a heartbeat later, their blades meet. And for a moment, the world falls away. 

There’s no Wall, no army of the dead, no weight of crowns. There’s only the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots, the ring of steel and the sound of their ragged breaths. Dany fights hard and fast, and Jon gives as good as he gets. 

But she knows him too well. 

She feints left, slips past his guard, and in an instant he’s pressed back against the heart tree, her sword angled at his throat.

“You tricked me,” he rasps. “That doesn't count.”

Dany steps closer, close enough that the heat of her body cuts through the chill. Her chest rises and falls quickly; strands of silver hair cling to her temples. She looks so beautiful like this. Beaming at him, full of life. 

“It does count,” she whispers. “I win.”

He nods, accepting her victory, but still neither of them moves after that. The godswood is silent but for their breathing. He reaches for her as she lowers her sword. The shift is subtle but absolute when her lips brush his. And yet, he hesitates.

“You’re sure?” he asks softly. “Right here? Where the gods can see us?”

Dany’s reply is wordless at first. She kneels before him, laying Dark Sister gently on the ground and placing Longclaw beside it. Rising again, she reaches for his neck and pulls him down into another kiss, deeper this time. When she finally breaks it, her breath is hot against his lips.

“We’re Targaryen, Jon.” She’s still flushed and panting. “And like our dragons, we answer neither gods nor men.”

Something inside him cracks at those words, as it always does when he remembers how deeply connected they are. Cupping her face, he kisses her harder, until he steals her breath. Without breaking contact, he pushes her backward and leads her through the godswood, past the weeping heart tree and the whispering leaves, until the air grows warmer and the soft steam of the hot springs curls around them.

When they reach the edge of the water, there’s no hesitation left. He kisses her like he’s drowning, like this might be the last time he ever gets to taste her lips. Their armor and leathers fall away piece by piece, then they sink into the water until the heat of the springs swallows them whole. 

Steam curls around their faces and blurs the world beyond. Dany wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and Jon’s hands map the familiar lines of her body as though he’s trying to memorize every inch. He plays with her breasts and her hard nipples, sucks at them until she moans. When she kisses him, it's rough and hungry and just a little desperate. But he can’t blame her, he feels exactly the same. Every breath, every heartbeat, every touch carries the weight of everything they might lose. 

“I never want this to end,” he groans. “I never want to be apart from you ever again.”

She tilts her hips until he slides against her, wet and ready. As he curls an arm beneath her, Jon presses forward. Slow and careful, until he’s fully inside her. Her soft gasp hits his ear, her nails digging lightly into his shoulders. He watches her expression, the slight part of her mouth, the hooded quality of her lids, the way she’s looking at him like he's giving her everything she needs, as he slowly fills her.

They both drop their gazes and watch as he stretches her, eyes fixed on the place where they're connected. 

Soon their movements find a rhythm, steady at first, water rippling around them, until the desire inside Jon grows sharper. It becomes more urgent. He pulls Daenerys tighter, thrusts faster and harder, until her breath turns into broken moans against his neck.

“Fuck,” he grinds out. “This feels so good.” He pushes deeper, deep enough to have her tremble against him. “I missed this so much.”

“Oh gods, me too.” She inhales sharply and releases a shaky breath. “When all this is over. We'll spend a whole week in bed and do nothing but this.”

Her eyes lock on his, and for a brief moment, he’s undone by the sheer certainty he sees, as though she knows they’ll survive and that a future exists beyond this night.

“It’s not the end,” she whispers.

And just then, he believes her. 

They've been here before. The night the Wildlings attacked the Wall, he felt the same, as he feels right now. Consumed by fear and his need to protect her. He was so overwhelmed by his emotions, and too afraid she might die that he couldn't think clearly. Though tonight, he's more present. He's still scared for her but he's also aware of what he's doing. Of what he's about to do. 

“This isn’t the end,” Jon repeats before he captures her lips and moves harder against her.

Her soft cries mingle with his ragged breaths as her body clenches around him. She's drawing him deeper, until he shudders with his release, spilling inside her just as she comes undone in his arms. He keeps thrusting gently through the aftershocks, holding her close until the world narrows to nothing but their shared breaths and the faint lapping of water around them.

When at last he carries her to the edge of the pool, he lowers her onto the soft ground and drapes his cloak around them both. With a quiet sigh, Jon rests his hand on her stomach. Perhaps his seed will take root again. Another child, conceived on the eve of battle. But this time, he chooses it. He chooses her. He chooses their future.

Dany’s lashes are heavy when she turns her head to look at him. Her lips are curving into a soft, languid smile. She reaches up to push damp curls from his forehead.

“Avy jorrāelan. (I love you.)”

Jon leans down and presses a kiss to her temple. “I love you too, Dany. More than you could ever know.”

She wakes with a start, though she couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes. The heat of the springs still clings to her skin. Damp tendrils of steam curl around her face, but the night air beyond the cloak is sharp and cold.

Instinctively, her hand goes to her stomach. There’s nothing yet beneath her palm, but she hopes there will be. That she gets the chance to meet them. Another child. She wants one. Or maybe two again. Her throat tightens as her thoughts drift further towards Nymeria and Daeron. Hopefully they're safe beyond Dragonstone’s walls. She misses them terribly, with an ache that settles so deep in her bones, she might start to cry then and there.

If only I can hold them one last time , she thinks.

Turning, she reaches for Jon but finds nothing but the imprint of where he was lying beside her. It sends her scrambling upright. Quickly, she gets dressed, fastens her leathers and buckles her sword belt, searching for him. 

Outside the cover of steam, the godswood remains hushed and still.  The white bark of the heart tree glows pale in the faint light. She spots him almost at once, kneeling beneath its bloody red leaves. Jon's head is bowed low, his hair pulled back, and the shadow of Longclaw lies across his knees.

Dany slows her steps but doesn't call out. The earth is soft underfoot, and for a moment, she simply watches him.

But of course, he hears her anyway. Without lifting his head, he says softly, “I’m half a Stark. Couldn't help myself.”

“I’m not judging you,” she says in a gentle voice, edged with amusement. “So now you beg for forgiveness, because we defiled their sacred place?”

At that, he glances up, half a smile curving his lips. “Among other things.”

Dany steps closer and sinks to her knees beside him, draping his cloak around his shoulders. The chill has seeped into his skin, and she tucks the heavy wool close. Together, they face the weeping face of the heart tree.

It reminds her of their wedding, but then another memory comes and replaces the first. Still sharp and vivid despite the years that have passed. She had been ten. Small and scrawny, disguised as a boy. Her uncle Aemon had been standing right beside her, his hand on her shoulder. She remembers the smell of pine and cold earth, the way her breath had fogged in the air. She’d been ordered to take the vows, though she had taken them gladly. For the first time in her life, she belonged somewhere. She had a home, a place, a kind of family, even if they had to hide who she truly was.

Her lips shape the words before she realises she’s speaking. How often has she heard them? She could recite them in her sleep.

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.”

Jon turns his head. His dark gaze finds hers as he joins her. Their voices mingle together, steady and soft under the whispering leaves.

“I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. 

So I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”

Their last words ring out, but neither of them moves. Only when the silence has settled, Dany rises and reaches for Jon's hand, pulling him gently to his feet. 

“Whoever dies last,” she says, “burns the rest.”

It’s what Edd had said, once, before another night filled with death. Jon’s throat works as he nods. He understands the meaning without her needing to explain. Then he gathers her into his arms and holds her tightly as though she might vanish if he loosens his grip. She buries her face against his shoulder, breathing him in, savouring his warmth against the cold creeping through the godswood.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, their lips brush in a soft, lingering kiss. It lasts until the sound of horns interrupts them. One long, low note carried through the trees, followed by another.

And another.

Three blasts. Which means the dead are finally here.

Chapter Text

The sound of Rhaegal’s wings rushes in his ears as the dragon beats once, then twice, before he descends. Snow and ash whirl around them as his tail slams into the frozen ground of Harrenhal’s godswood.

Jon forces his stiff fingers to unclench from the reins. Every muscle in his body protests when he swings his leg over the saddle and slides down Rhaegal’s flank. He almost falls but catches himself on the saddle at the last second. His lungs burn from the cold and smoke and the stench of burned flesh that clings to everything as of now. He's never been this exhausted. He hasn’t closed his eyes in nearly two days. 

When he hadn’t been on the ground fighting, he’d been flying with Rhaegal. Row after row of Wights they’d burned from the air, to help the soldiers on the ground escape and hold the enemy back. But slowly Jon realises that it hardly makes any difference. It only delays the inevitable for a bit longer.

Rhaegal shifts and lowers his massive head. His scales are blackened in some places, smudged with soot and blood, and steam curls from his nostrils with each slow exhale. Jon steps forward and rests his hand against the dragon’s snout, before he presses his forehead there a moment. “Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely, though his throat is raw and the words are barely audible.

Rhaegal huffs. It's a deep rumble that vibrates through Jon’s chest, and nudges him gently with his nose. Jon lingers for a bit, longer than he should. If only he had a little more time to spare. It's what he needs the most, yet with each passing day, there’s less to be had. 

They didn't have enough time at the Wall, nor on Dragonstone. It wasn't enough time to play with their children and be together as a family. They didn't have enough time in Winterfell either. Despite all the mixed feelings he has towards the place, he wanted to show Dany where he grew up, where he became the person he was when they first met. But they never got the chance.

Yet most importantly, he needs more time to fight this war. One day never seems to hold enough hours, and whenever Jon allows himself a moment to rest, he wakes to a world somehow even darker than before. It's with this in mind that he exhales, closes his eyes, and reaches inward, searching for that other connection while Rhaegal keeps watch. He cherishes this more than anything. But along with it comes a pang of guilt for letting himself have this, while nobody else can escape their daily horrors.

Though the shift is seamless. Jon has practiced it often enough by now. For a heartbeat, the exhaustion fades, as the world begins to smell clearer. His senses sharpen. There's salt in his nose and sand beneath his paws. He leaves the beach and pads silently through the halls of Dragonstone, claws clicking softly on the stone. He finds them where he always does, curled together in a nest of blankets. Nymeria has her small fist tucked under her chin. Daeron sleeps beside her, sprawled half over his sister, and snores softly.

He noses closer and breathes them in, licking their cheeks one after the other. They smell of home and love, and each day it gets harder to force himself back from this, but eventually he does. The godswood returns, harsh and cold. Rhaegal blinks at him with one eye already half closed as Jon drags in a breath.

“Sleep,” he murmurs and strokes softly over the dragon’s scaled cheek. “You’ve earned it, my boy.”

He leaves Rhaegal curled beside Aemax, who's already dozing near the heart tree, and trudges toward the keep.

There's chaos everywhere. The place is packed to the brim. The castle reflects the state of the whole country. Bodies lie beneath some old cloaks and blankets in shadowed alcoves, waiting to be burned, but only a few bother covering the dead anymore. The living step around them without pause. Their own wounds are only half-dressed. The air stinks of rot, smoke, and despair. No one speaks unless they must, people just cry in pain or suffer in silence. There's not much else between the two.

Jon pushes through it like a man half-dreaming until a familiar figure catches his eye.

His brother is hunched over a wagon piled high with corpses, and lifts one body after another aside, tossing them to the ground as if they were worthless sacks of flour. Blood stains his torn cloak; his leg is wrapped hastily but obviously still bleeding.

“Robb,” Jon says his name. He catches his wrist before he reaches for another body. “Stop this, what are you doing?”

But he shakes him off. “Let me,” Robb snaps, not even looking at Jon. His voice is ragged, almost fevered. “I have to burn him.”

Jon frowns but loosens his grip. He has no strength left to fight him over this.

“I have to burn him now,” Robb says again. His eyes are wild when they finally meet Jon's. “We were fighting. But I lost him and now…” Tears swim in his blue eyes. “If he’s dead, I must burn him.” His breath hitches. “If he becomes one of them…” He shakes his head hard, like he's refusing to let the thought take root.

Jon opens his mouth but closes it again. What's there to say other than sorry? Even without saying the name, he knows who they're talking about. And though they never got along that well, Theon feels like an older brother to him. It hurts to think he's gone. Jon swallows as he makes another attempt to pull Robb back from the wagon, when someone shouts Robb’s name.

He whirls so fast, he stumbles, curses, and struggles to keep his stand, but never stops to lift his head in every direction. And then Jon sees him too.

Theon is equally bloodied and limping, his left eye is bound in a rough bandage and his shoulder is black with dried blood, but he's alive. Which is enough for Robb. He doesn’t hesitate. He half runs, half drags himself forward despite the leg wound, and nearly collapses when he reaches Theon. They collide. Their arms lock around each other. There’s no pretense, no space between them. They cling, sobbing openly, oblivious to everyone watching.

Jon feels like an intruder on something too private to witness. He averts his gaze for just a second. When he finally looks back, Theon’s got his forehead pressed to Robb’s, and is murmuring something Jon can’t catch. He brushes over his brother's curls and holds him with such tenderness, as though the world has narrowed to just the two of them.

Jon clears his throat softly, ready to step back and let them have this without him being around. “Have either of you seen Daenerys?”

Theon glances up first and nods. “She’s in the great hall,” he says hoarsely. “But Jon… you should know that Ser Alliser didn’t make it. She's with him still.”

Jon’s stomach sinks, but he doesn’t reply. He squeezes Robb’s shoulder once, turns, and leaves them. While he makes his way further inside the castle, he tries to prepare himself for what he's about to find. But nothing could prepare him for that.

Daenerys is exactly where Theon said. She's sitting on the cold stone floor in the corner of the hall, with Ser Alliser’s head resting in her lap, her fingers wrapped around his limp hand. There’s dried blood at his neck. The wound is clean but obviously fatal.

She doesn’t look up when Jon approaches her. She doesn't move at all. Her gaze is fixed somewhere far beyond him, distant and blank.

“Dany,” Jon says softly, crouching beside her. “Love, can you hear me?”

She doesn't respond. She doesn't even blink. Somehow she looks smaller, he thinks. Her silver hair is tangled and dull with soot, her cheeks hollowed, her lips cracked. She’s so pale she might vanish right here before his eyes. A few turn their heads at them, to see what happens to their queen. But actually, after two months of constant fighting, after being chased across half the continent, without an ending in sight, most couldn't care less about which person is supposed to sit on the damn throne. 

“Love, have you eaten something?” Jon whispers, resting a hand against her cheek. It’s cool beneath his palm. “Dany, come on, talk to me.”

When she doesn’t react, he takes her hand and loosens her grip around Thorn’s wrist. Jon closes the eyes of the knight and says a silent goodbye. Then he gathers his wife into his arms. She’s lighter than he remembers, bones pressing sharp beneath the weight of her leathers. Yet still he's swaying when he tries to get up. He's too exhausted, it's hard to stand. When he manages, he adjusts his grip and ignores the ache in his muscles and the ringing exhaustion in his skull. She needs him now. Nothing else matters.

She doesn’t resist. Doesn’t speak either as Jon carries her back through the keep, past the chaos and the stench and the despair, out into the godswood where the air is cleaner, where her dragons breathe and the stars still shine faintly beyond the smoke. He lowers himself with her against the roots of the heart tree and holds her close until she curls against him at last.

For a moment, it’s quiet. 

Until she starts to cry.

Daenerys leans against the pale trunk of the heart tree. Its rough bark is pressing into her back and the weeping red leaves whisper faintly overhead. Jon sleeps beside her with a shallow uneven breath, as if he's ready to fight even in his dreams. He hasn’t slept in days and neither has she, not truly. So she should close her eyes too but somehow she can't. The exhaustion is heavy, it clings to her thoughts and makes the world feel like it’s muffled beneath layers of fog. As does her grief.

Though she has no tears left to cry for Ser Alliser, who had stood at her side since the moment she took her first steps in Castle Black. She would cry some more if she could. But all she feels now is empty and tired.

She wonders if it would be so terrible to die here.

If she would shut her eyes and never open them again, the stillness of this place could cradle her. No more fighting, no more screaming, no more endless death creeping closer and closer. Just the cold earth beneath her and the rustling of leaves overhead.

Her head tilts to the side, almost without meaning to, resting lightly beneath Jon’s. He murmurs something in his sleep which she doesn't understand. She tries to remember the last time either of them smiled.

A voice above her speaks as if it gives her an answer. It isn’t loud, but it’s everywhere all at once. It's inside her somehow, so soft she almost mistakes it for her own thoughts.

“Daenerys.”

She blinks, slow and sluggish. Her head lifts slightly and Jon stirs at her movement but doesn’t wake. She holds her breath and listens. The voice comes again, low and strange, as though carried through roots and stone and something older than both.

“You have to go north, Daenerys. As far north as you can.”

Her gaze drifts toward the carved face of the weirwood. Somehow it looks like that of a boy she once met but can't remember when.

“Who are you?” she whispers, but her voice sounds thin and distant even to her own ears.

“Go north, Daenerys. It's the only way.”

She presses her palm to the earth, steadying herself, trying to breathe past the sudden weight in her chest.

“There you will find what you seek,” the boy says. “The solution, the beginning and the end.”

Then the face shifts and there's silence again. The leaves rustle faintly overhead. It sounds like a sigh, and the dreamlike quiet folds back around her. She doesn’t know how long she sits there after that, staring up at the heart tree’s face. 

Have I gone mad or fallen asleep? 

The voice felt real, but then, so many things do when the world frays at its edges.

At last, she stirs. Slowly, carefully, she pushes herself to her feet, even though her muscles tremble with the effort. Jon doesn’t wake.

Across the clearing, Aemax sleeps curled into herself. Her chest is rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. Her dark scales shimmer faintly beneath the thin light. Daenerys moves toward her as though in a trance. One hand brushes lightly along her snout when she reaches her.

“Help me,” she whispers. Her voice breaks on the words. “Help me, and we’ll end this.”

She grips the saddle’s edge and gathers what little strength remains in her body. She's about to climb, when Jon’s voice cuts through the hush.

“Where are you going?”

Dany freezes. Her hand is still resting on the warm curve of Aemax’s side as she turns around.

Jon stands beneath the arching branches of the godswood, disheveled and pale.

“What are you doing?” he says. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“It's the only way,” she replies quietly.

He doesn't seem convinced. “Were you gonna just leave me behind?”

“You have to stay,” she forces out. “The army needs you. Without you, they’re lost.”

His jaw tightens. He takes a step toward her, then another, until there’s nothing but one step between them.

“They’re lost anyway,” he breathes. “Wherever you go, I go too.”

Her lips part, but no words come. For a heartbeat, she just stares at him and takes in the dark circles bruising his eyes. The man she loves, the man she has fought beside every waking moment, the only constant left in this unraveling world. The truth is, she doesn't want to go alone. She wants him at her side. So Dany exhales shakily and nods once.

“We have to go north,” she tells him.

“Alright,” Jon says, as if that's all the explanation he needs.

Within moments, Rhaegal is ready, his great green wings shifting as he rises. Aemax lowers her head and together, they mount. The dragons unfurl their wings in unison, and the godswood erupts in a gale of wind and leaves as they take to the sky. The world blurs below them into darkness. Ahead, far beyond the chaos and blood and despair, lies the frozen silence of the north.

They fly past the Wall, which is now lying in ruins. Past the endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice, and the dead plains where nothing grows or lives. North, and north, and north they fly, to the curtain of light at the end of the world. And still, they keep flying. The dragons cut through the veil, ribbons of green and violet spill across their wings as though they're swimming through a sky of shifting fire.

Until they're beyond that curtain, in the Land of Always Winter. And in its center stands a heart tree, bigger than Balerion the Black Dread himself.

Aemax lands with a low, shuddering rumble. When Dany slides from her back, immediately the cold cuts through her leathers. It steals the breath from her lungs and burns her throat with every inhale.

“We’ve flown too far,” she whispers, though her voice vanishes into the silence that surrounds them. There's not a soul to see. There's nothing but the heart tree and a landscape covered in ice. 

A moment later Jon lands beside her. Rhaegal’s claws crack the ice as they touch down. Jon slides from the saddle and his movements are stiff. Every muscle seems to be shaking with fatigue. He should have rested a bit longer. She shouldn't have allowed him to come. And yet she's glad that he's here with her, at the very edge of the world.

For a moment, neither speaks.

The heart tree rises before them. Its pale bark gleams like bone beneath the northern lights. The branches twist and stretch wide. Their tips are iced over and its face is carved so deep, the red sap is frozen at the corners of its eyes. There’s power here, older than men. Dany can sense it crawling beneath her skin. It hums low and strange. And she wants to follow it and see where it leads her.

But then something shifts. It's not a sound, more of a feeling. And she remembers that feeling. They were hiding in the forest near Craster's Keep and watched that thing take away the baby. Jon must remember it too, because he steps forward, Longclaw already in his grip. His breath is misting in short, hard bursts.

Dany whirls around too. Her hand goes to the hilt of Dark Sister as she watches the shadows creep up in the distance. They're tall and pale. Shapes that are moving with unnatural grace. And then the light strikes their armor, and she sees them clearly.

White Walkers. At least a dozen of them.  

“They’ve been waiting for us,” Jon says in a low voice. 

Dany swallows hard as her fingers tighten around Dark Sister’s hilt. “Then let’s not make them wait any longer.” She raises her voice. “Aemax. Rhaegal.” The dragons listen. Their wings unfurl as Dany juts her chin forward and narrows her eyes. “Dracarys!”

No second later, a massive torrent of flame rolls across the frozen ground, heat blasting back against her face. The fire engulfs three of the Walkers and her chest fills with pride. But when the blaze dies, they’re still standing. Unscorched.

And her blood goes cold.

“They don’t burn.”

Jon doesn’t answer, but still she can see him clenching his jaw. Then his eyes go wide as one of the Walkers steps forward. 

He raises his spear and hurls it with deadly precision. The air shrieks as it cuts through it and strikes Aemax’s wing. The dragon screams, a terrible, piercing sound. Her blood spills black on white snow. And Dany flinches like she can feel the pain herself.

“Go!” she shouts instinctively. “Aemax, go! Henujagon! (Leave!)”

But her dragon hesitates until Rhaegal barrels into her side, forcing her to take off. Dany watches her limp into the sky, followed closely by her brother. Her chest is aching to watch them disappear, but there’s no time to grieve.

As soon as the dragons are gone, the Others attack.

Jon shifts Longclaw in his grip, and beside him, Dany’s stance mirrors his own. The snow crunches beneath their boots, standing shoulder to shoulder as the first Walker lunges at them. Jon parries and ripostes in a single smooth motion. Their blades clash as Dany spins past him. Her sword catches another Walker hard across the chest and immediately it shatters into frost and silence.

Though there are still too many to feel even the hint of relief.

Neither of them speaks while their movements thread together as if they’d trained for this their whole lives. Jon drops low to slice through a Walker’s knee; Dany steps over his crouched shoulder and drives Dark Sister down into its skull. In that moment it's like they share a breath, one heartbeat, one rhythm. And for the first time in weeks, it feels like they could actually win this.

The Others are fast, but they’re faster. Jon pivots to block a strike aimed at Dany’s back without even looking. She slides past his guard to drive her blade deep into another’s side. And so they continue until just one opponent is left. Jon spins, shoulder to shoulder with her again, pushing back, and together they drive the Walker into the snow, two blades plunging into its chest.

It screams as it splinters apart. Shards of pale ice scatter on the wind.

Their breaths are ragged and their chests are heaving in unison. Except for that, the field is quiet.

Jon casts her a glance. She knows her hair is matted to her face. Her lips must be blue from the cold. As she looks back, something unspoken passes between them. She watches the corner of his mouth lift. He smiles at her and she smiles back. His love for her is so plain to see in his gaze and warmth rushes through her body as she reaches for him, about to pull him closer.

But then all too suddenly a heavy gust of wind rises from the ground and envelopes them completely. Snow and ice swirl around them. From beyond the ridge, another shadow moves. 

Then another. And another. Until the horizon is filled with them.

More figures emerge. It looks like an endless tide of them. The only thing to see are their blue eyes that glimmer in the darkness.

Jon swears under his breath before he meets her gaze again. “Go, get to the tree!”

At first, she doesn't realise what he's saying. “What?” Dany spins on him. “I will not! I'm not standing behind you, when–”

“Just go!” He yells and its sound rings sharply through the frozen air. “This is what we came for!”

“I’m not going without you!”

“You must!” He shoves her back hard enough for her to stagger toward the tree, his voice full of desperation. “I’ll hold them. Go!”

Tears sting her eyes and freeze on her lashes as she hesitates for one last, agonizing moment. But then she runs. 

Her heart is pounding in her ears. The heart tree towers above her. She skids to her knees before it and stares up at its carved, weeping face.

“What now?” she asks hoarsely. “Tell me what to do.”

But there’s no answer.

Behind her she hears Jon’s groan and the echo of steel clashing. She risks a glance back and sees the Walkers closing in on him. Panic claws at her throat. She looks back at the tree. Her fingers tremble as she lifts Dark Sister. Then she remembers her dream. Fevered, at Castle Black after her arrow wound. A wolf howls in the distance. And Dany drives Dark Sister's blade into the weeping face.

Yet nothing happens.

Her breath breaks and a sob tears from her throat. “Please,” she whispers. And sees from her dream all the blood on her hands. Her forehead pressed against the icy bark, she’s pleading now, “please, oh please…”

A scream cuts the air. It's Jon and as she turns, she sees him fall. One of his knees sinks into the snow. The Walker in front of him lifts his sword.

“No!” Dany cries out. 

She's about to rush towards him and come to his aid as her arm begins to tingle. Then the sword in her hand starts to burn. Flames erupt, white-hot and blinding as they race up the blade. Dany grips it tighter and without thinking she spins and thrusts it forward, driving it into the face of the heart tree once more.

This time, the tree screams.

The sound is like that of ice cracking but thousand times louder. As if a mountain splits in half. The frozen ground beneath her shudders and veins of fire race out from the tree’s roots. The sky above them seems to tear and the northern lights blaze and twist wildly as the air fills with a deafening roar. Dany stumbles backward and shields her face from the blinding light.

Though as fast as it came, there's silence again, while all across Westeros, the dead collapse where they stand.

Chapter Text

The scream of the heart tree continues to echo in her skull when she lowers her arms to look at its still glowing form, smoke streaming from somewhere deep within. Around her, Dany hears the soft patter of ash falling and the hiss of dying magic. But she has no doubt that whatever it was that had woken the dead, it's gone now. She had killed it with Dark Sister's flame. However she knows, she can't say but she knows it. So she turns away from the tree and never looks back at it again. 

Instead her gaze snaps to where she’d left Jon and her heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s on his knees and Longclaw is dangling uselessly in his grip. His head dips once, twice, and then he collapses into the snow.

“Jon!”

Daenerys half-runs, half-stumbles. She falls to the ground beside him and drags him into her arms. His body is heavy and limp and for one terrifying heartbeat she thinks she’s too late, but then she feels a faint flutter beneath her palm and his eyes open.  

He tries to speak, drawing in a shaky breath before he manages to rasp her name. “Dany.”

“It’s over,” she whispers and presses her forehead to his.“We did it. It's over. So don't you dare die on me now.” 

“Love…” Jon breathes. “Look at me.”

But she can't. Because she can feel him slipping away from her already. Feels that he's about to say goodbye to her and she can't have him do that. If she won't allow him to meet her gaze then maybe he'll stay with her until he recovers.

“Dany, please.”

“No.” She shakes her head, cradling his face between her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. “No, you have to hold on. We’ll go home now.”

Wherever that is.

A wet cough interrupts her, and as she lifts her head she sees the blood blooming between his lips. His breath rattles. “You'll have to go… without me.”

She can't believe this is happening. She can't believe after everything, all the fighting, all the pain, he's not coming with her. “No!” Her tears start to fall while her hands run over his hair and his cheeks, his brows and his beard, forcing him to last out, to keep breathing. “Jon, no!”

His grey eyes are full of love and full of pain as he's gazing up at her, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely. Though even that seems to exhaust him. “The Old Bear said… this would happen, do you remember?” 

Of course she does. It’d been at Craster's Keep, shortly after she’d been exposed as a girl. Mormont had almost certainly known for much longer that something was going on between them. But it was only then that he’d been forced to act and do something about it. He’d yelled at them, threatened them, punished them, separated them. He'd told Jon he'd get stabbed protecting her. But what good did it do? In the end, they’d always found their way back to each other regardless. 

“We came so far,” she whispers as if, like that, she can convince him that he's not allowed to leave her. “Please, Jon. Gods, please, don't go where I can't follow.”

“I swore, I'll always protect you,” he replies, ignoring her begging. “You're… you're safe now.”

He raises his hand, his thumb strokes over her bottom lip. And then he exhales. One long, soft, final exhale, before his body sags against her.

Daenerys stares at him, unable to fully understand what just happened. The battlefield and the tree might have gone silent, but inside her, something screams. She presses her ear to his mouth, searching for the feeling of his breath, but there’s nothing. Only the wind whistles low and cold around them.

“No,” she gasps. Her tears sting as they freeze against her cheeks. “NO!”

She clings to him as she cries. Never before has she felt such horrible pain. She's rocking him as though she can wake him by her sheer will, as though the warmth of her body might coax his back. But his weight is nothing but stillness now. Dany buries her face in Jon’s hair and whispers his name again and again, while she sobs. She doesn’t know how long she sits there. It could be moments. It could be hours. Time has no meaning anymore.

I'll stay with him, until I die too.

A low rumble shakes the ground beneath her as the dragons return. When Aemax lands, she folds her injured wing against her side with a pained shudder, lowering her great head so it rests beside Dany's body. The dragon’s breath is hot as it washes over her, and with it Daenerys lets go of Jon and turns to hug her companion. She buries her face in Aemax’s dark scales and wails until her throat hurts and no strength is left.

But behind her, there’s another sharper sound, as Rhaegal's claws dig deep into the frozen ground. He crouches over Jon, nudging him gently with the tip of his snout as if he might simply wake up like that. But Jon doesn’t stir.

When the realisation sinks in, Rhaegal’s head rears back and his roar is wild with agony. He throws fire into the frozen sky, burning orange against endless white. It shakes her awake, for Dany to stop crying. She looks at him and it breaks her heart again because she feels his grief but there is nothing she can do about it.

“I know,” she sniffs, gets up and moves towards him. “I know, love. I know.”

Her hands are raised to soothe him, but Rhaegal won’t be soothed. Instead he growls at her low and warningly, his massive body curling protectively around Jon. And then, before she can reach him, he hooks Jon’s limp form gently in his claws and launches into the air with a beat of enormous wings.

“Rhaegal!” Daenerys yells after him. “Rhaegal, no!”

Aemax roars after her brother, but when Dany scrambles onto her back and urges her forward, the black dragon falters. Her torn wing drags her down and forces them to travel at a much slower pace.

By the time they reach Dragonstone, dusk has bled across the horizon. And Rhaegal is nowhere to be seen.

On the cliffs above the roaring sea, Viserion circles overhead while Aemax lands hard on the weathered stones. She folds her wings with a pained hiss and Daenerys whispers another apology as she slips from the saddle. Her legs are unsteady beneath her. Her vision is still blurry from the cold and her tears. It takes her much longer than it would under normal circumstances to spot the lone figure waiting for her at the end of the path leading back to the castle. 

The moment Dany reaches her, Gilly opens her arms, and they cling to each other more fiercely than they ever had. Because neither of them had thought that they’d see each other again. 

“Where are the twins?” Dany sniffs into Gilly’s shoulder.

“Lady Stark is with them,” Gilly says softly.

Dany flinches at the name but swallows whatever protest threatens to rise. Jon had told her all about the woman and how she'd treated him growing up, punishing him for his father's alleged infidelity. If only she knew. But Jon decided to keep his secret to himself until the war was over and Dany respects his wish. So during the little time they’d spent together here on Dragonstone, Dany had kept her mouth shut about Jon's true parentage and given the woman a wide berth. She intends to do that now too. 

Pulling back, she wipes at her face, and asks the only other question she can. “Where is Jon?”

“The Red Woman took him,” Gilly says and wipes away her own tears. “Only Sam and Ghost are inside the room. Ser Barristan… he’s outside the door.”

“Bring me to them,” Dany commands and together they make their way towards the castle.

The path is steep and rocky, and she can barely stand on her feet anymore. But she pushes herself to keep going, ignoring all the faces she passes by. Finally she recognises Ser Baristan standing at the end of the hallway and knows they've reached their designation. He looks older than she remembers. But when he sees her, his stern composure cracks, and he touches her cheek in a fatherly gesture. Then he steps aside and lets her enter.

Jon lies there naked on a wooden table, only a small white cloth is draped over his middle. His skin is so pale, his wounds stand in stark contrast against it. They're cleaned but red; Dany counts seven cuts across his torso. Ghost waits beneath the table. And Sam hovers nearby, his hands clenched tight at his sides until Daenerys takes her stand beside him and his fingers reach for hers, so they both have something to hold on to. 

Melisandre murmurs some words Dany doesn’t understand. It's High Valyrian, but her ears ring too loudly, making it impossible to think anymore, nor translate it. Her mind is foggy as she watches the witch trace strange symbols over Jon’s skin. A lock of his hair is cut, dropped into a brazier. The fire flares and smoke curls through the room. Like that the ritual continues.

While Dany waits. And waits.

She waits until her legs ache and the smoke stings her eyes. But she pushes herself to wait some more, her gaze fixed on Jon’s chest, hoping for it to move. Just once. But it doesn’t. The shadows crawl over the cold walls, while the witch prays and Daenerys keeps waiting. She holds Sam's hand in such a tight grip, it might go numb, but he doesn't seem to mind. 

Because Jon doesn’t wake up.

When Melisandre finally stops, Dany knows the truth before a single word is spoken.

“Go on,” she says still. “Keep going.”

Melisandre lowers her hands. “There is nothing more I can do.”

The words don’t make sense at first. They hang there, dull and meaningless. Until she understands them and something inside Daenerys breaks. It's something that broke long before now, but that she held together with the last of her strength. Something that broke with the last breath of her husband that he took in her arms. Her best friend. Her soulmate. Now she can almost hear how that fragile thing splinters. She drops Sam's hand and lunges at Melisandre with a wild, ragged scream, Sam and Gilly barely catching her before she reaches the woman. Sam wraps his arms tight around Dany's shoulders as she thrashes and cries.

“You knew this would happen! You bloody knew and you did nothing!”

“My apologies,” Melisandre says, lowering her head. “Se Āeksiot Ōño ēza vēttan zȳhon iderennon (The Lord of Light has made his decision).”

“Liar!” Dany yells. “Bring him back!”

Her cries are more animal than human, torn from a body pushed beyond its limits. She knows she looks less like a queen than she ever has. Her face hollow from sleepless nights, skin grey beneath the grime and ash, eyes red and swollen from too many tears.Though it's a fitting sight because right in that moment, she is not a  queen, but only a woman losing the love of her life. 

Yet no matter how much she howls and begs, Jon doesn't come back. Eventually Dany's legs give way and she sobs into Sam's chest, who gently strokes her hair while his own tears fall silently. Melisandre leaves them shortly after, but they remain in that position for a while longer. Until they hear the sound of little footsteps coming from the hallway. 

Dany lifts her head and looks outside just as Daeron and Nymeria come stumbling around the corner. They're running toward her, Lady Catelyn calling after them with a deep frown on her forehead but she's not fast enough to catch them.

Tearing free of Sam’s arms, Dany meets them halfway. Before they can see what lies behind her, she pulls the door close, shutting the darkness away. Then she drops to her knees and gathers both children into her arms. Nymeria clings to her neck; Daeron fists her hair, his face pressed to her shoulder. They look so much like their father, the pain flares up anew, but no more tears come.

Dany rises slowly, Nymeria on her hip, Daeron’s hand in hers. Step by step, they walk down the corridor together toward their chambers. And she doesn’t look back, not even once. Though she feels weary and tired, she swears in that moment, that nothing will ever separate them again.

Because now they’re the only thing of Jon she has left.

Outside the castle's walls, the world is eerily quiet. The sea lies still beneath a grey sky, covered in clouds. No gulls cry, no waves crash, there's only the soft hush of water against the rocks surrounding the island.  

Aemax rests upon the shore, while Viserion sleeps peacefully beside her. They both lift their heads as Rhaegal finally returns, circling once above the sea before descending. When he lands beside them, the ground trembles. He bows his great head, and for a long moment, the three dragons stay motionless. Until one after another closes their eyes again.

The keep looms behind them, dark against the pale dawn. Through its narrow halls, the air is thick and the torches shine low. The few who still walk its corridors do so quietly and speak only in hushed voices.

Beyond the Great Hall, past the chambers where Daenerys and the children sleep, a single door stands guarded. Ser Bartistan Selmy is waiting outside, staring out of the window. Deep in thought he watches the sun rise, while the room behind him, is lit only by the faint light spilling through the shutters. Underneath the big table, standing in its center, Ghost lies with his head on his paws. His fur stirs with every shallow breath he takes, but he doesn’t move beyond that. 

Until his ears twitch. And his eyes slowly open. Because something above him has changed.

He lifts his head as the air shifts around him.

On the table, Jon sits up with a sharp, shuddering breath, like he's breaking the surface after drowning in the sea. His chest heaves, his hand shoots out, clutching at nothing. He blinks, swallows, gasps, tries to move but only falls off the table, since his legs seem unable to carry his weight. 

With a low whimper, Ghost stands up and presses his great head against Jon’s arm. He’s warm and alive. And Jon’s hands shake violently as they sink into the white fur, as if he's grounding himself. Everything else seems entirely wrong. Every breath feels like it doesn't belong to him. The last thing he remembers is snow all around him, Dany’s lips, and then darkness.

“I'm not supposed to be here,” he croaks. His throat feels raw and his voice sounds like he hasn't used it in years.

Not a second later the door bursts open and Ser Barristan steps inside, eyes wide in disbelief. For a heartbeat, he just stands there, frozen, while he stares at Jon as Jon stares back at him.

“Gods be good,” Selmy whispers, crosses the room in two strides and drops to one knee beside Jon. His hand finds Jon’s shoulder as though afraid the touch might scatter him if his grip were too roughly.

“You’re alive,” he murmurs, unfastening his own cloak and draping it over Jon’s shoulders. “You were dead and now you’re alive.”

Jon grips the fabric, shaking his head. “How is this possible?”

“The red woman,” the knight replies quietly. “She brought you back.” 

“I'm not supposed to be here,” Jon says again.

“Yet here you are.” Ser Bartistan gives him a faint smile. Then, after a small pause, he adds, “She’ll be happy about that.”

Jon knows he's not talking about the witch.

Dany.

He can't imagine what she must have felt seeing him like this. So many times they’d come close to death, and each time he’d lost his mind worrying about her. But to actually be there, to witness her dying in his arms, the certainty of having lost her, he cannot bear just thinking about it. He has to see her right now. He pushes himself upright. His legs nearly buckle, but Ser Barristan steadies him with a firm grip and guides him toward the corridor. Ghost follows close behind.

“Are they alright,” Jon asks as they walk. “Dany and the children?”

“As alright as they can be,” the old man says with a small, sad smile. He hesitates, studying Jon as if weighing whether to speak further. “I'm glad you're able to see them again. Your father wasn't so lucky to see you grow up and it pains me every time I think about it.”

Jon stops. The truth hovers between them, and although he's sure that many suspect it, no one except Dany, Sam, and Bran have ever spoken it aloud. “So you really knew. Since when?”

Ser Barristan’s gaze softens. “I saw it in your face the first day we met.” He gives Jon’s arm a light squeeze. “He'd be proud of you, you know? Of the man that you became. I'm glad to get the chance to tell you that.”

For a moment, Jon can’t find words. His throat tightens; the only sound that escapes him is a low, shaky breath. 

When they reach his chamber, no more words are needed between them. They share a small, understanding nod before Jon slips inside with Ghost at his heels. Moonlight spills through the window, falling across the bed where Daenerys lies curled between their sleeping children, her silver hair is clean and untangled. It shimmers softly against the dark. 

For a heartbeat, Jon only stands there, watching them. Afraid to wake them, he steps forward, the cloak trailing behind him, and the door closes softly at his back. 

As he looks at his family, Jon thinks he ought to be grateful for this, that they're all here. That he is able to be here and watch them in their slumber. So many men have died in the fighting, while their women were left behind. So many children would now grow up as orphans. War takes what it wants. His own father was gone before Jon ever drew his first breath. So yes, he should feel lucky.

But he doesn’t. All he feels is numb, as if he doesn’t quite belong in this world anymore. An aching emptiness fills him instead. His body feels borrowed, his skin too tight.  

Taking some of the clothes he’d left behind on Dragonstone, Jon steps into his breeches and throws over a tunic, then he steps out onto the balcony. 

The wind bites instantly. He shivers but it also wakes his senses. At least he can feel something again, even though he's freezing. The sea below him is a black mess he stares at as he grips the railing until his knuckles pale, forcing himself to breathe, while the cold seeps into him, stinging his nerves awake.

His chest tightens. A sob rips through him before he can stop it. His hand shoots upwards to stifle it quickly. Yet his shoulders start to shake with the effort to stay silent. He presses his palm harder against his mouth as if he could shove the sound back down where it came from. Tears roll down his cheeks, while the cold wind bites at his wet skin. 

Then something small tugs at his leg. When he looks down, he expects Ghost, but finds Nymeria instead, blinking sleepily up at him.

“Paba,” she murmurs, rubbing her left eye with a tiny fist. “Paba up.” She lifts both arms.

Jon shakes his head, rubs a rough hand over his face, sniffs back his snot and scoops her up. “Hey, love,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You should be sleeping.”

She buries her head against his shoulder. Her dark curls tickle his chin as her arms fold around his neck. She's unaware of everything that has happened and he seeks comfort in the fact. As they just stand there like this, slowly the numbness recedes. The cold is driven out by her heat and her heartbeat. Jon's own heart stumbles at the contact, but then steadies again. He still feels foreign in his own skin and maybe that will take a while to change. But he also feels grateful now. That he's able to hug his little girl and kiss her forehead and smell her sweet scent. 

When she leans back, she grabs his nose and then her own. Jon’s lips twitch. “Aye, that’s your nose.”

She giggles, tries again, and again, until he carries her back to bed. He lies down with her head tucked against his chest. His hand moves through her curls until her breathing slows and steadies. Soon Daeron stirs too and crawls across the blankets to nestle under Jon’s arm, sighing before he falls back asleep.

As Jon watches them both, his throat gets tight again, because he doesn’t understand how he’s allowed to have this. He should be gone. His watch has ended. And yet here he is, with his children safe and sound.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into the quiet. 

At his words, another noise breaks from the shadows. Jon looks up and sees Dany, awake, tears glinting in her eyes as she rises from the bed. 

It's like she's running away from him and he follows her quickly, careful not to disturb the children in their sleep. She walks over to the balcony's door but spins around as she feels him approaching. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving, her lips parted, a trembling hand pressed to her mouth. 

“It’s alright,” he breathes, though his voice cracks under the weight of it. “It’s alright.”

“No, it's not.” She shakes her head as a sob starts to tear through her. “Is this real? Am I dreaming?” 

Jon can't stomach seeing her like this. He crosses the distance between them and takes her in his arms, where she shakes her head against his chest. He just holds her tighter.

“I saw you die,” she gasps, the words shuddering between hiccups of breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, pressing his forehead to hers. “Believe me, I'm so sorry.”

When she leans back, her hands roam over his face, his neck, his shoulders. She's touching everything, checking if he's truly here and he lets her. Each contact is frantic, trembling. Her tears wet his tunic, his own fall into her hair.

“It’s real, Dany.” He brushes a thumb along her cheek, wiping away a tear that only makes room for another. “I don't know how it's possible, but I'm here.”

A shaky laugh escapes her, strangled by another sob. She drags his face down and kisses him, hard and desperate. He kisses her back just as fiercely. It’s not gentle as their lips find each other again and again, between broken words, between gasps and half-formed sobs.

“What were you thinking,” she murmurs. “How could you–”

He cuts her off with another kiss. His hand is at the back of her neck, fingers curling in her hair.

Somewhere behind them, one of the children stirs. It's only a small sigh, a soft rustle, but it's enough to make them stop. They pull apart and rest their foreheads together. Slowly they calm down. 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispers.

“Me too,” he answers softly. “Me too, but I'm here.”

He's here and the war is over. The dead are gone. Yet it's not just the fighting that has ended. His watch has ended too, he died at his post, protecting the realm like he'd promised to do. The Night’s Watch is gone. But even before that, right before she'd started her campaign, Jon had released Daenerys from her vows, so now they're both free to go and to love and to live however they see fit.

He kisses her again, gentler now, lingering. When they finally pull apart, they’re both breathless but less shaky. Carefully she brushes her fingers over his lips, tracing the curve of his mouth. 

“You’re warm again,” she says quietly.

He smiles at her. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”

She laughs through her tears and leans into him. He wraps her up, one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist. They stand like that for a long time, swaying a little, until the exhaustion finally catches up. Daenerys lifts her head to look at the bed, where Nymeria and Daeron sleep tangled in the sheets. 

“Come on,” she whispers. “Before they get up again.”

Jon nods, and together they lie down. Dany nuzzles against his side and places her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. The children shift again, Nymeria burrowing against him, Daeron tucks his small hand into Dany’s. Jon exhales, while his fingers keep tracing idle circles on her back. 

“Sleep,” she murmurs. Her voice is already slurred with exhaustion.

“I’m afraid if I do, I’ll never wake up again.”

“You will,” she promises, barely audible. “I won't let you go another time.”

Her eyes flutter shut, but Jon watches her for a bit longer. The faint curve of her lips, the silver tangle of her hair. Then he closes his own. And finally they're able to rest. There are no screams, no fire, no ice. Just the sea whispering around Dragonstone, and so together, at last, they fall asleep.

In the first days after his resurrection, Jon barely leaves their chambers. He eats when Dany insists, drinks when she presses a cup into his hands, but mostly he just sits around, staring into the fire, trying to get used to the fact that he died and came back from the dead. That the war has ended. That too many of their friends had lost their lives, whilst he's the only one granted a second chance. Something that feels too hard to accept. Yet it's exactly what Sam suspects he needs to do to fully recover. But the memories are still too raw and his guilt is still too heavy. 

Every movement he makes seems like wading through water. And even though exhaustion clings to him every waking hour, his mind refuses to rest.

Ghost is a constant shadow at his side. Rhaegal, too, rarely leaves the island, often landing on the cliffs where Jon can see him from the balcony. Sometimes, he visits him with the twins or goes to the beach, where they play in the sand. It's there, with the cold air burning in his lungs, that he feels some of the weight lift, until he can finally look ahead and glimpse at a future. 

The only other time he feels that way is when he’s with Dany. When he's holding her close, loving her, and drifting to sleep with her in his arms. She’s giving him comfort, all the while she seems to be the only one who really understands him. 

“Nūñelenka issa se vileros,” she says one night, stroking gently over the scars on his chest. “That's what uncle Aemon used to tell me, back then, when I mourned Viserys and my mother and Ser Willem.” 

Jon lifts his head to look at her. “What does it mean?”

“It means, grief is a disease,” she translates for him. “And that you have to acknowledge that it's there, before you treat it and get better.”

“And how did you treat it… back then?”

“I don't know,” she admits. “I think maybe I cried a lot?” She nuzzles closer, wrapping her arm around him. “We also shared stories about them. My uncle knew some about my mother, I told him about the house Vis and I used to live in. The one with the red door and the lemon tree outside.” Jon can feel her smiling against his skin. “And then I moved on and lived my life and enjoyed it, because why shouldn't I?” Looking up, she meets his gaze. “They’d want me to be happy, wouldn't they?”

And Jon wants that too. He wants it more than anything.

Though after Aemax has healed enough to fly again, he rarely sees her during the day. Daenerys leaves to return to the battlefield and tend to the aftermath, helps to dig graves and burn the rest of the bodies. There are houses to repair, and food must be collected and shared. The realm lies in ruins, and someone must take care of it. And in the end, she’s still their queen, and these are her people.

When spring begins to creep over the land, the survivors start returning north, and the living begin to rebuild what’s left of their world. Nymeria learns to properly walk the castle halls and Daeron has a phase where he laughs every time Rhaegal’s shadow passes over the courtyard. It’s one of Jon’s favorite sounds; the kind that puts his broken pieces back together, one after another.

Each day feels a little lighter than the one before. The smell of smoke fades, and the silence that once haunted Dragonstone fills with his children’s laughter. Jon finds peace in the weight of Daeron on his shoulders, the tug of Nymeria’s tiny hand in his or the warmth of Dany’s smile when their eyes meet at dinner, which they share with their children every night, without exception.

He loves them with all his heart. And when the world falls silent beyond their chamber, he shows his wife especially, in the one way he knows they both prefer.

Her thighs start to shake uncontrollably as she tries to suppress her cries by her hand, not to wake the children sleeping next door. Dany arches off the bed, raising her hips but Jon pushes her down again, taking her back in his mouth. His tongue laps and licks and sucks, never quitting or changing pace, until she gives a soft whimper, shaking her head. 

“Jon, have mercy,” she gasps. “Please.”

Though he'd have no problem staying here forever, between her legs, where it's soft and warm and her lovely scent surrounds him, he knows she won't allow it. Not now at least. Not when she's begging him like this. Besides, she won't be able to stay quiet for much longer.

Slowly he makes his way upwards. He kisses every part of her skin, fingers sinking into her heat as she wraps her legs around his waist. Even though she's so wet already, he doesn't miss his chance to stretch her some more. He loves to touch her like this and see her come undone beneath him. And he revels in knowing that there's no need to rush this. He can go as slow or fast as he wants, and then do it all over again. 

That is, if she lets him. 

A sharp pull on his hair makes him look up. She's flushed, panting, but frowning as well. “Enough with the teasing.”

“You need to be more patient,” he grins at her but she doesn’t return it.

“I need you,” she says. “Now.”

Her walls contract around him as he pushes inside her. And there he almost comes but holds back at the last second, determined to have her climax before him. 

“Gods, you feel so good,” he groans, falling on top of her, pinning her to the bed. 

As he picks up his pace, thrusting deeper, she jolts around him. Her breath hitches, and she starts to squirm underneath him. Her fingers claw at the furs covering the mattress and she gives a choked scream of his name. Then her lilac eyes widen, and she moans hoarsely, as spasms start to rack her cunt, before she's plunging him over the edge too. Jon rocks into her one more time, looks into her eyes and lets loose. 

His head drops forward. Panting against the side of hers, the pleasure is breathtaking and overwhelming and delicious all at once. A shudder runs through his body. He groans, still moving his hips, unable to stop.

“I love you,” she whispers as she leaves kisses on his temple, his shoulder, his neck.

Eventually he rolls off of her to the side, but pulls her with him. Now they're facing each other, his cock remaining inside of her. His cum is leaking out of her onto the mattress but he doesn't care about it. He’s still reluctant to pull out, rocking his hips gently, unwilling to let the moment end. Deep down, he hopes that his seed will take root again. He wants another child with her and to be there through the pregnancy this time, to feel their child kick beneath his hand, not watching from afar. It is one of his greatest regrets that he missed it the last time.

While his thoughts drift, his movements stop eventually. Her fingers keep tracing lazy circles along his spine. “What’s going through your head now?”

Jon sighs against her neck. “I was hoping for another girl. One that looks like you.”

“Another babe?” Dany huffs a quiet laugh. “Don’t you have your hands full with the other two?”

“I think I can handle another…” he says, lifting his head. “Or two more?”

“Two again? Are you sure?” Her brows rise even further. “That’s a bit too much while also ruling seven kingdoms, don't you think?”

“Well, I’m not ruling anything. You do.” Jon trails his fingers down her hip and stays there. “I'm only the king consort, so my duty is to look after the children, and the household.”

Her head snaps up toward him, so fast, it startles him a bit. “Who said you're only king consort?”

Amused by the sudden fire in her gaze, he blinks at her. “Isn’t that the role of the husband of the queen?”

“If I am queen, then you are king, Jon.” She props herself up on one elbow, her silver hair spilling over her shoulder. “I took care of things by myself because you needed time to heal, but that won’t stay that way forever.”

Jon looks at her for a long moment, then also changes his position, sitting with his back against the headboard. The mood has changed too, the afterglow is gone. She follows him shortly and sits up as well.

“They chose you to rule them, Dany. Not me.”

“And I chose you to rule beside me.” She pulls up the furs to cover herself, but it's not only this gesture that reflects how annoyed she is with him again. It's also her tone. “I cannot believe we’re still having this conversation.”

She's right about that. They've talked about this before. Not this exactly, but Jon knows where they're heading.

“How often do I have to tell you that you don’t have to step in front of me to protect me,” Dany continues. “But neither do you have to stay behind me, so I can rule on my own.” Her voice softens a bit after that. “You are my partner, Jon. My equal. From this day until the end of my days. Isn't that what we promised each other?”

But is it really that simple?

Maybe it is. For once, he doesn't argue but reaches up, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Kessa (Yes).”

The Valyrian makes her smile, but still they're not done yet. She takes his hand in hers. “Then swear it.”

He exhales, the ghost of his own smile tugging at his lips. “Swear what?”

“Swear that you'll never forget it again,” Dany says, tightening her grip. “Swear that you'll never forget that your place is by my side. By. My. Side.” She stretches the words. “Nowhere else.”

“Fine.” He nods and squeezes her hand back. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She lies back down, pulling him with her. “And don’t you dare break that vow.”

“I won't,” he says, his lips curving into a smirk. “Between the two of us, I usually intend to keep the oaths that I take.”

Trying to stay serious, she glares at him, but the corner of her mouth betrays her. “It was your luck that I didn't.”

“It was,” he whispers, rolling her gently beneath him. “And I am more than grateful for that.”

“How is she feeling?” 

Robb doesn’t look up from the stack of letters spread across his desk, when he asks the same question he asks every morning. Methodically he gathers the papers, so Sam can send them off with the ravens later. 

“Better,” Jon replies, sorting through his own smaller mountain of correspondence. “The sickness has eased, thank the gods. Though she still gets dizzy if she’s on her feet for too long.” He rubs a tired hand over his face and glances toward the window, fully aware he won't see her through the rolling clouds, because Daenerys is not even close within reach but gone again.

At the moment, she's flying to the Riverlands to make sure the crops are growing well and the harvest will last. Since food is still their biggest concern, someone has to look after it. Jon knows all too well how often grain ends up in the hands of their lords before the people ever see a mouthful. So he volunteered to check the progress himself but Dany wouldn't let him. He has the feeling she gets even more stubborn, when she's pregnant. 

And that means something. 

“Only four months to go,” Arya says with a grin that falters the second she catches Jon's glare. 

In return she just shrugs, leaps off his desk and starts to circle the room. Obviously she's ready to set off again and continue her travels, though Jon knows that he'll miss her deeply. Both of them. 

Despite his constant worry for Daenerys’ health and that of their unborn child, he's truly grateful to have his siblings’ company. They came to Dragonstone not long after the war ended, and he has grown used to their presence. Him and Robb spending their days working together in the study while Arya drifts in and out, more of a distraction than help, but a welcome one nevertheless. 

“I think I’ll actually miss hanging around with you two,” she says, speaking his thoughts as she joins Jon at the table in the middle of the room. “You both talk very little but at least it's more than Gendry does.”

“You think he’ll like the North?” Robb asks as he pushes himself up from his chair, careful with his bad leg. “Winterfell’s not for everyone.”

“We won’t stay forever,” Arya says. “But I’m looking forward to going home. And Gendry said he doesn’t care where we go as long as we never set foot in King’s Landing again.”

At her mentioning the capital, Robb scrunches his nose as though he’s smelled something rotten. Jon claps him on the shoulder, because he knows the sacrifice his brother is making.

“You can always change your mind,” he says.

A knock on the door behind them makes them all turn around. Theon leans against the frame, dressed all in black, except the golden kraken stitched into his jerkin, wearing a matching black eye patch over his left eye. 

“Our ship’s ready,” he tells Robb. 

“Well,” Robb sighs in return, grabbing the cane beside his chair, “seems like my time to change my mind is up.” He limps forward with one heavy step. “How bad can it be?”

“Very bad,” Arya answers cheerfully, walking around the table to hug him tight. “But at least it’s warm.”

“I suppose that’s something.” Robb exhales before he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Give Mother and Rickon a hug… and Bran too, if he lets you.”

“I will.” She steps aside, gesturing for Jon to take her place.

He doesn’t trust his voice at first. Even though they’ll see one another again soon enough, his throat seems to tighten. And of course Robb notices. He laughs as he drags Jon into a fierce embrace. “You’ve grown sentimental since you died, you know that?”

“That’s what death does to you,” Jon mutters into his shoulder, already feeling a little lighter. “Safe travels, brother. Send a raven once you’ve settled.”

Robb nods and limps toward the door, where Theon waits to offer his arm the second Robb’s close enough, but instead of taking it, Robb scowls and pushes it aside, only to wince sharply on his next step. His grip tightens on his cane.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Theon mumbles, rolling his eyes. He offers his arm once again, but still the gesture gets wholeheartedly ignored.

Robb grits through his teeth as he pushes himself forward, but manages barely two more steps past the doorway before they waver again. Jon and Arya exchange a knowing look from inside the study and watch Theon walk after their brother with an expression both amused and annoyed. 

“At least let me help you down the stairs,” they hear his voice coming from the hallway.

“I don’t need your bloody help,” Robb snaps, punctuated by the hard clack of his cane on stone.

“Would you stop being this difficult?” says Theon.

“Well, would you stop giving me a constant headache?”

There’s a pause following. A soft chuckle and quiet sentence, impossible for them to understand. Though Robb's reply is loud and clear.

“I did not faint.” The sound of fabric rustling, another clank of Robb's cane, followed by a deep groan and another pause. “Fine. Just give me the damn arm.”

Jon and Arya share another well knowing glaze, neither of them feeling the need to comment on the exchange. As much as Greyjoy irritates them both, Jon’s glad for Theon being at his brother's side and having his back. 

“At least they have each other,” Arya says softly, mirroring his thoughts once more.

“Aye.” Jon exhales and folds his arms over his chest. “And still I feel guilty for sending him back to that hellhole.”

“Don’t worry.” Arya returns to his side, shaking her head. “Robb will manage. He’ll hate it, but he’ll manage. He’s not that allergic to scheming, not like our father.” She hesitates, then adds, “But I’m glad you’re not going.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you are way too much like him.”

Just that one sentence would have made his whole world only a few years back. It's funny how things have changed, Jon realises. How much he has changed. 

Ever since he can remember, he'd wanted to be like Eddard Stark, chasing honour to make him proud. Thinking it was the only way a bastard could matter. But now that Jon knows the truth about Ned and his mother and Rhaegar, everything is put into a whole new perspective. They'd all forsaken their duties, broken their vows, for love, one way or another. Just as Jon had broken his oath for Dany. Then he'd died for her. And for the first time in his life, he knows with all his heart he’d chosen right.

After another moment of silence, Arya leans against his arm and pulls him out of his thoughts. “Where would you go, if you had a choice? Obviously not to King's Landing. But if you could go anywhere you wanted right now? If there was nothing to rule and no obligations?”

“North,” Jon answers without hesitation. “I’d probably go North.”

Arya looks surprised. “Really? Back to the Wall?” Because she knows we wouldn't go back to Winterfell. He never held much love for that place.

“No, further,” he tells her quietly. “The real North.”

Just thinking about it makes him smile. Because only after living there himself did he truly understand what it meant, when someone called him or Dany a Southerner. The real North. Where the air burns your lungs and the forests stretch untouched for leagues. And where people live beyond the reach of any crown. Where a man is judged by what he does rather than the name he carries, and no one bends the knee unless they choose to.

It hadn’t been easy, when they’d lived among the Wildlings, carrying the fear that one wrong step would expose them. Yet despite that, Jon had never been happier than when he was there with her.

Free and in love.

If he could, he thinks, he’d go back there in a heartbeat.