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Chapter Text

“If you want the Iron Throne, take it,” Yara counseled. “We have an army, a fleet, and three dragons. We should hit King’s Landing now, hard, with everything we have. The city will fall in a day.”

Looking out the carved window, Daenerys could see said armies on the beach, the fleet in the harbor. She felt rather than saw her dragons; Drogon and Rhaegal were hunting, judging by their emotions—predatory excitement and hungry focus—while Viserion was warm and broody, likely finding a cave of his choosing between the many on Dragonstone.

Tyrion once again complained about the burning of innocents. “We turn the dragons loose, tens of thousands will die in the firestorms.”

Daenerys resented that. She did not turn her children loose, especially not upon innocents. Her children were intelligent, loyal creatures. She may only ride Drogon, but all were bonded to her. It was that very bond that allowed her to feel them from miles away.

“It’s called war,” Ellaria challenged, starting a bickering match with Tyrion.

War, indeed, Daenerys pondered.

Finally, she turned to face her advisors. “I am not here to be Queen of the Ashes.”

Olenna waxed on about her granddaughter, a once loved Queen, now nothing but ashes. “Commoners, nobles, they’re all just children, really. They won’t obey you, unless they fear you.”

“Who said I need to burn a single scrap of thatch to take the Kingdoms?”

Tyrion hesitated. “I agree, Your Grace. Which is why, my ladies, we have discussed utilizing the armies of the Reach and Dorne to launch a siege of the capital…”

Daenerys ignored Tyrion as he explained their plan to Yara, Olenna, and Ellaria to focus on their reactions. Daenerys saw the distaste in her advisors’ faces. Not just at the usage of their armies rather than Daenerys's own, but at the idea of a siege. The taking of Casterly Rock received easy agreement, as did the ferrying of the Dornish army from Sunspear to King’s Landing with Yara’s fleet.

But once Tyrion began speaking, stalking around the table, moving the map markers around and knocking down the Lannister lions as appropriate, Daenerys realized a number of holes in the plan. Seeing it all laid out on the map, she saw their flanks. And hearing Tyrion boast his explanation, she saw the blinding bravado guiding his decisions. And neglecting some details he likely thought below him.

The Reach, Dorne, and hopefully the Riverlands and the Westerlands. Four armies to feed. She’d brought enough stores from Meereen to feed her Unsullied and Dothraki, but four additional armies?

And sending all of their armies out to sea, where Euron’s Lannister loyal fleet lurked?

“Are we all in agreement?” Tyrion asked.

“No.”

Her advisors stopped nodding, gazes snapping to hers.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion began. “We discussed this plan, designed it together. You believed it to be the best course of action.”

“And now I do not.” She stepped towards the table. It was her turn to play with models. “Where is Euron’s fleet? Varys?”

The spider studied Daenerys. “Latest reports have them leaving Blackwater Bay, Your Grace.”

“Are we to send Yara on a ferrying mission directly into her uncle’s fleet? While I have no doubt you and your ships could handle your uncle, I promised you to aid you in your fight with him. I also have no desire to expend ships in such an avoidable battle.”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Your Grace, we need to retrieve the Dornish armies—”

“We will.” Daenerys reached for the Kraken. “Yara’s fleet will sail for Sunspear. My children and I shall escort you personally. Assuming we run into your uncle on the way south, I will burn the entire fleet to cinders and return to Dragonstone. If not, I’m sure we will meet him on the return trip.”

“Your Grace, if I may—”

“Allow me to continue, Lord Tyrion.” Daenerys plucked up the helm of the Unsullied. “Half of the Unsullied and Dothraki will sail for the Westerlands to take the Lannister gold. Greyworm will lead this battalion. The other half will sail for Highgarden to retrieve the grain remaining in the Reach. My children and I will join both forces should they encounter resistance once we have dealt with Euron’s fleet.

“The stores we ferried from Meereen could be stretched to feed all our soldiers, but it is an unnecessary strain. When Lord Tully is escorted back by the Second Sons, along with the lords of the Westerlands and Stormlands who wish to treat with us, we will only gain more mouths to feed should they bend the knee.

“But we will not rely on alliances we do not possess, nor armies we do not have. Once the Dornish arrive with the Iron Islanders, and the Unsullied and Dothraki return from their campaigns, we will take King’s Landing.”

“Your Grace, I must remind you of the innocents within the city walls—”

“I have not forgotten the smallfolk, Lord Tyrion.” She fixed her hand with a glare, tired of his interruptions. “Forgive me my ladies, but I never received a formal education. However, my brother Viserys once told me the story of Harrenhall. I believe the basics entailed that Balerion the Black Dread’s fire burned so hot, it melted the stone walls?”

“Sounds like a perfect retelling to me, Your Grace,” Lady Olenna offered.

Daenerys hummed. “While my children are not yet as large as Balerion was hailed to be during the Conquest, I do believe my three children should find no trouble felling the gates of King’s Landing and the Red Keep. Only Lannister soldiers will find themselves drowning in dragonfire, then.”

Tyrion sighed. “And how do you mean to take the Keep, if not with your dragons, Your Grace?”

“With our numerous armies, of course. I believe we will find no resistance from the unarmed smallfolk. Once the gates have fallen, our men can march through the streets to the Keep and meet Cersei in the throne room.”

Daenerys glanced at her Hand. They had never explicitly mentioned what to do with Cersei once they took the throne from her. She could be convinced to allow the Lannister queen to leave in exile, but after the Masters of Meereen and the Sons of the Harpy, she found herself growing tired of mercy for nobles who had made their beds.

Perhaps she would allow Cersei the mercy of choosing between steel and flame for her death.

“Do any of you see any holes in this proposal? Any exposed flanks?”

Daenerys half expected Tyrion to launch into a list of issues, but instead, she found the room in a thoughtful silence.

“The lords of the Stormlands and Westerlands, are they bringing their armies with them to treat with you, Your Grace?” Lady Ellaria asked.

“Houses Lonmouth, Tarth, and Selmy of the Stormlands replied to my invite saying they would bring their men to join my cause. Any other houses who appear have not indicated one way or another.” Daenerys was surprised the spider had waited for her to answer instead of supplying the information he was supposedly well-versed in. “Lord Varys?”

“Your Grace has reported on the latest whispers I have heard.” Daenerys pressed her lips together, but nodded. “What of the Vale, my Queen?” the spider asked.

“According to your little birds, the knights of the Vale are all but extinguished after the Battle of the Bastards. Should the Vale continue to be aligned with the North, we shall simply wait for winter to come and force their hand, just as we will with the Starks.”

“My Queen?”

“Yes, Greyworm?”

The Unsullied took a single step forward from his place at Daenerys's flank. “Perhaps it would be better for Unsullied and Dothraki to march. Horses do not fit easily on ships, and this map says we are not far from our destinations. Dothraki will ride and Unsullied will march. We do not tire like weaker men.”

Daenerys considered this. It would strengthen the fleet headed to Dorne. Strength they may need if things with Euron got out of hand. “You are correct, Greyworm. When we are finished here, you and I shall meet with my bloodriders to discuss the routes you shall take. Thank you for your counsel.”

The Commander bowed his head and stepped back.

“My ladies?”

“I’m with you,” Lady Yara said without hesitation.

Lady Olenna smiled from across the table. “As am I, my Queen.”

Lady Ellaria lifted her chin. “The Dornish stand with you.”

Daenerys nodded her thanks. “Lady Missandei?”

Her faithful advisor betrayed no surprise at being called upon. “I see no faults, Your Grace, but should one appear to me, I will let you know.”

“Thank you. That is all I ask of all of you. As we just saw, no one person can see the best course of action.” Tyrion stiffened beside her, but did not speak. “Very well, we are done here. Lady Olenna, could I speak with you for a moment? I would like your insight on where Greyworm and my bloodriders should head for in the Reach.”

The other nobles began to file out.

“Should you wish to consider a betrothal to Prince Trystane, I would be amenable to that discussion after I return from Sunspear, Your Grace.”

Daenerys kept her face impassive at Ellaria’s reminder of her rather fragile alliance with Dorne. Olenna and the Reach wanted revenge against Cersei for Margaery Tyrell. Yara wanted to protect her claim to the Salt Throne from her uncle. But Dorne, as they historically had been, were relatively untied to the last Targaryen.

“I will remember to seek you out upon your return, Lady Ellaria.”

The lady departed, leaving Daenerys and Olenna alone. With Greyworm and Missandei, of course.

“Even the most powerful woman in Westeros is not free of pushes for marriage. Not even from her bastard advisor,” Olenna groused.

Daenerys took a seat beside the Queen of Thorns. “Perhaps not. Though I am aware that the hand of a queen is a bargaining chip I have at my disposal, should I need it.”

Olenna rolled her eyes. “While you are not wrong, my dear, you are not just some Westerosi lady, or a Westerosi queen.” She studied Daenerys, as she often did. “Will you take a bit of advice from an old woman?”

Daenerys waved an inviting hand. “Please.”

Olenna knit her fingers together in her lap. “He’s a clever lord, your Hand. I’ve known a great many clever men. I’ve outlived them all. You know why? I ignored them.” Olenna leaned forward, looking into Daenerys's soul with her knowing stare. “The lords of Westeros are sheep. Are you a sheep, as your Hand wishes you to be? No. You’re a dragon. Be a dragon.”

And damn propriety, damn her stoney, court mask—

Daenerys smiled.

“Forgive me, my Queen,” Greyworm began, “but there is a Red Priestess from Asshai here to speak with you.”

---

The Red Priestess curtseyed upon Daenerys's arrival. “Issa dāria.” My Queen .

“The followers of the Lord of Light helped bring peace to Meereen. You are welcome here. What is your name?”

“Melisandre, issa dāria.” She bowed her head. “The Long Night is coming, Your Grace. Even if you do not follow the Lord of Light, I believe you to be his champion in the fight to come.”

“You speak of prophecy, then? Or what you have seen in the flames?”

The priestess gave a small smile. “Both, issa dāria. My Lord has given me visions of the future, but has also given me the ability to see what is right in front of me.”

Daenerys raised a brow.

“Kīviō dārilaros. Ao kessa maghagon se ñāqes.”

The Prince Who Was Promised. You will bring the Dawn.

“I’m afraid I’m not a prince.”

Missandei spoke. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but that noun has no gender in High Valyrian. It would be properly translated as prince or princess.”

Dragons have no gender, they are as changeable as flame. Of course the language of dragons would be just as capricious.

“Be that as it may,” Daenerys intoned, “I have little use for prophecy. Let alone children's tales of the Long Night. You believe this prophecy refers to me?”

The Red Priestess lifted her chin. “I believe you have a role to play. As does another. The King in the North, Jon Snow.”

“You know him to be the king, then?” asked Daenerys. “We have not yet confirmed if it is Ned Stark’s bastard or his daughter who has claimed control of the North.” Yet another piece of news Varys had failed to beat.

“I know nothing of the petty details of Northern politics. What I do know is Jon Snow has seen the threat beyond the Wall and lived to tell the tale. Summon Jon Snow. Hear what he has witnessed, what he has survived.”

Tyrion stepped forward. “I cannot speak to prophecy, but Jon Snow is an honorable man. It would do us good to ally with the North.” He rambled about how the Starks have every reason to hate the Lannisters for Ned and Robb Stark’s deaths, but Daenerys found his counsel lacking.

The North was a barren, wintery wasteland at the moment. They could not possibly forgive House Targaryen for her father’s role in the deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark, nor more than they could forgive the Lannisters as Tyrion described. Even if the Red Priestess was insistent upon this Jon Snow’s role in the upcoming Long Night, not even she could confirm if Snow or the Stark girl held power in the North.

Daenerys's focus was on King’s Landing, on the Six Kingdoms not riddled with winter storms. She was focused on securing the Riverlands by reducing the Tully lord, the Stormlands through fluttering her lashes at some bannermen, and the Westerlands through fire and blood—and theft.

The North would have to fall in line. Winter was here, and Daenerys would soon me in possession of all the crops in the other six Kingdoms. Starvation or bending the knee—a relatively easy choice to make.

“You may write to the Starks, Lord Tyrion, and invite them to Dragonstone as I have with the lords of the Stormlands, Westerlands, and Riverlands. However, if they desire anything from me, they should arrive on bent knees.”

Chapter Text

The cave system on Dragonstone was extensive, almost serpentine in shape. Daenerys's torch illuminated the cave falls, made up of stone and dragonglass. The deeper she wandered, the stronger the scent of brimstone and smoke became.

She felt Viserion somewhere deeper in the caves. When she woke, his strong feelings of contentment gave Daenerys the impression he had found his roost and she wished to see the nook of Dragonstone her cream and gold dragon had chosen to call home.

In her few weeks on Dragonstone, she swore her dragons felt more settled than they had since they were small enough to ride on her shoulders. Sometimes, she found herself longing for the days when she would walk with Viserion and Rhaegal in her arms, Drogon nuzzling her brow from atop her shoulder. She was grateful they had grown strong, that they could defend themselves—especially with the battles to come. But still, she found herself dreaming of holding her children in her arms.

Following the thread in her gut tied to her sweetest son, Daenerys found herself stepping into a rather massive cave. The lofty ceiling was barely illuminated by her torchlight. The air was warmed, likely by the Dragonmount. The walls were almost entirely made up of shining dragonglass. Bones littered the floor. Daenerys no longer studied the evidence of her dragons’ meals; they knew not to harm a human unless at their mother’s order.

At her arrival, a cream snout with golden horns peaked into view.

“Rytsas, tresy,” she greeted. Hello, son.

Viserion purred, the sound echoing through the cavern.

“Have you found yourself a home?” she murmured in High Valyrian. “Where are your brothers?” Daenerys felt two twin tugs at the longer threads in her gut. “Drogon is exploring, it seems. Rhaegal is hunting. Perhaps he will bring you something back.”

Viserion nosed into her side, warming her with his breath as she rubbed his scales. An eye of molten gold blinked calmly.

Her children were so content on Dragonstone. Drogon found entertainment through exploring the new coastline—she’d even seen him fishing one morning. Rhaegal, ever driven by his greedy hunger, seemed to hunt endlessly. Viserion, who Daenerys always thought was embarrassed by his skilless hunting in his youth, had taken to basking in the warmth of the Dragonmount. While Drogon and Rhaegal spent less time in the depths of the caves, Daenerys often saw them sunbathing atop the cliffs or grassy knolls of the island.

She swore they were growing larger as the weeks passed. The longer they lay upon the warm earth, breathed in the salty smoke smelling of brimstone, and flew freely to feast upon whatever livestock they saw fit—Drogon had always been the largest of her children, but Rhaegal and Viserion were catching up. From fifteen paces away, you could feel the heat of the dragonflame brewing within them. She wondered how hot their flames had become.

Between meetings with her generals and advisors, Daenerys had been tearing through the Dragonstone library. While she skimmed the records kept by the keep’s maesters over the years, it was the journals of her ancestors she read by candlelight deep into the night.

She found them hidden behind a false wall in the library marked with the Valyrian runes for family and history. Many of the journals were unsigned, but Daenerys kind of enjoyed the puzzle of using her rather limited knowledge of her ancestors to attempt to give the authors a name.

One of the journals did not include writing, but instead sketches of dragons. Daenerys assumed the drawings were done by one her more artistic relatives, though her knowledge of the Targaryens of old pertained more to their achievements and failures than their hobbies.

Daenerys had brought these drawings, along with a few other journals, on her journey to Viserion’s roost. She gave her gentlest son a final pat before settling beside him, leaning back into his flank as she began to sort through the parchments in her satchel.

Whoever the artist was, they must have lived around the time of the Dance of Dragons. A few of the sketches were titled: Meleys, mount of the Queen Who Never Was; Sunfyre, the Usurper’s mount. Some unnamed sketches were colored, allowing Daenerys to guess at the subject. A brilliant sketch of a cobalt and copper dragon depicted in nimble flight could only be Tessarion, the Blue Queen.

The most invaluable treasure she unearthed was pieces of a journal once belonging to Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, Queen Rhaenyra’s consort. The pages Daenerys had of his writings clearly came from an assortment of times in the prince’s life. Recounts of battles in the Stepstones, of his time in Essos, of the birth of his sons with Rhaenyra.

But what Daenerys was currently interested in was her ancestor’s fascination with the knowledge lost in the Doom of Old Valyria. The lore of dragons and the blood magic that bound Targaryens to their mounts.

Daenerys's bond to her children was quite different from the ties her ancestors described to their mounts. A maester’s account described the Usurper as bragging about his control of Sunfyre, comparing the golden dragon to an aerial steed. Daemon alludes to a mutual respect and loyalty between him and his Red Wyrm. None, however, had ever bonded more than one dragon; none had ever brought dragons back into the world, either.

The Rogue Prince waxed on about magics able to aid in a dragon’s growth or increase the heat of their flame or even heal them from deadly wounds. Daemon appeared to believe the rumors that blood magic had healed Balerion the Black Dread from the horrific ailments that claimed the life of his rider, Aerea Targaryen. Given that the prince had spent much of his life in battle with his dragon, it was not surprising to Daenerys that he searched for ways to heal his mount.

After she made her way through every last page in that hidden compartment, Daenerys would have to ask the maester on Dragonstone for any texts related to Valyrian blood magic. She and her children faced a similar life rife with war. Her dragons did so much for her, protecting her fiercely. Perhaps she could find a way to guard them.

But it was Daemon’s theories on the lineage of Targaryen dragons that had Daenerys seeking out her children this morning. She’d spent her night comparing the Rogue Prince’s research on the matrilineage of Targaryen dragons descended from Vhagar and Meraxes.

Dragons had no gender, but there were records of which beast had laid which clutch of eggs. Daenerys compared the lineage Daemon Targaryen had written to the sketches of these dragons.

She found herself enjoying finding the—for lack of a better term—facial features of the dragons echoed in their offspring. Daenerys could see the similarities between Syrax and Sunfyre in their sleek faces and horns, inherited from their mother, Silverwing. Caraxes and Tessarion shared an angular face widened by thick horns and rows and rows of chin spines, giving them a stark resemblance to Dreamfyre. Syrax’s own clutch may as well have been identical, the only differentiating factor between them being their coloring.

Especially now that she had this knowledge in front of her, the inkling she’d had the older her dragons became was now all but confirmed. While they were brothers by nurture, but likely cousins by blood.

Drogon and Rhaegal shared the swath of chin spines and mostly straight horns of Dreamfyre’s line while Viserion was almost entirely the sleek, agile shape of Silverwing and Syrax. The slight curve to Drogon’s scarlet red great horns resembled the shape of those on a side profile sketch of Vermithor. Confusingly, Viserion’s own golden ones also shared this shape. Daenerys checked Daemon’s lineage and found her ancestor had posited Vermithor as the sire of both Dreamfyre’s and Silverwing’s clutches, though of course there was no way to confirm it.

Although Daemon seemed certain Syrax’s clutches were sired by Caraxes. While plausible, Daenerys smirked at the possibility that her ancestor simply wanted his and his wife’s mounts to be mated as their riders were.

Sensing her amusement, Viserion nosed her shoulder. Well, he tried. His nose was now larger than her torso, so he more so nudged her entire body.

“I’m trying to learn about your ancestors, tresy. Yours and that of your brothers,” she whispered to him. 

Reading about the years before the Dance, a time where their family was numerous in human and dragon members alike…. She would forever be grateful for the blood magic that gave her Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, but she would forever mourn her barren womb. 

“We are the last Targaryens. The Westerosi like to say a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.” Daenerys ran a hand over Viserion’s white scales. “Perhaps we should prove our enemies right.”

Chapter Text

The Princess of Dragonstone sat upon the throne of dragonglass for the first time, and she did so undisputed. Just as the island had been claimed by the Conqueror centuries ago, it was once again under Targaryen banners by right of conquest.

Daenerys held court, taking petitioners. Missandei sat on a bench to her left, Tyrion stood to her right. It was similar to her experience in Meereen. She found herself enjoying the change of pace from battle plans and troop movements to inheritance disputes and depleting farmland.

Yara and her fleet had set sail at dawn. In an hour or so, Daenerys would take to the air on Drogon with Rhaegal and Viserion on her flanks. They would catch up with the fleet before they neared the mouth of Blackwater Bay to escort them to Sunspear.

As Daenerys waited for the next petitioner to step forward, she felt herself hoping Euron made a move today rather than on the return journey. She was itching for a bit of action, as were her children.

Even once they settled in on Dragonstone, Daenerys had flown with her dragons at least every other day. She was getting better at conveying her desires to Drogon; he responded quicker to her shifting her weight or applying pressure to his spines.

The tether in her gut between her and her other two children was growing stronger as well. While she did not ride them, and therefore did not need to convey her desired movements nearly as explicitly as she did with their larger brother, she was also not able to aid them as much in battle. Her dragons were incredibly intelligent and discerning creatures; for her to say she knew more about flying than them would simply be laughable. But another set of eyes never hurt, nor did another mind. She trusted Rhaegal and Viserion to look out for themselves, but was also getting better at encouraging her children to fly as a unit. While she was only physically guiding Drogon, the other two dragons seemed to sense her movements atop Drogon’s back and would mirror him as needed. 

While it wouldn’t be suited to every battle situation, feeling as though she were truly flying with all three of her children at once—it was magical.

Daenerys handled a few more petitioners, thanking the farmers for bringing the depleting soil to her attention and reassuring her people that grain stores from the Reach were en route. It simply wouldn’t do for her first Westerosi reign to begin with starving smallfolk. She would ensure the commoners received rations just as her soldiers did.

Daenerys rose from her dragonglass throne and court was adjourned. She gestured with a tilt of her chin for her advisors to follow her to the war room behind the throne. She asked a passing page to request Lady Olenna join them.

There, she walked to the window and gently tugged on her bonds with her children. She didn’t need them just yet, but she planned to leave soon and Drogon felt like he was adventuring a few miles down the northern coastline. Viserion’s answering tug felt almost lethargic, her gentle child grumpy to be called out of his roost. Rhaegal, ever aspiring to be as vicious as his elder brother, seemed as impatient to take to the skies as his mother was.

Lady Olenna arrived, pulling Daenerys out of her mind.

“Thank you for joining us, my lady,” she greeted.

The Tyrell matriarch gave her a small smile and took a seat. “Of course, my dear.”

Daenerys moved the three dragon statues towards the kraken. “I shall leave to meet Yara’s fleet within the hour, hopefully before they reach the mouth of the Bay.”

Tyrion sighed. “Your Grace, I feel I must remind you of the danger you are putting yourself in by going into battle yourself. You are a queen, not an envoy. Your people need you here.”

“And what of my people on board those ships, Lord Hand? Do they not need me to defend them from a possible ambush?”

The Lannister pressed his lips together, dipping his chin in concession. “It is simply….”

“You need not hesitate, Lord Tyrion. I believe I gave you that pin for your advice, not your silence.”

Her Hand cleared his throat. “Right, then. It is the issue of your succession, Your Grace.”

“My succession?”

“You are without an heir, Your Grace.”

Daenerys smiled. Judging by her Hand’s reaction, her smirk was both beautiful and terrifying. She remained silent, her smile fixed. “I await your advice, Lord Hand. I assumed you did not simply wish to point out this issue as you called it without offering a solution.”

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Tyrion seemed emboldened by her seeking his counsel in even this smallest fashion. “I would advise you to name an heir. Not a blood relation, of course, but someone to inherit Dragonstone, your armies, your dragons.”

“My dragons are not something to be inherited , Lord Tyrion. As there is no one left of my House, perhaps they will find others of Valyrian blood to bond with. Perhaps they will remain on Dragonstone, or perhaps they will return to their birthplace in Essos. Perhaps they will never be seen again. I may not be able to predict a future beyond my death, but I can assure you: my dragons will not be left to anyone. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor.”

“A dragon is not a slave,” Missandei translated for the Andals.

Tyrion let out a poorly concealed sigh. “Of course, Your Grace. I simply meant to emphasize the importance of naming a successor. Someone to avenge you, gods forbid. Someone to carry on your legacy, should you not be able to do it yourself.”

Daenerys frowned. “I suppose this is somewhat related to what I called you all here to discuss.” From her pocket, she pulled out two pins. “Lady Olenna, Lady Missandei, I ask that you both join Lord Tyrion as Hands of the Queen.”

Olenna chuckled. “Three hands?”

Daenerys had three children. She was the third child born of her mother. She had taken three cities in the Bay of Dragons. The Targaryen sigil had three heads. She was walking in the footsteps of the three Conquerors.

Not to mention the many prophecies surrounding her as the Child of Three.

Three treasons .

Daenerys steeled herself. She had no use for prophecy here.

“In the throes of his madness, Aerys executed his Hand and elevated a pyromancer who fed into his descent. I have no need for advisors who blindly obey me, nor ones who plot behind my back. My hope is that wearing the pin will demonstrate my loyalty to you all.”

She truly hoped they would discuss amongst each other, come up with the sagest of advice. She also knew they could turn against her, ally together to manipulate her—

Tyrion would. Olenna might.

But Missandei would never.

Tyrion was ambition and ego wrapped up in caution and morality. Olenna action guided by wisdom. And Missandei was compassion and mediation.

“Do you accept?”

Tyrion kept his features schooled in a careful, neutral expression.

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” Lady Olenna replied.

Missandei’s eyes were bright. “As would I, my queen.”

---

“Rytsas, ñuha riñar,” Daenerys greeted her children. The wind ripped at the vents of her leather overcoat even as Drogon bent his neck to her, shielding her from the worst of the gusts. “We will need to fly fast to catch up with our fleet, but then you all can enjoy an easy patrol until we reach Sunspear. Unless we encounter Euron’s fleet, which we shall burn into the waves.”

Viserion began to nose at Daenerys, seeking her affection. She laughed as Drogon dramatically made room for his younger brother rather than allowing Daenerys to be pushed by Viserion’s intrusion. Rhaegal exhaled a puff of hot air onto his mother, keeping her warm.

“Thank you, my dears.” Daenerys basked in the bonds she felt with her children. The threads tied between them hummed with warmth and contentment.

“I’ve been doing some reading. About our family history.” Her dragons stepped back a bit, giving her space as she spoke. “About the magic of Old Valyria.

“It was blood magic that they used. To bond Valyrians to dragons. To make Valyrian steel forged from your breath. To heal and to harm. You three were born from blood magic.”

Three fires must you light… one for life…

The prophecy from the House of the Undying came back to her. With the death of Miri Maaz Duur, the witch’s blood magic inadvertently gave life to her children.

“Blood magic is powerful. It comes with a steep price.”

Three treasons will you know… once for blood…

Miri Maaz Duur had deceived Daenerys, costing her Drogo and Rhaego, her own blood, in defense of the witch’s own people.

Drogon was nosing against her side now, feeling her grief for his namesake and his unborn sibling.

“But I believe this particular magic to be a safe risk,” Daenerys told her children. “It would only amplify what is already there, the threads that already bind you to me and me to you.”

Eyes of gold, bronze, and red looked back at her, unnerved. Though her children were rarely phased by anything.

“I would only require a scale from each of you. One near your heart.”

Some would have thought Daenerys foolish for believing her dragons could understand her. Others would have thought her foolish for giving her dragons choice in this or any other situation. But Daenerys knew at her core that her children did understand her. Their intelligence was not to be disrespected; they deserved a choice.

Viserion was the first to move. Her white dragon took a few steps forward, lowering his body to the ground to give his mother access to his chest. Daenerys drew her dagger—a Valyrian steel blade gifted to her by Lady Olenna—and gently pried a single cream scale from above Viserion’s sternum.

“Kirimvose, tresy,” she murmured.

Viserion purred at her as he retreated.

Bronze eyes studied her from her right. Daenerys met Rhaegal’s gaze, admiring the son she had named for her eldest brother. “You have a choice, tresy. You may freely refuse.”

The green and bronze dragon studied her for another moment before lowering himself as his brother had. Daenerys did the same as she had with Viserion, carefully taking a single jade-green scale from Rhaegal’s chest. She thanked him in their mother tongue.

Eyes as red as coals greeted her when Daenerys turned from Rhaegal.

She did not speak; she and Drogon always communicated effortlessly without words.

He was not refusing her, merely waiting. Watching.

Daenerys unfastened the neck of her longcoat. Her fingertips traced her collarbone, prodding gently at the soft patch of flesh between her clavicle and shoulder. Satisfied with the spot, she rested the tip of her dagger upon her skin.

She took in a breath, then exhaled as she let the blade bite into her flesh. It was difficult to see what she was doing without a mirror, but she was able to see enough to carefully peel back as little skin as possible from the area, slicing it off when she deemed the wound large enough.

Breathing through the pain, Daenerys took Viserion’s cream scale and pressed it into the wound.

“Qoy qoyi,” she murmured first in Dothraki then in High Valyrian, “Ānogar ānograro. Ñelly hen ñuha ñelly.”

Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh.

The scale warmed underneath her fingertips. Daenerys stared in awe as the wound healed, her skin sealing into perfect seams around the scale as if it had been there for years.

Viserion roared at the sky, spitting flames of pale gold threaded with red and orange.

Daenerys repeated the same process upon her right side, placing the jade scale into her flesh and uttering the incantation.

Rhaegal shrieked. His orange and yellow flames filled the air, the traces of green sparking within the firestream.

Daenerys was breathing heavily as she met Drogon’s red gaze. While the wounds had healed, her skin still felt tender. The bonds in her stomach had changed as well; they did not hurt, but there was an ache, a much stronger pull than usual. She could sense more than just the emotions of her dragons. She felt as if she could close her eyes and touch the very tip of a golden horn or a jade spine with precision, she was so aware of her dragons.

Drogon exhaled a warm breath over her, as if scenting the changes she was experiencing. His brothers held still as they awaited the largest dragon’s decision.

Blood of my blood .

Her fiercest son bent his neck to her, lowering so his chest was within reach.

“Kirimvose, tresy,” she whispered as she pried off a single black and scarlet scale.

Daenerys’s fingers felt for the spot between her collarbones, landing in the notch just below them on her sternum. She did not hesitate to slice into her skin, replacing her own flesh with Drogon’s scale.

“Ānogar ānograro. Ñelly hen ñuha ñelly.”

Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh.

The bond erupted between her and her mount.

Drogon looked to the clouds and screeched, his roar accompanied by black and red flames.

Reveling in the bond, Daenerys clambered onto Drogon’s back.

“Sōves, ñuha riñar.”

Her dragons lept into the sky.

Flight on dragonback had always been an unparalleled experience. The rush of adrenaline, the raw power, the freedom.

Now, it was truly indescribable. She felt as if she was the one with the wind beneath her wings. She was the one made of pure muscle, sinew, and fire, soaring through the skies.

She was not simply the Blood of the Dragon.

She was the Dragon.

---

Euron Greyjoy and his fleet launched a surprise attack on Yara’s ships in the dead of night. Once the first torch was lit upon the deck of the Silence , death emerged from the skies on wings of black, jade, and gold.

The enemy fleet was sunk in minutes.

Chapter Text

The man who came back to life amidst the ice and snow was not the same who’s lifeblood was spilt by his brothers.

Nor was he the same man who the red-haired wolf vehemently claimed as her brother.

Nor was he the elder half-brother he was meant to be, the one who would’ve grieved the youngest Stark after the Battle of the Bastards.

And, according to some of the men who had followed him from the Wall south and joined him on that accursed battlefield, he was not the same man who they had fought beside for years.

He may have recently risen from the dead, but he had ears. He heard the whispers.

Some called him a walking corpse.

Some spoke of the Starks of old, of their warging abilities. They said when he died, his soul went into his direwolf, while Ghost took residence in his master’s body, turning the man’s hair white.

Some mourned the man he once was. Others demanded he be put down.

He has eyes; he’s seen the stares.

When he enters a room, it falls quiet. They pale at the sight of his white hair, his red eyes.

Most drop his gaze. The ones who don’t stare him down, chins jutted out, as if daring him to prove them right. To be the demon they believe him to be.

The woman who claimed to be his sister stopped insisting he join her for meetings about the future of the North. Before the Battle, she had looked at him with wide eyes and begged him to remember her. To help her retake their childhood home. Now, back in what she said was the keep they’d grown up in, the red-haired Stark was nowhere to be seen.

The first time he heard a whisper about making a bastard a King in the North was the first time he learned he was a bastard. A Snow. Not a Stark.

The woman had lied. They were not siblings. And the man didn’t remember anything about her to know if she lied to spare his feelings or to manipulate him into complacency. If she truly believed him to be her brother, despite his parentage, he had yet to see any proof.

He spent his days in the godswood, knelt before the weirwood tree. Sometimes, he’d wake up from a light sleep slumped against the tree’s trunk, unsure how much time had passed.

The man wondered if he’d served his purpose. 

The Seaworth knight insisted Jon travel south from the Wall. To warn the rest of Westeros about the White Walkers.

Of course, the man could not remember much about his past, but he could remember every time he’d had the misfortune of running into one of those reanimated ice wraiths.

The young Stark woman had made it clear when she found him that he needed to help her take back Winterfell. So he did.

But what now? There had been some talk of making him some sort of king, but the man found that ridiculous. He was a bastard. A Snow.

Many had told him he had black hair before his resurrection. He supposed now his locks matched his surname.

The only thing that the man did remember clearly were his dreams.

Dreams, nightmares—he was plagued by both, and something in between.

The first few times he’d screamed himself awake, he’d asked the Onion Knight or the red-haired Stark about what he’d seen. He’d wondered if they were memories. But both of these people who claimed to have known him just shook their heads. They said they had neither witnessed anything like the events in his dreams, nor had they heard of anything similar happening to him before he died.

Sometimes the dreams were just sensations. Burning heat, like fire licking his limbs, the pain of his flesh searing. Burning cold as well; the type of unbearable temperature that turned your breath to frost and your fingers dead.

Sometimes he swore he was flying.

Often, he was back on the battlefield. He could feel the weight of his sword so visceral in his hand as he slashed it through faceless enemies with a vigor he did not know he could possess anymore. He would have to care, to have some sort of motivation in order to fight that desperately.

At least once a night, he saw her.

While he never got a good look at her in his dreams—it was always as if she were just in his periphery, or her form was ever so slightly enshrouded in darkness—but he knew it was the same woman. Each clear flash of her he hung onto like a drowning man to driftwood.

Purple eyes. Sometimes a light lilac, others an angry, dark indigo. Stiff posture. Freckles dusted across cheekbones. White hair. But not lifeless and cold in color like his own. Woven with gold and silver, shining in the sunlight. The distinct clip of steps made by petite boots—she was rather short, lithe, he was sure of it.

He had no idea who she was.

To be fair to the literal woman of his dreams, he had very little idea who he was as well.

He dreaded to think he had forgotten her. While he never saw her clearly, her presence in his dreams—and even his nightmares—made the entire atmosphere shift. He felt flushes of emotion. Longing and desire accompanied by a much more respectful affection and loyalty.

No. Whoever she was, if he had known her before he died, he would’ve remembered her.

So then why was she haunting his dreams?

---

“Lord Snow? Lady Stark requests your presence in her study.”

The man followed the page to his alleged sister’s chambers. She didn’t look up from whatever she was writing upon his arrival, though he got the distinct impression she had heard him.

A few moments later, she set down her quill and deemed him important enough to acknowledge. “Jon. Thank you for coming, brother.”

He nodded, trying not to be bothered by the way her gaze flicked from his nose to his chin to his ear—anywhere but his eyes.

“I hope I did not interrupt you in the middle of anything.”

He didn’t bother to respond. They both knew she was kept apprised of his whereabouts. She knew he’d been sitting in the godswood, yet again.

Lady Stark folded the missive she’d been writing and reached for the wax. “I hope you know I will forever be grateful that the Old Gods decided to return you to us, to allow you to fight for your—our family’s ancestral home. I will forever be happy to remember how you fought by my side to retake Winterfell.”

The man resisted the urge to raise a pointed eyebrow. Fought beside her?

“After such a horrific battle, after watching so many of your fellow Northmen die, I was happy to give you this time to yourself, Jon.”

The man got the instinct impression there was a but coming—and that he hated buts .

“But I’m afraid something unforeseeable has come up and I must again ask you to aid me, to aid our family.”

Before the man could even think of how he wished to respond, Lady Stark took his silence as him waiting for his orders.

“Tyrion Lannister—you met him before, once—has written from Dragonstone where he is currently serving as Hand to the Queen. The dragon queen, Daenerys Targaryen.” Lady Stark pressed her signet into the freshly poured wax, sealing the missive. “Lord Baelish has heard Daenerys brought three foreign armies with her, including a Dothraki horde. Along with her three fully grown dragons.”

The man felt a sudden pit in his stomach. This was a scouting report. Surely his alleged sister did not intend to send the North’s incredibly limited troops to fight against dragons ?

“Your friend from the Night’s Watch, Samwell Tarly?” He shook his head; he remembered nothing of such a man. “A raven arrived from him from the Citadel yesterday. To kill the White Walkers, we need weapons forged of dragonglass. Dragonstone is sitting on the largest—and only—mine of it.

“Lord Tyrion wrote to ‘the Starks’ as he is clearly unsure who is ruling the North at the moment, which means we aren’t full of spies in our ranks. He offers for the Starks, and any other vassal houses who wish to make the journey, to travel to Dragonstone to discuss the future of the North with the dragon queen. She is apparently doing so with the major lords of the other kingdoms in blatant anticipation of her taking King’s Landing and the Iron Throne.”

He considered that lengthy rant of information. If the other lords were traveling to treat with this dragon queen, even if she did not yet hold the capital or her ancestral throne, they were certainly confident in her ability to take it.

But why would Lady Stark summon him….

“You wish for me to go south.”

Lady Stark nodded, looking hopeful. As if him guessing her intentions was a sign of his willingness to do her bidding. “Sam says we need the dragonglass to live. I need you to convince her to mine it and allow us to forge it into weapons.

“And, well…. You told me—well, you and Ser Davos—that the wights can be killed with fire as well. Three full grown, fire-breathing dragons could certainly turn the tide in the war against the dead. As well as her alleged three armies. And if other Westerosi houses are swearing to her, she gains their armies as well.”

The man looked at the red-haired lady, his face numb and expression blank. “Am I going for the dragonglass or to ask for the queen’s aid?”

Lady Stark shook her head. “You cannot simply ask for her aid. She will demand the North bend the knee to her.”

His brow furrowed. “Is the North not one of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“We won our independence,” the lady snarled, ever the picture of her house’s sigil. “The North no longer belongs to anyone but itself. We are an independent kingdom.”

“How am I meant to convince the dragon queen to help us fight the dead?”

“She wishes to rule Westeros, does she not? How can she do that if it is a land of undead corpses?”

The man felt the urge to ask more questions, to demand better answers before he threw himself at the feat of a woman with three dragons.

But the rest of him was tired. This was more he’d spoken since asking where his chambers were to be once they retook Winterfell. So much conversation and politics was draining.

“Go to Dragonstone. Get the dragonglass. Convince the dragon queen to fight the dead.”

Lady Stark gave a sharp nod. “Precisely.” She held out the missive she’d sealed. “This is for you. It swears on your identity, as Lord Tyrion will surely not recognize you now. It also gives you my written approval on serving as my emissary to the southern kingdoms.

He accepted the outstretched letter. “Emissary?”

She stood, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her dress. “Yes, emissary. A diplomat and a messenger all in one.” She studied his expression. “If you are confused because of the rumors of a King in the North, the northern houses held a vote a week ago. They named me the Queen in the North, a title which will pass through House Stark. Just as it did before Torrhen Stark was forced to bend the knee to the Conqueror.”

The man simply nodded. 

Lady Stark moved past him, stepping out into the corridor. “Safe travels, Lord Snow.”

Chapter Text

“You stand before Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. The Unburnt. Princess of Dragonstone. Queen of the Rhoynar and the Andals. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons.” Missandei stood proud, her hands clasped in front of her. “Who seeks to pledge to the Dragon Queen?”

Daenerys saw upon the dragonglass throne, her three Hands to her right. The lords of the Stormlands and Riverlands stood in the great hall, staring up at her. Some looked cautious, others anxious. And, of course, some glared with disgust and hatred.

An aging man wearing a sigil of yellow skulls and red lips stepped forward. “I am Lord Joffery of House Lonmouth. My younger brother, Ser Richard, squired for your eldest brother Rhaegar, Your Grace. I would be honored to join him in serving under the Targaryen banner.”

Daenerys ignored the phantom pain at the mention of the brother she never knew; the brother who had doomed their house and sentenced Daenerys to a life in exile. “Thank you, Lord Lonmouth. I would happily accept your pledge.”

Wearing sigils of three wheat stalks, another white-haired man stepped forward. “I am Lord Arstan Selmy, Your Grace, Lord of Harvest Hall. My elder brother served your family as a Kingsguard for many years. It would dishonor his memory to turn my back to you, my queen. Please accept my house’s pledge.”

Daenerys wondered if each lord who stepped forward would remind her of someone she had lost. “Welcome, my lord. Your brother was a dear friend and advisor to me in Essos. I would be honored to accept your house’s pledge.”

The heads of Houses Tarth, Fell, Buckler, and Wylde, as well as the knightly Houses Seaworth and Connington stepped forward, pledging themselves. Many carried with them signed and sealed pledges from their neighboring lords.

The Stormlands were hers.

Without spilling blood, with sheer might and intimidation, Daenerys had taken the Usurper’s ancestral lands.

She welcomed the Stormland lords to stay at Dragonstone and asked them to call their soldiers to King’s Landing where they would join the armies of Dorne and the Reach.

There were fewer lords from the Riverlands. Edmure Tully retained his status as Lord Paramount, but his status was unknown to his liege lords. Many Riverland Houses assumed the Tully’s would ally with the Starks and had remained hidden in their keeps. Still, many lords from the south of the Riverlands had arrived on Dragonstone by Lady Olenna’s report as she gave Daenerys the fastest lesson in heraldry in her life.

Lords Wayn, Butterwell, Roote, and Whent swore to Daenerys, offering their depleted armies to her cause.

A handsome woman with hair streaked with gray stepped forward, a younger woman beside her. “Your Grace, I am Lady Mariya Darry. This is my daughter, Lady Amerei.”

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I wished to save you some confusion. Lady Amerei is wed to my cousin, Lancel Lannister, who was named Lord of Darry by Joffery Baratheon. These ladies have no claim over Darry to pledge to you, Your Grace.”

“A marriage that was never consummated, Lord Hand,” Lady Mariya retorted. “And the supposed Lord of Darry has not left his Sept in months. I come before you as the last living Darry to pledge my support, and the swords loyal to me. My house answered the call of House Targaryen during the Rebellion, and I wish to stand beside you now.”

Daenerys glanced at Lady Olenna, who raised a single brow. Lady Mariya had no great power to aid Daenerys, but she could appreciate that she wished to keep her family’s pledge to Daenerys’s house.

“Thank you for your loyalty, Lady Darry. I accept your pledge.”

The woman and her daughter curtsied low.

Tyrion clasped his hands together. “Well. Thank you, my lords and ladies, for undertaking the journey to swear to our Queen.”

Daenerys stood. “I appreciate your support in the war to come, though I must admit, I anticipate my taking of King’s Landing to be more of a singular battle than any sort of enduring campaign. I conquered many cities in Essos, freeing them from the tyranny of slave masters. My armies know this, so make it known to your men: there will be no mercy for a soldier who raises his arms against any civilian. Any harm that befalls innocents, no matter if they are nobles or smallfolk, men or women, elders or children. Should you fail to keep your soldiers in line, they will meet the Queen’s Justice.”

Her son, Drogon . It went unsaid.

The lords and ladies murmured their assent, some bowing their heads in understanding.

“Thank you, my lords, my ladies. I shall hold court on the morrow for my people here on Dragonstone, after which there will be a war council. Any and all of you are welcome to join.”

Another wave of murmuring and bowing followed Daenerys’s exit. She and her advisors filed into the war room, surrounding the painted table.

Daenerys plucked the carvings of the stag and moved them to surround King’s Landing, along with a third of the Tully trouts to join the full might of the Dornish suns and Tyrell roses. The queen adjusted the Ironborn krakens to Blackwater Bay.

“Any more recent news on the Unsullied and Dothraki’s campaigns?” she asked.

“Not since ravens arrived this morning, Your Grace, placing them a day from Casterly Rock and a day and a half from Highgarden,” Lord Tyrion supplied.

Daenerys nodded, adjusting the positions of the Unsullied helm and Dothraki horses. “Has Lord Varys received any word on the North’s reaction to your missive, Lord Tyrion.”

“No, Your Grace.”

She pressed her lips together. While she hadn’t expected any King or Queen in the North to bow to her, not after her father’s burning of two Starks, but she had expected her Master of Whispers to have heard a whisper or two.

“Very well. Lady Olenna, Lord Tyrion, thank you for your counsel today. Missandei, would you stay for a moment?” She waited until the other two had left before walking to her oldest friend’s side so they could speak quietly. “How has the vetting of the staff gone?”

“Well, my queen. We have removed the cooks and servants who had unclear loyalties.”

Daenerys nodded. “Good.”

“If I may, my queen,” Missandei pursed her lips, “I must admit I worry about the staff Lady Olenna brought with her. I was not able to speak with them.”

She hummed. “I suppose we will have to trust her, or at least her desire for revenge.”

---

“You sent for me, issa dāria.”

Daenerys traced the stones that erected the sprawling bridge. Missandei stood beside her, ever the silent yet comforting presence.

“I did, Melisandre. Thank you for meeting with me.”

The Red Priestess curtseyed. “Of course, issa dāria. How could I be of service?”

Daenerys admired the sight of her dragons soaring lazily in the sky. “You are well versed in prophecy, are you not?”

“I know of the Song of Ice and Fire, if that is what you refer to, Your Grace. I have spent much time as of late searching the flames, asking my Lord for guidance about the war to come.”

“And you still believe me to be your promised prince?”

“I do, Your Grace. The Lord of Light has shown me. You are Azor Ahai reborn.”

Daenerys studied the priestess’s tone, searching for notes of flattery or nervousness betraying a falsehood. She found none. Still, the word of a religious zealot was not steady ground to land on.

“Have you ever visited the House of the Undying, Lady Melisandre?”

“I cannot say I have, Your Grace.”

Daenerys hummed, the wind carrying the sound away. “The warlocks there held my dragons captive when they were mere hatchlings. They tormented me with many visions. For a long time, I tried to write them off as the cruel manipulations of my enemies. But the more life I live, the more I see these prophecies unfolding before my eyes.”

“I may not have visited their House, but I have heard of the Undying, Your Grace. Their gift for prophecy is known, though I could not place its truthfulness above the visions sent to me by the Lord of Light.”

“You call me your Prince That Was Promised, your Azor Ahai Reborn,” Daenerys mused. “I have received many names from people who claim the gift of prophecy—”

Bride of fire, daughter of death, slayer of lies.

Child of three.

She swore she felt the scales of her children warm within her skin.

“—and many names more from those I have aided in their quest for freedom.”

Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi, Mhysa.

“I have heard your names and titles, Your Grace, though I believe none to be more important than that which predicts your role in the war to come. I beseech you to heed the call of the Song of Ice and Fire.”

Daenerys frowned. “A Song which was not sung to me.”

Melisandre’s calm countenance betrayed no annoyance at Daenerys’s disbelieving tone. “The Song was first heard by Aegon the Conqueror, Your Grace. He was a Dreamer as well as a Conqueror. It is said it was passed down from king to heir, etched on a sacred blade to preserve its word.”

Dragon dreams had shown Daenerys to place the petrified dragon eggs on the pyre, to walk into the flames and see her children born from stone.

She’d dreamed of Rhaegal and Viserion snapping at her, growing wild and pulling away from her. Leading to her fatal mistake of chaining them beneath the Great Pyramid. Locking them away, chaining them instead of trying to bond with them.

She’d been haunted with visions of her wedding night with Hizdahr zo Loraq. Of frozen, icy lips. Of betrayal, betrayal she deserved after chaining Rhaegal and Viserion, turning on them and the gift given to her by the pyre.

And she’d dreamed of soaring on dragonback—

—above a field of men armed in ice, setting them alight with dragonflame.

The Song of Ice and Fire.

Her own dreams, the prophecy of the Undying, and now the Song. Perhaps she should take a page from the Conqueror’s book and write these riddles down. Perhaps then, they would make sense.

Chapter Text

Her Second Sons arrived with a quivering, haggard Lord Tully.

Daenerys greeted him as she had the lords of the Riverlands and Stormlands. She offered him the chance to bend the knee and swear to her, pledge his armies, and she would allow him to serve as Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.

Lord Tully had no reason to stand against her. Nor any means to do so.

He knelt.

Daenerys left him with her Hands to discuss how he would aid her cause.

While Daenerys flew to battle.

---

Flying with her children, especially once she’d bonded with them, fire and flesh, was truly the greatest feeling. It was as peaceful as it was exhilarating.

A raven had arrived that morning. Her Dothraki and Unsullied had taken Casterly Rock rather easily by using the sewer tunnels Tyrion had described. While she was happy there were so few casualties, she was troubled to read the Rock was empty. The Lannisters had taken it all with them, leaving the Rock worthless.

Anticipated their movements.

Daenerys didn’t hesitate to fly to Highgarden against Lord Tyrion and Varys’s adamant objections—so adamant she’d simply left them shouting around the Painted Table. She had no use for caution. They advised restraint, asking her to stay her hand—or her fiery command. They seemed to have latched onto the idea of waging war with Westerosi men with Westerosi men, Westerosi means.

But dragons had built the Seven Kingdoms. And they would take it again.

Her children had continued to grow rapidly on Dragonstone. Whether it was the warmth of the Dragonmount, the miles of sea and land for them to explore, or the pulsating heat of the blood magic bonding them to her and to each other—they had grown stronger, and faster.

She and her dragons caught up to her marching armies quicker than she would’ve believed possible.

Her Dothraki raised their arakhs, her Unsullied their spears, cheering as she soared overhead. Her children called out to them, cheerful shrieks so different to her ears than cries of anger. She wondered if her men heard it too.

She flew ahead of her men. Cresting the hill ahead, she saw it: a convoy of wagons escorted by soldiers dressed in red and gold.

Wagons holding the fruits of Highgarden. Gold and grain—the latter worth more than its weight in the former.

She watched as the Lannister scurried to assemble themselves in a line of spears and shields bearing the golden lion. They saw her and heard the thundering hoofbeats and screams of her Dothraki as they mounted the hill.

Guarding wagons that belonged to her and her allies.

Daenerys willed her children to see what she saw, to understand the task they would need to undertake from the skies.

Burn the soldiers. Precision— something they had admittedly never tried— would be key.

She felt the scales of her children warm within her skin and she fought the urge to grin.

“Dracarys!”

Drogon unleashed a torrent of black and red flames upon the center of the Lannister army. Rhaegal soared above the lines of soldiers from the right, Viserion doing the same from her left.

Foolish Westerosi battle tactics. They had aligned perfectly for her children.

Daenerys watched as flames of gold, yellow, orange, red, and black torched the Lannister soldiers, turning them to ash.

Her children flew low to keep their firestreams narrow and focused. She only saw two wagons aflame through the rising clouds of smoke.

Her Dothraki had arrived, slicing the remaining Lannister forces down with their arakhs. The Unsullied marched forward further down the field, throwing their spears at Lannister deserters and the few cavalry that had slipped through the Dothraki.

Viserion and Rhaegal made a second pass. Daenerys could’ve cheered with pride as they took care to attack lone Lannister squads far from her Dothraki.

She was distracted. And cocky, to be constantly flying so low.

She never saw the bolt coming, but she felt Drogon’s pain even before she heard his cries.

Drogon’s scale within her skin seared hotter than it had when she pressed in into her sternum. She looked to her dragon’s wing and saw it—a bolt as large as a spear embedded in the knotch between Drogon’s wing and body.

Nearly piercing his abdomen. What would’ve been a deadly blow.

Drogon roared, struggling to keep himself airborne as the pain ripped through him. Daenerys gripped his spines with gritted teeth for dear life as Drogon twisted in the air.

Rhaegal and Viserion shrieked, feeling their brother’s pain through the blood magic that tied them.

Just as she was about to order Drogon to land, her brave son—her strongest, most fearless son—righted himself in the air with a bellowing cry. Daenerys scoured the ground for the weapon which had harmed her child, but there was no need. Drogon faced the offending machine which resembled a massive crossbow and lit it ablaze.

After it was nothing more than ash and melted metal, Drogon flew higher despite the bolt still lodged in his wing. She urged her other two children to see her memory of the weapon. To know what to search for, what to burn immediately.

Drogon glided above the battle just below the clouds, rumbling with pain and frustration. Viserion and Rhaegal remained closer to the ground, searching for any more of the oversized crossbows and lighting isolated Lannister soldiers aflame with vengeful roars.

Soon enough, the battle was done. Ash and smoke billowed when Drogon landed, his brothers flanking him, chirping in worry.

Daenerys slid from his back, reaching for the shaft of the bolt. Her dragon held still, his breathing heavy.

She pulled at the bolt, but she wasn’t strong enough to free it in one tug. It was embedded deep in Drogon’s flesh. The dragon recoiled, trying to get the bolt free as his mother braced her weight against it.

With a roar, it came free. Black blood poured from the wound and Daenerys was helpless to staunch it.

“I’m sorry, tresy.”

Drogon nosed at her, a bit less gently and coordinated than usual due to his pain. She stumbled, but kept her feet and stroked his scales.

Rhaegal pawed at the bolt, pulling it over to him. Once it was far enough from Daenerys, he growled and turned it to ash. Viserion came closer now that Drogon was free of the weapon, sniffing at his brother in distress.

“I’m sorry, ñuha riñar.”

She had failed them. Her children were incredibly intelligent, smarter than any other creature on land, in the air, or in the sea. But she was their mother, she was the one who flew them into the heat of battle. She had been distracted, she hadn’t noticed the massive crossbow being aimed at her children. She’d been cocky, flying so low for so long.

“I’m sorry.”

---

“You will not kneel, my lord?”

“I already have a queen,” the Reach lord said.

“A queen who killed your previous one, Margaery Tyrell. The daughter of your liege lord. Or do I have my facts wrong, my lord?” The bald lord scowled. “It would seem your loyalties are rather flexible as of late.”

“Queen Cersei was born in Westeros, she has lived in Westeros. She is no foreign invader here to burn our cities, slaughter our men with your armies of savages—”

“You already have a queen. You will not trade your honor for your life,” Daenerys interjected. “I can respect that.”

Drogon roared behind her, sensing the dissent from the defeated army. Many more men dropped to their knees.

“For those of you still standing, I offer you a choice. There is no chance of imprisonment, some comfortable tower for you to live out your days. The Queen’s Justice does not see the nobility of your birth, nor does it see fit to make decisions for you. I offer you exile or death.”

Rhaegal spat orange and yellow flames into the air, ever her most aggressive son.

“Those who choose exile, remain standing where you are. Those who choose death, please step forward.”

The bald man was alone in his approach. A younger man beside him tried to join him, but he shoved him back

Daenerys gave a quick order in Dothraki. Her men corralled those how knelt into one group and those who chose exile into another, leaving the bald man alone.

She felt the heat of Drogon’s head as he leaned closer, almost peering over her shoulder.

“Dracarys.”

---

Daenerys and her children landed on Dragonstone. She dismounted, murmuring to Drogon as she examined his healing wound. It had closed, but the skin there was fresh, scales not yet armoring the area again.

She stepped back and allowed her bravest, dearest son to join his brothers in the sky. She had no doubt they would be returning to what they enjoyed most on the isle—Drogon and Rhaegal terrorizing the livestock up and down the coastline while Viserion basked in the warmth of the Dragonmount.

“My queen. I am so happy to see your safe return.”

Daenerys smiled in greeting to her approaching advisor. “Thank you, Lady Missandei.” She noted the furrowed brow of her most trusted friend. “What is it?”

“A ship has arrived from the North. Jon Snow is rowing to the beach now.”

Chapter Text

The rowboat reached the shore. The Northmen disembarked and hauled the boat up the sand. Ghost leapt down and jogged out of the waves, clearly more than sick of the sea.

“Jon Snow, Bastard of the North.”

He looked up and tugged down his hood—a black covering he’d taken to wearing to save him from the constant stares at his ghostly hair.

The Imp took a step back, expression filled with horror and shock.

Ser Davos—the only adviser Sansa had allowed him to take with him—cleared his throat. “He is who you say he is. His face is the same under the new hair.”

“This is a recent change, then?”

Dully, he remembered the Imp was known for his intelligence. He wondered if there was any truth of it, or if the Lannister simply parroted things back at people pretending it was an astute observation.

“Relatively,” Ser Davos said.

“Tyrion Lannister,” the Imp introduced himself, offering both men a hand to shake.

“Ser Davos Seaworth.”

The two men traded subtle barbs about some Battle of the Blackwater, but he wasn’t interested. Instead, he studied the soldiers arrayed across the beach. They wore brown furs and pelts and leather gauntlets. Their dark hair was kept long and tied back and they carried either short or curved swords.

Then there were a few leaner men dressed in different garb: black leather armor and metal helmets that covered their faces. They wielded spears and stood with an unnatural level of discipline.

The Dragon Queen’s infamous army of foreign savages, then.

“Lady Missandei is the Queen’s most trusted advisor. She is also a Hand of the Queen.”

Ser Davos coughed again. “Forgive me, but is that pin upon your breast merely a prop, then, Lord Tyrion?”

The Imp smiled. “No, Ser Davos. Our Queen has named three Hands. Myself, Lady Missandei, and Lady Olenna Tyrell.”

“Three Hands? Is that not a bit of a contradiction?” Ser Davos asked, gesturing with his own two hands.

“The dragon has three heads,” the Lady Hand replied. “Welcome to Dragonstone, my lords. Our Queen knows this journey is long and arduous. She appreciates the efforts you have made to come and treat with her. If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons? Your wolf is welcome to wait for you in your guest chambers.”

Ser Davos looked to him. He was meant to answer then, act as a leader. “Of course.”

---

Daenerys looked down upon the winding walkway from the window of her bedchamber, watching her men and two of her Hands escort the Northern envoy. From this distance, she could make out the forms of the two Northmen, one bald, the other with hair a stark white.

They had turned over their weapons—they must’ve, or else they would not have made it past the beach. A good sign, she reasoned. Or they simply recognized they had no choice if they wished an audience with her.

She assumed by the decidedly masculine figures below her that this was the alleged King in the North, Jon Snow, and some sort of advisor, perhaps his Hand. So the rumors of the Queen in the North must have been out of date after all.

Daenerys was beginning to question what good having a Masters of Whispers was if he was so resolutely bad at his job. Tyrion insisted Varys had been employed by many rulers and had proved pivotal in their reigns, but Daenerys had yet to see any true competency from the man since they crossed the Narrow Sea. The Northmen were entering her keep and she still did not know who was claiming control in the North. While she spent a good deal of her time in Westeros playing catch up, so to speak, on the lessons she would’ve grown up with in the Red Keep about heraldry and the lordly families—that did not mean she was pleased that she was so uniformed going into this audience.

Sensing her annoyance, Drogon’s scale warmed in her chest. He was nearby, flying around the mountains on the other side of the keep.

Daenerys chuckled, rubbing a thumb over the onyx scale. “You want to give them a little shock, tresy? Very well. Have your fun.”

Even though her dragon couldn’t hear her, their mental connection had grown such that he knew her intent.

The Dragon Queen watched as Drogon swooped low over the Northmen, letting forth an earsplitting shriek of amusement as the men dove to the flagstones. She grinned as she saw Missandei, nor any of her soldiers, had ducked.

Drogon looped around the Keep, joined by his brothers in a display of power as these strangers entered their home.

Her children had greeted their visitors. Now it was her turn.

---

Missandei repeated Daenerys’s many titles as she sat upon the dragonglass throne. She and Tyrion stood on either side of her; Jhogo stood beside Missandei, watching their guests carefully, ever her most loyal bloodrider.

The white-haired man stared at her with red eyes—a startling appearance she had also been woefully unprepared for. Lady Olenna had taught her that Starks had brown hair and grey eyes. The man before her bore neither of these traits, and Daenerys knew it was not due to his illegitimacy.

The older man beside him cleared his throat. “This is Jon Snow. Brother and emissary of the Queen in the North, Sansa Stark.”

Without dropping his gaze from Daenerys, Jon Snow held out a sealed scroll. Daenerys glanced at Jhogo, who stepped forward before Tyrion could. She watched as the Northern emissary glanced at her bloodrider as he took the scroll, then looked back at Daenerys once Jhogo stepped away.

“A missive from your sister, then?” Lord Tyrion said into the silence. “How is the Lady Sansa?”

“Forgive me, my lord, Your Grace, but as I said, Sansa Stark has been named Queen in the North.”

Daenerys studied the man, not seeing any obvious sigil on his clothes. “Forgive me,—”

“Your Grace, this is Ser Davos Seaworth,” Tyrion supplied.

“Forgive me, Ser Davos, but I’m afraid news from the North has been slow coming in since our arrival here on Dragonstone. We were not even aware of if the North had named a King or a Queen.”

Ser Davos clasped his hands behind his back. “Be that as it may, Your Grace, I must insist upon the Queen in the North being respected.”

Tyrion made to speak, but Daenerys held up a hand. “The North has declared itself independent, then?”

She could feel her Hand’s frustration. This was not how he had told her this audience should go. He’d insisted they ignore any talk of independence and insist upon the North’s part in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Yes, Your Grace. Queen Sansa, along with her brother, defeated the Boltons and reclaimed Winterfell. The North is an independent kingdom under the Stark banner.”

Daenerys raised a brow. “Thank you, Ser Davos, for the information.”

Tyrion did look back at her at that, shooting her a questioning, unbelieving glance.

“It appears your house is in order, then. You have your crown, your ancestral home, your independence. What need brings you to Dragonstone?”

The Northmen exchanged glances. “War is coming, Your Grace,” uttered Jon Snow.

Daenerys raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware it was customary in Westeros to send an emissary into the enemy’s keep to declare war.”

“War from farther north, Your Grace.” Those red eyes bore into her. “The Night King marches on the Wall with his army of White Walkers.”

---

Jon felt the Dragon Queen’s gaze rake over him like a burning brand as she studied him for any hint of deception or insanity.

“White Walkers,” she repeated.

A gaze he recognized from his dreams.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He’d recognized her as soon as he entered the throne room. Even from all the way at the bottom of the dais, he knew it was her.

“The myth?”

For the first time, he found himself awash with a rising feeling that had him gritting his teeth and shifting his feet into a defensive stance.

Stubbornness, he recognized. Stubbornness was leading him to look the Dragon Queen in the eye and—argue with her. How could she —the woman who brought dragons back from stone, the Unburnt as she declared herself—tell him what was myth and what was fact?

“If I may, Your Grace, I did not take you as one to spit on myth. If not for the skulls, many would have written off the existence of dragons as myth. You brought myth to life once again.”

Even he could hear the flicker of annoyance coloring his tone.

“You may think the Army of the Dead an old wife's tale, Your Grace, but this man beside me has seen them. Fought them Beyond the Wall.” Ser Davos looked to her Hand. “Lord Tyrion, I know he may look a bit different, but you know as well as I that Jon Snow is no liar.”

The Lannister looked at the white hair, red eyes, gaunt expression, but before he could speak—

“I do not think you a liar, Jon Snow.”

His gaze snapped back to Daenerys, drinking in her silver-gold curls. They were as captivating in person as they were in his dreams.

“As you said, I have lived a life shrouded in mythical events. More than any here in Westeros could ever truly understand. However, I do find myself asking again—what brings you to Dragonstone?”

“This war will pit the living against the dead,” Jon uttered, finding his voice so easily now. “We have come to request that you fight for the living. We need your help, and you need ours.”

Daenerys let a small, frightening smile grace her lips. “I understand that not all of my Dothraki and Unsullied have returned from their triumphs in the Westerlands and the Reach just yet. The Dornish army, along with the armies of the Reach, Stormlands, Riverlands, and the Ironborn fleet are awaiting my orders outside King’s Landing. However, I believed you may have seen three dragons flying overhead upon your arrival, Jon Snow.”

“You don’t need our help in numbers, we know,” Ser Davos interjected. “You could take King’s Landing in a day if you wished. Hell, we almost took it without dragons.”

“Almost,” Tyrion muttered.

“But you haven’t,” Snow tried to impress upon her, ignoring their advisors squabbling. “Which means you don’t want to kill thousands of innocent people, which means you’re at least better than Cersei.”

She tilted her chin just the slightest. “You wish for me to fight your war.”

“ In this war, Your Grace. And I would argue this war belongs to all of us who wish to keep living,” Ser Davos cut in.

Tyrion spoke again. “The war with Cersei has already begun. You cannot expect us to stop everything and march north.”

Jon felt himself scowl. “No war over thrones or territory matters if we lose to the Night King. For every man who dies, he gains another footsoldier. They do not tire. They have no need for food or comforts. They march and they kill. The Night King and his White Walkers can only be felled by fire, Valyrian steel, and dragonglass. Even if every able bodied Northman was armed to the teeth with all three, we do not have the numbers to defeat the Army of the Dead.”

He panted a bit, shocked he’d said so much, as he waited for the Dragon Queen’s reaction. As she had since they entered the throne room, her beautiful visage remained unmarred by any indication of… well, anything .

“You have come all this way to ask me to halt my own endeavors, to march all of my forces North,” she began, “and yet, you have arrived empty handed.”

Jon closed his eyes for a moment and cursed Sansa—Lady Stark—his sister, whatever she wanted to be called. “On behalf of the Queen in the North, yes, I have, Your Grace.”

She raised a single brow, managing to look poised and condescending simultaneously. “Do other rulers take advisors, Lord Tyrion, or is it just the ones who sit the Iron Throne?”

The Imp took that as his chance to speak up. “If the war is as dire as you say it is, bend the knee to Queen Daenerys.” Jon felt his hands ball into fists at the man’s tone, like he was speaking to a child. “Pledge your sword to her, bring the North back under the banner of the Seven Kingdoms, and she will fight for you once she has taken King’s Landing”

“Why would the North bend the knee?” he all but spat. The fire was awakening in Jon. Standing before the dragon queen, it was like he could feel the dragonfire emanating from beneath her pale skin. “House Targaryen broke faith with House Stark when your father burned my grandfather and my uncle alive. Your claim to the Iron Throne is based on your father’s name—”

“My father was an evil man,” the dragon queen interjected. She stood from her throne and began to descend the dais at a measured pace. “On behalf of my house, I apologize for the crimes my father committed against your family. I ask that you do not blame a daughter for the sins of her father.

“But if you wish to speak of fathers? The Usurper was your father’s dearest friend. Did your father—Lord Eddard Stark, famed for his honor—know his dearest friend sent assassins after a newborn child squawling in her crib? To chase her across Essos, tormenting her in exile before she could even spell the name Targaryen ?

“As for my claim to the Iron Throne, it is not based on my father’s name. It is based on my name. I do not claim the throne out of inheritance. House Targaryen lost the throne to the Usurper. I intend to take it the way Aegon Targaryen did, the way Robert Baratheon did—through the right of conquest .

“A conquest I intend to see through in the coming weeks. You may think me new to politics, Jon Snow, and I admit I do not have as much experience with Westerosi customs as you do. But be assured that this is not my first conquest. When my brother sold me to my late Dothraki husband, I returned dragons to the world and offered his khalasar a place at my side. They accepted.

“In Essos, I freed three cities from the chains of the Masters who wished to enslave them. I instated councils of their own making to govern them. When the Masters resurged, I put them down. I delayed any thought of travelling to Essos to ensure my people were free.

“I freed the Unsullied from their Masters. I offered them coin and horses to travel anywhere they wished. They chose to follow me.

“To rule is to serve, and I cannot serve my people—in Essos and in Westeros—should I turn my attention North to fight a different kingdom’s mythical enemy.”

Jon struggled not to step forward, to meet her on her approach. “This mythical enemy cares not for who belongs to which kingdom,” he argued.

Daenerys stopped a few paces from him, her eyes alight with the same fire he could feel warming his bones.

“I shall not impose my rule over those who do not wish it. Five kingdoms have come to me offering fealty in exchange for a number of things. Revenge, power, protection. I have taken the Westerlands by right of conquest. King’s Landing will be mine by week’s end. These kingdoms, their people are my people. I cannot serve my people fighting a different kingdom’s war,” she repeated.

Jon knew he had nothing to offer, nothing to bargain with. The only thing the North had to offer Daenerys was fealty—and he feared Sansa would rather drag the North into an icy grave than bend the knee.

“Should the Night King breach the Wall, you will be ruling over a kingdom of corpses.” A last ditch effort, he knew.

The Dragon Queen stared, her lilac eyes boring into him. “I have recently learned the Neck is an incredibly strategic chokepoint to stop an enemy from coming south. Do you suppose that is why they named it that, Lord Tyrion?”

The Hand spoke up again, imploringly. “If this is truly so important, bend the knee. Queen Daenerys will protect you and the North to her dying breath.”

Jon drew himself up to his full height, resisting the urge to sigh. He could hardly think straight, so overwhelmed by all of the emotions bombarding him after months of feeling nothing .

Anger at Sansa for sending him on a fool’s errand. Annoyance at Tyrion. Annoyance at the Dragon Queen’s poise and grace and confidence and—

“Forgive me, my lords, I seem to have forgotten my manners. You will be seen to your chambers. Baths will be drawn and food brought to you. Should you need to write to your sister, Lord—Prince Snow,” she corrected, much to Jon’s chagrin, “our maester should be happy to aid you.”

He took the dismissal without complaint. This negotiation was getting nowhere. He had nothing to negotiate with .

He offered the Dragon Queen a deep nod and took his leave.

Not two strides after they left the throne room, Ser Davos was in his ear: “Did you have to stare so openly at the Dragon Queen? Last thing we need is her knowing you’re practically in love with her after one audience.”

Chapter Text

“Men burned alive, turned to ash in their armor. Your men picking off pieces of armor and weapons from the charred corpses. There may not have been witnesses on that field, but this cannot be repeated in King’s Landing. You want to rule with the love of the smallfolk; they will not smile as a foreign army defiles the bodies of their countrymen.”

Daenerys heard Rhaegal’s roar echo over the waves, voicing his mother’s growing annoyance. It was storming on Dragonstone, rain coming down in sheaths as thunder boomed. It seemed her son was enjoying flying in the weather though. “Do you mean to say that spoils of war are not moral? Are not allowed ?”

Tyrion sighed. “We have discussed how the Westerosi people will see your armies, how Cersei has painted you as a foreign invader here to destroy their customs—”

“Which is why I agreed to having my Westerosi allies take King’s Landing. A plan you proposed, my lord.”

Her Hand stiffened. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I was under the impression that my role as your advisor was to inform you of Westerosi customs and sensibilities.”

“Good thing then she has more than one Westerosi Hand,” Lady Olenna groused from her seat on the other side of the Painted Table.

Rhaegal flew past the window, barely visible through the rain but his scale warming in Daenerys’s skin.

Lykiri, she soothed.

“Your opinion is noted, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys dismissed. “Shall we move on? What of the Vale?”

“The Knights of the Vale rode for Sansa Stark at the Battle of Winterfell. Her aunt is regent for young Lord Robert,” Tyrion explained.

Olenna scoffed. “The Vale will starve if they desire independence or to declare for the North, Your Grace. And should you wish to give up your altruistic ways, their army is in shambles after Winterfell.”

“The Eyrie is impregnable,” Tyrion argued.

Daenerys stood beside the Riverlands, tracing the landmarks with her eyes. “They claimed Harrenhal was invincible as well. Until dragons came for Harren the Black.”

The room grew silent. Olenna sat with a haughty expression on her face as she stared down Tyrion, who just looked distressed.

Missandei spoke up to break the quiet. “Shall we discuss the audience with Lord Snow?”

“That disaster?” Olenna quipped. “Does he truly believe we would rush to aid them against an old wife’s tale? It seems like a trap. And whatever happened to his hair?”

“And eyes,” the queen murmured. “His eyes are red.”

“As much as I am loath to turn out backs on Cersei, I did speak with Jon Snow and Ser Davos after the audience.” Daenerys kept her expression neutral at Tyrion’s overstep. “I believe them to be telling the truth about the threat beyond the Wall.”

Lady Olenna laughed rudely. “An Army of the Dead? Ice Walkers?”

“White Walkers,” Tyrion corrected, “and their army of undead wights. Jon Snow claims the footsoldiers can be killed by beheading, but the Night King and his White Walker generals can only be felled by Valyrian steel, fire, and dragonglass.”

The Song of Ice and Fire.

The Queen of Thorns scoffed. “Myths and legends.”

“As our queen pointed out, it is not wise to write off every legend as a falsehood,” Missandei said.

And Daenerys had meant that. She lived a life shrouded in myth. She’d spent every free moment on Dragonstone scouring the texts of her ancestors, their research and their personal journals alike. Many Targaryens had written about Aegon’s Dream, but none had described dragon dreams of their own. None had ventured into the House of the Undying. None had hatched dragons from stone.

While the Song had not been sung to Daenerys, tales of Ice had arrived on her doorstep in the form of a Northman with hair to match his surname. A man who claimed she and her dragons were the only hope.

Valyrian steel, dragonglass, and fire. All creations of her children.

She had yet to find the secret to forging Valyrian steel in her family’s writings. But there were some notes on smithing dragonglass into weapons. Apparently, Dragonstone sat upon a cache of the obsidian.

Until the North gave her reason to, she would make no move to aid them. She hadn’t been bluffing when she told Jon Snow the Neck was a far more strategic chokepoint. If the North wished to save their castles and keeps—and the people within them—they would need to kneel. But if Tyrion was so insistent that Snow was telling the truth….

“Lady Missandei, do you recall which of our smallfolk petitioned asking for work during the winter months?”

Her faithful advisor nodded. “Yes, my queen, I believe we have it noted down.”

“Good. Offer them work mining dragonglass under the Dragonmount. Be sure they know not to wander off. Viserion is enjoying the caves and would not take kindly to being disturbed.” And, gone were the days of her punishing her children for defending their home or sating their hunger on random livestock. Dragons are not meant to be tamed.

“Mine the dragonglass?”

“Yes, Lord Tyrion. You insist on the truthfulness of Jon Snow’s story. Whether the North remains stubborn and we fight at the Neck or they kneel and we help them at the Wall, we will need dragonglass weapons. Lady Olenna, any blacksmiths at Highgarden who wish to work may join the ones on Dragonstone. I have found resources that may aid them in the forging.”

“Resources? What—”

She’d rather burn her family’s texts then let Tyrion get his hands on them. “After defeating the Lannister force, my khalasar is ninety thousand strong. My Unsullied eight thousand. That is ninety thousand arakhs, eight thousand spears, and as many arrowheads as the smiths can make.” If the fifty Second Sons who had crossed the sea with her decided to fight the Army of the Dead, they could be added to the tally as well. “Lady Olenna, I would ask you to meet with Lady Yara and Lady Ellaria to total the needs of your forces. As for the Stormland and Riverland forces—where is Lord Varys?”

Tyrion shifted on his feet. “I spoke with him this morning, Your Grace. He is working on learning the numbers of the forces of your new bannermen.”

Of course he was. Daenerys couldn’t recall the last time she had spoken to Varys. Had she even seen him since the war council with Yara and Ellaria?

“Is the Spider too good to sit in on council meetings?” Olenna asked with false politeness.

Daenerys bristled. “That will be all. Lord Tyrion, if you wish to speak with the Northerners again, you have my permission. But do not make promises I will not keep.”

---

Daenerys thundered down the corridor, Jhogo and Missandei behind her. She reached the Spider’s chambers and knocked loudly, once, then again. The room was silent.

Using the pointed fangs of her three-headed dragon pin, Daenerys pricked her finger. She pressed the wound to the keyhole, making sure the blood was dripping into the mechanism.

“Drāmmagon,” she whispered. Open .

The lock clicked and Jhogo shoved the door open, entering the room first. He nodded upon finding it empty.

Daenerys walked in, Missandei at her side. “Look everywhere,” she said in Dothraki. “Any scrolls or missives.”

Between the three of them, it did not take long. Daenerys read everything they found, feeling her anger rising with every line she skimmed.

Reports on the Lannister numbers in King’s Landing. 

Rumors of Euron Greyjoy possessing a scorpion—one of those gods forsaken massive crossbows. He must’ve been unable to use it in the dark before Daenerys and her children set his fleet aflame.

Jamie Lannister’s plan to take Highgarden while Daenerys was focused elsewhere. His possession of a scorpion—one of many the Lannisters had, apparently.

Some scrolls were addressed to her from her Stormland loyalists. One was from Lord Tully. All reports on their numbers and their progress marching to King’s Landing.

Yara and Ellaria hadn’t neglected keeping Daenerys informed of their travels—a missive from both of them outlined their arrival in Sunspear and their departure time.

Daenerys began to see red when she found the reports on the Veil. Tyrion had just told her minutes ago that the Arryn armies were decimated. This scroll before her counted the same host ten thousand knights strong, still very much alive and very much loyal to Sansa Stark.

“My queen.”

Missandei handed her a mess of large papers. Outlines—no, layouts. Of Dragonstone. Every floor of the keep, drawn out and labeled. Strangest of all were the markings the Spider must’ve been adding over time. Libraries and passageways were crossed out seemingly at random. The maps of the Dragonmount caves had similar markings, and the intent was much clearer there: the Spider was trying to find Viserion’s cave.

The implications of Varys trying to harm her sweetest son fueled the flames building in her chest.

Just as Daenerys thought they had found the root of his treachery, Jhogo handed a bundle of scrolls to Missandei he had found in a chest within a drawer of the Spider’s desk. Hearing her Hand’s gasp—

Missandei looked to Daenerys with wide eyes.

“Read it,” she said.

“It is a letter addressed to Lord Varys. From a person claiming to be Hand to the King. A King Aegon Targaryen.”

Her roaring blood paused. “What?”

“A Lord Jon Connington writes to Lord Varys with reports of beginning a siege on King’s Landing backed by the Golden Company. It would appear Lord Varys knew of this siege and was requesting an update on the effort.”

“An Aegon Targaryen is laying siege to King’s Landing,” Daenerys echoed.

Missandei’s brow furrowed even further. “According to this letter, Lord Connington believes that starving the smallfolk will force Cersei out in under a month, lest she face rebellion.”

Daenerys swore under her breath. She’d allowed her advisors—no, she’d allowed Tyrion to convince her it was wisest to wait to attack King’s Landing until all of her Westerosi allies had reached Dragonstone. Convinced her to treat with Stormland and Riverland lords, asking them to send a few thousand soldiers that she did not need. To order the Ironborn to ferry the Dornish to Dragonstone before they would all march back down to King’s Landing.

Stalling tactics. How had she been so blind?

“There is more, my queen.”

Daenerys steeled herself, letting her rage simmer. “Continue, please.”

“Lord Connington mentions the details of a marriage proposal between you and Aegon Targaryen. There is mention of marrying nephew to aunt being a revitalization of Targaryen custom, and such a marriage being the opportunity for you to rule beside the rightful heir.”

An ache seized her heart. “He claims to be my nephew? Rhaegar’s son?” The chance of having family, of not being the Last Targaryen, alone in the world. Even if it was all a lie—

Slayer of Lies , she recalled. Beware the mummer’s dragon .

Missandei searched the rest of the small chest Jhogo had found while Daenerys pressed her fingertips to her temples.

Three treasons will you know... once for blood and once for gold and once for love….

Was this Aegon the mummer’s dragon? A treason, a lie for her to slay? She’d thought Miri Maaz Duur was the treason for blood, after the witch’s treachery with blood magic, but was Aegon this betrayal? If Aegon was the treason for blood, did that mean he was truly Rhaegar’s son?

“Your Grace?”

Daenerys lifted her head. “Yes, Missandei?”

“A rumor from the North.” Her Hand shook her head, seemingly at a loss for words. “It claims Jon Snow was killed by his Black Brothers at the Night’s Watch and resurrected by the Red Witch Melisandre. That he came back with silver white hair and blood red eyes.”

Chapter Text

He sat on the grassy cliffside, letting the winds from the sea tug at his hair and cloak. Ghost lay next to him, pressed into his side as if he could soothe his master’s mind with comfort and warmth.

His mind hadn’t been so… confused since he’d woken up from death.

So consumed by her .

He hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d slip into unconsciousness just to be haunted into waking by visions he didn’t understand. Nothing he could remember after he woke, either, except flashes of purple eyes, obsidian, and dragonfire.

While he was awake, he was tormented by his audience with the Dragon Queen. How her fiery stare had warmed him, as if she was breathing life back into his reanimated corpse with every step she took closer to him.

When she’d reached the foot of her dais, lilac eyes boring into him—

It was like he’d finally woken up.

Jon didn’t know if Sansa had sent him here to get him out of the way while she secured power in the North or as a death sentence? Tell him to go insist the Dragon Queen join their fight against the Night King for absolutely nothing in return.

He’d lashed out about her desire for conquest, so tired of fighting over inches because no one was willing to see the miles that needed to be exchanged.

It was all rushing back to him, all of the bargaining he’d had to do as Lord Commander. Trying to balance the interests of the Iron Bank, Stannis Baratheon, and wildlings all while learning of the true threat to the North. Only for his men to assassinate him. Only for him to be dragged back into this miserable world, dragged back wrong . And now he answered to Sansa, who had sent him south, either to die or look a fool.

Despite his outburst, the Dragon Queen hadn’t flinched. She’d made it clear both of their houses had done unforgivable things to the other, but that they were not their predecessors. Her list of successful conquests was unsurprisingly plenty long enough for bards to sing about.

But was unexpected for her to place any arrogance or familial pride aside and acknowledge the Targaryen line no longer had a claim to the Iron Throne. If she sat upon it, it would be from merit of conquest.

While many would likely write it off as semantics, he felt there was something to be learned about the Dragon Queen in her small display of—humility? Perhaps it was more complex than that. But what it meant to him was that negotiating with her was with Daenerys rather than House Targaryen.

Ghost lifted his head, looking behind them and woofing softly. He turned to see what his wolf had seen—

Think of the Dragon Queen and she shall appear.

“My apologies, I did not mean to intrude.” Her voice washed over him, warmer than it had been from atop her throne. “It would seem we share an affinity for isolated cliffsides on which to ponder.”

His own voice came out hoarse from disuse. “It’s your island, Your Grace. I wouldn’t presume to steal your spot.”

A small smile graced her lips, a pale pink that matched her cheeks that had been flushed by the wind.

“You’re welcome to join me,” he blurted without thought, gesturing to the grass beside Ghost.

The queen stepped closer, considering his direwolf. “What is his name?”

“Ghost.”

She knelt, offering Ghost the back of her hand. The direwolf yawned, showing off his teeth. The queen simply waited, allowing Ghost to come to her. Eventually, he tapped her knuckles with his nose, his pink tongue darting out to lick her fingers.

She smiled, gently reaching out to scratch the wolf behind his ears. “He’s gorgeous.”

Ghost stretched his forelegs out, preening under the queen’s lilac gaze. His tail wagged, thumping against Jon’s side.

“Great, now he’s gloating,” he groused.

A laugh as light as air and bright as sunlight fell from the queen’s lips. Jon stared as the easy joy danced over her features, making her even more alluring if at all possible.

Ghost yipped in delight, leaping up and licking at the queen’s face.

He lunged for his treacherous wolf. “Ghost!”

But the queen just continued to giggle, both shielding her face with her hands, but also allowing Ghost his fun. By the time he’d wrestled the wolf to the ground, she was alight with amusement.

“I’m sorry,” he managed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t know why he’s behaving like an untrained pup all of the sudden.”

Ghost growled, squirming in Jon’s hold.

“It’s quite alright. Even my dragons like to play sometimes.”

He shook his head. “Seems a bit impossible to imagine.”

The queen looked out over the cliffside. Seconds later, one of her dragons—the white one—came into view as he took to the skies. “They played more when they were younger, of course. Drogon has gotten a bit crotchety in his old age, thinks he’s too good to play with his brothers. Rhaegal has always played a bit too rough, but Viserion still has a light spirit.”

Not knowing how to respond, Jon simply hummed. He released Ghost, who had calmed down. The wolf settled back at his side, but stared up at the queen with his head on his front paws, tail wagging when she looked at him.

“I named them for my brothers, Viserion and Rhaegal.”

“And the other?”

“Drogon, named for my first husband. It was his funeral pyre that hatched my children.”

Jon studied her expression, but found nothing helpful. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

“It was a very long time ago,” she replied easily. “Loss is universal. Smallfolk or highborn, Westerosi or Essosi, dragonlord or direwolf master.”

He chuckled at the last comparison. “We found Ghost and his siblings in the woods, newly orphaned, still mewling at their mother’s body. My father pondered if they were a bad omen, a dead direwolf south of the Wall. But my brothers, Robb and Bran, and I, we were smitten. We counted five pups, one for each trueborn Stark. Called it fate. My father allowed us to take them back. And then, just as we were leaving, I heard whimpering.” He patted Ghost’s flank. “One last pup. Albino, different from the others. One for me.”

“He’s beautiful. You keep the Old Gods, yes?” Jon nodded. “Well, they certainly sent that mother direwolf in your direction. Ensuring her pups would be looked after since she couldn’t raise them herself.”

Jon worked his jaw, fighting back all of his rising, unimportant questions. What gods did she keep? What happened to her first husband? What other losses had she suffered to make her so familiar with grief? Which of her dragons were which? Did she only ride the black one?

Some were unimportant, some were much too personal. And yet, Jon needed to know the answers to all.

Instead, he searched for something more neutral. “You come out here to journal?” he asked, jumping on the first thing he saw. A small, leatherbound journal she’d set beside her on the grass.

The queen reached for it, tracing the binding. “As I said, my life is constantly enshrouded in myths and prophecy. I find it useful to write it down, lest it drive me insane.”

And if that didn’t set off an entire bout of questions rattling around in his mind.

But getting to know the Dragon Queen was not what he’d been sent here for.

“Have you thought about it? Joining us in the Great War?” He may have let himself be demoted to Sansa’s emissary, but he still cared for the Northern people. Even if they had stabbed him for looking out for all Northerners, wildling or not.

“I believe you. I believe you saw the White Walkers, I believe they march on the Wall.” The queen sighed, folding her hands over her journal. “You were Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, yes? Surely you must see that I cannot abandon a war I have already begun. I cannot ignore the people who have sworn to me for the safety I can provide only by defeating our shared enemy in the Red Keep. Cersei will not join a campaign for the living, nor will she agree to cease hostilities while I take my armies North. I would be handing her the Six Kingdoms, the lands and the people I vowed to protect.”

Jon dug his hand into Ghost’s fur. “I know that. I also know that the North will fall without your armies and your dragons. My people will die without your aid.”

“I do not wish death, especially not a death so horrific, upon the North. I did not even wish it upon the men who raise arms against me. But while the North is not my enemy, the North is also not my kingdom.”

It was frustrating, knowing the queen was entirely right and all Jon had been given from Sansa was permission to beg.

“My sister sent me here with nothing. I cannot offer you the North, nor can I swear Sansa would either. In fact, I know she would not.” Jon looked out over the churning sea, as if the crests of the waves held answers for him.

“As I said, you are not my enemy, nor would I force my rule upon the North. If the North wishes to be free, it may.” There was no hint of deception in her voice, just plain, even honesty. “While I owe everything to those I rule, I owe nothing to a neighboring land.”

Jon felt her studying his expression, but couldn’t find the energy to school his features into neutrality. Let him see his desperation. Afterall, all he could do was beg.

“I will allow you to mine the dragonglass.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to hers, searching for the catch. “Really?”

The queen nodded, a single silver-gold curl falling forward from the action. “As I said, I believe you about the Army of the Dead. I already have all my available men and any able-bodied smallfolk who wish to earn coin mining the dragonglass. I did not even know it was there, nor did I know of its importance. I never would have known, if not for you, Jon Snow. In exchange, I will allow your men to mine and send you with as much as my blacksmiths can spare when you leave to return to the North.”

She opened her journal, flipping quickly through the pages until she pulled out a loose piece of parchment. After a moment of hesitation, she held it out to him.

“What’s this?” he asked, skimming the worn paper.

“I may not have been aware of the dragonglass, but my ancestors were not so ignorant. Some of them had begun researching how to smith the substance. It would seem it is not as simple as normal metalwork.”

He looked up in awe and, still, empty handed. “I have nothing to give in exchange, Your Grace.”

The queen waved a dismissive hand. “Information for information.”

“But the dragonglass—”

“A resource I didn’t even know I had. It is worthless except for this war, is it not?”

He was speechless, gawking at this calm, kind woman dressed in such imposing clothing. The woman in the queen’s garb.

He couldn’t give her the North, nor did he believe the North would go willingly. He couldn’t offer her armies or grain to feed said armies. He had no fleet, no weaponry, no critical knowledge.

There was nothing else she would freely give—nor would he if he was in her position. No leader would willingly fight a war on two fronts.

If her people were safe, her southern enemies defeated…. 

Then perhaps he could win over the kind woman within if the queen had accomplished her duties.

A weight settled in the pit of his stomach, making him nauseous as he asked:

“So you said you could take King’s Landing in a day?”

Chapter Text

Daenerys spoke with Jon Snow on the cliffside for an hour, discussing her taking King’s Landing. It should have been stressful, talking tactics, analyzing her forces—all with her enemy. Every war council she had felt like a careful balancing act, no matter how confident she was in her final decisions.

Instead, it was… simple.

Not because the Northman agreed with everything she said. Quite to the contrary. She left their conversation feeling more sure of herself and the decisions she was making on behalf of her people.

While Jon Snow had arrived on Dragonstone asking her to abandon her war to fight in his, Daenerys was coming to think that was simply him acting on his sister’s orders. The strategist she’d spoken to on the cliffside wouldn’t have travelled all this way to treat with a possible ally unprepared to make any negotiations. No, the man who advised her was far too astute for that.

He recommended she speak with Ser Davos about his side of the Battle of the Blackwater. The man had worked closely with Stannis Baratheon on his near conquest of the capital. Together, they looked at a rough sketch of the city’s walls Daenerys had drawn in her journal and debated which towers were most likely to house a scorpion—those godsforsaken crossbows. Another reason to attack sooner than later, they had reasoned, to give Cersei less time to build more of the things.

Jon admitted Daenerys had far more experience winning over the hearts of smallfolk. She explained her plan to storm the capital gates, yet have her men line the streets on the path to the Red Keep, both to protect her soldiers continuing to funnel in, but also keep the smallfolk away from the fighting. The Northman had agreed readily that her plan was the wisest way to take the city quickly but hopefully reduce civilian casualties. All he added was a recommendation that she send her men through the city once the battle was won to ensure no Lannister men had fled the fighting to hide in the city’s underbelly.

Despite spending the afternoon discussing the strengths and weaknesses of her forces and her plans with her almost-enemy, Daenerys left their conversation with a small smile playing on her lips.

She insisted to herself that it was because of her gaining an ally in Jon Snow—she wasn’t delusional enough to believe the North would follow suit of one man—but she knew it was the beauty and honesty of the man that set her heart racing.

Afterall, she was only human. And Jon Snow was beautiful.

A strong nose and a cut jaw dusted with stubble. High cheekbones she found almost delicate. She had never known the man before his resurrection—she was all but certain his change in appearance was due to the blood magic—but she found the fair hair suited him. There was a nice bow to his lips. And upon her closer inspection, she found his eyes rich burgundy, nearly purple in a few places.

Three mounts must you ride... one to bed and one to dread and one to love, the Undying whispered in her head.

She hadn’t lied to Jon Snow when she said she’d been trying to figure out the prophecies surrounding her. Especially now that Ice had arrived on Fire’s doorstep, calling her to war. While Daenerys could never claim to be a great scholar, she had lived among myths and legends her entire life. Who better to parse out the various divinations about her fate?

Three mounts . If all were meant in the sexual sense, Daenerys would assume she had ridden Drogo to bed, Hizdahr to dread, and was waiting on a third lover or husband. Yet, why explain that she would ride her first mount to bed if all three were meant to be sexual partners?

Perhaps she rode Drogon to dread. He was hailed by some as Balerion Come Again. And if she was honest with herself, the idea of riding a dragon, of commanding her children in general—it had frightened her for a time. It had driven her to lock Viserion and Rhaegal under the Great Pyramid. Her fear had led her to making mistakes, betraying her children and their heritage.

Either way, both possibilities left the unknown mount she would ride for love very unwritten.

Three treasons you will know , her memories warned.

Any dreams of love were forgotten.

For she had recently uncovered a particularly stark treason. And an utterly unexpected new player had entered the cyvasse game of thrones.

---

“I am happy to formally declare to this council that my Ironfleet and Lady Ellaria’s Dornish forces have arrived from Sunspear, Your Grace,” Lady Yara declared, moving the relative symbols to Dragonstone on the Painted Table. “Thanks to Her Grace’s brave intervention, my uncle Euron and his fleet are rotting at the bottom of the Blackwater.”

Greyworm and her three bloodriders thumped the ends of their spears on the ground. They may not yet be fluent in the common tongue, but they clearly understood enough to celebrate their queen’s victories.

“Thank you, Lady Yara, but I must thank you and Lady Ellaria for your continued support and your bravery in rally and ferrying additional forces to my cause.”

The Greyjoy lady nodded deeply, stepping back from the table.

“All of the Unsullied and Dothraki have returned from their campaigns in the Westerlands and the Reach, carting with them more food to feed our armies tenfold,” Tyrion said, the Unsullied helm and Dothraki horse joining the other figures on Dragonstone.

“Lord Tully—if he can even still claim that title—has managed to scrape together two thousand men from the remaining Riverland bannermen who acknowledge his authority,” Lady Olenna reported. “The Stormlands are sending ten thousand, two thousand of which are cavalry.”

Daenerys drummed her fingers on the table. “Thank you, my Hands. Aggo will ensure we are mining enough dragonglass to arm these men in the event the Long Night comes to us.” Her bloodrider nodded sharply; she’d assigned him to managing the mining operations upon his return, which he was watching over with a shrewd eye. Daenerys doubted Jon Snow would attempt to steal what she had offered to give freely, but it wouldn’t do to be caught off guard, especially not in her own home.

“Speaking of the dragonglass.” Daenerys took a breath, preparing herself for the onslaught of reactions. “I have promised Lord Snow that upon his departure from Dragonstone, I will freely provide him as much dragonglass as his ship can carry in order to properly arm the North against the Dead.”

Many of her council members looked between her and Jon Snow, who stood silently at the opposite end of the Painted Table from her.

Tyrion looked as though she’d just said she’d given all of her armies to Jon. “Your Grace? We have no alliance with the North. Until they agree to bend the knee, they are an enemy.”

“I will not force my rule onto those who truly do not wish it, upon those who have rulers who treat them fairly. Upon rulers they have chosen.” Daenerys felt Jon’s red gaze on her. “While they are not my people, I see no harm in giving them the means to defend themselves.”

“If I may, Your Grace,” Lady Olenna began, “but it would perhaps be more wise to sell the obsidian to the North. Rather than give it.”

Those red eyes threatened to warm her cheeks. It was as if the Northman was teasing her with his stare: Why did you simply give it away, Daenerys? Was it something about Lord Snow’s pretty face or his pretty hair?

“The dragonglass is worthless except for its ability to kill the Dead. I did not even know it was here, right under my feet. In exchange for the information of the dragonglass’s importance, I see no problem with giving Jon Snow enough to arm his men.”

“He could be lying,” Tyrion offered, studying the Northman.

“You told me you believed this man to be an honest one.” Did he truly doubt Jon, or was he simply trying to poke holes in Daenerys’s decision?

“I did. But as you said, Your Grace, all of our information on the dragonglass has come from him. He could be withholding important details. A specific way to mine it or smith it—”

“Then good thing the North will try out the weapons on the Dead first,” Jon Snow cut in. “That way, enough whispers will reach you and your Spider friend before the Dead march on the Neck. Should give you enough time to make any adjustments to your own swords.”

Tyrion looked pained. “That brings us to the subject of the Dead breaching the Wall. Your Grace, perhaps we could best discuss this without Lord Snow—”

“He stays.”

She offered no explanation. Her gaze did not leave Lord Tyrion’s once. She simply waited for him to pick his jaw off the floor and continue with whatever he’d decided to bring up for reconsideration .

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, then, Lord Varys has recently received updated reports on King’s Landing” Daenerys took in a steadying breath through her nose, refusing to betray any of her fiery anger at the mere mention of the man. “Cersei’s numbers are almost nonexistent. As you have said, Your Grace, you can take King’s Landing in a day. Perhaps it would be best for our forces to join the North in guarding the lands of men while our numbers are at full strength, rather than depleted by Cersei’s army.”

“You mean to advise me to ignore my war and go fight for a country, as you just said, has not bent the knee to me and, as you insinuated, is led by dishonest men?”

Tyrion seemed undaunted by this. “Your Grace, you are willing to arm the North. Surely your empathy for them does not wish to see an entire Kingdom decimated by such an unnatural force. To see Jon Snow’s undead body on the wrong side of the battlefield.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed. Her Hand was incredibly bold to insinuate she was aiding the North out of an infatuation with Jon. And to desire her to be kind to a country he had just declared they owed nothing to.

Something had changed. Something to make him want her away from King’s Landing.

“If Cersei’s armies are so depleted, how many casualties would my armies suffer?”

“It is not about the casualties, Your Grace, but the time lost. Time that could be spent marching North to make preparations and treat with Queen Sansa.”

“I have no reason to treat with the Queen in the North,” Daenerys said evenly. “She sent an emissary here with an unreasonable request. I am sending him home with more than she could have ever logically hoped for. Until the Northern people are my people, I will not send my men to die for them.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to argue, but Daenerys was done hearing it.

So, apparently, was Lady Olenna. “What changed, Lord Tyrion? All we have done the last months is discuss the taking of King’s Landing. Now we are days from it, and you have cold feet?”

“Perhaps he remembered that the queen we intend to topple is in fact his sister,” Lady Ellaria accused from where she leaned against the wall.

Tyrion grew red. “I have been well aware of who sits the Iron Throne, my lady. I simply believe—”

“That our queen needs to kneel to an ungrateful country that offered her nothing in return?” Yara spat. “The Westerosi houses sworn to her, the Unsullied and Dothraki that crossed the sea for her, all of us in this room that chose to advise her—we do it because we know she will fight for us. When I bent the knee, I asked Queen Daenerys for one thing: my uncle’s head. There was a scorpion on Euron’s boat, not to mention all his archers aiming to the skies. And our queen made good on her promise with fire and blood, at a danger to herself.”

“A dragon does not kneel to pups parading as wolves,” Lady Olenna intoned.

Tyrion was sufficiently cowed. “You are right, my ladies, Your Grace. I simply thought that our queen had reconsidered an alliance with the North with her gift of dragonglass.”

Daenerys stood. “You were mistaken, Lord Tyrion. A gift to the North is not a promise to die for the North. This meeting is adjourned.”

The queen pulled Missandei aside. “We need to know what changed, what Varys heard that made Tyrion want to protect Cersei.” Her Hand nodded, leaving swiftly as to not draw attention, but Daenerys had no doubt she would find answers for her.

“Your Grace.”

Daenerys turned, painting on a small smile. “Yes, Lady Ellaria. Welcome back to Dragonstone. I do hope your travels were not too rough.”

“Thanks to you, we arrived safely, Your Grace.” The Dornish lady studied Daenerys for a moment. “I wondered if you gave any more thought to my offer. Trystane is being kept safe for you, should you desire his hand.”

Daenerys’s smile became pained. “If I am honest, my lady, marriage has been the farthest thing from my mind these past weeks.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I’m sure you are quite busy. Especially now that the Northerner has arrived to keep you occupied.”

She was going to kill Tyrion for putting this thought in everyone’s heads. “Rest assured, my lady, even if I do not marry Trystane, I will back your claim to Dorne. Your daughters are the heirs of Oberyn Martell, bastards or not. They would serve Princess Nymeria’s memory well.”

Ellaria gave a shallow curtsey before departing with the remaining council members.

Daenerys sat back in her chair, seeking a moment’s reprieve from it all. A phantom stare kept her from relaxing her posture.

Sure enough, opening her eyes found a gaze of burgundy—or perhaps maroon or a dark magenta in this lighting—roving over her.

Chapter Text

Lord Varys’s days were becoming numbered.

Irri, Doreah, and Jhiqui had taken turns sneaking into his rooms after Daenerys acquired a copy of all the keys in the keep from the maester. Daily, they brought back missives Varys set aside in his rooms. If the Spider noticed their absence, he was clearly paranoid enough to keep it to himself rather than go shouting around Dragonstone about a thief. Or, perhaps, he simply wasn’t raising the warning to Daenerys.

Varys may not think Daenerys deserved to know of his dealings with minor Stormland lords or more benign nuances parading as updates from the North. Any advisor could write them off as unimportant, especially when an emissary from the North was on Dragonstone.

A proposal for Daenerys’s hand may have warranted letting her know.

On behalf of His Grace King Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Lord Jon Connington do extend an offer of marriage to Princess Daenerys of House Targaryen. His Grace offers Princess Daenerys to cloak her with his protection in the eyes of the Seven in two moon turns time following the completion of the siege of King’s Landing and successful reclaiming of the Iron Throne for the Targaryen dynasty. Upon acceptance of this proposal, His Grace requests the princess cease her negotiations with the North and aid their House in managing their repayments to the Iron Bank and compensation for the Golden Company…

Daenerys tossed the piece of parchment down on her desk in disgust. It was far too long and detailed to not be a continuation of a drafted contract. Varys had been negotiating on her behalf.

The princess shall also provide a dragon of her choosing to His Grace to ensure the might of their House’s rule .

Somewhere in the depths of her rage, she idly wondered what Varys thought of that particular clause.

“Your Grace?”

She looked up and greeted Greyworm with a fatigued smile. She’d missed his constant, familiar presence reassuring her from her side.

“Lord Snow seeks an audience.”

She waved a hand, rubbing her temple with the other. “See him in.”

The Northerner walked into her solar, Ghost at his side. “Your Grace,” he greeted as his direwolf trotted over to Daenerys.

“Hello, sweet boy,” she murmured tiredly, ruffling his ears as his pink tongue lolled.

“I swear, he acts more of a puppy with you than he ever did with me. And I raised the ungrateful whelp.”

Daenerys laughed. “It’s not true, is it Ghost? You’re not an ungrateful whelp. No, you’re a faithful warrior, aren’t you?”

Greyworm cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Your Grace, but would you like me to stay or allow you your privacy?” he asked in High Valyrian.

Daenerys refused to blush. “Watch the door, please, Greyworm. Ensure there are no eavesdroppers,” she replied in her mother tongue.

Her Unsullied Commander bowed his head and left them, but not without giving Jon a stare cold enough to rival a winter wind.

“Do not take this as an insult, Your Grace, but you look tired.”

“My appearance has been hailed as many things by many men, Lord Snow. Tired is a new one.”

The man raised a brow. "You've lived a life of conquest and ruling.”

“You would know something about the trials of ruling, would you not, Lord Commander?” she cajoled softly.

Jon’s gaze darkened, while his irises turned a brighter red. “I’m not Lord Commander anymore. My Brothers made their discontent clear.”

Jon Snow was killed by his Black Brothers at the Night’s Watch and resurrected by the Red Witch Melisandre.

Daenerys clasped her hands on her desk, shaking off her fatigue. “I apologize if I brought up sour memories for you.”

She wondered how he felt about it all. The betrayal, knowing he would die at the hands of his men, his Brothers. Being wretched back into the land of the living. Appearance irrevocably changed, a blatant reminder to everyone that his soul had done what none had.

He shook his head. “It is in the past.” He gestured to Connington’s missive. “Is that what’s causing you problems?”

Varys had undoubtedly betrayed her, even if the extent to which was still yet to be seen. Tyrion was getting cold feet about toppling Cersei—had he just now remembered she was his sister? The North would neither bend the knee nor offer any other sort of treaty. While Daenerys had somewhat reinstalled Tully in the Riverlands, his embarrassingly small numbers who answered the call made it plain his status as Lord Paramount was largely in name only.

Perhaps she should be speaking to Olenna about this, rather than an emissary to the enemy to the North, but something in her thought she could trust Jon Snow.

No, Dany wanted to trust him. Daenerys knew she couldn’t.

A test, perhaps. If the North wouldn’t kneel to her, they wouldn’t to a different Targaryen conqueror. A test, with information he would eventually hear and could do basically nothing with.

“A man claiming to be my dead nephew has begun a siege of King’s Landing,” she said evenly. “Aegon the Sixth has come for his throne with the Golden Company at his back.”

“Rhaegar and Elia Martell’s son?”

Fuck .

Dorne .

Years of this politicking business was all that allowed Daenerys to keep her face impassive as she nodded.

Jon seemed surprised by this information. It didn’t make her feel better that an emissary of the North, occupied with a war against the Dead, heard of this Aegon after her.

A thought crossed his face. “Doesn’t the Golden Company only fight for Blackfyres? How else would he be buying their support?”

“A loan from the Iron Bank?” she offered, hand returning to her temples. “But if he claims to be my nephew, he cannot also claim to be a Blackfyre.”

The two sat with their thoughts for a moment, both likely considering the implications of this new player on their own game of thrones.

“Does he intend to challenge you?”

Daenerys bared her teeth in a smile. “Quite the contrary. It would seem I am to be his bride.”

Jon laughed. A light, rich sound that had his eyes crinkling in mirth—indigo eyes. “He expects you to marry him?” Residual chuckles shook his body. “Not that your hand is anything but the most desired in the Seven Kingdoms, Your Grace, what with your beauty, smarts, and power. But your potentially fraudulent nephew?”

“It is the tradition of my House to marry uncle to niece, cousin to cousin. Even sister to brother. My ancestors insisted it kept the bloodline strong. Kept our connections to our dragons strong.”

“My father died for swearing Cersei’s children were bastards of her affairs with her twin brother,” Jon said—new information to Daenerys. “Your House is not the only one with such traditions. Nonetheless, he cannot seriously think you would accept such a proposal. You do not even know him.”

Daenerys smiled sadly. “I was sold to my first husband by my brother—who I’d been raised to believe would be my husband when we were of age. I married my second husband to keep the slavers’ insurrection at bay. Unfortunately, this is not outside the realm of normality.”

A frown creased Jon’s face, unfairly accenting his cheekbones. “You would gain nothing from that marriage.”

She scoffed in agreement. “Oh, believe me, this contract proposal is filled with nothing but advantages for my future husband.”

Ghost growled from where he sat beside Daenerys, red, intelligent eyes glaring at the offending parchment.

Three mounts must you ride…

Three treasons will you know…

She patted the direwolf’s head. “Don’t worry, Ghost. I don’t intend to take a third husband.”

Jon studied her for longer than felt appropriate in response, indigo eyes roving over her expression to where her hand rested on his wolf. “What will you do if this man is who he says he is?”

“As far as my own taking of the Iron Throne… this would change nothing. As I told you when you arrived on Dragonstone, for me to take the throne is just that: taking it. By conquest. Even if this is Aegon Targaryen, trueborn son and heir to my brother, the Iron Throne no longer belongs to the Targaryen dynasty.”

“Will you still go along with your plans for King’s Landing? Your armies are set to march tomorrow.”

Daenerys sighed. “When I was young, my brother regaled me with stories of our House. Many were grandiose and filled with falsehoods, but it was his way of mourning what we had lost.” She dug her fingers into Ghost’s fur. Her scales warmed in her skin, her dragons feeling her grief. “All I have wanted, for as long as I have known, is family.”

Lilac met indigo as she tentatively met Jon’s gaze, unsure of how much vulnerability was evident in her own. “I cannot fight him. But I cannot simply let him take the throne. I promised those sworn to me that I would protect them. I can only do that from a position of power.”

Jon looked at her in understanding. “I grew up a bastard in my father’s home. Living proof to his lady wife of his betrayal of their marriage vows. She hated me. But I would withstand her hate again if I could have my family whole again. I’ve lost all three of my brothers. My littlest sister, Arya, is lost as well. My father and his wife are dead.” He shook his head as if it would shake the grief from his mind. “I do not think anyone would blame you, for wanting a family.”

Her barren womb ached. Her dragons were the only children she would ever have. It was her foolish dealings with the witch that lost her Rhaego and Drogo, left her womb empty, but gave her her dragons. 

Irri was sure Daenerys had miscarried in the Dothraki sea after Drogon carried her away when she had told her handmaid of her bleeding, too far from her previous moonblood to be her next regular cycle. All three of her handmaids and Missandei had insisted this was a good sign, that the witch had lied to her and this was proof that she could carry a child.

Daenerys had just thought of bearing Hizdahr zo Loraq an heir and grew sick. And began to hate herself for being relieved the child had bled out of her.

No, this Aegon would be her only chance at family.

Gods, would she need to tell him? To both dissuade him from pursuing her, but also to continue the Targaryen line? She’d never cared about the future of her house before, but now that she wasn’t the last Targaryen.

If this was not the mummer’s dragon come to betray her.

Damn Varys for keeping this from her. Damn him for forcing her to find out about it like this, when she was on the precipice of accomplishing everything .

“You are right, though. My armies are set to march tomorrow. I will follow them in two weeks’ time, once the dragonglass business has been settled.” Daenerys gave Ghost a final pat. She folded the proposal in half. It joined Varys’ stolen chest in her desk drawer. “Once I have the throne, all of these worries will be moot.”

Chapter Text

He was dreaming again. Flashes too quick to be coherent.

Nightmares of ice growing over his skin, leaching the warmth from his blood.

Memories of his death. Of the pain.

Dreams of warm hands gracing over his scarred torso, giving him heat and comfort he had sorely missed since… always.

Could you miss something you never had?

Visions of three glowing lights embedded in pale skin. A glance up to see the figure’s face and—

Awash in darkness, voices whispering at him, telling him he was wrong, wrong, wrong. He may have come back to life, but he was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Screams tore at his throat, pulling him from the torment of whispers.

Long locks of hair battered his face, wind tearing at him. Not his own. These silver-gold curls belonged to the person seated ahead of him on the horse.

Not a horse. A dragon.

His dream-self clutched at the body in front of him in panic. His fellow rider turned, revealing that face that had flashed through his dreams since he was brought back from the dead. The ethereal visage he now knew the name of.

Daenerys.

He sat behind Daenerys. On her dragon.

Longclaw was clutched in his hand.

She shouted something to him, but it was lost in the wind. Instead, she pointed below them, off the dragon’s flank. He looked down. The Night King—not his wights or his Walker generals—with his hands upheld, preparing to raise the dead. Again, Daenerys tried to tell him something.

He couldn’t hear it. But somehow, this dream form of him knew what she meant.

His subconscious self pulled the dragon queen forward with two fingers under her chin—and kissed her. It wasn’t desperate. It spoke of familiarity and tenderness. A brief yet firm farewell wish.

And he leapt from the back of the dragon.

---

“Lord Arstan Selmy of Harvest Hall,” the herald announced and Daenerys felt her breath catch in her throat.

Missandei and Greyworm glanced at her. Their expressions betrayed no concern, but they were still checking up on her. Her Hand whispered to Jhogo, and her bloodrider appraised the lord, as if he too were searching for a resemblance.

A man dressed in brown and gold bowed before her. He bore little resemblance to the Selmy Daenerys had known, but she knew not how the two were related.

She never did seem to have enough time with Ser Barristan, time to ask him everything she should have.

She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Hello, my lord. What brings you to Dragonstone today?”

“I have come to swear to you, Your Grace. Many of my fellow Stormlanders have done so, promising you the loyalty of their neighbors. While their promises were true, I still wished to bend the knee to you myself.”

“It would seem Ser Barristan Selmy’s honor is shared by you, my lord.”

The man nodded, his expression somber. “I did not know my great-uncle well, but I knew of his loyalty to those he was sworn to. He was welcome to rejoin his family at Harvest Hall when Joffrey stripped him of his white cloak, but he never wavered in his desire to serve his rightful ruler. He traveled the sea to find and serve you, Your Grace. It would be a disservice to his memory, and to my House, if I did not journey here to do the same.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Daenerys stood. “I would be honored to accept your pledge.”

A number of Dragonstone citizens came forward for audiences. One pair insisted she settle their land dispute. A man working in the dragonglass mines lamented that the deeper the mines grew, the longer it took to walk outside, where water was available to the workers. Miners were penalized for spending too much time on breaks rather than working. The man insisted he and his fellow workers were not attempting to laze about, they just desired water to wash the dust and grime of the caves from their throats. Daenerys promised the man they would establish a number of barrels of water available throughout the caves and remind the miners overseeing the project to be kind to honest men simply trying to quench their thirst.

“Ser Bonifer the Good of House Hasty, Commander of the Holy Hundred.”

Daenerys swore the herald looked just as surprised to be announcing this man as Daenerys was utterly confused.

“House Hasty is a house of landed knights hailing from the Stormlands, Your Grace,” Lady Olenna offered beside her.

“Thank you for the audience, Queen Daenerys,” the man said, looking up at her with searching eyes.

“Of course, Ser Bonifer. Thank you for traveling all this way.”

“When I heard you were safely on Dragonstone, Your Grace, I knew I had to come before you and put myself at your mercy.”

Daenerys looked to Olenna. The Queen of Thorns gave her a look that screamed, he’s a crazy old man.

“Whatever for, Ser?” she ventured.

Ser Bonifer dropped to a knee. “I knelt for the false king Joffrey, Your Grace.”

“Forgive me, Ser, for I am still learning all of the histories of Westerosi politics,” she began, “but I do not recall you having been sworn to my family?”

“I was not, Your Grace.”

“Then I am afraid I am confused, Ser. My father was a cruel man. When the Usurper toppled him, I see no fault in those who chose to kneel.”

The knight shook his head resolutely. “In bowing to Joffrey, I betrayed the memory of your lady mother, Your Grace.” The man continued to search her features. “Forgive me, but you do look so much like her, Your Grace. When both Queen Rhaella and I were much younger, I was quite taken with her. I won a tourney in my youth and named her Queen of Love and Beauty. Of course, I was far too lowborn to ever be a passing thought for such a magnificent woman, and yet, I have found that only the Maiden herself could take the place in my heart saved for your mother.

“The moment I heard you had fled to Essos, I should have followed you. I should have sworn myself to you and protected Rhaella’s daughter. I failed you, Your Grace. And I come before you in the eyes of the Seven, and I ask you let me swear myself and my Holy Hundred to you, Queen Daenerys.”

Daenerys glanced at Olenna and Missandei; the latter’s lips betrayed a small smile, while the former gave a lopsided shrug.

“I would be happy to accept your pledge, Ser Bonifer. It means so much to me that you came here to honor the memory of my mother.”

The knight said his vows, invoking the Seven numerous times. Daenerys cared little for the Faith, but she appreciated that the man was honest in his word.

“I brought you something, Your Grace. Unfortunately, it is not a grand present, nor even a crown of roses like the one I gave your mother, but instead information I fear you solely need.”

The knight pulled out a scroll and handed it to a page to carry up to Daenerys.

A missive from Aegon, Sixth of His Name.

“Do you know what other houses received this?” she asked evenly.

Luckily the knight understood her desire to not name what the letter contained. “I believe any lord not currently a guest on Dragonstone has received a copy, my queen. I have also heard of a few lords in residence here who have gotten a copy. I believe any house with soldiers or banners of any number received a raven.”

Daenerys folded the parchment calmly. “Thank you, Ser Bonifer. For your loyalty to me and my mother, and for your honesty.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Daenerys heard the rest of the petitioners—four Dragonstone citizens—before she stood from her dragonglass throne.

“Call the council,” Daenerys said to Missandei and Olenna. “Ellaria, Yara, Lord Snow. Tyrion. And the Spider.”

Chapter Text

“Aegon, Sixth of His Name,” Tyrion read out, rolling the name over his tongue. “If his identity is true, perhaps a Targaryen nephew will present a viable alternative to the last Martell. Dorne will not have an advantage over us in any negotiations. Respectfully, of course, Lady Ellaria.”

“Her Grace has spoken to me concerning Dorne’s proposal,” she said, looking down her nose at Tyrion. “I am sure that once Her Grace has taken King’s Landing she will be in a position to consider marriage offers. Until then, I will focus on supporting our Queen.”

“Of course—”

“A potential husband is the last thing I see in this letter, Lord Tyrion.” Daenerys stood with barely contained rage, her chair screeching backwards on the stone floors. “This missive has gone out to every major and minor house with any men to swear.”

“Your Grace,” Olenna began, “Ser Bonifer may have a Holy Hundred, but they are just that. A hundred.”

Daenerys took a steadying breath. “Be that as it may, Lady Olenna, if a number of these lesser houses swear to him, those hundreds add up. Not to mention this missive includes a claim that he has the Golden Company at his back.”

“How many men are fighting in the Golden Company these days?” Tyrion asked.

“Impossible for us to know, considering my Master of Whispers is consistently absent,” Daenerys snapped. “Lord Tyrion, where is your friend? I summoned him at the same time as the rest of the council.”

Tyrion shifted on his feet. “I do not know, Your Grace. Varys and I share the occasional glass of wine and a dark sense of humor, but I am not his keeper.”

Daenerys turned to Jhogo and spoke in Dothraki, “Search the keep. The caves too. Find the Spider.” Her bloodrider bowed his head and left to gather enough men to search.

“What does this mean for your claim?” Lady Yara asked once Jhogo had left.

“Nothing,” Daenerys answered quickly. “My claim is based in conquest. Not my surname, not my blood. This Aegon should understand the same.”

“The lords of Westeros may not agree,” Tyrion warned. “If this boy has the Targaryen look to match his name—”

“The Golden Company only backs Blackfyres, does it not?” Jon Snow asked from what was becoming his usual position against the wall. “Having Blackfyres supporting his siege calls his identity into question.”

“Still, a male heir holds more favor with Westerosi nobility. Especially in House Targaryen—”

“I have read my family histories, Lord Tyrion,” interrupted Daenerys. “I am well aware that this Aegon the Sixth would not be the first of his name to hold the title of Usurper. And I have no intentions of falling into my ancestor Rhaenyra’s footsteps either.”

Olenna chuckled. “An admirable quest. And a smart one.”

“Aegon will not take King’s Landing.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “Very well. We can write a response to this, telling him and this entourage of his that King’s Landing is soon to be conquered by you and your much more numerous forces, and welcome him to an audience in the Red Keep once you’ve taken your throne.”

She shook her head. “We will not be writing anything. If missives cannot come into this keep, they will not be leaving it either.”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?” Yara asked. “Have you not been receiving ravens from our allies?”

“It is hard to know what I am not receiving, Lady Yara.” Daenerys rounded on Tyrion again. “Where is Lord Varys?”

“I am here, Your Grace,” the Spider said, rushing in with Jhogo behind him. “I apologise for my lateness.”

“Where have you been, Lord Varys?”

“I received your summons in the middle of responding to a recent report from the Stormlanders sworn to your cause. They have met up with the rest of your host and are joining the march on King’s Landing—”

“No, Lord Varys. Where have you been when you are not on Dragonstone?”

The Spider hesitated. “I was in King’s Landing, Your Grace, keeping up with my most crucial contacts in the capital.” Varys studied Daenerys’s expression, clearly basing his next words off of whatever he read. “I was not aware I needed to ask my Queen’s permission to act in her best interests, to fulfill my duties as Master of Whispers.”

“I would never think to tell you, Lord Varys, how to conduct your business of secrets and deceit.” A faint scoff echoed from Jon’s corner of the room. “I would, however, ask that you give me even the slightest notice when you are going to be out of reach.”

Varys paused again, before simply bowing his head.

Daenerys waved at the missive on the Painted Table before Tyrion. “Well, Lord Tyrion, please show our Master of Whispers what has created a need for this meeting. Though I would hope Lord Varys would already be well aware of this new player on the board. Especially with his recent trip to King’s Landing.”

Varys took the parchment from Tyrion, skimming it briefly. “Ah, Aegon Targaryen. Yes, I had come across several whispers concerning this potential dragon at the head of the Golden Company and additional sellswords financed by his apparent magister allies in Pentos. Though I did not know his court had sent word to you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys’s scales warmed; Drogon’s roar echoed over the sea.

“This missive and dozens like it were sent to any lord in Westeros with swords and shields at his beck and call,” Olenna corrected, rolling her eyes. “Honestly, Varys, I fear age is coming for you sooner than it has me.”

“Dragonstone has not received any correspondence from this claimant,” Tyrion supplied.

No, Varys made sure of that.

“How odd,” Varys mused. “I would have been certain your nephew would have reached out, Your Grace. If not only to say hello. At most, with a marriage proposal.”

“If you were here, Varys, you would know bringing up marriage to our Queen at the moment is a dead end.” Olenna chuckled. “She is not just a woman, but a dragon. She is here for conquest.”

Varys hummed and gave another bow of his head. “Of course, Your Grace. The capital should remain your paramount focus in my opinion—”

“Thank you for your belated council, Lord Varys,” Daenerys muttered none too quietly.

“—However, if this man is truly your long lost nephew, I would think it unwise to jump straight to hostilities.”

Daenerys felt her stare deaden. “Fear not, Lord Varys. I am entirely focused on taking the capital. And I have no intention of bothering with the pitiful host this potential pretender has amassed. My forces will reach King’s Landing in a matter of days. I will fly to join them, and the capital will fall.”

Tyrion cleared his throat, glancing at Varys before speaking. “Your Grace, I was hoping we could discuss the taking of King’s Landing today. Specifically, how you intend to take the city? There are many innocent lives at stake.”

The Dragon Queen grew still, watching as the Spider and the Imp attempted to gauge her reaction.

“I meant no offense, Your Grace. I never meant to imply that you would ever willingly harm an innocent life. However, with such a sacking, there is bound to be missteps on both sides—”

“How many cities have you conquered, Lord Tyrion?” Daenerys asked softly.

“None, Your Grace, though I lead the defense of King’s Landing in the Battle of the Blackwater—”

“And you, Lord Varys? How many cities have you taken?”

“None, Your Grace.”

“Lady Olenna? Lady Ellaria? Lady Yara?” All Westerosi shook their heads. “Greyworm, how many cities have you taken?”

“Unsullied have taken three cities under our Queen’s rule,” her commander replied.

“Lady Missandei?”

“I was also at our Queen’s side during her conquests in Dragon’s Bay.”

“Lord Snow?”

The Northerner looked at her with a peculiar expression on his face. His brows were raised in slight surprise at being called upon, lips twitching into a smirk. “One, Your Grace, in the retaking of Winterfell,” he answered, indigo eyes alight.

Daenerys looked at her advisors, giving each an appraising stare. “I understand that you all wish to advise me on the best course of action. It is why I have asked you here, to aid me in my endeavors and to point out things I have missed. Lord Varys, the day you swore to me, I asked that you look me in my face and tell me when you believe I am failing the people I have sworn to protect. Tell me, my lord, is this that day?”

The Spider tilted his chin. “It is not, Your Grace.”

“While I also appreciate the insight into Westeros from many of you, as I was not raised on this Continent, I do wish to remind you all that this is not the first city I have freed.” Daenerys plucked one of the dragon figurines on the table, moving it towards her host in its march to King’s Landing. “Three times I have tried and three times I have succeeded. I have given the people in those cities a better life—but more than that, I gave them a choice. No one who sailed with me from Essos did so on any order. They did so by choice . By belief .

“Belief is what hatched dragons from stone. Belief is what drove me to free the Slaver Cities. And belief led me across the Narrow Sea. By no means do I expect blind faith from my counselors, but I do expect reasoning .” She leveled a stare at her first Hand. “Lord Tyrion. Please, explain to me what is so very flawed in my plans for the capital?”

Her Hand squared his shoulders. “Well, Your Grace, raining dragonfire down upon the city is sure to cause chaos and panic, which can lead to citizens trampling each other—”

“And sending in armed infantry and cavalry is calm?” Lord Snow interjected, pushing off the wall.

“Lord Snow,” Tyrion greeted, as if the Northerner had just walked in. In a way, he had. “I simply wish to offer advice of caution to our Queen so that she does not make a mistake she cannot take back—”

“This is war, Lord Tyrion! It is not about caution, or even playing fields! She has three dragons—did you expect her not to use them?” Jon asked, tone bewildered. “She has more men than Cersei does in King’s Landing—should she leave the extras behind and only fight with even numbers?”

“Of course not—”

Jon raised a hand. “I do not wish to intercede where I am not meant to, Your Grace.” Daenerys waved a hand, making it clear he was welcome to speak. “But I cannot simply sit here and listen to this—this faulty counsel.”

“I agree with the Northerner,” Yara said. “I wonder if Lord Tyrion has suddenly remembered what house is currently sitting the Iron Throne.”

“After all his family has done for him,” Olenna mused. “Just for him to come running back. What happened, Tyrion? Is this just cold feet, what with the battle days away, or have you also been making trips to King’s Landing?”

Tyrion’s face grew red and his stance defensive. “I would not leave our Queen’s side, certainly not to treat with the enemy.”

“A raven, then,” Ellaria said, eyes narrowed. “What did you learn, Lord Tyrion? Or did Cersei promise you forgiveness?”

“No, I have not received any letters from Cersei or Jamie—”

“Enough.” Daenerys’s voice was calm as she silenced the rising chaos in the room. “Lord Varys, I would like to speak with you. Alone.”

The other council members rose and bowed before they left. Jon gave her a long look, as if asking something she could not read, but left after Daenerys nodded to him. 

Tyrion was the last to leave, again having an unspoken conversation with Varys.

Once they were alone, Varys clasped his hands before him and faced her with a bracing expression. “Yes, my Queen?”

“Do you know what has happened to Lord Snow?” Daenerys asked plainly. “What caused his otherworldly appearance?”

The tightness in Varys’s expression faded. “Yes, Your Grace. Whispers from the North hail that after Lord Snow as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch allowed wildlings south of the wall, his men turned on him. He was stabbed in the chest and stomach numerous times before dying. A Red Woman by the name of Melisandre arrived at Castle Black and resurrected Lord Snow, beseeching her Lord of Light to bring back the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“Jon Snow, the Prince Who Was Promised?” she mused. A from Melisandre’s mouth, no less.

“It comes from a prophecy, Your Grace—”

“I know of the prophecy, Lord Varys. Do you know anything else about Jon Snow?”

“Just that he woke with white hair and red eyes after his death. He claimed his vows to the Night’s Watch were fulfilled, as he had died for the Watch, and travelled south, where he retook Winterfell with a few loyal Northern houses and the Knights of the Veil.”

Daenerys hummed. “And why did you not tell me this information before Lord Snow arrived on Dragonstone?”

Varys pressed his lips together. “I did not think it relevant, Your Grace. Afterall, he was coming here to tell tales of an undead army beyond the Wall. I hardly thought an alleged resurrection warranted your time.”

She nodded, as if considering that. “Right. And why not tell me this before Jon Snow stood before my throne? Or after our first meeting? Or any time in the past few weeks in which I have been hosting him?”

“As I said, Your Grace, I did not think it relevant—”

“What of the Red Woman’s involvement in this?” Daenerys interjected. “Surely you have heard of Melisandre’s arrival on Dragonstone, her talks with me. Did you not think her recent activities in the North relevant information for me to know when treating with her?”

“Your Grace—”

Daenerys waved a hand. “It is in the past, Lord Varys, and, as you said, relatively unimportant. I simply wanted to make the point that I would appreciate you sharing information with me that you have learned, even if you think it irrelevant .”

Varys hesitated at her change of tone. “Of course, Your Grace. I meant no harm—”

“Of course not, my lord.”

The Spider nodded slowly. “I will endeavor to keep you more informed in the future, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Lord Varys. You may go.”

Varys, confused and weary but not stupid enough to stay around and poke for answers, bowed and left.

Because Daenerys was through with him for now. The Spider had lost her trust. Time would tell if she needed to fulfill her promise of dragonfire yet, or if exile would suffice. She needed that time to look further, to find the extent of Varys’s betrayal and get ahead of it. In the meantime.

Apparent magister allies from Pentos , Varys had said. The first piece of information he had offered that was truly news to Daenerys.

And she didn’t need Westerosi or Essoi allies to inform her of any names or houses to remember the name of a certain Pentoshi magister with a penchant to play kingmaker….

Chapter Text

The queen met him on the rocky sand of Dragonstone’s beach. The ocean wind that tore at Jon’s cloak and tangled his hair beyond recognition seemed to caress the Dragon Queen, her silvery gold locks dancing in the breeze. The wind carried the slightest bite, a warning of the winter approaching, but it too seemed to delight at Daenerys’s presence, giving her cheeks a delicate rosy hue.

Ghost trotted over to her, tail wagging happily as if he were more hound than wolf. The queen gave him a soft smile, rubbing her pale fingers through Ghost’s fur. She was so petite, she didn’t need to stoop in the slightest to reach the direwolf’s back.

Her lilac eyes studied the cave entrance before them. “I  trust you did not ask me here to show me my own caves, Lord Snow.”

Jon startled out of his reverie. “In a way. I thought you might wish to see something we discovered while mining.”

The queen raised a brow and gestured for him to lead the way.

Jon lit his torch from a brazier they passed and led her through the winding cave. Her boots scuffed against the ground as she followed. It was odd, hearing evidence of the poised queen being unsure of foot. A glance back revealed Ghost trotting alongside her so that she could place a stabilizing hand on his back.

“Just up here,” Jon assured, lifting the torch higher, illuminating aged etchings spanning the cave wall.

Daenerys’s breath caught. “These are not the work of my family,” she murmured. Jon didn’t know what led her to that conclusion, even though he knew it to be true. “I suppose you have a theory as to their origin?”

“It’s a warning. The story of the first Long Night.” He moved his torch along the pictograph. “It tells of the Night King and his White Walkers. How the Army of the Dead came for the First Men.”

Purple eyes landed on him. “I believe you saw what you claim beyond the Wall. I believe you, Lord Snow.”

Torchlight flickered over a depiction of a conclave, of two peoples meeting across a clearing. “The First Men and the Children of the Forest understood that the threat beyond the Wall could only be combated if they stood together.”

“It is not my choice if I stand with the North, Lord Snow,” Daenerys intoned, crossing her hands before her. “I have told you, as the emissary to the North, that I cannot risk the lives of those sworn to me to protect those who would cut me and mine down if given the chance.”

Even in his still-addled mind, Jon could see through the mental fog enough to feel renewed anger and frustration at Sansa’s foolishness. If Daenerys hadn’t agreed to let him mine the dragonglass, this entire journey would have been an enormous waste of time.

His voice lost to the errant thoughts turning his mind to disorder, Jon simply nodded at the queen.

He felt her gaze on him until she pointed at a drawing to his right. “The Children of the Forest built the Wall, did they not?” He nodded again. “They imbued it with magic that has stood for how long? It will stand against the Dead.”

“They stood together,” Jon repeated, not to Daenerys but to himself. “The North will fall if they do not see beyond their pride.”

The North was his home. He may be a bastard, he may never be a Stark. But his surname proved his Northern lineage. He may not belong to House Stark, but he belonged to the North.

His mother’s identity was lost when his father lost his head in King’s Landing. He had no other kingdom or lineage to swear to.

Though, did he truly have the North? He loved his home for its loyalty and faith in justice. He’d trained all his youth to be a son his father could be proud of. He’d gone to the Wall, taken the Black, to find a place and serve his lord father.

But the North of Ned Stark had died with him. Now Jon found himself trying to love his home for its faults rather than its strengths, for its stubbornness and selective memory dressed as never forgetting .

And now Jon was not a son of the North, fighting to serve and honor his lord and his people. No, he was nothing but a sword and the walking remnants of Sansa Stark’s bastard brother. A white-haired, red-eyed, walking corpse. His brothers had betrayed him. The lords of the North had turned their back on him. His sister had sent him on a fool’s errand.

Ghost pressed his cold, damp nose against Jon’s hand, ever the silent, comforting presence.

For all that the sea air of Dragonstone had seemed to stir some semblance of self in Jon from whatever depths of his mind it had been trapped in since his resurrection, he now found himself struggling to keep his head above water. It was time to return to Winterfell. But he was no longer returning home.

He was lost, and he did not know the way.

Daenerys stepped to stand beside him. “Do you believe you can convince your sister to… reconsider ?”

Jon lowered the torch to his side in defeat. “No, Your Grace. But all I can do is try.”

The queen’s eyes roved over him, looking for something unknown to him. “Would it matter if it was you or your Lord Davos who asked for an audience with Lady Sansa?”

He met her gaze. “Not especially, I suppose. Whoever attempts is sure to be met with adamant refusal.”

“Then don’t go.”

He knew his expression betrayed his shock. “Don’t return North? But the dragonglass—”

A trilling roar echoed through the cave, cutting Jon off. He looked to the Dragon Queen with wide eyes, but saw only a faint smile. “Follow me,” she bid.

In his confusion, when Daenerys reached out, he lowered the torch to move it out of her way, thinking she was trying to steady herself on the cave wall behind him. He realized too late she meant to take to the torch to lead them more easily, and her pale hand grasped the burning top.

“Daenerys!” he hissed, but the queen only took the torch from him, using her grip on the top to guide the torch to her other side where her free hand grasped the handle.

When she released the open flame, Jon reached for her hand, examining it as best he could in the torchlight.

A light laugh reached him in his panic. Lilac alight with amusement met his surely terror-filled red. “Unburnt, remember?” she said simply.

Jon tried not to gawk. “I—I remember the title. I guess I never considered how much literal truth was in it.”

“Fire cannot burn a dragon,” was her only reply as she led them deeper into the caves, her hand sliding out of Jon’s grasp.

“Your men can ferry it to Winterfell without your presence, my lord,” she said as they walked, returning to their conversation.

Jon struggled to recollect his thoughts, half of his mind trying to work out how the queen knew her way through these caves. He’d been down here for hours with his men, mining the dragonglass, and hadn’t seen her once. “My sister would see it as an act of treason to not return as I was bid.”

Daenerys tilted her chin. “I believe your sister has far greater problems than ensuring her brother is heeding her every whim.”

Jon could hardly fathom it, but he forced himself to consider the offer before him.

He had no desire to return to Winterfell, watching as his people teetered on the brink of starvation, smithing weapons that wouldn’t be enough to stop the tireless army marching south. Watching as Sansa’s pride cost their people their lives. Begging his sister to see sense before it was too late, only to be called a traitor for siding with a Targaryen.

Not that he was siding with a Targaryen. He was not sworn to the Dragon Queen, nor had he considered her a product of her House since their first meeting. But to try to explain such to the Northern lords….

Ser Davos had already warned him jokingly about the longing in his gaze when looking at the Dragon Queen. It might be lost on some of the lords, but Sansa’s time in King’s Landing had hardened her. She saw motives and deceit in every corner. She would disavow his arguments as the dreams of a bastard infatuated with a young, beautiful queen.

Daenerys stopped, Jon nearly running into her from behind. She lifted the torch above her head to light a few sconces hanging on the walls, struggling to reach them. Jon stepped forward, intent to aid her, but was stopped when the ceiling was bathed in golden flames.

Jon lurched back, trying to pull Daenerys with him, but the firestorm was over as soon as it had started.

“Kirimvose, tresy,” the queen said in another tongue to—

To the dragon roosting in the cave. Now visible thanks to all of the sconces being lit by his breath.

Daenerys looked back at him. He hurried to his feet—when had he fallen over?—and straightened his cloak. “I suppose I could have warned you.”

He raised an exasperated brow that he hoped conveyed his agreement.

“Don’t worry. Viserion is the gentlest of my children.”

Jon watched as eyes of molten gold pinned him to the wall. White and gold scales glowed hauntingly in the flickering firelight, making it difficult to discern where exactly the dragon was moving in the shadows.

Daenerys spared him a final glance, as if ensuring he was not going to fall over again in fright, before walking assuredly to her dragon.

The beast ducked its head down to her, making a rumble somehow akin to purring as she stroked its nose. All the while, those golden eyes never left his.

“He heard me in the caves and wished for me to say hello. We can leave now, if that would make you more comfortable.”

Jon hoped he didn’t look too eager as he nodded. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Your Grace, I mean no offense. He is just… imposing.”

The queen gave her dragon a final pat before showing him the exit—a different way than they had come. “Close quarters with a dragon is not a situation many without Valyrian blood have survived, Lord Snow. Many an ancestor of mine has nearly been killed by intruding upon the cave of a dragon not bonded to them. You should consider this quite a feat.”

Jon shuddered. “Again, not to offend, but why then would you lead me into such a cave, Your Grace?”

Daenerys dropped his gaze, focusing on the winding path before her. “The bond I have with my children is not the typical bond between dragon and rider.”

“How so?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“They are my children,” was the only answer he received.

In the silence, he remembered their previous conversation. “And what would I do here, Your Grace, if I did not return North?”

A small curve of her lips showed her surprise that Jon was even considering the notion. “Whatever you wish.” 

He shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand, Your Grace. You wish for me to stay here and do nothing? You will not insist I swear my sword to you?”

She gave the slightest shrug. “Aid me in my taking of King’s Landing, serve as a general in my armies, if you so wish. Swear your sword to me, or do not,” she replied. “I appreciated your counsel, Lord Snow. I believe King’s Landing will fall quicker and with less bloodshed thanks to your advice. You have proved yourself to me and as such, I wish to offer you a place here.”

Seeing his skepticism, she sighed. “You have observed many council meetings. Despite my best efforts, betrayal is festering. Truthfully, I simply wish to surround myself with people I can trust. Of my three Hands, I only trust one. Of the Westerosi sworn to me, I only trust one liege lord.

“I understand this is not a game in which trust is plentiful. I understand that the dreams I came to fulfill in Westeros are the nightmares of the nobles. To achieve those dreams, to break the wheel that crushes the smallfolk, that creates such poverty and such wealth, I can only do so from a position of power. And any position of power is a position of danger. I am the Unburnt, I am the Mother of Dragons—but I am still human. I am vulnerable, especially to those I trust. And since I landed on Dragonstone, I found betrayal in places I never thought I’d have to look.”

Her face was alight with hope, with determination and assurance. Her faith in herself, in what she would do—it was alluring. Nearly addictive. But there was sorrow in her eyes that spoke of past betrayal, of deep hurt. Jon knew little of the Dragon Queen’s story, of her journeys in Essos, but what he did know painted a portrait of a life far from peaceful.

“Nevertheless, I find myself remembering those who have been faithful. Those who continue to be with every breath. Those who I will protect to my dying breath.”

Jon thought of Lady Missandei, of the three imposing bloodriders who often guarded Daenerys personally. Of Greyworm, the Unsullied Commander, and his fierce loyalty with which he and his fellow soldiers followed their Queen.

During his voyage to Dragonstone, Jon had known the Dragon Queen would be a better option than Cersei. Not that it was at all difficult to supersede her. Yet, he was just now coming to understand how truly revolutionary Daenerys could be.

“And despite my better judgement, I find myself looking at the Northern emissary before me and asking him to join me..”

Jon’s breath was permanently caught in his throat.

Chapter Text

Lady Yara and her Ironborn sailed out at dawn, intending to reach Blackwater Bay as Daenerys’s soldiers reached the gates of King’s Landing. Lady Olenna was content to join them in the capital after it was conquered. Lady Ellaria and her Sand Snakes would sail with the Ironborn to catch up with the Dornish spears marching on the capital. Missandei, Greyworm, Jhogo, and Aggo would join them. She supposed Tyrion would do the same.

After a few days, Daenerys and her children would take to the skies and meet her armies at the city gates.

Fire and blood had come for House Lannister.

Lord Snow hadn’t given Daenerys a final answer, though he had delayed his ship’s departure under the pretense of mining a bit of extra dragonglass in case their smiths struggled to make usable pieces on their first attempts.

Daenerys refused to be embarrassed by her asking Jon to stay. While she may have a few selfish reasons for wishing he did not disappear back North, she meant what she said to him. She valued his council and appreciated his honesty. It was refreshing, what with Varys and Tyrion turning on her. Ellaria might soon follow if the Dornish decided to back this Aegon over a female Targaryen.

Jon was a seasoned swordsman and had been chosen by his Black Brothers to lead them despite his youth. If the stories were correct, he only lost favor with the Watch after he let wildlings south of the Wall, refusing to let territory disputes and old grudges cost thousands upon thousands of innocent lives.

She wanted to trust him. Dany wanted to trust him. She found herself growing annoyed with the Queen in the North. How dare Sansa see such a loyal family member, a magnetic commander, and a beacon of honor and throw him away to Dragonstone? To waste his time on a fool’s errand at best, to die of dragonflame at worst? Daenerys longed for such a faithful, strong, bold ally at her side.

Three fires, three mounts, three treasons…

She knew obsessing over prophecy would do her no good. Fate knew no master, and not even if she guessed correctly as to the meaning of the whispers of the future did it mean she could change it in any way. And yet…

Daenerys reached into her desk drawer, moving aside the false bottom—while she had no proof, in her mind it had been Rhaenyra or Daemon Targaryen who had commissioned such a piece of furniture, what with the Dance creating tumultuous times—and retrieving her journal.

“Three fires,” she murmured. “One for life.” Drogo’s pyre, birthing her dragons. Of that, she was sure. Just as she was certain the mount to bed was her first husband as well, and the treason of blood to be the witch’s curse costing her both Rhaego and Drogo.

 “A fire for death. One to love.” She could feel a headache forming as she revisited her previous thoughts scrawled erratically along the page, some crossed out, others underlined, some victims of both treatments.

She’d lit many fires for death. In Essos, she’d burned the Undying, slavers, Sons of the Harpy. She’d only been in Westeros a short while and she’d already set an entire fleet aflame, along with a sizable Lannister force.

A fire to love was incredibly ambiguous. So much so, she decided to ignore it.

A mount to dread and a mount to love.

She’d certainly dreaded Hizdahr zo Loraq. However, she could see a possibility that Drogon, hailed as Balerion the Black Dread reborn, could instead be her mount to dread. That would make Hizdahr her mount to bed. As much as it soured her to replace her first husband with her second, the prophecy from the House of the Undying had come about well after Drogo’s death. And prophecy usually dealt with the future.

A mount to love. A glimmering, tantalizing scrap of hope for happiness embedded in the taunting prose. A possibility to marry for love—or at least take a true lover. Whatever she’d felt for Daario… she’d thought it love, but distance had shown her it was mere convenience and lust. But perhaps when the dust settled here in Westeros…

Three treasons will you know... once for blood and once for gold and once for love…

The verse that haunted her when she tried to sleep. The treason for blood belonged to Miri Maaz Duur. A treason for gold…

Ser Jorah. Selling her whereabouts, her actions, her secrets to the Usurper for promises of gold and a pardon. 

Or this mummer’s dragon, Aegon, perhaps. Deceiving her, playing as her nephew, backed by the Golden Company and demanding she ceded her claim, her armies, her children to his whims.

But Varys’s mention of magister allies had gotten Daenerys wondering if a new treason for gold was afoot.

Illyrio was, as any magister was, driven only by an insatiable greed. He’d fed Viserys lies, housed them and fed them at the price of manipulating them. He arranged for Daenerys to be sold to Drogo.

Varys was the one who promised Ser Jorah his money and pardon upon his successful betrayal of her. If not for a last moment crisis of conscience, the Spider and her Bear would have killed her.

Tyrion had mentioned a brief stay at Illyrio’s manse when he first reached Essos. It was there that Varys found him and told him to seek out the Dragon Queen.

Perhaps the numerous treasons for gold—Illyrio selling her to Drogo, Ser Jorah, the magisters funding Aegon—all traced back to Varys.

As he said, he’d served a great many monarchs. It was rarely seen for a court fixture to remain untouched when the crown changed hands, especially this many times. She’d previously attributed it to Varys’s tendency to keep all blood off of his hands, to manipulate subtly from the shadows, feeding off of rumor and only taking sure bets. But perhaps it was simply his ability to jump ship before the vessel had ever sprung a leak.

This Aegon’s identity, his strength, his success—none of it truly mattered to Varys. He was simply another option. Something to cultivate and something to leap to should Daenerys displease him.

Afterall, it was the Prince Who Was Promised on this continent thanks to the bastardized translation of her mother tongue.

And even if the Red Priestess had come to Dragonstone hailing Daenerys as Azor Ahai, she had done the same in the North just months before. Causing Jon Snow to come back looking… inhuman.

Though yesterday, in the caves, when he’d grabbed her hand, foolishly searching for burn marks that would never appear… she could have sworn on her children that his eyes were a grey shade of purple. No longer a drop of red in sight.

---

“She asked you to stay here?”

Jon dropped his hands to his sides. “Here, King’s Landing after she takes it, yes.”

Ser Davos barked a laugh. “And that marriage proposal? Should we expect the contract to arrive at your door or would it be sent to Queen Sansa’s desk instead?”

“No proposal is involved. The queen has made it quite clear she is interested in marrying for an alliance.”

His advisor raised a bushy brow. “Oh?”

“She had it out with Lady Ellaria and Tyrion at her council meetings.” Jon’s nose crinkled in distaste. “Ellaria has the last Martell hostage and Tyrion wants her to marry her nephew.”

“If your disgust is at the thought of an aunt wedding her nephew, I fear they would be far from the closest Targaryen blood relations to meet at the altar.”

Jon huffed. “The Starks intermarried more closely than the North seems to remember. As did the Lannisters, and any other noble house.”

“Not disgust at the relation, then. If it is the general thought of the Dragon Queen wedding another, my lord, I insist you revisit my previous just in earnest. Your sister is not inclined to become Daenerys Targaryen’s Seventh Kingdom, but perhaps a marriage alliance would be more to her tastes.”

He made to object, to return their conversation to the matter at hand, but his voice caught in his throat.

Perhaps he was envious of the other suitors moving into Daenerys’s orbit. They didn’t know her. They wanted to use her. For her titles, her name, her dragons, her armies. Not that Jon truly knew her either, not yet, but what she’d let him see was genuine and remarkable and honest. Not deserving of the torment of yet another marriage of duty.

A useless train of thought.

Though it would be a way for Sansa to get rid of him, permanently. Ship him to the South. Not that Stark men lived long once they traveled south of the Neck. Though perhaps that would be an additional incentive for his sister. Why else had she sent him to Dragonstone with barely enough men to mine the dragonglass they needed, let alone protect themselves?

“If you truly think Queen Sansa would consider it, I give you my blessing to negotiate on my behalf.”

“You’ve decided, then. You’re staying with the Dragon Queen?”

Jon sighed. “I have nothing waiting for me in the North, Ser Davos. Sansa has made it clear what my place at her table looks like.” And it strongly resembled what her lady mother had desired Jon’s place to be.

A timid knock at the door preceded a young girl opening it, a platter of cheeses and bread in her hands.

“Come in, dear” Ser Davos bid, voice kind.

The two men remained silent as the girl finished her delivery and went on her way. Once the door closed behind her, Ghost trotted over to Jon’s side from where he’d been lounging before the fireplace, sniffing at the food.

“I trust you, Jon Snow, and I trust your judgement. I would just advise you not to make this decision without considering your sister’s… nature. She would perceive you not returning as more than a slight.”

“Which is why my trust in you is hopefully not misplaced, Ser Davos,” Jon said. “I need you to convince her this is not me turning my back on the North. Whatever you need to say—tell her I’m refusing to leave the Dragon Queen until she agrees to bring her armies to the North’s aid if you see fit. Just get her to see reason, get her to send her next emissary with something to bargain with.”

It was the aging knight’s turn to sigh. “Is that all, my lord?”

Jon tossed his hands. “The way I see it, Ser Davos, it is in the North’s best interests for me to aid Daenerys in taking King’s Landing.”

“She will not see the efforts of one man as significant enough to warrant her entire armies marching North in your debt.”

“Of course not. I don’t even know if Longclaw will leave its sheath in this battle. But if I am here, gaining her trust and aiding her in winning her battle, perhaps she will see fit to forgive Sansa’s slights and work with the North once you return with a realistic treaty.”

Ser Davos thumbed through the bread and cheese choices with more selectiveness than his Flea Bottom accent would lead one to expect. “So you’ve decided then?”

Ghost rested his chin on Jon’s knee, red eyes meeting his own. “I suppose I have.”

Chapter Text

Jon was dreaming. Again .

A familiar scene, too. Soaring through the night on dragonback, sitting behind Daenerys, Longclaw drawn.

And again, he kissed her tenderly before jumping from Drogon’s back.

This time, he heard her scream as he plummeted to the ground. No, not to the ground—towards the Night King’s haunting, glowing blue eyes.

But before he reached the ground, the dream changed.

He laid on an uneven wooden surface, surrounded by flame.

A pyre.

The flames licked at his clothes, the fire hungrily consuming the leather and wool of his tunic and trousers, the fur cloak Sansa had embroidered for him turning to ash.

Fire reached his skin, and the pain seared through him—more sharp and distinct than any pain he’d ever experienced in a dream before. And he’d suffered nightmares about the lives he’d taken and his numerous brushes and with death before.

He laid there, powerless and utterly unable to move as the fire ate away at his skin. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t make a sound. A silent, immoble observer to his own horrible death.

He watched as the flames reached his chest. They ate away at his scarred flesh, old healed wounds under the ones that had taken his life.

Stab wounds covering his chest and back, never quite healed but never open either. They’d taken his life. And now they stayed, forever, in a sort of stasis between raw and scabbed. All thanks to the Red Witch dragging him back to the land of the living.

He was almost content to see the cursed scars be consumed by the flames. His cursed soul returned to the afterlife, whatever that may be.

Except he wasn’t dying.

The flames ate at his flesh, burning him with a searing pain that made him wish for death—but he wasn’t turning to ash.

Rather, the flames burned away his weathered and worn skin, callouses and scars and every physical blemish that told his story of hardships and battle—revealing a layer of unmarred skin beneath.

Smooth skin, almost glassy in appearance and flushed a healthy pink reminiscent of a baby’s rosy cheeks.

Just before the fire reached his heart, the dream changed.

Jon was watching the pyre from outside the fire now.

He was shorter, his senses sharp enough to smell the burning flesh.

Ghost .

Warged into his direwolf, he felt and smelt the bloodstained snow beneath his paws. A waft of jasmine and smoke from his left—Daenerys.

The Dragon Queen knelt in the snow, shouting in a foreign tongue to her dragons. The three creatures were surrounding the pyre, fueling it with flames of gold and orange, red and black.

When the dragons hesitated, Daenerys repeated the command, screaming at her dragons until they resumed the small firestorm.

The pyre was gone in a flash.

Jon left Ghost’s eyes. He wasn’t even in his own form anymore. Instead, he was a passive observer of a scene he had never himself witnessed.

He was in a circular room, a large window to his side. The view outside was occupied almost entirely by the Red Mountains, a hot wind blowing in and making the curtains dance.

Dorne.

A woman laid in a bed in the center of the room. She looked like Arya. Well, Arya if she ever caved to her mother’s wishes and began dressing like a lady.

And the man kneeling beside her, clutching her hand…

Father.

Ned Stark was younger, his hair more full of color and his beard nothing more than stubble.

“Protect him,” the woman said breathily. “Swear to me.”

His father looked anguished. Whatever he said to the woman, it was lost in the wind rushing from the Red Mountains.

“When they learn of his father…”

Then he saw it. The blood surrounding the woman on the bed. A birthing bed.

Even though this woman wore the braids and dresses of a lady, there was a fierceness to her. A steadfast determination in the face of fear outlined in the upward tilt of her chin that was so reminiscent of the Arya he remembered.

“Swear to me.”

The woman’s eyes fluttered closed, her chest shuddering with a difficult breath.

“His name… his name is…”

Life left her. Ned bent over her hand, his shoulders shaking with grief.

Jon wondered if that would be the end of it, if he was simply here to witness this moment of his father’s sorrow, but the dream continued.

A babe cried. Wrapped in a blanket and tucked into its mother’s side. As if it knew its mother was gone.

Ned lifted his head, expression tormented with conflicting emotions. Jon saw grief, of course, but also worry and panic as he looked at the new life mewling beside its dead mother.

“Ned,” a voice said from behind where Jon’s consciousness was observing the scene. “We have to go.”

For a moment, his father didn’t move. He clutched the woman’s hand as the babe cried.

“Ned.”

His father stood. He took the babe in his arms, looking down at the bundle with bewilderment.

“Let’s go, Howland.”

Jon’s perspective finally turned and he saw the new voice: Howland Reed. Lord of Greywater Watch, the crannogmen of the Neck. His father’s oldest friend.

---

Jon awoke in a cold sweat, the dressings of his bed tossed to the ground by his restless rest. He grabbed at his bare chest, wincing when his fingers groped at his unhealed scars.

Once he got his breathing under control, he called for Ser Davos while he dressed.

“A morning summons after a late night council? Leads me to believe you are second guessing your decision, my lord.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle. “Insightful as always, Ser Davos.”

“Is that a yes, then? You will be returning to the North with us? The crew is set to ship out at midday, weather allowing.”

He shook his head. “There is still no place for me in the North. My sister views me as a threat and the lords see me as an undead wraith.” He bit his tongue against saying more. He trusted Davos, but the knight was about to return North; he hoped the man’s loyalty wasn’t based in proximity, but he didn’t need any excess insight into Jon’s unsavory feelings.

He meant it, too. There was no place for him in Winterfell. Sansa viewed him worse than her mother had, after he came back wrong. The lords would never listen to him. Many saw him as insane for warning them about the White Walkers; none would ever follow him into battle.

But he couldn’t simply join the Dragon Queen on her attack on King's Landing. Beating Cersei Lannister, taking the Iron Throne, ruling the Seven Kingdoms, restoring the Targaryen dynasty under a new regime, breaking the wheel—that was Daenerys Targaryen’s dream. Her fate, her legacy.

Jon didn’t even know his past, let alone his future.

“I will be joining you on the ship, Ser Davos, but I will not be disembarking at White Harbor.” His advisor raised a brow. “I cannot follow Daenerys into her war. It is not my own. But neither is Sansa’s impending dance of poor diplomacy with the Dragon Queen.

“I will sail North, but I will disembark at the Bite. The rest of you will go on without me. Deliver the dragonglass and attempt to get through to my sister as we discussed.” Jon fixed Ser Davos with a resolute stare. “I need to visit an old friend of my father’s.”

---

The fastest raven in the Dragonstone rookery—affectionately named Meleys by the maester after the Red Queen—beat its wings against the freezing gales rushing down from beyond the Wall as it circled the towers of Winterfell.

Moments later, a missive arrived in Littlefinger’s hands which read as follows:

The White Wolf has declared for the Dragon Queen in all but name. He wishes for the Little Bird to sing the Dragon’s song.

Perhaps your Little Bird should keep her Wolf on a tighter leash.

Chapter Text

“Lord Tyrion, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Greyworm. You may join us if you wish.”

Tyrion didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. Usually, Daenerys opted for her most loyal guard to keep any eavesdroppers away. “You summoned me, Your Grace?”

Daenerys gestured to the chair on the other side of her desk. “I did, Lord Tyrion. Worry not, I do not wish to keep you long.”

Greyworm silently positioned himself along the wall between Tyrion and Daenerys, something which Tyrion definitely noted.

“What can I help you with, Your Grace?”

“One simple question is all I require of you, my Lord Hand.” Daenerys folded her hands on the desk. “What word arrived from King’s Landing that has changed your opinions on your family?”

Tyrion’s mask clasped into place effortlessly. “I wasn’t aware my opinions had changed, Your Grace.”

“Reprise me, then.”

Her Hand’s scarred brow furrowed. “My siblings and my father blamed me for my mother’s death on the birthing bed. I killed my father, Your Grace. My sister believes I killed my nephew Joffrey and likely blames me for my niece’s death at Ellaria’s hands since I was the one to suggest she foster at Dorne. My brother once held some affection for me, but whatever kindness he may have once showed me pales in comparison to his loyalty to our sister.”

Daenerys hummed. “Before we left Meereen, Lord Tyrion, you told me of the sins of your sister. Of her mania, of her bloody reign. Of how all of Westeros was crumbling under her rule.”

“A position supported by her recent exploding of the Sept, killing all of her enemies and numerous innocents in one fell swoop. Nobility, priests, and smallfolk, exploded in enough wildfire to sink the remains of the Sept into the depths of the city.”

“Another terrible atrocity,” she mused, “and yet, you seek to defend your sister from me.”

“Your Grace, I have never—”

“First, you counseled me to take King’s Landing now. You told Lord Snow outright during his first audience with me that it was unreasonable to expect me to fight a war on two fronts, and to fight a war for a kingdom that has not knelt to me.

“Then, just as my men returned from defeating your family’s armies in the Reach and Riverlands, you counseled me instead to hold off on taking the capital. Not for any tactical reason, not to give my armies time to rest and recuperate, or even to handle the potential complications arising from this Aegon appearing on Westerosi shores—no, instead, you advised me to turn my armies North to fight for the one Kingdom that has not knelt to me. To leave King’s Landing to your sister.”

Tyrion’s face reddened. “Your Grace, I told you before, Lord Snow is a trustworthy man. If he claims an Army of the Dead is marching for the living, I believe him. And I believe your armies and your dragons are the only thing that can stop them.”

“I agree with all of that, Lord Tyrion. What I do not understand is why it was once advisable to take King’s Landing immediately, and then it was suddenly better to let Cersei have it?” Her nails bit into her palms with the force of her anger. “What. Changed?”

“Your Grace—”

“An answer, Lord Tyrion.”

Before her eyes, she was watching her first official counselor—her original Hand, the man who aided her with Meereen and joined her as she launched her ships to sail west—

She was watching him disappear. Leaving a conniving, politicking, Westerosi lord in his place. Dreams of breaking the Wheel vanishing in place of misplaced loyalty to his House, his blood, and nothing else.

“Cersei is pregnant.”

Daenerys watched her once trusted advisor squirm under her silent, stoic gaze.

“Varys received multiple whispers from sources in the Red Keep.” Varys, yet again. “Some believe Euron Greyjoy to be the father, others…”

“Your brother,” Daenerys supplied. “Another Lannister bastard born of your twin siblings, just as your nephews and niece were.”

Tyrion’s nostrils flared. “I did not think you would be one to begrudge such a fact, considering your own parents were siblings as well as spouses—”

“I am unconcerned with the father of the potential child,” she snapped. “I am more concerned with the veracity of such rumors. And how quickly a simple whisper has turned you against me.”

“If she is with child—”

“What then? Does that excuse her bombing her own city? Does that excuse the attacks she has made on my armies? On her and her father sending assassins after me my entire life?”

“Your Grace, you must understand my hesitation at the thought of killing an unborn, innocent child.”

Her stomach tensed. Her own innocent, unborn child had been ripped from her by what she believed was the treason for blood.

But Lannisters famously cared for gold above all. Perhaps this was not a treason for blood, but for a golden lineage.

“I understand, Lord Tyrion.”

Now that got him to stop in his tracks.

“My loyalty to you has not wavered, Daenerys,” he assured in that beleaguered tone. “I simply have empathy for the innocent life in Cersei’s womb.”

“Your empathy for innocents is undying, my lord. It is a reason you have served me so well with your counsel.”

Tyrion nodded, though his hope was warring with his instincts that were waiting for her true verdict to drop.

Daenerys waved a hand, rising to her feet and turning her back on him. “You are dismissed.”

The lord paused, before hurrying into a short bow and turning on his heel.

His hand landed on the doorknob, so close to freedom—

“Oh, Lord Tyrion?” she called.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Leave your pin on my desk. Greyworm will escort you to your chambers.”

Where he would remain under lock and key without visitors aside from her most trusted Unsullied until the depth of his treachery was unearthed.

She switched to High Valyrian. “Once he is locked up, find Lord Varys and take him to the cells.”

---

Jon made to knock on the door to Daenerys’s chambers, but it swung inward before his knuckles could reach the wood.

Tyrion nearly shoved passed Jon in his rush to flee the room. His two-colored eyes widened even further to see Jon in the doorway.

“Lord Tyrion,” he greeted.

“Lord Snow.” A quick nod was all he got before Tyrion sidestepped him and paced down the corridor.

“Excuse me, Lord Snow.” Greyworm looked at Jon expectantly.

“I’m here to see—”

The Unsullied ignored him, moving forward. Jon stepped back hurriedly, letting the commander pass.

“How can I help you, Lord Snow?”

Jon gave the now empty corridor a final glance before closing the door behind him. Ghost slipped in, brushing along his side. “I’ve made my decision concerning your offer.”

The queen sat on a red chaise and gestured to the various cushioned seating in the solar invitingly. Ghost planted himself at her side, accepting pats while resting his chin on her knee.

As he joined her, a knock at the door preceded a servant. This time, a young girl with fiery red hair. She set the serving tray down in front of Daenerys, hands shaking enough to make the porcelain of the dishware rattle. The queen gave the girl a gentle smile that did nothing to reassure her if the way she all but ran from the room was any indication.

“I know you came for a rather serious meeting, but you are welcome to break your fast with me.”

“Thank you, but I ate earlier,” he lied. He never had much of an appetite after his nightmares. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since coming back from the dead.

The queen nodded politely. “Well, I am intrigued as to your decision, my lord.”

Jon pursed his lips. “I’ll be sailing North with my ship. We leave once the winds turn favorable.”

Her face was void of expression, stoney with acceptance. “I understand. I wish you fair winds and clear skies.”

“I will not be sailing for Winterfell.” He debated how much to say. “There is no place for me there. Nor are the answers I needed from my father hidden in his crypt.”

Daenerys raised a brow. She didn’t ask him where he was going or what answers he sought. Whether it was out of respect or knowledge that he wouldn’t tell her, he appreciated it. Still, it was too good to be true for him not to raise a questioning, expectant brow of his own.

The queen reached for some sort of teacake. “I understand the pain of the unknown. Of faceless phantoms where mothers should be.”

Or she hadn’t questioned him because she correctly assumed where he was going.

Jon just broke her gaze, looking away noncommittally.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jon Snow.”

A peaceful dismissal, her voice equal parts disappointment and empathy.

As she brought the teacake to her mouth, Ghost’s ears perked up. His bond with the wolf was overwhelmed with warning, with a scent of acrid sweetness.

Jon didn’t quite understand, but he knew enough to react. Hand reaching out to stop her own, he blurted, “It’s poisoned.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys soared over King’s Landing on Drogon’s back—a moment she had been waiting for since her children were born. Below her, the city built by her ancestors. The Red Keep housing the Iron Throne, the set of power for the Seven Kingdoms the Conqueror had united. She saw the remnants of the Dragonpit upon Rhaenys’s Hill. The smoldering skeleton of the Sept atop Visenya’s. Landmarks of her family history, architectural footsteps of blood she shared but had never known.

For all the right and wrong her family had done, she was certain the rows of living, crying children chained as decoration to various structures was all Cersei’s design.

The gates to the city, most towers along the walls, and several apparently significant buildings were protected by child shields. Mewling yearlings, sobbing toddlers, to stubbornly stoic adolescents, all chained to stone and iron to protect the mad, cowardly queen tucked away in the Red Keep.

Seeing all those innocents, all those children tied up, used as hostages against her—it brought back memories of the masters, of the children crucified on the road to Meereen.

Steering Drogon up, up, up, high enough that they touched the clouds—and she screamed.

Frustration, sadness, rage all poured out of her. Here she flew, on the back of a dragon , one of three that she had brought back to life for the first time in generations, at the head of armies of Westerosi and Essosi, advised by great minds and great warriors—and she was unable to save these children from such horrors. Such fear, such pain and peril.

Her screams subsided, her rage fleeting, peetering out into burning embers of grief and red hot coals of anticipated revenge. Drogon leveled out, angling them into a gentle descent, giving his mother time to collect herself.

Daenerys wiped away tears she hadn’t noticed she’d shed. When they landed, her people would need answers. A plan.

She couldn’t burn the gate down like she planned. She didn’t know how many men she would lose as they tried to cut down the hostages and then bust down the gate while Lannister soldiers rained arrows down from above. It was irresponsible, cruel to ask such a sacrifice from her men.

There was little point in using the Ironborn fleet to attack from Blackwater Bay; that gate was chained with child hostages as well. Even if she could ferry her troops to the beach, she ended up in the same situation.

Land and sea were blocked.

The only free channel was the air. She would fly directly to the Red Keep. To Cersei.

Drogon landed, shaking the earth. Viserion and Rhaegal called to their brother in greeting, having stayed behind. Viserion seemed… lazy, lately. Sluggish. Rhaegal and Drogon were concerned, one lagging behind to be near to their slower brother.

Daenerys dismounted, murmuring a quick, “Tresy, kirimvose,” to her largest son before marching over to the war tent.

“Your Grace,” Missandei greeted.

She plucked her flying gloves off by each fingertip. “Hello, my ladies, my lords. My commanders,” she added in Dotharki and then High Valyrian to her bloodriders and Unsullied. “The children are strapped to the bayside gate as well. The towers of the main walls as well as several buildings.”

“And the southern gate?”

“Lined with hostages as well!” she shouted, throwing her gloves down onto the map of the city. Her female advisors were unconcerned, her commanders didn’t blink. The Riverland and Stormland lords were the only ones who betrayed a flinch.

“We still have the numbers, Your Grace,” Yara insisted. “We can still go through with the original plan. Once the hostages are taken down—”

“No,” Daenerys interrupted. “I will not trade the lives of the hostages for the lives of my soldiers so senselessly. They would be utterly vulnerable as they tried to remove the chains. No, it is time for me to fight my own battles.”

“You cannot possibly think to fly to the Red Keep and put a sword through Cersei’s heart yourself,” Olenna groused. “Respectfully, Your Grace, even the most talented swordsman would be overwhelmed by her numbers.”

Daenerys fought back a sneer. Lady Olenna meant well. “Three dragons can fly more than just one person, my lady. My children can carry enough of my men to storm the Keep, drag Cersei into the streets, and leave her at Drogon’s mercy.”

Missandei took a step forward. “Your Grace, I propose an additional plan.”

“Additional?”

“Yes, to be carried out in the night before you fly to the Red Keep,” her oldest friend said softly. “Small squadrons of Unsullied could approach the gate in the night. Their leathers will not reflect the moonlight as Westerosi armor does. They can cut the hostages down silently, carrying the children away in the cover of night.”

Olenna smiled, giving Missandei an approving tilt of her chin. “Leaving you to torch the gate before flying to the Keep with as many swords and spears as you can carry.”

---

The towering gate, made of stone and iron—draped in Cersei’s banners despite having stood proudly for Targaryens for generations—fell like tinder under Drogon’s flames. Greyworm had never failed her, and the night prior was no exception; all of Cersei’s child shields were safe, deep behind the battlelines.

Her soldiers poured into the city. They formed a line on either side of the road, a wall of shields separating the soldiers marching in and the civilians fleeing from the wreckage of the destroyed gate in terror.

The shield line continued into the city, creating a path to the Red Keep. The buildings and towers guarded by human shields were ignored. The sooner Cersei fell, the sooner her men would stand down.

“Naejot, riñar!” she commanded.

Drogon roared as the scales in her skin warmed. Greyworm and Jhogo held tightly to Drogon’s spines, just as Daenerys knew Aggo and Rakharo did atop Rhaegal and Viserion respectfully along with the dozen other Unsullied and Dothraki on her children’s backs. As much as she wanted to fully trust her Westerosi allies… after Tyrion and Varys, even for such a short ride she could only let the blood of her blood mount her children.

Flying over the city, Daenerys saw the massive crossbows she now knew to be called scorpions being aimed towards her dragons from the towers guarded by child hostages.

“Naejot!” she urged. “Sagon adere!”

Her own children at risk for the lives of those of King’s Landing.

“Dīnagon!”

Whether it was her command or the bond through their scales embedded in her chest, her children sensed the impending danger. Viersion and Rhaegal turned eyes of molten gold and bronze to their flanks, Drogon focusing on the few scorpions mounted on the Red Keep’s walls. Through their bonds to her and thus to each other, they could communicate, dodging up or down in unison as needed.

Daenerys wanted to laugh at the magic she felt flowing through her, connecting her children, allowing them to fly unscathed. And she wanted to order them to fly away for fear their luck would run out. Instead, she decided to pray to whatever gods were both real and listening and focused on the Red Keep ahead.

That was her mistake.

She knew there were no gods that cared for the prayers of Daenerys Targaryen.

They were nearly to the Keep. Daenerys was already looking for the godswood for the open space to land. But eventually, there were too many scorpion bolts shooting from too many directions. Her children did their best to dodge, but it wasn’t to be.

She’d cursed them trying to depend on anything other than her own self.

Drogon, her bravest, strongest boy, seemed to see it coming. He dove left without warning, leaving Viserion no choice but to bank to avoid a collision.

Ensuring her sweetest son was well out of the way of the bolt that slammed through Drogon’s shoulder joint.

Daenerys gripped her son’s spines and scales tighter than she ever had as he struggled not to fall from the sky. Drogon’s screams filled her ears, deafening her and fueling her terror. She felt his pain, worse than anything he’d ever experienced. A hundred times worse than the spears in the fighting pits in Meereen.

And yet, he seemed determined to make it to the Keep. His flight was unsteady, his wingbeats uneven, but Drogon kept struggling through the air. His brothers called out to him, shrieks of warning and concern.

“Hold on!” she warned her soldiers just before Drogon’s keel clipped the top of the walls of the Red Keep.

He landed roughly in the godswood, stumbling on his foreclaws and legs. Several of her men tumbled off his back. When he finally lurched to a halt, Daenerys slid down his good wing and hurried to the bolt.

“I’m going to pull it out, tresy,” she said to him in what she hoped was calm High Valyrian. Drogon roared at the sky, spittle flying from his maw. “Drogon! You have to stay still.” Another roar as he thrashed from pain.

“My Queen,” Greyworm warned.

“Stay back,” she ordered, stepping forward dauntlessly.

She waited until Drogon was still enough, then grasped the shaft of the bolt firmly. She pulled, only moving the bolt a foot in her son’s flesh. Apologising through tears, she tugged twice more until the cursed weapon finally came loose.

Drogon roared again as she tossed it aside. He torched it, stomping around and snarling. Rhaegal was all but glaring up at the Red Keep, intelligence burning in his bronze eyes while Viserion kept trying to get closer to inspect Drogon’s wound but the black dragon kept snapping at his brother. Daenerys sensed it wasn’t fury, but more like the kind of relieved anger one felt when a loved one put themselves in danger and came out unscathed.

“Khalessi, shall we begin?” Aggo asked.

Daenerys nodded. “Bring me Cersei Lannister. Kill anyone who tries to stop you, but harm no civilian.”

Chapter Text

It was… ugly.

Daenerys had heard the Usurper had made some changes to the throne room, moved the dragon skulls to the cellars and minimized the berth of the Iron Throne. She didn’t doubt that the Lannisters had made some of their own changes. Hell, any of her descendants could have made changes to Aegon’s original design.

Whatever the story was, the Iron Throne was ugly. It was a garish pile of melted metal that barely resembled the swords of Aegon’s fallen enemies. 

It wasn’t the symbol of their family’s might like Viserys had always told her.

It was a symbol of the Wheel.

Of the sons of Westeros that died under the crushing weight of it as it turned again and again. Even under Targaryen rule, the lords paramount had waged their feuds and proxy wars smallfolk had suffered.

No, the Iron Throne was not a symbol of her family. It may have been forged by Aegon’s Conquest, in dragonfire, but it was not the symbol of the Targaryens. Not the symbol of the Targaryens of old, nor the Targaryens of new.

For a moment, she debated the choice before her.

She had fought for this throne for years. She’d believed it her destiny, her right by conquest. The Dothraki had crossed the Narrow Sea for this throne. Many of her soldiers had died for this throne. To never sit upon it would be a disgrace to their memory, their sacrifice.

But if she sat on the throne, was she not doing the same? Was she not condoning the acts of those who sat upon it as well? Accepting her place at the top of the wheel, condoning the world that created slavery and poverty? That crucified children and chained them as human shields against dragonfire?

She paused halfway up the steps to the throne—a place she certainly could not be when the doors to the throne room opened. Inaction was the worst choice.

A garish chair she’d both longed for and strived to destroy.

She much preferred the elegance and groundedness of the dragonglass seat on Dragonstone.

She’d come to Westeros to break the wheel. But as she’d told Jon Snow, she could only help people from a position of power.

Daenerys sat upon the cursed seat of her ancestors just as the doors opened, revealing her court.

Missandei and Olenna curtseyed before taking their place at the foot of her throne to her right. Ellaria led the Dornish party, the promised Martell prince allowed to walk free—flanked by the Sand Snakes. The Stormlanders came in, followed by their Riverland counterparts. Additional lords from the Reach trickled in, as well as an emissary from the Vale surprisingly. Lords and ladies in their heraldry bowed and filed into place on either side of the aisle.

Missandei acted as herald. Despite being promoted to Hand, they had both agreed it felt wrong to have anyone else announce Daenerys in her own home. To have anyone other than her oldest and truest friend tell her story, describe her triumphs and her struggles to an audience—it felt alienating.

“Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. The Unburnt. The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Queen of Meereen and the Protector of Dragon’s Bay. The Breaker of Chains. The Mother of Dragons. The Princess of Dragonstone. The Queen of the Rhoynar and the Andals, Lady of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

An aisle that was quickly put to use. Her Unsullied marched in, forming a similar if looser line on either side. One by one, her enemies were paraded in by her Dothraki.

As she had ordered, Tyrion was forced to stand to the side. He would bear witness to the family, the beliefs he had chosen to protect. The look he gave her was pleading, desperate, but she had far greater concerns than Tyrion Lannister on this day.

Namely, his sister being escorted towards her.

She wore the gown she’d been wearing upon her capture, a dreary black ensemble with a high neckline and sleeves strangling her wrists. It was tattered from her stay in the Black Cells, but under the soot and grime it was still a far cry from the gold regalia her house was known for. Whatever crude crown she’d fashioned for herself was nowhere to be found, lost in the conquest.

“Cersei Lannister,” Missandei called. “You stand before Queen Daenerys for the war crimes you committed during the battle for King’s Landing. The Queen’s Justice sees no need to present any evidence, as the children you used as human shields to protect your war towers were chained around the city for all to see. Her Grace has granted you the chance to speak in your defense.”

The court was quiet for a moment. Cersei stood with her hands clasped before her so tightly they may as well have been chained. The only indication she had heard was the shaking of her shoulders before—

She erupted in laughter.

The sound was cold. Not empty, but heartless. Full of hatred, bitterness, and acrid loathing.

The lords and ladies of Westeros exchanged glances in the crowd. Tyrion was looking at his sister with thinly veiled horror.

“I will not defend myself to a Usurper.”

Daenerys refused to rise to the meager bait. “As my Lady Hand said, no evidence is required of you. Allowing you a chance to speak is a courtesy, not a request.”

Cersei sneered, an ugly expression contorting her once-regal features. “A courtesy? You sit there, on a throne you stole from me with the beasts you ride, and wish to offer me a farce of a courtesy?”

“Stolen?” Lady Olenna mocked. “How do you describe your own ascent to the throne, Cersei?”

“A duty forced upon me,” the lioness snarled. “My husband died after years of emptying the throne’s coffers and weakening the realm. My eldest son was murdered in front of me, choking on his own life’s blood. My daughter was killed on Dornish soil. My youngest son, my last child, died from the pressures and torment the politicking lords of Westeros forced upon him.

“I may not have inherited the throne. But I have served it, advised it, sat beside it, for years. With my children dead, I sat the throne to save the realm. To offer stability. Order.”

“Order was blowing up the Sept with wildfire to kill your political opponents, taking thousands of innocent lives in the process?” Daenerys asked calmly. “Order was chaining innocent children to the walls of the city? Dooming other parents to the same grief you suffered?”

“No harm would befall them if you and your beasts did not siege the city—”

“None of the children you chained were harmed,” Missandei intoned. “Few smallfolk sustained injuries during the battle and are being aided by maesters.”

“Your Grace, I believe the court has heard enough,” groused Olenna.

“Very well.” Daenerys clasped her hands in her lap. “Cersei Lannister. You killed innocent smallfolk and nobles alike in the explosion of the Sept. You chained innocent children as human war shields. You abused the seat of power my ancestors built. I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die at dusk.”

The Dothraki flanking her clamped their iron grip around her upper arms. She jerked once, twice, trying to pull free, before giving up on freeing herself and dissolved into spitting insults as she was escorted out.

Cersei’s former Hand Qybern boasted about his barbaric experiments, his rigging of the wildfire below the Sept, and carrying out Cersei’s order to chain the smallfolk children. Tyrion looked sick when Qybern inadvertently confirmed the idea was of Cersei’s own making. Daenerys sentenced him to die for his hand in the Sept deaths and the chaining of children.

Jamie Lannister became a more nuanced verdict. He admitted to his loyalty to Cersei. He claimed family loyalty had blinded him, that he’d gotten in too deep before he could even recognize how far he’d fallen from his true values, from his honor. He even attempted to apologize to Daenerys for breaking his oaths and killing her father.

“Ser Jamie, my father broke his oaths to the realm when he began executing lords sworn to him without reason.” The Stark lord and heir, to name a few. Gods, how the sins of the father had come to haunt the daughter he had never even known. “While you broke your oaths as a King’s Guard that day, you upheld your oaths to the realm.”

The knight’s expression betrayed every stone of confusion.

“As for your aiding Cersei in her reign, I find myself wishing the Night’s Watch was still a viable sentence.”

“If I may, Your Grace.” Daenerys nodded. “The Night’s Watch may no longer be organized, but whispers of the Long Night have reached King’s Landing.” She didn’t miss how Jamie’s eyes flicked to Tyrion. “If Her Grace allows, I would swear my sword to the side of the living in the fight against the Dead.”

It reeked of Tyrion’s handy work, but Daenerys struggled to see true disadvantages in agreeing. If the man lived, it was a chance to redeem himself. If he died, it was one less Lannister on the board.

“Very well.” Ignoring Olenna’s surprised stare, she repeated her titles. “I sentence you to serve the realm of the living in the war against the Dead.”

Missandei dismissed the court after Jamie was walked out. Her Dothraki would escort him to the city limits.

Daenerys descended the Iron Throne. “Bring Lord Tyrion to the Godswood. Have Lord Varys escorted there as well.”

Their punishments would be decided away from the court’s delicate sensibilities. Their crimes were not against the realm—but against Daenerys and her children.

Chapter Text

Drogon landed at Daenerys’s back, his massive form barely fitting in the Godswood and surrounding gardens. Rhaegal and Viserion called down to their brother from overhead, their circling forms casting shadows over the greenery below them.

Daenerys stood with Missandei and Olenna at her right. Ellaria, Yara, and Greyworm off to her left. Jhogo had Tyrion in his grip, while Aggo and Rakharo flanked Varys.

“Lord Varys,” Daenerys began, “when you decided to swear to me, follow and advise me, you promised me something. That you would look me in the eye and tell me when you believed I was failing the people. A promise you broke.”

Varys tilted his chin. “Your Grace, you have not desired my counsel in some time. When would I have the opportunity to tell you such a thing? A statement many would consider treason?”

“Treason was sneaking to King’s Landing to confer with my enemies. Treason was sending ravens to the North without my approval.” Daenerys felt Drogon’s breath flit through her hair. “Treason was turning my Hand against me with well placed lies and false ravens.”

Surprised, Tyrion took half a step forward before Jhogo’s vice-like grip forced him back in place.

“Tell him, Lord Varys. Tell your oldest friend how you manipulated him. How you outsmarted the man who you once treated as an equal, as a friend.”

Varys fought to keep his expression unscrupulous. “If you are referring to Cersei’s pregnancy, I assure you—”

“A falsehood we can firmly disavow now that both Cersei and Jamie Lannister are in my custody,” Daenerys interjected.

Tyrion looked a bit lost, his gaze searching both Varys and her as if searching for any scrap of indication on who he should trust.

“Who told you of Cersei’s pregnancy, Tyrion?”

Her former Hand hesitated, as he was apt to do. “A sealed raven. From my brother.”

“I know it took your brother some time to relearn the sword after he lost his swordhand. Did he make it a priority to remaster the quill as well?” Daenerys asked.

“Varys?”

“Tyrion,” the Spider implored, “you must understand. It was simply an effort to guide you—”

“Away from the queen he swore to,” Daenerys interrupted. “A treason you partook in much more directly, Lord Varys. Poisoning the queen you are sworn to is no matter of guidance or morality. It is betrayal.”

“Your Grace—”

“But I will offer you a chance at mercy,” Daenerys said. “Tell me about the boy claiming to be a dragon at the head of a Blackfyre army. Tell me about Aegon Targaryen.”

Varys paused. “Everything I know about your nephew I have told you, Your Grace.”

“You believe him to be my nephew, then?”

“I personally orchestrated the quest to swap the young prince with an infant bearing enough of a Valyrian likeness from the Street of Silk. My contacts in Essos aided me in seeing the boy smuggled away in the care of Jon Connington.”

While he had no reason to lie while standing before the fangs and fire of his death, he had no reason to tell the truth either. Varys may have made enough missteps for her to catch him, but neither of them were naive enough to believe Varys was ever walking out of this garden.

“So you have made your choice, then?” she asked. Varys raised a brow. “An untested, vain boy who believes the world is owed to him? Who believes my hand is his?” Her body. Her womb . “My dragons?”

Her two bloodriders stepped back silently from their charge.

“Thankfully, Lord Varys, I still have time to keep my word to you.” Drogon hummed, rearing his head of black scales over his mother, his terrifying form bracketing her as she gently ordered. “Lord Varys, you conspired against me. You created dissent within my counsel. You allied with my enemies. Dracarys .”

Black and red flame engulfed the traitorous Spider. Her children above sang their agreement, roars and spits of flame filling the night sky.

Tyrion stumbled back from the heat of the flames, but Jhogo held him firm.

In moments, the once powerful Spider, the puppeteer behind the rise and fall of a number of regimes—

—reduced to ash in mere heartbeats.

“Lord Tyrion.”

The man shuddered. Jhogo pushed him forward.

“You have betrayed me. You have given me poor and conflicting counsel. You have decided I am a threat to the smallfolk, and to the family you have chosen to forgive despite their sins against you.”

“Daenerys—”

She’d had her fill of his poison words.

“ Dracarys .”

Cersei and her Hand were burned without ceremony.

---

The farther north Jon sailed, the colder he became. Not from the biting wind, but from within. Every bit of himself he’d regained on Dragonstone, from bargaining with the Dragon Queen, mentally berating Sansa, and reckoning with his place in this world—it was lost to him now.

When the ship reached the Bite, Jon was so deep in the fog of his mind Davos had to shake him to consciousness.

“We’re here,” gruffed the Onion Knight. “Your stop, Jon.”

Ghost and Longclaw at his sides, Jon jumped from the rowboat to the rocky sand. He could feel it, could feel the cold in the ground crawling from his toes, up his legs, reaching for his heart. Leaching the warmth from his blood. Warmth he’d grown accustomed to in the brimstone and sulfur of Dragonstone, in the proximity of dragons and the last Targaryen.

Jon traveled, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback. The only constant was Ghost. And the ever growing cold that seemed to cover his mind in a thick frost.

The bogs and swamps of the Neck were somewhat easier to traverse than Jon had anticipated; the coming winter had hardened the usually muddy ground.

He didn’t know how long he wandered west with only the sun to guide him. Ghost caught small prey along the way to keep his hunger at bay, but his master never felt the gnaw of hunger, nor thirst. He was beginning to wonder if the Northern lords at Winterfell were right—he was more ghost than man.

A few hours from sunset, a three-man scouting party emerged from the treeline. Jon had known they were following him. Not thanks to his own senses, which felt like frostbitten extremities lost to him, but Ghost’s. The direwolf had picked up on the crannogmen tracking them around noon.

The men looked between the albino direwolf and Jon’s black cloak with the Stark sigil emblazoned upon it by Sansa’s needle. The crannogmen were not involved in Northern politics—or any politics, for that matter—but he was not exactly traveling discreetly.

“Jon Snow?”

His own voice was rough from days of disuse. “I’m here to see an old friend of my father’s. Your lord, Howland Reed.”

The scouts exchanged glances, eyeing Ghost and Longclaw’s pommel.

“We will take you to him.”

Jon slipped back into the lull of travel despite his new guides. Ghost sensed nothing amiss, which made it all too easy for his master to retreat back to the frosty caves of his mind.

Finally, they broke through the dense forest to the crannog on which Greywater Watch floated. Looking at the strange keep, Jon was dully grateful the scouts had found him. He never would have figured out how to get over the swampy waters to the keep without them.

As if they knew that Jon was searching for a bridge or rowboat, a scout spoke up.

“Lord Reed will meet you on the embankment, Lord Snow.”

They led him back towards the treeline at the other side of the strange clearing. The scouts weaved effortlessly through low hanging branches and errant vines, stepping over wet puddles in favor of frozen mud, while Jon struggled through the uncertain terrain.

Ghost, of course, had little issue following their guides.

The scouts stopped abruptly, looking expectantly to their right. To Jon, it seemed nothing more than a random collection of the strange, spindly swamp trees.

“He waits for you there.”

Jon tried to look through the brambles to see any sort of path. When he turned back to the scouts, about to ask them to escort him the rest of the way, all he was met with were their retreating forms disappearing into the forest.

Ghost pressed his cold, wet nose against Jon’s hand.

He supposed his direwolf had a point. No time like the present. The answer he so desired awaited him just past this cluster of twisted trunks.

Still, his wolf was braver than he was.

Jon followed Ghost in the direction the scouts had indicated, tugging his cloak when it snagged on a bramble as he trudged through the treeline. The branch was stronger than he’d anticipated, and the velvet lining the inside of the fur tore. Ruining the gift his sister had made him; the only indication she’d ever given him that she saw him as part of her family. As a Stark. As a member of the pack.

The lone wolf dies while the pack survives.

The lord of Greywater Watch was short in stature, as were most crannogmen, but there was a calm pride in his posture. He was gray, like Ned should be, if he was alive. But the strength of youth still echoed in his bones, speaking of a boyhood spent with a sword in hand.

Or a spear, if Jon remembered Ned’s stories correctly.

The man’s calm eyes met Jon’s. He did not flinch at the visage he was greeted with, one with eyes of blood and hair of snow. Jon remembered meeting Lord Reed as a boy, but he certainly bore no resemblance to his younger self now. Nor his father, who he had once been so proud to resemble.

Lord Reed spoke, his voice gravely but strong. “I had wondered when you would come, Jon. Yes, I recognize you under the cursed features. Though I must admit, your current appearance does strike me as fate, considering your true name.”

Chapter Text

Lord Reed spun a fantastical tale in a sincere, light cadence.

A tale of a Targaryen crown prince attending a tourney, watching as a knight with heraldry of the Laughing Tree trounce seasoned warriors from esteemed houses—only to disappear.

Of that prince finding the knight, unmasking him, only to learn the sword and shield had been wielded by a lady. With striking eyes and noble blood.

The two fell in love. The prince found the love his arranged marriage had never offered; the lady found freedom and acceptance.

The lady was with child when political tensions rose to a fever pitch across Westeros. The lady was loath to run, yet the expectant parents decided on a tower in the Red Mountains of Dorne. She would wait there, guarded, as the prince returned to King’s Landing to settle the rising turmoil.

When the Rebellion broke out, the prince was too busy to visit his lady in the tower.

When he fell at the Trident, the prince never saw her again.

While Robert took his victory lap in the capital, slaughtering the prince’s wife and children, the lady’s brother followed her trail.

Together, her brother, Howland, and a few good men were able to find the tower. They dispatched of the prince’s men—the lady’s guards—and stormed the tower, but they were too late.

Her brother collapsed at her bedside, shocked by the blood covering his dear sister. He’d finally found her, only for her lifeblood to be slowly draining out of her.

And a babe by her side.

The lady told her brother of her son’s father. Coughing through the death rattle in her lungs, she begged her brother to protect her innocent babe. To hide him, to shield him. From the realm. From his identity.

And with her dying breath, she named him.

Her brother wept, but the cries of the babe pushed him into action. He killed his last two swordsmen. Swore the crannogman to secrecy, bid him to hide away in the swamps and never rejoin politicking society.

To protect his nephew, there was only one solution the young lord could think of.

He returned home from war, greeting his wife and children with a babe he claimed as his bastard mistake in his arms. A man of honor admitting to dishonor so openly, the scandal eclipsed any suspicion, any doubt that such a virtuous man could have erred so tremendously.

And so the last prince of a line of fire and blood was raised a bastard wolf, the one mistake of the honorable Eddard Stark.

---

Jon didn’t know how long he sat there. Didn’t know when he’d sat down in the first place.

He stared at the muddy moss ground and tried to reconcile his world shattering inside his already disordered mind.

His mother…

He’d dreamed of his mother for as long as he can remember. No, he’d dreamed of her for the first time he realized he was not like his siblings. The first time he’d called Lady Stark by the same name his siblings did.

Mother.

She’d sneered at him, kicking him away from her skirts and screaming that he was never to call her that again. That he was a bastard and his mother was dead.

Since then, he’d dreamed about what his mother was like. What she looked like. Who she was. He’d dreamed she was a lady. Highborn, like his father. All beauty and grace and kind smiles. Despite the taunts from the likes of Theon Greyjoy growing up, that his mother was nothing but a prettier-than-average whore who’d managed to turn a battle-weary Ned from his marriage vows—Jon still dreamed.

He never thought it would be true.

All he’d ever wanted was to be a Stark. And if Howland Reed was to be believed, he was. Not in name, still— never —in name, but wolf blood still coursed through his veins. Just not Ned’s.

His father— uncle —had never talked about his sister. Said it was too painful, to remember her death. But he knew her name. Heard it whispered in the halls, tales of her fiery nature, her fierceness. Heard Arya likened to her. In spirit and in features.

Features he and Arya shared.

Lyanna Stark.

The She-Wolf. The Winter Rose. The Beauty of Winterfell.

How many times had he skimmed that inscription on her tomb in the Winterfell crypt? Believing it the titles of the aunt he never knew and nothing more.

Walking right past his mother’s grave without so much as a thought, let alone paying his respects.

He was a Stark.

But not in name.

He was Targaryen .

It felt impossible. Infinitely more impossible than his father being his uncle.

He was the son of the man they’d heralded as the Last Dragon. The son of the Mad King, the man who defended his father, fought against the Rebellion, even when Lyanna’s father and brother were burned alive by Aerys.

A man who abandoned his wife and children, his duty. Whose affair with Lyanna Stark led to the fall of his family’s dynasty. Led to Ned Stark’s death. The War of Five Kings. All the unrest and death and destruction that had plagued Westeros since the Mad King’s death.

He was a Targaryen. An illegitimate heir to Fire and Blood.

A family line with a legacy richer and more intricate than he could truly wrap his head around.

And yet, he was still an orphan.

He was still alone.

Maester Aemon’s voice whispered to him, A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

Except—

Daenerys.

“Did you hear her?” He coughed, his own voice so hoarse it pained his throat to speak. “My name. Did you hear what she named me?”

Lord Reed nodded firmly.

“Tell me,” he asked. Begged. “Tell me.”

“Your mother enjoyed living wild, riding free on horseback and sparring with the knights of Winterfell,” Reed began. “But that does not mean she was unfamiliar with the dangers the politics of Westeros posed for you.

“She was pregnant with the illegitimate son of the Heir to the Iron Throne. Ned believed he promised to marry her, that only such a promise could convince Lyanna to hide away in that tower instead of coming to her family, to Winterfell, for help.”

“Rhaegar wanted to divorce his wife?”

“An annulment, a divorce. Sometimes I wonder if he intended to take Lyanna to wife as well, as the Conqueror did with his sister-wives. In any case, Dorne would be slighted. And you would be born with a country of spears, a country known for resisting the Conquest, seeing you as nothing but a slight against their Princess Elia.

“Your mother picked a name to placate the Dornish. The name of a Targaryen with Dornish looks, dark hair and eyes not unlike your own as a boy. So much so the prince was often disliked for his lack of a Targaryen likeness.” No, he’d had grey eyes before.

“Enough,” he breathed. “What did she name me?”

“Baelor,” Lord Reed answered. “Baelor Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, and Lyanna Stark, the White Rose.”

---

He woke, though he didn’t recall falling asleep. Sleeplessness would explain the grogginess in his bones.

His mind had been plagued by half-finished thoughts all night. Some just a chorus of the tale Lord Reed had told him. Others just the name his mother had given him, a ceaseless whisper.

But under all of the jumbled words and incoherent sentences was a rising feeling.

It started as a faint warmth, but grew to a burning ache the longer he laid there. He felt as adrift as Greywater Watch was as it floated aimlessly on the crannog.

He was just as much a Stark today as he was the day before. And just as much a bastard. Now of two noble bloodlines.

The heat under his skin, searing him, it did not soothe him, did not warm him as it did—as it did on Dragonstone.

The insular ancestral seat of his father’s house. Whether it was the island recognizing the blood in his veins, the dragon blood, or…

His closeness with the Last Dragon.

The fire under his skin seemed to pulse in recognition. Urging him to return to Dragonstone, to Daenerys. To his family.

Immediately he was reminded of how his family in Winterfell had seen fit to treat him. Expendable and lesser. He may have Targaryen blood, but he was still a bastard. Evidence of his father’s indiscretion.

And yet, Daenerys had asked him to stay.

It made no sense. She and the North were not allies. He hadn’t even sworn his own sword to her cause. Nevertheless, she’d offered him a place at her side.

Perhaps she’d felt it too. A latent kinship in his bones, curling in his muscles and nipping at his skin. She was more in tune with her dragon blood than he could ever hope to be; she must have felt what he couldn’t, seen what he was to blind to see.

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

But neither of them were alone.

Chapter Text

He did not know what he expected to find when he reached King’s Landing. He’d never seen it before Daenerys’s conquest, and he’d been so focused on making the journey as quickly as possible, he hadn’t spent much time attempting to imagine it.

But what greeted him upon reaching the city did not match any conception of a newly conquered city.

The city gate was demolished, but the rubble was cleared to the sides and carts were actively being filled to ferry it all away.

Wandering into the city, he found himself surrounded by rebuilding efforts. He heard talks of orphanages, free kitchens, family housing. Literacy schools, for children and adults. Even a passing remark on how the Queen intended to open healing schools for anyone who wished to learn, of how that would stir up issues with the Citadel.

“The Dragon Queen doesn’t care what those dusty old fucks think,” was the gruff reply. “She rides fucking dragons.”

The creatures mentioned flew overhead. The green and the black beasts soared over the city, as if keeping watch. The cream and gold dragon called to his brothers before flying out over the sea. Towards Dragonstone, if he had his directions correctly. The remaining two were not simply flying lazily, they were circling something below. 

He found himself narrowly managing to avoid colliding with passerbys as he walked with his eyes to the sky, tracking the dragons. He hurried down the winding streets of the city, dully noticing how little of the buildings were damaged. Not what one imagined when thinking of a city conquered by dragons.

Finally, he spilled out of an alleyway and into a market square. There was a large crowd of smallfolk, larger than the square could comfortably fit. People leaned out the windows of the surrounding buildings, waving and calling down to the center of the crowd below. He elbowed and shuffled his way through the mass of people until he could finally see.

There she was.

She wore a gown simple in shape, made of white silks that danced around her legs, revealing white trousers and black boots. The embroidery on the dress was far from simple. Intricate stitches in red and black, green and bronze, and gold and cream denoted the scales of her children. The high neckline was modest, but her arms were left bare, her curves unable to hide in the draping silks thanks to a gold belt at her waist. Her silver-gold locks strained in the wind off Blackwater Bay to free themselves from her detailed braids, mesmerizing in the way they framed her face and danced down her back.

And the smile on her lips… it was enough to make his breath catch. She looked so carefree, so comfortable. She was listening to a pair of merchants speak, Missandei at her side, nodding along while gracing them with that small smile. She looked peaceful.

This was the Dragon Queen Cersei should have feared. Fire and Blood was no shock from a Targaryen, not to the Westerosi. But this—to be this revered, loved by the people? This was something no ruler in Westeros had ever truly understood, ever achieved.

The people looked at her with hope. They did not see a conquering tyrant, but a new era. Some were skeptical, of course, eyeing Daenerys with suspicion. Afterall, she was unknown to them. The people of King’s Landing had seen a number of regime changes over the years, and were closer to the fallout of such upheaval than any other city.

Yet Daenerys seemed aware and unbothered by their hesitance. As if she understood these things would take time and was willing to wait for it, to work for it.

A young child broke from the unofficial line of the crowd and ran towards Daenerys. Her two guards—a Dothraki he recognized as one of her bloodriders and Greyworm—stepped forward, but stopped when they saw the disturbance was nothing but a child.

A child who hugged Daenerys’s skirts, a shy smile on her face.

A woman hurried after the child, pulling her away from the queen while apologising profusely, but Daenerys was having none of it. She smiled down at the child and offered her a hand to shake. This delighted the young girl, eager to be seen as an adult, and she took the queen’s hand while dropping into a wobbly curtsey.

The entire interaction was enchanting.

No wonder Daenerys had mourned leaving Dragon’s Bay. She’d missed this, being able to walk amongst her citizens and win their hearts and minds, learn their needs and serve them. Not politicking with traitors and power hungry gluttons.

When the young girl asked Daenerys something, spinning on the spot so that her own dress flared out around her, the queen laughed. The sound carried around the market, drawing the eyes to her that hadn’t already been looking, as she twirled into her own curtsey. The girl cheered with joy at the sight of Daenerys’s silk skirt. The queen’s cheeks were a bit flushed, betraying a bit of embarrassment, perhaps, at playing with the girl rather than upholding her ambivalent yet practiced mask, but the smallfolk nearest her seemed charmed.

Before he could decide if he should approach her here, Daenerys had moved on. The crowd closed behind her as she turned down what appeared to be an artisan street, leaving him in her wake.

He decided to find his way to the Red Keep, to announce himself more formally than simply approaching her in the streets. He watched as uniformed smallfolk cleaned the gutters, tossing trash into carts with gloved hands. He heard the workers discussing how much less unpleasant their jobs would be once the new sewers were up and running.

Overhead, dragon calls floated through the air. The green dragon broke from formation and made to follow the path the cream one had taken earlier. They seemed to prefer Dragonstone. He supposed it was close enough they could still answer their mother’s call when needed. The black one stayed, the largest dragon, the one Daenerys rode. Perhaps she shared the strongest bond with him, causing him to prefer to stay close to his mother.

Surprisingly, he was let past the walls of the Red Keep with little inspection. An Unsullied asked him to state his business.

“I am here to see the Dragon Queen,” he answered truthfully, and was directed to the courtyard outside the throne room.

“Queen Daenerys will be hearing petitions in an hour,” the guard supplied.

When he joined what he quickly realized was a line of smallfolk and lords alike, a clerk greeted him with parchment in hand. “May I add your name to the Queen’s docket for the day, my lord?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you. I am here to listen to the petitions.”

The clerk nodded as if that were common and directed him out of the line of petitioners to join a more informal queue of viewers.

The southern sun was tempered by the cool winds coming from the North, making his wait in the courtyard not too uncomfortable.

Finally, the doors were opened. The viewing crowd ambled in, taking places on either side of the aisle leading to—

The Iron Throne was gone.

Well, not entirely.

The backing of the famed throne remained in all of its glory, swords and spears sticking up at random angles. But the seat was gone, as were the arms of the chair—melted, if he had to guess, judging by the large pool of iron the new throne was now embedded in.

A large, but smooth seat of dragonglass. It seemed infinitely shorter than the back of the Iron Throne looming like a shadow behind it.

The past of the Seven Kingdoms was placed in the shadow of Daenerys’s future realm, but it was not forgotten. She would never be able to sit her throne without first seeing a reminder of the customs and cruelty she sought to reform, if their idealistic talks on Dragonstone had been true.

He paid little mind to the petitions. Most were smallfolk, some were from minor lords. Daenerys handled them with ease, with a stamina that betrayed none of the walking and talking she’d done through the streets earlier that day.

When the herald read off the name Martell from the clerk’s docket, that got his attention.

“Your Grace,” the Martell said, dropping to a knee, fist over his heart and head bowed. “I, Prince Trystane Martell of Dorne, have come to formally swear myself to you, Your Grace, as well as extend an offer of marriage.”

The court grew silent.

The Dornishman continued: “I understand Your Grace likely has a great many suitors raving about her beauty, her power, her dragons. I come to offer you stability. Our families have stood together for generations, providing peace and prosperity for the realm. I wish to do the same for our generation, Your Grace.”

He felt himself sneering at the prince, at his impossible promise. A marriage could not ensure stability—certainly not one with Dorne. And if he remembered correctly, the Martell boy was under Ellaria’s thumb. She wanted him married to Daenerys to remove the Martell line from the Dornish throne by more peaceful, subtle means. Using Daenerys to take care of Ellaria’s own problems, the consequences of her usurping her lover’s elder brother, her prince.

Daenerys merely smiled her practiced, tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, for your vow and for your offer, my prince. I would invite you to stay in King’s Landing as my guest in the Red Keep so we may discuss the future of Dorne and my other Five Kingdoms at length.”

A few more men petitioned Daenerys together, asking for materials to rebuild their businesses which were near the main gate and had been hit by some rubble.

Just as the herald announced the docket empty and Missandei stepped forward, presumably to give a few closing remarks, the doors to the throne room lurched open.

A lord hurried through, handing a piece of parchment to the confused herald as a young man strutted towards the throne flanked by knights in obnoxiously gold armor. The lord had hair dyed bright blue with blond roots that had grown out significantly. He had cheekbones and lips that seemed ubiquitous to many highborn families but any lucky features he’d inherited were ruined by the expectant, cocky smirk on his face.

“Aegon Targaryen,” the herald announced, “and the Golden Company.”

Chapter Text

“You could delay, Your Grace,” Missandei said. “No one would resent you for postponing until tomorrow, not after you spent hours in the city and hearing petitions.”

Daenerys shook her head with a sigh. “I have no desire to host this Aegon and his sellswords in my city for any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Lord Snow could wait,” her Hand counseled softly. From anyone else, Daenerys would have bristled, insisted she was more than capable of determining her own limits. From Missandei, she felt warmed by the genuine concern.

The queen shook her head again. Missandei curtseyed slightly and murmured to Greyworm to allow the council in.

She’d managed to assemble a semblance of a Small Council over the past days. Luckily, many of her allies fell into their roles rather naturally. Olenna became her Master of Coin, Yara her Master of Ships. Ellaria’s Sand Snakes were temporarily serving as Masters of Whispers until a loyal, competent replacement was found for the Spider. She had no need for a Grand Maester. She was still looking for a proper fit for her Master of Laws. She’d been learning the intricacies of Westerosi customs since she’d landed at Dragonstone, mostly from Lady Olenna, but there was still much she did not know.

Her third Hand pin was still without a wearer as well. The sting of treason was still fresh, leaving her in no rush to give new people access and ability to follow in their predecessors’ footsteps.

“Aegon Targaryen and Jon Connington,” the herald introduced as they entered the Small Council chamber.

Daenerys was now afforded a slightly better look at the man claiming to be her dead nephew now than she had from her throne. Never having met Rhaegar, Daenerys found herself comparing him to the only relative she had ever known the face of—Viserys. He was narrow in frame like her brother, but there was nothing of Viserys in the way this man stood. He was relaxed, languid. Not in a way that boasted comfort, that implied confidence in spite of being surrounded by enemies.

His features were angular, his skin pale, but his jawline soft and forehead broad. His hair had been dyed blue but the roots were grown out a white blond. His eyes were undeniably purple.

He looked at her with a smug tilt to his thin lips that immediately set her on edge. There was no excitement at meeting a long lost relative, no warmth to greet the last of his family. There was only… hunger.

“Lord Jon Snow.”

Daenerys broke Aegon’s gaze, drinking in the sight of Jon as if she were dying of thirst. He was a familiar, welcome face, but their few weeks apart seemed etched into him.

She couldn’t quite name what was different. Nothing was all that distinct. His hair was still pale as snow, nearly touching his shoulders now, his eyes red, matching the wolf at his side. His clothes were tattered, but there was new light in his eyes as he looked at her. Gaze tearing over her, it was as if he too were looking for changes to her that had happened in their time apart.

Ghost trotted over to Daenerys’s side, a joyfulness hiding in the pace of his step within his intimidating gait. A cold nose pressed into her knuckles, inviting her to greet him properly. She let her fist relax, threading her fingers into his impossibly soft fur, but did not let her gaze drop from her guests.

“Please, my lords,” she said finally, “sit.”

Connington stiffened. “Forgive me, Princess, but my former ward is not a lord. The correct way to address a king is His Grace .”

Daenerys struggled not to give into her rising rage. There was simply no way this was how the pair intended to begin this first meeting.

“Queen Daenerys is no Princess,” Greyworm bit from his place behind her.

“King Aegon is no lord,” Connington repeated.

“Queen Daenerys conquered this city. Before, she conquered the Bay of Dragons. She freed slaves. She killed the masters. She—”

“Thank you, Ser, for the reminder, though it is unnecessary,” Aegon interrupted, lounging into the chair across from Daenerys. “I am well acquainted with the many titles my aunt has given herself.”

“She did not give them to herself, child,” Olenna snapped. “The bards and poets did. The people she saved did. The people she killed did.”

Aegon studied Olenna with purple eyes. Compared to Daenerys’s own lilac, they seemed almost oversaturated, overrich.  “Of course, Lady Olenna. Forgive me and my Lord Hand.”

Connington took a seat beside his king. Jon had situated himself against the wall, per usual, close to Daenerys’s head of the table with Ghost at his side. He caught her looking and met her eyes; he looked a bit annoyed, but he also seemed so very unconcerned with the trivial debate that it soothed Daenerys’s ire. It was as if he were content to wait for his own audience with her, eager to discuss tales of his journey and her rebuilding efforts. This was simply a temporary delay.

“We have strayed from the matter at hand,” she said into the silence that had permeated the room. “What brings you to my city, my very Keep, Your Grace ?”

Aegon ignored her tone, but Connington scowled. “On behalf of my king, I thank you for ousting the Lannister usurpers from the Red Keep. You have done your family and your nephew proud by restoring the Targaryens to the Iron Throne—or, well, whatever it is you have replaced it with.”

“The Iron Throne was a representation of the tyranny of my predecessors,” she replied evenly. “Of monarchs that cared little for their subjects and much for their greed, ego, and power. I seek to begin a new era.”

“How—admirable.”

“Indeed,” Aegon agreed with his Hand. “It is a lovely dream, aunt. Though I expect you will face some difficulties along the way.”

“Good thing, then, that my dreams come true.” The scale between her collarbones warmed. Drogon’s roar echoed amongst the towers of the Keep. “You have traveled all this way. Surely you have come with a request.”

The laziness leached out of Aegon’s posture as he sat up in his chair. “Well, when you decided against responding to my raven, aunt, I thought it best to discuss it with you in person.”

“That raven was no mere greeting—”

Daenerys cut Lady Olenna off with a hand. “Regardless, is that raven not wholly invalid now?”

“What do you mean?” Connington huffed impatiently.

“The proposal offered in the raven promised me a seat beside my supposed nephew on the Iron Throne, offered me a way to the crown without needing to go to war for it.”

“Yes?” the lord snapped petulantly.

“Aegon never had the throne. He never took King’s Landing. He has no seat beside him to offer me.”

“Is this why you replaced the Iron Throne with your own monstrosity? Ruining the legacy of your family, of the Realm—to steal it from your own family?”

Daenerys knit her fingers together on the table. “My lord, I told you why I replaced the throne. I seek to repair the legacy of my house, not ruin it. Also, I did not steal the throne—”

A sneer marred Aegon’s face. She was beginning to see his resemblance to Viserys. “I am the rightful heir. I am the son of Prince Rhaegar—”

“Allegedly,” Daenerys corrected smoothly. “No matter if you truly carry the Blood of the Dragon or not, the Targaryen line of succession became moot when the Usurper took the throne. The Baratheons held the throne, then the Lannisters through another political coup. I have restored House Targaryen to the throne, but that is just it— I did it. Through right of conquest, not inheritance.”

“My father—”

“Aerys and Rhaegar perpetuated the fall of House Targaryen. Your father and mine lost the throne you seek to claim via your shared blood.”

“You seek to paint yourself in the Conqueror’s image?” Connington mocked. “I see despite not sitting on the Iron Throne you have fallen to the ego you dreaded.”

Daenerys felt her nails cut into her palms as she fought to keep her calm. “I did conqueror, my lord. I conquered Astrapor, Yunkai, and Meereen. The Reach, the Iron Islands, and Dorne are sworn to me. I conquered the Westerlands and Riverlands. The Veil has seen reason and knelt. Three cities and six kingdoms. All before I even marched on King’s Landing. Which I conquered as well. In a day. Before your Blackfyre sellswords could even reach Westerosi sands.”

“Not to mention she rides Balerion the Black Dread Reborn,” Olenna groused. “It was not his given name that created the power of the Conqueror. It was his triumph.”

Aegon’s face had reddened with frustration. “The swords sworn to me would have taken King’s Landing easily. Am I really to believe you did not race to take it first after getting my raven? Was it petulant pride that had you pushing your men to march faster? Would you truly choose childish pride over your last family?”

Daenerys did not even lower herself to answer such an insolent question. The petulance, the audacity—

The boy before her was no dragon.

She had never truly believed this Aegon would be anything but the mummer’s dragon. And yet, a dull ache settled behind her ribcage. The familiar twinge of loneliness. Of being the last dragon.

“A Targaryen prince would never get a Blackfyre sellword company to support his claim.” Daenerys looked to Jon in surprise; she’d expected him to wait until Aegon and Connington left to speak. “A Targaryen prince would never whine that his aunt had reclaimed the throne for their family. Would never assume that she would wed him blindly, would never demand she give him one of her dragons. A dragon is not a slave.”

Daenerys knew she was staring openly, but she couldn’t help it.

He’d listened. He’d remembered .

Not only what Aegon had written in his foolish raven. But what she’d told him, the importance of her dragons. Of their autonomy, of their freedom.

Connington placed a hand on Aegon’s arm to quiet the boy from jumping at Jon. “Your Grace,” he began, tone thick with false warmth, “I believe this discussion has again drifted from our intent.”

“What in the Seven Hells is your intent?” Olenna cried.

“King Aegon will still take your hand in marriage, Daenerys. Considering you have taken the throne first, he is willing to respect that and asks that you two reign as equals. You as his Queen, but he as your King. Together, you can restore the Targaryen bloodline. Even your father, Aegon’s grandfather, Aerys, worried after the strength of Targaryen blood—”

“If we are employing the Mad King’s logic, is Aegon not of blood too diluted to be fit to marry me? Afterall, my parents were both of Targaryen blood. Aegon is as much Dornish as he is Valyrian.”

Aegon was growing near purple with rage. “One would think your two previous marriages could be equated with my diluted blood , aunt,” he snapped.

Daenerys’s lips quirked into a small smile. “One would think, false nephew.” She gestured to her bloodriders, who stepped forward in preparation to escort their guests out. “I will allow you and your men to stay in King’s Landing for a week. After that, I expect the Golden Company out of my city. If you wish to stay, you may receive another audience with me. You are dismissed, my lords.”

“My identity is not in question—”

Yara scoffed. “Who told you that, young lord? Your keeper?”

“I am the last son of House Targaryen,” Aegon snarled. Aggo pulled him up by his arm, Jhogo frowning until Connington did the same. “You are so afraid of my claim rising above your own that you turn away your own nephew. Your blood !”

Daenerys stood. “Remove your bastard sellswords from my city, and I will allow you the chance to prove your Targaryen heritage. Not just to me, but to all the realm. Undeniable proof that not even the most skeptical, most loyal of my followers can deny.” His hungry gaze was no longer veiled by niceties, his greed and mania rising to the surface. “I will allow you to face my children. If they smell the Targaryen blood in you, you may claim one as your own.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys hurried into her solar, tossing down the rolls of parchment she’d collected from Olenna regarding the finances of her rebuilding initiatives in the direction of her desk, uncaring when one rolled off. She had never considered herself one to crave wine, especially since she was regularly annoyed by Tyrion’s dependency, but that council meeting had her electing for a heavy pour.

“Would you like some?” she called over her shoulder.

Jon followed her in, stopping to pick up the fallen parchment. “No, thank you, Your Grace.”

Undeterred, Daenerys brought the pitcher and her glass to her favorite chaise in her new solar. Jon stood somewhat awkwardly a few paces away until she gestured for him to join her. “Please, sit. I hope we will not require a more formal meeting after that.”

Jon chuckled darkly. “I hardly considered that formal. To come into your city and kindly offer you to rule beside him? Even if his identity was proven, to insinuate that the throne is his despite your triumph, in King’s Landing and every other kingdom south of the Neck—it was absurd. An insult.”

Daenerys simply drank heavily from her glass, noting how the man’s eyes flitted between her throat and her wine-red lips.

“Your dragons will enjoy a quick meal,” he mused.

She smirked. “You believe him to be a pretender, then?”

“Even if your brother’s blood does flow through his veins, your dragons would never choose such a childish, unintelligent rider. If I remember Old Nan’s tales from my youth, even trueborn Targaryens could be rejected and torched when trying to claim a dragon.”

She simply shrugged, refilling her glass. “What brings you to King’s Landing, Lord Snow? I did not expect Queen Sansa to send an envoy so quickly. Not even considering the travel time.”

“I never made it to White Harbor, let alone Winterfell, my queen.”

Daenerys desperately ignored his slip of the tongue. “Were there storms? I thought the weather looked favorable for your voyage.”

“I disembarked well before the rest of my men. I sent them onwards to Winterfell, to convince Sansa to see reason.” He was looking at her with a near intimidating intent. “I had to come back.”

“To the South?” she said softly, stealing a glance at his own pink lips.

“To you,” he confessed, nervousness shaking his voice.

A shiver wound down her spine. “To me,” she repeated, disbelieving.

He nodded, close enough for her to feel his breath on her face. The hungry intent in his violet eyes had Daenerys leaning in, emboldened.

Their noses brushed. Her eyes fluttered shut, giving into the warmth rippling between them, the want—

“Wait,” he gasped, recoiling, “wait.”

Daenerys jerked back as if he burnt her. She stood and paced to the window, one arm wrapped around her, her other hand grasping at where her children’s scales were embedded in her skin beneath her dress. “I apologise. I misunderstood—”

“You did nothing wrong,” Jon interjected. “I—in my time away, all I did was think of you, Daenerys. The farther that ship sailed, it was like I could feel the loss of you like the loss of a limb. I grew cold, and not from the oncoming winter.”

She struggled to swallow over the knot in her throat that refused to let her speak.

“Daenerys, I didn’t sail for White Harbor with the rest of my men.”

She wanted to yell, or flee. She cared little for the details of his journey.

“I traveled to Greywater Watch to see an old friend of Ned Stark’s. Lord Howland Reed of the crannogmen. I dreamt—” Jon shook his head. “I believed him to be the last man alive to know who my mother was. He was there when she died, he traveled with my father.”

She’d gathered herself enough to say, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes. And no. He told me who my mother was. I just didn’t think he would also be telling me who my father was.”

Growing up believing a father to be a fair and just man, only to be hit with disappointment and embarrassment after learning the truth about the man. “I understand the shock of learning your father was not the myth your younger self believed him to be.”

Jon shook his head. “Ned Stark was not the man of unyielding honor I believed him to be, but that is not what I meant. I didn’t simply learn a dark truth about my father; I learned his identity. Ned Stark was not my father.

“But he was my uncle. Lord Reed told me of how Ned found his sister dying in the birthing bed. How Lyanna begged him to protect her infant son. To raise the babe as his own bastard son. To hide his identity, not just as Lyanna’s bastard, but especially now that his father had fallen over the Trident.” He took a shuddering breath. “Rhaegar Targaryen was my father.”

Jon’s eyes searched her face, but she was too frozen to do anything but stare.

“He and Lyanna met and had an affair. Lord Reed said they cared for each other, that their love was true, but that still does not explain to me what Rhaegar’s plan was. Hide Lyanna and the babe away in the Tower of Joy forever? Divorce Princess Elia, the woman who’d given him two children and anger Dorne in the process? Neither was a political move worthy of the heir to the throne.”

Daenerys hardly heard Jon’s musings over her brother’s political savvy, her racing heartbeat deafening. “What are you saying, Jon?”

“That’s not my name,” he murmured, almost miserably. “That’s never been my name.”

Despite her pulse thundering in her ears, she fought to keep her voice calm, coaxing rather than threatening. “What is your name?”

“Baelor,” he breathed, tension evident in the breadth of his shoulders. “Baelor Targaryen. Or Sand? Snow? Is it based on my mother’s origin or where I was born?”

Daenerys eased herself onto the chaise beside him. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t matter.”

He nodded, head hanging as he stared at his hands. “Right. Either way, I’m still a bastard. Still have the same amount of Stark blood in me, and it's still not enough for Sansa.”

His gaze locked with hers desperately. “As soon as I heard, I knew I had to come back to you. I had to tell you the truth. I know it sounds convenient, me showing up here claiming to be your bastard nephew on the same day another man does the same, but I swear to you I know this to be true. I know what family means to you. I would never lie about this, not to you of all people.”

“I believe you,” she breathed. Her voice was back, but she could not decide on which of the questions racing through her mind to ask. “Then why…. Why did you—?” She gestured vaguely to the space between them, much wider than before.

“I came back for you, Daenerys. You… you are my family. But it's more than that. A wise man once told me, ‘ A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.’ I can feel how true that was. When I was with you on Dragonstone, even just in the same Keep as you, I felt more warmth and belonging than I ever had. And when I went away, the cold… it was all encompassing.

“I came back for you. In whatever way you will have me. Nephew, ally, sworn sword.”

He was leaning into her space, his scent of pine and amber filling her senses. Eyes flicking to her lips. Begging her to say what he could not any longer.

“Why did you stop us?” she breathed. “Before.”

“You deserved to know. Before anything….” He looked more hesitant than she’d ever seen him. “I’m your nephew.”

Her chin dipped into a shallow nod. “And I your aunt.”

“Does that—does that matter? To you?”

Daring herself to be brave, she slowly reached for his hand. “It means everything,” she admitted. “It means I am no longer the last of my house. Whatever technicalities surround your surname, I am still not the last dragon. As for what you are truly asking… I believe it is something you must decide for yourself.”

“It is the tradition of our house,” he said, tone hitching over the shared pronoun. “The tradition of more of the high houses than they would care to admit.”

“I did not ask our ancestors thoughts on the matter,” she reminded him gently.

He enveloped her hand in both of his. “We are not meant to be alone. I would not presume that means we are meant to be together in such a way, but I am certain we are meant to be together.”

He shifted off of the chaise and knelt before her, still cradling her hand. “I swear my sword to you, my queen. As Jon Snow and as Baelor Targaryen. As an ally and confidant, a soldier and advisor. However you will have me.”

As much as the girl in her longed to cheerfully accept, to take this gift and never let it go, there was the woman within who had been betrayed and tricked too many times.

“If you swear to me,” she began, “what does that mean for your claim?”

“My claim?”

“You are the last male heir of House Targaryen. You have a claim to the Iron Throne.”

He shook his head firmly. “Even if I weren’t a bastard, even if I could prove my heritage, even if I even wanted the throne—it is yours by right. You took it. You, your men, and your allies. Any claim I have left, I wholly forsake it.

“You are my queen, Dany.”

And hell, she believed him.

She surged forward and kissed him.

Chapter Text

He had never been more grateful for his time at the Night’s Watch forcing him to get up at the break of dawn. Even now, his sleep rhythms were still that of a soldier, but it was never something he’d appreciated until now.

The morning light slowly crept over the Dragon Queen’s face, turning her usually striking features soft and aglow. Her hair was gold in the sunlight, strewn across the pillow, a single tendril fluttering near her nose with each exhale. Gently, he tucked the loose piece behind her ear, letting the silk lock tumble through his fingertips.

She looked so peaceful, the calm of sleep taking away her usual tension. Not that he was one to judge; Davos frequently bemoaned his brooding tendencies. While he had certainly enjoyed the fire in her eyes as she put the supposed Aegon in his place, he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t find her tranquil expression just as captivating.

He felt as though she had bewitched him last night—and only with a few kisses. She seemed a bit skittish at the idea of more, but he was more than thrilled to simply be able to touch her as he had longed to for longer than he cared to admit. When he asked if he could sleep beside her, fully clothed, nothing more than sleep, she smiled at him as if she could not believe he was real.

Bowed lips, delicate nose, a dusting of eyelashes. Her intricate braids somewhat mussed by sleep but still glowed that alluring silver-gold. And as she stirred, blinking at the sunlight, her lilac irises completed the ethereal vision that was her Valyrian beauty.

He could understand how Lyanna Stark had become enraptured by Targaryen lure.

Daenerys’s eyes flitted around the room before settling on him. She gave him a tentative smile.

“Good morning, Dany,” he murmured.

She turned into him, having moved away a bit in her sleep. “Good morning. Baelor.”

He knew there was a stupid grin on his face, but he couldn’t help it. “Sleep well?” he asked, tucking her hair behind her ear again for an excuse to cradle her cheek.

“I did,” she said a little incredulously. She leaned into his touch, resting her hand over his heart. “And you?”

“Best of my life,” he answered truthfully.

She ducked her head to hide a smile, but he couldn’t care to tease her for it when she nestled into his shoulder. “This is… unexpected.”

He chuckled. “A pleasant surprise, I hope.”

“And now he searches for compliments.” She swatted at his chest. “I just meant I did not see this happening. Most things like this… I see them in my dreams.”

“You don’t dream of me?”

“I did not know there was a jesting spirit underneath all of your broodishness.”

He poked at her side teasingly. “You meant that, then? That your dreams come true?”

“You may think me crazy, but I have seen the past and the future. Our ancestors were only saved from the Doom of Old Valyria because of Daenys the Dreamer seeing the Doom.” She rested her chin on his chest so she could meet his gaze. “I dreamt of Rhaegar once.”

He reached out to smooth the furrow of grief that had grown between her brows. “You don’t have to tell me, Dany.”

“I want to,” she murmured. “He was standing at Elia’s birthing bed, holding Aegon. He told her that His is the Song of Ice and Fire, and that There must be one more. The dragon has three heads. ”

He wound one of her curls around his finger. “He believed Aegon to be the Prince that Was Promised?”

She shrugged. “That title has lost all real meaning to me. Were you not told the same?”

“When the Red Witch resurrected me, she beseeched the Lord of Light to bring back Azor Ahai. Ser Davos said she followed Stannis Baratheon because she believed him to be the Promised Prince.”

Dany hummed, the sound reverberating through his chest. “She came to Dragonstone and declared me the prince of the Song as well. Just because Rhaegar believed Aegon to be Azor Ahai does not mean he was correct. Neither does it mean anything about the mummer’s dragon on my doorstep.”

He scoffed. “My father— uncle, rather, taught me that treason was to be dealt with by beheading. That the man who passed the sentence should swing the sword.”

She raised a brow. “You believe Aegon could be tried for treason?”

“He came into your city, demanding you hand over your throne or your hand. He brought an army at his back.”

“My sword has always been dragonfire,” she said. “I promised Aegon could face my children. I have no doubt they will act as my sword on their own volition.”

“Even if he is who he claims to be, he will not simply be able to steal one of your children, right? I know your dragons are not mere slaves or pets to be taken, but…”

Daenerys sat up, reaching for the stays of her dress at her back.

“Dany, I meant what I said. We do not have to rush into anything, I am perfectly happy to be with you in any way.”

Not to mention avoiding nudity kept his gaping scars covered.

“Thank you,” she said with a sweet smile, “but I just need to show you something.” She loosened her dress enough for her to pull back the collar.

“If Aegon had been more trustworthy, proven heritage or not, I would have allowed him a real chance at bonding with Viserion or Rhaegal. I don’t know if they would have wanted him as their rider, or if they would have preferred to stay with me as their mother. My bond with my children—especially Rhaegal and Viserion—is unlike anything the histories say when describing the connection between a dragon and a rider. While I consider all three my children, I only ride Drogon.

“When I was on Dragonstone, I found a great many writings by my—our—ancestors. There was nothing helpful about a connection such as mine, but I did learn a few things. Namely, blood magic.”

He blinked in surprise. “Blood magic?”

Daenerys simply nodded. “It is in our Valyrian blood. I found a way to connect all three of my dragons to me more tightly, and me to them.”

She slipped the neckline of her dress down, just low enough to reveal her collarbone, revealing three scales embedded in her skin. He reached forward slowly, running a finger over where the emerald scale met her pale skin. He swore he heard a roar echo over the Bay.  The scale was as warm as her skin.

“Their scales?” he murmured, admiring the onyx and cream scales as well.

“Given willingly, their flesh in mine, their blood in mine.”

“What does the bond feel like?”

“We share emotions rather strongly. I can also share my intent with them. When I fought the Lannister army, I asked Drogon to spare the supply wagons from the firestorm, and he understood.”

“Amazing. Can you see through their eyes?” She shook her head. “It's not warging then. A Stark gift. It’s how I connect with Ghost. We share emotions and I can also convey my requests with him without speaking, but I can also see through his eyes, warg into his body.”

“Amazing,” she echoed.

“You don’t know how the scale bonds will affect if or how they bond with a rider?”

Another shake of her head, sending her hair cascading over her shoulders. “All I saw was a way to communicate with all three of my children better. We were heading into war. I cannot ride all three, and Rhaegal and Viserion would not stay back if I ordered them to. They wish to protect me, just as Drogon does. This way, I can guide them in the sky just as I can Drogon.

“Still, they are not merely horses, nor can I always protect them. When we flew to the Red Keep during my taking of King’s Landing, Drogon took a scorpion bolt through the shoulder. As much as it panicked me to see my son hurt, I also know that if I hadn’t been connected to all three of my children, guiding them into a formation and maneuvering evasively as a unit, there would have been a much greater chance more of those bolts would have hit. And the one that struck Drogon—it only missed his chest by a few feet.”

“You can’t predict everything. Your bond probably saved them numerous times.”

“I guess I never thought there would ever be anyone for them to bond with,” she murmured. “I was the last of my House.”

“You never envisioned any human children flying around on your massive dragon children?” he teased.

Daenerys paled. She pulled the neckline of her dress back up, struggling to redo the stays.

“Here, let me help—”

“No, thank you.” She jumped up, pacing across the room to a tall looking glass.

“Dany?” he asked, approaching her slowly. She fought with the stays, huffing as she struggled to look over her shoulder at her reflection. Her hair fell down her back, blocking her view of the ties. “Dany,” he repeated gently, “may I?”

She met his gaze in the looking glass, seeing what he hoped was genuine care and concern. With another huff of breath—a sound not unlike those her dragons made from time to time—she turned so he could reach the stays.

He was not familiar with the ties of such a garment, but he made up for his inexperience with his deft fingers.

“Can I ask what I said to upset you?”

She stiffened under his touch.

Finishing the last tie, he met her gaze in the glass. There was a touch of fear in her lilac eyes.

Hoping she would welcome his touch, he stepped closer. His chest touched her back with his breath. He placed a single hand on her elbow. “We don’t have to talk about it. You don’t owe me anything, especially not so soon.”

For a long moment, she stayed stiff beneath his touch. Her eyes bored into his.

Finally, as if she had found something in his expression that aided in her decision, Dany leaned back into him, letting her eyes drift closed.

She reached for his free hand and brought it over her stomach. “I’m barren,” she said simply.

He frowned, not in disappointment, but in confusion. She was so young. Yes, she’d had two husbands, but that did not mean anything for certain…

She smiled at his furrowed brow, but it was tinged with sadness. “Come on.” She tugged at his hand, pulling him away from the looking glass. “Breakfast will be here soon.”

He went along with the diversion, smiling at her antics. “Aren’t you worried the servants will talk?”

“I’ll ask my Unsullied to have the servants leave the tray with them. They aren’t gossips.”

“Everyone’s a gossip,” he teased, following her to the solar.

Chapter Text

Daenerys stood in the godswood, eyes closed and hands clasped in front of her. Even in King’s Landing, the winter winds were fluttering down from the North, making her cloak sway.

She felt Drogon first. He was somewhere near Rhaenys’s Hill. Rhaegal answered next, taking off from Dragonstone to race south. Drogon and Rhaegal had seemed to take turns going back to Dragonstone with Viserion, who had clearly taken a liking to his Dragonmount roost so much that he was rarely in King’s Landing. The onyx dragon tended to stay in King’s Landing more often than his emerald brother, likely because he was their mother’s mount, but both kept Viserion company every now and then.

Viserion finally answered Daenerys’s call, grouchier than she had ever seen—well, felt—him. After making his displeasure clear, he obeyed her summons and made his way out of the caves.

“My children will be here soon,” she announced to the small crowd in the godswood. Her two Hands, Greyworm, her bloodriders, and Lady Yara. Jon—Baelor—whatever she was meant to think of him as—stood beside her, a friendly distance between them.

Aegon and Lord Connington stood opposite Daenerys’s party.

“How do you know?” Aegon blurted, clearly unable to help himself.

“I called them,” she answered easily. “They will answer their mother’s call.”

Ghost padded out from the trees and brush, sitting between Daenerys and his master.

Aegon and Connington looked at the direwolf appraisingly. “Yours, Lord Snow?” asked Connington.

Her true nephew nodded. “Yes, my lord. All of the Stark children had one, at a time. There was Ghost left for me.”

“The albino runt for the bastard. A bit cruel, even if it is poetic, don’t you think?” Connington chuckled.

Neither Dany nor Baelor laughed.

“Thank you for calling the dragons, aunt,” Aegon interjected. “I cannot wait to prove my heritage to you.”

Again, Daenerys remained silent.

“Will you reconsider my offer of marriage after I claim a dragon?”

As much as Daenerys wanted to snap at him, make it clear that she would never marry him, mummer’s dragon or not, dragon rider or not…. 

If the impossible happened, would she have a choice? If this Aegon claimed one of her children and threatened to fly away with him, would she really choose herself over keeping her children close to her? What if Aegon threatened war, decided to take the throne by force? She was confident that with two dragons to his one she could defeat him—not to mention her years of experience as a dragonrider—but could she bring herself to attack her stolen child?

A dragon is not a slave .

But if Rhaegal or Viserion accepted Aegon as their rider… would they be her children anymore?

Baelor frowned at her, clearly concerned by her hesitance. Ghost’s wet nose poked at her hand, offering comfort from him and his master.

Drogon roared, saving his mother from having to answer.

In his time on Dragonstone, he’d grown even larger. Daenerys knew from her ancestors journals that her children were far larger than any of their own ancestors at their age. With the midday sun overhead, Drogon’s shadow seemed to send the godswood into night.

With a much steeper dive than necessary, Drogon landed behind his mother, shaking the earth. To Ghost’s credit, the direwolf simply stood and walked to his master’s side to give the dragon more space.

Drogon gave a screaming roar towards Aegon and Connington, spittle flying from his blood red maw. His massive head towered over Dany as he leaned forward, casting his mother in his shadow. All the blood had drained from Connington’s face. Aegon actually stumbled back.

“This is Drogon. My eldest son.” Another deafening call from her mount, making his wildness known to the man who sought to claim one of his brothers. “He is named after my first husband. He is the fiercest and largest of my children, and also my mount.”

“The others are smaller?” Aegon asked, equal parts relieved and petulant. “How much smaller?”

Daenerys’s annoyance yet again swelled. Drogon snarled. “You will just have to see, my lords.”

---

Longclaw was begging to taste the pretender’s blood. To let Valyrian steel see if the boy’s heritage was true.

But Daenerys was clearly having a hard enough time keeping her own temper in check. She didn’t need to temper his rage as well.

“Rhaegal and Viserion were on Dragonstone?” he murmured to her.

Aegon and Connington had moved to sit on a bench under one of the many trees. The supposed prince was all but pouting at having to wait for his dragon to arrive.

She nodded, turning her back on her guests to speak with him privately. Trusting him to watch her back.

“Viserion was reluctant to leave. He seems to really like the Dragonmount.”

“You said he’d made a home out of one of the caves.”

Drogon stirred, as if he sensed Baelor’s closeness to his mother. A single eye as red as molten lava watched Baelor with careful suspicion.

“I think he would let you pet him,” she said softly, “but I don’t want anyone to start guessing at your heritage.”

He chuckled. “I’m not sure he would let me close. He doesn’t seem to appreciate my proximity to you, let alone his own self.”

“Baelor, what am I going to do if Aegon takes one of my children from me? Turns my son against his brothers to take the throne?” she whispered furtively, rare terror widening her eyes. “I don’t know if I can fight my own son.”

“Even if they weren’t bonded to you, which they are,” he soothed, wishing he could do more than just reassure her with empty words, “I don’t believe they would fight you and their brothers so easily. Trust your dragons. Trust yourself.”

She bit her bottom lip. A nervous gesture that should not have had him so distracted.

“You called me Baelor,” he whispered, fighting a wide smile down to a smirk.

That got her attention enough to distract her from worrying. “I did.”

His smile widened despite himself. “I was wondering—”

“A dangerous thing.”

He huffed. “You said you found some writings by Targaryens?” A nod. “I think you should look into the ones on blood magic more.”

Suddenly, she was as guarded as she was when he was just Sansa’s emissary. “What is it you want to learn?”

He shook his head. “No, Dany, I don’t care for blood magic either way. I was just thinking about what you said this morning, and I thought there could be an answer in those writings.”

She appraised him carefully. “How did you know I was cursed with blood magic by a witch?”

“I didn’t. When do you meet another person who could use blood magic?”

“Many years ago.” Her walls—well, they didn’t break. But he could see her open that gate up to him again, the one he’d been granted access to when he admitted his heritage to her. “I asked her to heal my first husband. She killed our child to keep his body alive, but his mind, his spirit was gone. She cursed my womb and I chained her to Drogo’s funeral pyre along with my dragon eggs.”

Baelor cursed under his breath. “Dany—”

“It was a lifetime ago. But I know her curse to be true. My second husband….” She pursed her lips in stubborn determination to ignore the pain there. “I miscarried in the Dothraki Sea after I first rode Drogon to escape a coup by the maesters. I never even knew I was pregnant, but I don’t think I truly was. It was only a brief period until the witch’s curse kicked in.”

“If blood magic did this, blood magic can undo it,” he reasoned. “But even if it cannot, it matters not to me. I told you, I only want you, Dany.”

A darkness filled her eyes. “But I cannot have children. I cannot continue our House.”

This was a much more serious conversation than they could have in the godswood, mere paces from a dangerous enemy. “Dany—”

Dragonsong filled the sky. Daenerys stepped back from him, queenly mask snapping into place.

“Later,” he told her. “We will talk about this later.”

---

Viserion and Rhaegal landed in an open area off Drogon’s flank. Daenerys walked to them immediately, not having seen either for a while, especially Viserion.

“ What have you been up to, my sweetest boy? ” she murmured to him in High Valyrian. “ Is the capital really so loathsome to you? ”

She felt a wave of reassurance and affection from her cream and gold son. She chuckled, patting him on his nose.

“ Rystas, tresy ,” she greeted Rhaegal. “ Have you been watching over your brother? ”

A rumble tinged with annoyance was her answer.

“This is Rhaegal,” she said in a normal tone, stroking his emerald scales. “He is named for the brother I never met. The most aggressive and vengeful of my children. And this is Viserion, named for the brother I did know. He is the calmest of my dragons.”

She faced Aegon, standing between her two riderless sons.

“Any correct sort of customs to this is lost to time, nephew. I wish you luck.”

With that, she returned to Drogon. Baelor joined her, Ghost pressing into her hip.

Aegon shared one last hesitant glance with Connington before approaching her children with defiant confidence.

“The cream one seems smaller.”

Daenerys had not expected him to speak. “Viserion is more agile.” She was not going to tell him anything more about her theories about the differing heritages of her three children. As far as she was concerned, he already knew more than enough about her children.

“But you said the green is more aggressive. He would be harder to tame, then.”

A dragon is not a slave.

Daenerys kept her mouth firmly shut, content to let the pretender walk to his grave with no further delay.

Finally, Aegon’s ego seemed to win out.

He stepped into Rhaegal’s space with more confidence than was warranted, especially giving the rising growl building in her son’s throat.

Aegon ignored the dragon’s mounting warning and walked to his wing. He only paused for a moment before digging his hands into Rhaegal’s scales and hoisting himself up.

Daenerys could feel revulsion and rage from Rhaegal, but the dragon allowed Aegon to climb along his back, settling between his shoulder blades.

Aegon laughed, gleeful and triumphant. “Fly, Rhaegal!” he ordered in the common tongue. “Fly!”

Beneath the hatred and distaste was a growing hint of cruel trickery.

Rhaegal leapt into the air, gently enough to not unseat his rider.

Higher and higher they flew, the sound of laughter becoming quieter.

“He’s done it!” Connington exclaimed. “He’s done it! The first to claim a dragon in centuries!”

As if sensing that his mother was well and truly done with the audacity, the presumptuousness of these guests , Rhaegal let out a shrill whistle—

—and with a single toss of his head and flick of his tail, tossed Aegon, the mummer’s dragon, the false prince of House Targaryen, off his back.

to his death.

Chapter Text

“Ūndegon zirȳla!” Daenerys ordered.

Catch him!

Aegon was screaming, utter terror as he plummeted to his death.

Rhaegal screeched as well, diving after his would-be rider. With no illusions of gentleness, he snatched Aegon out of the air mere feet from the ground in his claws. He did one final lap around the godswood, letting Aegon swing perilously around in his grasp.

Connington shouted something unintelligible in his panic. Jon—Baelor—was at Dany’s side, hand on her elbow. Ghost brushed against her other side, hackles raised at Connington’s erratic movements. The lord kept trying to chase after Rhaegal, as if he could catch Aegon if the dragon dropped him.

Rhaegal obeyed her, but he was happily taking advantage of details Daenerys did not specify. He was toying with Aegon, tossing him up only to catch him again with his opposite claw. Trilling joined Aegon’s screams, her son were laughing at his failed rider’s peril. Daenerys let him have his fun; she’d already saved the pretender’s life, she had no intentions of saving him from terror.

Eventually, Rhaegal tired of his fun when Aegon fainted from fear—and perhaps also the near constant jostling. Her delightfully vicious son flapped his wings wide to slow his descent, letting his prey tumble carelessly from his claws once he was about five feet from the ground. Aegon did not stir, not even as the earth shook with Rhaegal’s landing.

Disgruntled that the unconscious human was still too close to him, Rhaegal turned, his tail shoving Aegon’s body towards Connington. Once the dragon retreated to his cream brother’s side, the lord rushed to his charge, kneeling beside him.

“You did this!” he cried. “You ordered your dragon to kill him!”

Daenerys fought a sneer. “I told Rhaegal to catch your useless prince.”

Connington gave no indication of hearing her. “The dragon caught him against your orders. He could not let the Blood of the Dragon die.”

“And Rhaegal tossing him around like a sack of grain, toying with his food until he fainted?” Baelor asked. “Was that the dragon recognizing Targaryen blood?”

Connington purpled. “The bastard dares comment on the validity of his trueborn king?”

Daenerys stepped forward, attempting to shield Baelor despite her smaller stature making it futile. “You have a day to vacate my city.”

“We still have the remainder of the week—”

“I have changed the deal. You leave, and I do not burn you alive.”

---

“‘Baelor the Breakspear,’” Daenerys read aloud. “‘A prince who was known as respectable and chivalrous, honorable and wise.’”

“How did he get the name?” he asked. She was leaned back against his chest with an aging tome propped up against her thighs. Though he had his chin tucked on her shoulder, he might as well have been blind with how little he could read High Valyrian.

“‘In his youth, he earned his title, the Breakspear, after winning the tourney in honor of his aunt… Daenerys’ s wedding.’” The light timbre of her voice vibrated back into his own chest. He wondered if he held her tight enough, if he could feel her heartbeat against his own. “‘In his later years, he was Hand to his father, named Protector of the Realm.’”

“An advisor as well as a warrior,” he mused.

“Are we ignoring that he also had an aunt Daenerys?” she jested.

“Well, the titles were distracting,” he teased, kissing her shoulder. “You would know, Mother of Dragons.”

“It also says he was dark of hair and eye. Some compared his appearance to that of the Dornish.” Her fingertip traced the elegant symbols reverently. “Apparently his appearance was very divisive. Some in the Realm were quite dismissive of him for his lack of Targaryen features. Though Dorne was endeared to him” She looked up at him, lilac eyes alluring. “Do you think this is why she named you after him?”

Baelor’s brows furrowed.

“I’m not familiar with all of the tales of your mother, but I know you. She was surely aware of the struggles you would face for the simple crime of being born.” She laced her fingers with his where his hand rested on her hip. “She knew the Dornish would feel slighted on behalf of their Princess Elia. She gave you a Targaryen name that also honors Dorne.”

“Perhaps she was telling me to find you, as well.” His mother naming him for an ancestor who earned his titles through proving himself before his own aunt Daenerys. Who found a place in history at her tourney.

Daenerys nestled into him further, humming into agreement. He traced spirals around her knuckles, fingertips dancing along her eternally warm skin.

“Did you bring any other writings from Dragonstone?”

She glanced up at him but he kept his gaze fixed on her hand. He knew she was studying him, searching for a motive. With the little he knew of the life she’d led, she was right to be hesitant with trust.

“Some.”

“You should keep reading, learning the knowledge of our ancestors,” he murmured. “You don’t need to tell me anything you learn. It could just be a way to arm yourself.”

“I trust you, Baelor.”

He kissed her temple. “And I know that trust is something rarely given. I will treasure it and protect it with all I have. I just… I want you to be safe.”

She frowned. “The Army of the Dead?” He stilled. “You’re certain they can get past the Wall?”

“To believe they cannot would be willful blindness. I saw them, Dany. An army that has no need for rest, for food, for comfort—they will find a way over the Wall, even if they have to build a way to scale it.”

The queen was quiet for a moment. “Do you wish to return North?”

“What?”

“You are my blood, but the North raised you. I understand if you want to go back. To save them.”

“I was raised in the North as secondary. A bastard staining the reputation of the honorable Lord Stark. I grew up in Winterfell, but I have never felt as calm as I do when I am beside you.”

And he was surprised by how true that was. Daenerys did not live a peaceful life. She endured the chaos on behalf of her people, weathering the storm to keep their seas calm. In his time on Dragonstone with her, and the precious, incredible gift that was his closeness with her now—he’d never felt so settled .

The cold was gone. He could feel the dragonfire in her veins, warming him as strongly from across the room in the Small Council chambers as it did in this moment with her in his arms.

The North had turned on him. They’d chosen Sansa to lead them to their deaths. His last Stark relative—who he’d believed was his only relative—sent him south to die.

So south he would remain. And live.

She sighed. “I believe you. I feel the same. All I have ever wanted was family. Belonging.” He tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. She leaned into his touch. “But I do not wish for you to grow to resent me for letting the North fall.”

“Dany—”

“Or for you to feel guilty for being here while the Dead march.”

“The North made its bed. Sansa made her bed,” Baelor insisted softly. “Your responsibility is to your people. To their lives, their happiness.”

“I have the ability to save an entire kingdom, and I am refusing over something as trivial as bent knees.”

“Our entire way of life in Westeros is built on bent knees. Knights to their lords, lords to their Lord Paramount, Lord Paramounts to their monarchs. To risk the lives of your men fighting to protect an enemy kingdom is unreasonable. You know this, Dany. You were the one to tell me this when I arrived on Dragonstone.”

“I do know it,” she murmured. “But I also know you. Your pure heart. I do not wish for you to wake up days, months, years from now and realize who you chose to follow. To…”

He cradled her cheek, angling her face to look at him. “I am not as pure of heart as you believe me to be, my Queen. Nor do I ever intend to wake up beside you and blame you for the pride of the North.”

After a few moments, a smile snuck onto her face. “You intend to wake up beside me? For years to come?”

“It would be my honor,” he breathed, giving into the heat between them and pulling her in.

Dany kissed like the dragon she was, consuming and territorial. She shifted to straddle his lap, hands coming up to tilt his head at the angle she preferred from which to devour him. He rested his hands at her hips, feeling the warmth of her smooth skin.

When she pulled back, Baelor found himself leaning forward to follow, lips abandoned. She gave a small smile before reaching behind her and freeing herself of her dress. The fabric fell to her lap, leaving him to gape at her perfectness.

She watched as he traced looping circles along her bare skin, palming and pinching as he went. When his hand finally cupped her breast, she arched into his touch.

“Your turn,” she breathed, reaching for his shirt. He quickly tossed it away, fumbling with his trousers. She giggled at his urgency. “There is no need to rush, issa zaldrīzes zokla. Fate brought us together. We can stay here as long as we like.”

He rolled them, his position on top allowing him to finally free himself of his trousers. Trailing kisses down her torso, he settled himself between her thighs, gently coaxing her legs to rest over his shoulders.  “Believe me, my Queen, I have every intention of being right here, forever.”

---

“Your Grace? A raven has arrived from the North. It carries the Stark seal.”

Daenerys opened it.

Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.

I write on behalf of the North and myself as its Queen. A humble plea and a prayer to the Old Gods that you are as altruistic as the bards say.

The Dead have breached the Wall. They marched on Eastwatch. The Night’s Watchmen reported that the Dead did not even bother to attack them. Instead, the army gathered on the shoreline until the Night King froze the ocean. From there, the army marched across, going around the Wall. The Dead march south. For Last Hearth, for Winterfell, and the rest of Westeros.

For my pride, I apologize. I beg that you do not punish innocent people for the sins of their Queen.

I know the North has nothing to offer a Queen such as yourself. Nor does any Northern have the right to have their pleas heard by such a Queen, let alone the woman who led them all to ruin.

All I can offer you is fealty. I know a letter is a poor substitute for the personal ceremony, but I swear, by the Old Gods and the New, that if Daenerys Stormborn arrives at my gates to save my people, I will bend the knee and promise fealty in perpetuity. To serve as her Wardeness of the North.

Please tell Jon I say hello.

With regret,

Sansa Stark, current Queen of the North, Lady of Winterfell

Chapter Text

“If you pace any harder, you will wear through the floor,” Dany remarked from the other side of the Painted Table.

Baelor nearly snarled at her before he remembered himself. Daenerys was far from the target of his anger. “Sansa is far too stubborn to simply offer you her crown.”

Despite his own addled state, he’d learned a bit with how her mind works—the only way she could feel safe is with more power than anyone else in the room. Even with the Dead marching on Winterfell, he found it hard to believe she would finally see reason after being mulish for so long.

“I am not saying I trust her. But if she bends the knee in front of all of her liege lords, she cannot exactly take it back to save face once the Dead are defeated.”

“Yes, she can. And she just might. This could be a plot her lords are in on.”

“Do the Starks not pride themselves on their honor?”

As the last living Stark, Sansa could write her own history. Any legacy Ned Stark had tried to instill in his daughter… Baelor knew it was gone when he learned of Ramsey’s torture of her. He could not blame her for changing under such pain, warping her morals and learning to live in the gray between right and wrong.

But even as hardened as she had become, there was no reason for her to turn him away, to send her last family to his death. He’d believed him her brother. And even as her cousin, to send him to his death at Daenerys’s hands—

Was kinslaying.

If Sansa was willing to kill her own blood, she wouldn’t hesitate to lure in the greatest threat to her power, only to kill the dragon in the wolf’s den.

Sansa was the last of his family—his Stark family. They had raised him, but the man he’d believed to be his father had lied to him all his life. Even when he decided to leave for the Wall, Ned Stark didn’t tell him the truth.

That he had another family. Blood that would accept him, trust him. Love him.

He could not lose Dany.

“You must insulate yourself against her,” he continued. “Guarded only by your own men. We’ll insist you be given the guest chambers my—Lord Stark reserved for King Robert when he visited Winterfell. They’re far more extensive and more isolated from the rest of the castle. It will be easier to install a few layers of guards.”

“Bael—” she cut herself off. They were alone in the Council chambers, but she clearly was not willing to risk it. “You were raised there. I trust you to ensure my safety within Winterfell’s walls as best you can. But you cannot possibly expect to be able to predict every possible angle of attack.”

She stood, walking over to where he was still pacing.

“You will need a taster. Or two. And as many trusted servants as you can bring. Handmaids, pages, maids—”

Daenerys grabbed his hand. “Of course I will bring my own people. What is worrying you so much?”

“Lady Hand Tyrell, Your Grace.”

The Queen of Thorns ambled into the room. “I do not understand how the Small Councils of old struggled to manage their duties. Must’ve been all that quarreling over proximity to flighty monarchs. I’ve been Master of Coin and a Hand to the Queen for weeks now, and I have already managed to balance the crown’s books. Despite all the Lannisters did to destroy it.” The aging woman took in Baelor’s proximity to the queen with a smirk. “Am I interrupting, Your Grace?”

“No, my Lady Hand.” She squeezed his hand before returning to her chair. “We have much to discuss.”

“And what is the topic at hand, Your Grace?”

“The North has sent word. The Dead have breached the Wall. Sansa Stark will bend the knee. We sail for White Harbor tomorrow.”

---

Baelor was unhappy with her. She tried to tell herself he was worried about returning to Winterfell, to be confronting his Stark family. But she was the reason he was sailing back.

A knock on her door announced his entrance to her quarters.

“The winds are favorable. We should reach White Harbor in a day.” Daenerys took in the tense set of his shoulders, the worry clenching his jaw. “From there, it will be a grudging march. The snows are always deep in the North, but with the Long Night coming—”

“I packed furs, as you said, as did my Dothraki and Unsullied to ensure we are dressed for the weather rather than the Essosi heat we favored. We have enough food to feed ourselves and the North for months.” She eased his cloak from his shoulders, tossing it gently onto the small desk in her quarters before working on his tunic.

“Dany—”

“There is nothing we can do from here,” she murmured. “My armies are prepared, my dragons are ready. We’ve spent the last few days on this ship going over trench layouts and archer positioning. We are heading into a fated, prophesied war against an undead army. Can’t we just… one night. Can’t we have one night?”

He hesitated only for a moment before wrapping his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried for you.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth, where his expression was pinched. “I know. I am worried for you, too. But this.” She put his hand on his bare chest, over his heart. “I have wanted this warmth, this belonging, this love for so long. Too long to not want to be selfish. I know we both have responsibilities, duty. We may not be able to be selfish, but I think we can steal a few selfish moments.”

Baelor leaned in, his nose brushing against her own. “Aye. A few stolen moments, then.”

Illuminated only by the moonlight reflecting off the rushing waves into the cabin and a few candles, the Dragon Queen pulled the White Wolf towards her bed. Baelor’s hands, his lips, his very breath set her heart alight, her blood aflame.

Clothes discarded, Dany pushed him to the bed. She let out a brief shriek of surprise when he pulled her down with him. Before she could be more than a bit embarrassed, he gave a fond chuckle and leaned up to kiss her languidly. His long, calloused fingers touched her where she wanted it most, navigating deftly through her folds to tease her with torturous patience.

But Daenerys had never been very patient. 

She bit at his bottom lip, making his grip loosen in surprise. With the strength that kept her from losing her seat on dragonback, she pushed Baelor into the pillows and straddled his hips. Stealing his gasp with a kiss, she guided him to her entrance.

Three mounts… one to love…

Burgundy eyes, near indigo in the night, open and true and burning with love never left hers.

When they both fell apart, he held her. She was trembling, utterly vulnerable under his hands, but she’d never felt more safe.

The rise and fall of his chest lulled her to sleep faster than even milk of the poppy could.

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

But they weren’t alone any longer.

---

The march from White Harbor was long, as Baelor had said. Her men were willing to march endlessly, but her Westerosi forces tired quickly in the cold. They made camp each night, pitching tents and huddling around campfires to keep warm.

Multiple times, Dany wondered why she hadn’t just stayed behind in the capital. Waited for the armies to reach Winterfell and flown in on dragonback later.

Then her gaze would find the man wrapped in furs riding at her side, his direwolf at his other side and her dragons flying above them. As much as her blood rushed at the sight of them leading an army together, marching to fight an enemy of pure evil—part of her tried to block everything else out. Imagine instead that it was just the two of them and their bonded beasts, touring the kingdom he had grown up in.

But in such a fantasy, he would never have looked so tortured at the sight of Winterfell as they crested a hill.

She wanted to reach for him, or to offer him words of comfort, but here…. Her men would never betray her secrets, but the Westerosi interspersed in their ranks…

I need to teach him High Valyrian. Not only was it the tongue of their House, their people, but it was only lost to Westeros.

Snow flurries were stirred anew into the air as the large wooden doors opened, allowing entrance to the castle. Daenerys and Baelor rode in, flanked by her bloodriders and Greyworm. Easing her mare to a stop, Daenerys surveyed the greeting party. Flaming red hair crowned the Lady of Winterfell, who stared at Daenerys with a mask of apathy. A shorter lady beside her wore a more neutral expression on a face that was startlingly similar to Baelor’s. She lit up at the sight of Baelor as he dismounted, gripping the shoulder of the man sitting in a chair beside her.

But he turned his back on the Northerners and walked to Daenerys’s side.

He took her horse by the bridle and offered her a hand. “My Queen.”

Chapter Text

“Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace.”

Baelor stiffened at Sansa’s tone. It was she who had asked them here, who had called Daenerys and her men back to war after months of stubbornness. Months of delay that could cost their lives.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa.”

Littlefinger stepped up from wherever he’d been hiding and sidled over to Sansa. “Your Grace, the Queen has not yet bent the knee,” he said to Daenerys, his voice as oily as ever. “She should be addressed accordingly. As your equal.”

“Well, Lord—”

“Baelish,” Baelor supplied for Daenerys. “Though most call him Littlefinger.”

“Well, Lord Baelish. I’m sure as an advisor to the former Queen in the North, you understand that such discussions as this should be held in a council chamber rather than a courtyard.”

“I have nothing to hide from my people,” Sansa snapped. She paused, schooling her features back into her cold mask. “Any discussion we have can be held here. Unless you find the cold too biting, Your Grace.”

“No winter wind can tame the dragonblood in my veins, my lady, though I do appreciate your concern.” Daenerys was shorter than Sansa, nearly the same age as well, but Daenerys seemed to loom over the Stark girl, casting her in shadow. “If you wish to bend the knee here, my lady, I am ready to accept your vow.”

“Bend the knee? Queen Sansa fought and won Northern independence. To give it up so frivolously, and to a foreign invader no less—”

“You speak out of turn, Littlefinger,” Baelor interjected. “And Sansa swore to kneel and surrender her crown to Queen Daenerys in exchange for my Queen saving the North.”

Baelish opened his treacherous mouth to speak, but Sansa raised a hand. “Her Grace is right. This is a discussion to be held in private.”

“In this courtyard or the Great Hall, Sansa. Choose where to bend the knee, but you will do so. Now.”

Daenerys kept her expression neutral, though her eyes betrayed her shock as she looked at Baelor. She had plenty of reasons to dislike Sansa Stark, but none were as personal as the grievances he carried.

Years of disdain, of looking down her nose at him. Treating him as her mother did, as a stain on their House. Then, when they believed they were the last of their family, when they regained their home and ousted those who had hurt her so terribly—she’d sent him away. His mind addled on a fool's errand, into the dragon’s nest. To die.

“Jon.”

But they weren’t the last of the Starks.

Arya looked at him with eyes that used to match his. Joy and relief fought with suspicion and unease on her face that still matched his.

He gave her a tense smile. “Arya,” he breathed, voice choked with emotion.

The sister who loved him beside the sister who never saw them as related. He fought down the urge to hug her, to spin Arya around and never let her go. He was beyond relieved she was alive and well, but he didn’t know what Sansa had told her.

Arya may be alive, but she still may be lost to him.

“You swore to kneel,” Baelor said finally, returning his focus to Sansa.

Sansa frowned, studying him and Daenerys. The courtyard was silent aside from the whistle of winter gusts ruffling the direwolf banners.

“The Great Hall. Before the welcome feast. I’ve had the royal guest chambers made up for you, Your Grace. Please, take the time to freshen up from your travels.”

Baelor wanted to protest, but Daenerys accepted Sansa’s offer, preferring the luxury of a warm bath after a month of travel over getting Sansa to kneel immediately.

---

Baelor’s Dothraki was worse than his Valyrian—which was also terrible, leaving him with nothing but context and gestures to go off of in trying to follow Dany’s conversation with her handmaids.

Doreah, if he remembered their names correctly, held up a few dresses of silk. Irri had pulled a few that were of a more Northern style, made of thick cotton but the cured leather detail work was very much Dothraki in style. Daenerys was deciding between the options, speaking with her handmaids as she did.

While he couldn’t understand their discussion, he found himself enamoured by the way the foreign tongue came so easily from the Dragon Queen’s lips. From what he had learned of her past, she had been forced to learn Dothraki by immersion. Adapting was the only way for her to communicate with her new people, her new husband. And yet, her Dothraki sounded as fluent as her Valyrian and common tongue to his ears.

An admirable feat, truly. To learn so quickly not only the language of one’s new people, but their culture. She wore her silver-gold tresses in braids similar to those of her bloodriders. Much of the leather she wore was cut in Dothraki fashion or patterned with stitchwork that resembled the uniforms of her Unsullied. She accepted their culture, attempted to honor it as their queen.

“What do you think? Baelor?”

He startled. “Yes?”

“Which do you think?” she repeated, smiling teasingly at him. “Something of the North or of Essos? A poor ploy at assimilation or the garb of a foreign invader?”

He frowned. “You were born here, Dany. The Targaryens created the Seven Kingdoms as we know it. You are no foreign invader.”

Her smile turned genuine. “Come. As my advisor, I insist upon your counsel.”

“I didn’t know I would be advising you on matters of your wardrobe,” he said, leaning close to her once he reached her side.

“Don’t worry, my dear dragonwolf, you will have the chance to show off your skills at a war council soon enough.”

He huffed a laugh. “I simply cannot wait to plan for avoiding the end of the world.” The dresses largely looked innocuous to him in terms of political symbols, but one caught his eye. “This one,” he tapped it.

Dany took the dress of smooth black leather and rich black fur from her handmaid, tracing the silver three-headed dragon stitched into the bodice. “Black,” she mused. “A color of our House. I hope they will not see it as a symbol of mourning. Or death.”

“The color of your mount, as well. It would do well to remind them you are the first dragonrider in centuries.”

She said something to her handmaids in Dothraki. They bowed their heads, putting the other gowns away.

Dany leaned into his side, letting him slip an arm around her waist. “So long as they bend the knee, we should only have an enemy on one front.”

He nosed her temple, letting the faint scent of embers that never left her remind him that though he was back in this treacherous, frozen place, he had a home amongst brimstone and warmth.

She chuckled softly. “So I am to believe you chose this for Drogon? Not because I would match your monochromatic ensemble?”

Baelor shrugged, leaving her embrace. “An added reward. If you don’t mind, my Queen, I was hoping to visit the crypts before dinner. Pay my respects.”

“Of course,” she said softly. “If you need me, send for me. I’ll be there in an instant.”

---

In his dreams, she was beautiful. An older, softer Arya, though no less wild. Carefree and joyous.

The stone likeness before him was indistinct. Vague suggestions of features that could have belonged to any woman. Yet the inscription was clear.

This tomb belonged to Lyanna Stark. His mother.

She was the only woman with a statue in the crypt. He couldn’t decide what he thought Ned Stark’s motives were for that. To honor his sister, of course, but to make her memory so notable. He risked so much to protect the truth of Baelor’s heritage, inviting shame upon his perfect honor and strife in his marriage—only to immortalize a piece of the secret forever in stone.

Out of blind grief or some other reason lost to him, Baelor couldn’t help but be grateful to his uncle. If not, he would never have been able to lay his eyes on his mother’s likeness, even if it was a poor imitation.

Lyanna Stark. She-Wolf. Winter Rose. A Free and Beautiful Spirit.

Ghost pressed his cold, damp nose to his master’s hand, sensing Baelor’s grief and confusion.

“Hello, mother,” he whispered, weaving his fingers through Ghost’s fur. “All the times I was down here, visiting with Fa—my uncle, or playing with Robb. I never thought twice about the only woman honored among the Kings of Winter.”

He wasn’t quite sure why he was down here. There were no answers here for him. No more missing pieces of his story.

“I found Daenerys,” he murmured. And in her, he’d found more than just the last living family he had. “Lord Stark could never speak of you, he was so distraught over your death. But I’ve heard some stories. They say you were fierce. That you rode on horseback better than any knight. Dany is much the same. I think you would have liked her.”

He stayed a little while longer, letting Ghost’s steady breath anchor him as his thoughts threatened to drown him.

Once his mind had settled, he let his fingertips graze the etching of his mother’s name once, a final goodbye.

Before he left the crypt to rejoin his Queen in their Great War.

Chapter Text

Her children had made a mess of the idyllic Northern countryside. They’d chosen a clearing away from the walls of Winterfell somewhat near the Wolfswood and had done what Dany could only describe as attempting to bring southern heat to the North.

They were so preoccupied, her children did not even notice her approach. Drogon and Rhaegal were nearly taking turns melting the thick snow, scorching the frozen brush beneath into blackened earth. Viserion was lashing out at the snow drifts with his tail and wings, growling with disdain. Drogon snapped at his emerald brother when Rhaegal’s flames melted snow a bit too close to Drogon’s flank, sending the two into a petulant screeching match, spittle flying from their bared fangs.

They were having a tantrum.

Daenerys chuckled. “Do not take it out on each other just because you do not care for winter,” she scolded in High Valyrian.

Viserion trilled in greeting, offering her his snout for pats.

She stroked his cream scales, admiring the rather massive nest her children carved out of the snow. Part of her wondered if the Northerners would see it as some sign of Dany and her dragons here to destroy the Northern way of life. Most of her figured she had much bigger problems.

The banquet in the Great Hall had been a tense affair. Baelor sat beside her, holding his silverware with a white-knuckled grip all night. The Northern lords hadn’t been outright rude, but they were far from welcoming. Some simply avoided any and all eye contact with her. Most sent her hard stares our outright sneers before turning their back.

Lady Sansa had been cordial, if cold. She’d stood from the high table before the feast had begun and walked around the table, stopping before where Daenerys sat. She lifted her iron circlet depicting two roaring direwolves off her head and set it in Dany’s hands before dropping to a knee and swearing her fealty.

“In exchange for your saving my people, I swear fealty to the Queen Daenerys in perpetuity. I give you my crown and my throne.”

“The North has rejoined the Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys had announced. “As such, the North is under my protection. You all are under my protection. And I swear to protect the people of the North with Fire and Blood.” A vow, an acceptance of Sansa’s fealty, but also a reminder of her strength. Of the benefits of keeping her as an ally rather than an enemy.

Drogon was staring at her, blood red eyes boring into her. The deep intelligence in his gaze hinted at a knowingness of something she herself was unaware of.

“What is it, tresy?” she asked her son.

Of course, her mount could not answer her with words. With an almost frustrated grumble, he nosed at her, pressing his head into her torso.

She huffed a laugh, petting his onyx scales as he insisted. “If you wished for attention you only needed to ask, tresy.”

Drogon chuffed derisively, nosing at her abdomen.

She made sure to give each of her children affection, murmuring to them as she offered soothing touches.

“Khaleesi,” Jhogo interrupted in Dothraki. “The War Council is about to begin.”

Dany bid goodbye to her children, having to nearly push Drogon’s snout away from her. “Thank you, Jhogo.”

Her bloodrider escorted her through Winterfell. While Daenerys opted to ignore the stares and curled lips as she walked past the Northerners, Jhogo scowled openly. The Dothraki followed strength. Being the Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Six Kingdoms, and all of her other titles and avenues of power—it was absurd to her Dothraki that these weak Northerners dared turn up their noses at her.

One lord grew brave, perhaps emboldened by her stoicness. “Foreign whore,” he spat as she passed.

Jhogo lunged at the man, slamming him against the wall, arakh at his throat. Missandei’s lesson in the common tongue had clearly been somewhat successful. They were apparently close enough to the council room, as Baelor stepped out into the corridor at the commotion.

“Khaleesi, do you want his tongue?” Jhogo snarled in Dothraki.

“No, thank you, Jhogo,” she said in the common tongue.

Her bloodrider released the man roughly, shoving him away. There was no need, as the man scurried away as quickly as possible.

Baelor was at Dany’s elbow in an instant, checking her over for signs of a struggle. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

She placed her hand over his where it rested on her arm. “I’m unharmed.” He made to follow the man, but she tightened her grip. “Escort me to the council chamber?” she asked pointedly.

He scowled, glaring one less time where the man had run away. “Of course, my Queen.”

Lady Yara and Lady Ellaria stood when Daenerys entered. Greyworm and Missandei flanked a chair Dany expected to be hers. Across the table was Lady Sansa and the younger Stark lady, Arya. Lord Baelish was on their side of the table. Ser Davos had attempted to position himself in the middle of the two groups. Lords Tully, Lonmouth, and Selmy bowed when Dany entered, uttering greetings to their Queen.

Dany stood at the table, but did not take her seat. Instead, she began to study the map before her and the models laid out upon it. “Shall we begin, my lords and ladies?”

---

“My Queen, if I may?” Daenerys nodded for Baelor to continue. “I believe we should first discuss the trenches and barricades we can amass in our limited time. From there, we can strategize where our men should be stationed.”

“Very well.” The Queen looked at Sansa. “I am well versed with the numbers and strengths and weaknesses of my own forces. Would you be so kind, my lady, to share that of your own men?”

The red-haired wolf kept her features impassive as she rattled off the number of men each of the Northern liege lords had brought to Winterfell.

He pursed his lips as he considered the reports. “What of Lord Glover? Lords Cerwyn and Manderly?”

Sansa tilted her chin. “They refused the call.”

He couldn't even attempt to hide his incredulousness. “Ramsey skinned Lord Cerwyn’s father alive. I never did understand why he refused the call to reclaim Winterfell for the Starks. Even now, he hides away from duty?”

“So much for Northern honor,” Lady Ellaria chirped.

Sansa ignored her. “Lord Glover refuses to align with wildlings—”

“Free Folk,” Baelor interrupted.

“—and Lord Manderly refuses to send his men into a battle that is already lost, as he sees it.”

Ellaria chuckled. “Cowardly men are found in all of the Seven Kingdoms. I’ve found it’s one of the few constants in this world. Only a fool would hedge their bets on such flippant odds.”

They discussed trenches and barricades rather quickly. Everyone could agree as many as could be built in time were optimal. The frozen ground would be their only disadvantage.

“My dragons can melt the snow and scorch the earth where needed. It will make digging of the trenches much easier.”

“Will the Dead not simply climb overtop one another to get through? Climb over each other even if they are getting impaled on spikes?” Yara asked.

“If we fill the trenches with tinder, I can light them if the Dead start to overwhelm our forces,” Daenerys posited.

The conversation shifted from preparations to troop positioning.

“Your horselords are known for their screaming charges, are they not?” said a man in the regalia of the Knights of the Veil. “Put them on the flanks, let them cut through the bastards from the sides when they’re focused on charging the walls. Archers will keep them occupied from the front.”

“I was not aware reanimated, frozen skeletons felt fear, Ser,” Daenerys intoned.

“They feel nothing. They do not tire, they do not flinch,” Baelor supplied.

“My Dothraki are excellent archers. They will remain behind the barricades and trenches until they are needed in closer range combat.”

“You wish for Northerners to man the frontlines, then, Your Grace?” Littlefinger remarked.

“I wish not to give the Night King a cavalry, my lord,” the Dragon Queen snapped. “As complex as it may make deliberations, we must consider that any lives we lose are swords the Night King can raise to his cause. We must lean on distanced attacks, utilizing dragonglass arrows and dragonfire to diminish the Dead lest we be entirely outnumbered.”

“The walls will be our strongest fortification, perhaps our final means of defense,” Baelor said. “We will need to have a plan to retreat back into Winterfell if necessary.”

“You came all this way to hide?” a Northman Baelor didn’t recognize called out.

“I came here to survive. To see the North survive.”

Daenerys adjusted the models on the map. “My Unsullied and the Dornish spears will protect the retreat to the main gate behind the first two barricades. The best of my Dothraki archers will be behind them; I expect the archers in the Westerosi forces will be up on the walls. 

“My remaining Dothraki will protect the flanks. The Knights of the Veil are welcome to join them. Between the shields and spears, I believe the Westerosi soldiers should attempt to hold a line of their own. As necessary, our forces can fall back behind another layer of trenches. I will light the tinder to cover the retreat.”

“What of the women and children?” Greyworm asked.

“The crypts,” Sansa answered.

“The crypts,” Daenerys echoed.

Arya spoke up, “It is the safest place in Winterfell. Below ground, only a single entrance to barr and guard.”

Daenerys raised a brow. “And only one means of escape should the Night King raise the dead—including those entombed in those very crypts.”

Baelor fought the urge to either scream or upend the table they were all bickering around. “How dare you continue to question Her Grace’s motives and suggestions when you would plan to place our most vulnerable in a death trap?”

“This is meant to be an open discussion, Jon,” Sansa said, tone full of false hurt and confusion.

“How many wars have you fought, Lady Sansa?” Yara snarked. “How many cities have you defended? Battles you have won?”

Daenerys raised a hand, quieting her council—and both Stark girls. “My ladies, my lords. I believe we can all benefit from remembering that we all are here to ensure the safety of our people.”

“Her Grace is right,” Missandei said softly, her voice calm yet firm. “A foe such as this is one no one in the realms of men thought to prepare against. But the only path to survival is unity.”

“Wise words from a wise Hand.”

The gathered nobles and soldiers turned as a lowering hood revealed a dreaded pale face wreathed by blood-red hair.

Ser Davos stood, his chair screeching against the stone floor. “You are not welcome here, witch!”

“Ser Davos,” Melisandre greeted. “My lords, my ladies. My Queen.”

“Has your Lord sent you here for a reason, Melisandre?”

“Yes, My Queen. As your Hand so perfectly stated, I am here to remind the armies of the Living of their duty.”

“We are well aware of what is at stake, my lady,” Baelor bit out.

The Red Woman gave a distant smile. “I understand my presence is not welcome here. I simply wished to remind the leaders of the Living that though no strategist has prepared for a war such as this, it is fated. This is the greatest battle humanity has ever and will ever face.

“As such, my Lord has spoken to me in the flames. I wished to share this knowledge with you. He has shown me that many impossible things will come to pass. As unlikely as it is for the sun to set in the east and rise in the west.”

Beside him, Daenerys stumbled. Baelor turned to her, concerned, only to find no clear answers, though the blood had drained from her face and her hand came to rest on her abdomen.

His breath caught in his throat. Surely he was reading into things—

Lilac eyes snapped to his, widened with fear.

She broke from his gaze just as quickly. “After the Great War, after the greater threat is handled, you will be tried for your crimes, Lady Melisandre. I believe a break to be in order, my lords and ladies. I must check on how my people are settling in.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys felt sick. She pressed a hand over her stomach, fighting to keep her expression impassive as she hurried to the door of these accursed council chambers. 

Not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east…

“Some would have said the day an Army of the Dead would come knocking at humanity’s door would have been just as impossible,” Melisandre said from where she lurked against the wall as if she could read the Queen’s thoughts.

Daenerys shot her a furtive glance before making her escape.

Not alone, though.

“Daenerys?” Baelor called after her, voice tight with concern. “Daenerys, wait.”

How many moons had it been? She’d bled on the voyage from Meereen, on the ship. She remembered because the pain coupled with the rocky seas had made her stomach turn so harshly her handmaids had had to give her herbal teas to soothe her nausea.

“Daenerys, please. What’s the matter?”

But since she’d been in Westeros? She was fairly certain she’d bled once on Dragonstone. When exactly, she could not be sure.

Daenerys’s urgent pace had the Northern guards opening the door without question. The frigid air did nothing to quiet her racing heartbeat; if anything, it reminded her of the hostile territory she was in. Not only was the climate of this kingdom foreign to her dragon blood—she had no true allies here.

“Daenerys, wait! Let’s go back and get your cloak! You’ll freeze.”

She’d been pushed by one of Drogo’s bloodriders. Ser Jorah had rushed her to the tent with the witch, but it was of no consequence. She was in labor, too early. The witch took advantage.

“It’s beginning to snow.”

The pain was excruciating, tearing through her abdomen. But the fear…

It was too early. Rhaego was born silent. She never even got to hear a single breath, a single cry from his precious lungs. When he was finally ripped from her body, terribly too soon, he was dead.

Her only family. Dead.

“We need to head back, Daenerys. A blizzard could pick up suddenly. We could be trapped in it.”

Her dragons’ roars guided her. She followed the sound even as visibility worsened with the intensifying storm.

When she was wandering through the Dothraki Sea, slowly succumbing to heat and exposure, to hunger and thirst. She was weak, frightened. Neither she nor Drogon understood the bond between them, between dragon and rider. Neither knew how to act as one.

She was close, now. Her children were calling to her, sensing her distress.

“Daenerys, please, tell me what happened!”

It could’ve been the stress. Or those berries that wracked her abdomen in pain, made her nauseous. Either way, there was blood between her thighs.

Not moonblood. She knew. She knew it was not her cycle.

Drogon emerged from the storm, hurrying to his mother. He stepped over her, shielding her beneath his great girth, enveloping her in his wings. Viserion and Rhaegal pressed closer to their brother, jostling to get closer to her.

“Daenerys!”

She could hardly hear Baelor’s cries from within her children’s safe embrace.

She hadn’t mourned. Hadn’t stopped to consider the life that was bleeding out from her in the Sea.

She’d been occupied, struggling to survive both the elements and the khalasar who had taken her captive. Worried about Drogon, alone in the Dothraki Sea. Riddled with guilt over imprisoning his brothers. Furious with herself for her mistakes with the Sons of the Harpy, potentially dooming the slaves she had fought so hard to free.

She hadn’t mourned for her babe.

Drogon rumbled, pressing his nose to Daenerys’s side.

Perhaps this was her penance. Her punishment.

“Daenerys, please.” Baelor’s urgency had faded, leaving desperation in its wake. He sounded like he was just on the other side of Viserion’s cream and gold wing. “Dany? Please, just talk to me. Please let me in.”

Jon Snow. Baelor Targaryen.

Her nephew. Her last living family.

The father of her child.

“Lykiri, issa riñar,” she whispered. “Ziry jāhor daor ōdrikagon issa.”

And it was true.

He would not hurt her.

Slowly, her children shifted. Drogon stayed where he was, Rhaegal only backing up a few feet, but Viserion trilled as he let Baelor in. He murmured something to her gentlest son as he passed, approaching Dany slowly within the circle her children had formed, shielding them from the wind.

Baelor knelt beside where she had fallen to the snow. She stiffened, waiting for him to interrogate her, to demand answers. He’d seen her foolishly clutch her stomach at Melisandre’s words.

Instead, he simply took her hands, gently brushing the snow from them before enveloping them in between his own. His thumbs traced her knuckles, circular motions returning warmth to her skin.

She found she could not meet his gaze. “Ask,” she breathed.

“Dany?”

“Ask.”

He tightened his grip on her hands. He held her firmly, but not painfully. Grounding her.

“When was your last moonblood?”

---

Daenerys shuddered. Somehow, Baelor knew it was not because of the cold despite the snowmelt slowly seeping into her dress.

“I think the Dothraki should flank from within the tree cover. The Dead may not have fear, but the Night King can be caught by surprise.”

“Dany,” he said, struggling to keep his tone from betraying his urgency. “You told me to ask.”

“Why would this be of concern to you?” she croaked.

Gods damnit, Daenerys, how many times did we couple on that damn boat? In the tents during the march to Winterfell?

He swallowed his anger. It would only serve to push her away. If she was carrying his child—he couldn’t send her running.

“Have you been drinking moon tea?”

A soft, broken cry escaped the indomitable Dragon Queen. “I haven’t had need for such things since that witch cursed me and my womb,” she said, voice steely, “killing my husband and unborn child, and leaving me barren. Until the sun rose in the west and set in the east.”

Despite her voice growing stronger, he could see her chest heaving with her labored breath. Her dragons began to stir, scratching at the snowy earth in response to their mother’s distress. Baelor tried to keep his own panic down, fearing the dragons would sense it.

“Dany—”

She ripped her hands from his, scrambling to her feet. Baelor hurried up after her. “No.”

“No, what?” he asked patiently.

“No. Not now.”

Did she not want to talk about it? Or did she not want to believe it was true?

“Dany, we need to talk about it. It’ll be okay—”

“It’s not okay, Baelor. It’s not possible. There is nothing to talk about, because it is not. Possible.”

He reached for her. “Denying it will not make it go away. Make the babe—”

“I am cursed!” she cried. Drogon’s growl reverberated in the sanctuary the dragons had created from the storm. “My dragons are the only children I will ever have. I am the last of my House. I will never, ever be able to have a family! To hold my own babe in my arms!”

“Dany, I am your family,” he insisted. “You are not alone!”

Lilac eyes finally met his for more than a fleeting moment. He gently entwined their fingers, pulling their joined hands close to him.

“I am yours, Daenerys Targaryen. Your blood and your family. Your soldier and your advisor. And—as long as you’ll have me—your lover.” He reached up to cradle her cheek, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “I love you, Dany. I am yours. In every way you will have me.”

Tears fell from her purple eyes freely now. “I’m going to lose the babe. I’ve miscarried before, in Essos—”

“Dragons were reborn from stone. Dead men march on the living.”

“It was blood magic. I did what you said, I read through the writings from our ancestors. I couldn’t find anything on how to break a curse such as this.”

“‘Many impossible things will come to pass, as unlikely as it is for the sun to set in the east and rise in the west,’” he recounted. “Far be it for me to place any trust into the words of the Red Witch, but it sounds to me like the witch who cursed you already told you how to break the curse.”

“Baelor—”

“You decided to come fight for the living. To risk your own people, your own crown for a kingdom that nearly chose death rather than kneeling to you.” He cradled her face in both of his hands now, with as much gentleness as his calloused hands could manage. “You are doing the impossible, Dany. Fighting against a threat known only to myth.

“The sun is rising in the west, Dany. I believe this is real. I believe in you.”

Daenerys crumbled. He caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her from falling. Her other hand guided her head to his shoulder. She needed no further encouragement to tuck her head under his chin and sob. She leaned all her weight into him, letting him hold her up as she fell apart.

Chapter Text

It was getting a lot harder to distinguish dream from reality. If not for the recurrence of this nightmare, Baelor would hesitate to write it off as a figment of his subconscious.

He was once again on dragonback, clutching at the Dragon Queen and the spines of her dragon for purchase. It was too dark to see the ground, but he knew if he lost his seat, he would plummet to his death.

Dany’s silver-gold locks whipped his face in the wind. He knew it was useless to dodge them.

They were flying towards something. The air seemed to get colder as they went despite the dragon’s warm scales beneath him.

Longclaw felt heavy in his hand. The Valyrian steel seemed to glow, as if warmed by dragonfire that swam in Drogon’s blood.

Daenerys looked back at him, her eyes a dark violet in the night. She said something to him, pointing at something down below them, but it was lost in the wind. He followed her gesture.

They were low enough now that he could make out the Army of the Dead. Writhing, shuffling forward in their cursed fashion towards the forces of the Living. And there, at the rear astride his undead stallion, was the Night King.

Then, Baelor knew what to do. Or, more accurately, his dream-self did.

Dany guided Drogon towards the Night King, dousing the wraiths closest to him in dragonfire. She shouted commands, her other two children screaming in the distance, responding to her summons. All three dragons began bathing the Night King in flame.

Dany lurched, pulling Drogon into a swerving bank. A spear made of ice ripped through the black dragon’s wing, making him roar in fury—a blow that would’ve torn through her mount’s heart if she hadn’t reacted in time. Drogon’s anger made his flames glow brighter as he resumed his firestorm onto the Night King.

But Baelor could see it wasn’t working. Three dragons engulfed him in fire, and the Night King still stood, preparing his next spear.

Dany’s dragons couldn’t kill him.

Longclaw seemed to hum in his hands.

The Song of Ice and Fire.

But perhaps a Valyrian steel blade forged in dragonflame, whetted in the North against wraiths for years…

Dany looked back at him, eyes widening with betrayal as he shifted on Drogon’s back.

He repositioned his feet against the dragon’s back, ensuring he would avoid the wings.

He lept from dragonback, Longclaw in hand, pointed at the Night King’s chest.

A Northern son wielding a blade of both fire and ice, jumping into a firestorm.

Praying to the Old Gods and the New it would be enough.

---

Baelor jolted awake. He cursed himself when he heard Dany give a faint groan at being jostled. He settled back down, tracing circles onto her warm skin where his hand rested on her hip. Soothed, the furrow in her brow eased, turning back into him, her little exhales ghosting across his chest.

He loved her like this. Calm, content. None of the worry of the world weighing on her shoulders. She was all warmth, all flawless pale skin and silver hair. Smooth curves and strong muscle from riding that made him want to do nothing but hold her to him, letting the heat of her skin seep into him.

He wanted to keep her here. Safe. Comfortable. Relaxed. Limbs tangled with his.

He felt whole.

Despite the imminence of the Long Night, the Northern lords that scorned his queen, despite even the startling truths he’d been confronted with.

With Ghost lying at the foot of the bed, Dany nestled against his side…

With the life that grew in her womb…

I am the last of my House. I will never, ever be able to have a family!

I’m going to lose the babe. I’ve miscarried before—

Her lilac eyes reddened with tears, her expression so broken it had threatened to break him.

Dany, I am your family. You are not alone!

I believe this is real. I believe in you.

And he did. Even if—he could hardly dare think it—what she feared came to pass, he was still her family. Through blood and love.

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

He would never let her be alone. Not again.

She stirred in his arms, shifting slightly. Her brow furrowed adorably, as if returning to the realm of the waking was so inconvenient.

He couldn’t resist pressing his lips to said furrow. “Good morning, darling.”

She sighed, blinking up at him, lilac irises greeting him warmly. “Darling?”

He felt his cheeks heat. “Dany. You’re my queen, my family.” He ghosted his fingers over her stomach. “Yes, I would like to use a term of endearment for you. Or two, or three.”

“Know that I will do the same, then, love,” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep. She leaned up and captured his lips in a gentle kiss.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

Dany dropped his gaze, her lower lip trembling. She caught it in her teeth to hide it. “Well.”

“Dany.”

“No morning sickness.” She shifted, reaching beneath the sheets. “No bleeding.”

“Dany, I’m happy you don’t feel ill, but that’s not what I meant.” He coaxed her to look at him with a finger under her chin. “How are you?”

She shivered. “Baelor, I—I don’t know. I want to share your hope, but I don’t know if I can. To hope for such a thing would be to open myself up to so much pain.”

“Then I will hope for both of us,” he urged. “And the worry. And the fear, and the dreams.”

“I want to give this to you,” she whispered.

“Dany, no.” He sat up, easing her up with him so he could look her in the face. “You have already given me everything I could have ever wanted.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “My armies, my dragons. They will defend the North. I am certain that with fire and blood, the Dead will fall.”

“No, Dany. I may have come to Dragonstone asking you to save the North, but you’ve given me so much more. More than I ever could have thought possible: you.

“Family, heritage, blood. Belonging. Love.” He rested his forehead against hers. “A home.”

Tears were once again welling in her beautiful eyes. Full of fear, but also a cautious hope. “You have given me the same, my love,” she whispered.

Perhaps that is what was missing before. Perhaps that is what allowed them to break the curse.

He kissed her again.

A promise. A wish.

Knocking preceded her handmaidens’ entrance into the queen’s chambers. The three women gave Baelor a look, gaze wandering along his bare chest with an appraising focus that had nothing to do with the scars riddling his bare skin and made him itch to cover himself with the sheet.

Scars he had revealed to her some time ago. Scars that filled her eyes with anger rather than disgust. Scars she had kissed along with all of his unmarred skin, as if they were a simple part of him rather than a symbol of his inhuman resurrection.

Ghost leapt from the bed, trotting out the door the handmaidens had left ajar.

Dany said something to them in Dothraki, her tone kind but strict. The women bowed their heads, venturing into her bathing chamber with silent smirks.

“Sorry about them. The Dothraki are less concerned with modesty than Westerosi culture. They see no harm in looking. And they will never say anything about your scars. I trust them with my life, and yours.”

He shrugged, leaning into her, brushing his nose against hers teasingly. “Did they approve of their Queen’s lover?”

Dany huffed a laugh. “I simply reminded them that though you are quite handsome, dragons do not share.”

Heat rose to the surface of his skin yet again. “Is that so?”

She gave a short nod he couldn’t classify as anything other than adorably stubborn. “It is a very well known fact. I am not at fault if you did not know before.”

“Good thing I am also a dragon, my darling.” He smiled at the involuntary way she swayed towards him at the endearment. “And I was raised a wolf. We, too, do not share.”

Chapter Text

Baelor and Daenerys spent their entire day going over possibilities and contingencies, flanks and troop formations and failsafes and retreats. Some discussions they had with their allies and councilors, some they had alone.

Through it all, Baelor had tried to keep Dany calm, tried to reassure her without it being obvious he was worried about her stress. Part of him knew that it was all for not. Dany would be riding into battle on Drogon. Even with her aerial distance, Baelor had seen the Night King’s spears in his dreams. She wouldn’t be out of harm's way. 

Nor could he ask her to. It would be an insult. Not just against Dothraki culture, who saw a khal who could not ride as no khal at all—but as if he was disregarding the years of fighting she had won on her own, oftentimes with nothing but her iron will and faith in herself, in her greater destiny.

No, all he could do was place himself at her side so that he could protect her with his dying breath.

“Do you not wish to march with the men in the field? Will you be comfortable on dragonback?”

“I know it is nothing like horses, but I will manage. I trust you not to let me fall.”

She frowned. “Baelor, I will be guiding Drogon to dodge arrows—perhaps even the spears that you saw the Night King and his Walkers may wield.” He’d lied, said he’d seen the White Walker with one when he faced the undead general. It was much more plausible to their advisors than saying he saw the weapons in a dream. “I cannot watch out for Drogon, and Viserion and Rhaegal from afar, and ensure that you do not fall.”

“I won’t.” He took her hands in hers. “I may be a Targaryen bastard, but I am still a Targaryen. I will not lose my seat.”

She looked at him, startled. “Your eyes,” she murmured so softly he barely heard her.

He knew he had to be behind her on Drogon. He didn’t know if the dragonfire would fail to kill the Night King as it had in his dream, but he couldn’t take the risk that his nightmare was prophetic.

That the only way to kill the Night King was by his own hand.

---

Daenerys walked out into the Winterfell courtyard, the ever-present winter wind stirring up snow flurries. Ghost trotted at her side, a constant presence since she and Baelor had acknowledged the life growing inside her. He was as silent as his master had named him for, but his red eyes held a promised threat at the Northern lords who glared at Dany as she passed.

Drogon swooped overhead, Rhaegal circling as he landed up ahead. Her emerald son landed beside Viserion, who untucked his head from his wing, his brother having disturbed his sleep.

“Rytsas, riñar,” she greeted in her mother tongue. “This is Ghost. A friend.”

While her children seemed to tolerate the direwolf’s presence, neither made a move to greet each other. Ghost was content to wander freely now that she was surrounded by her children. She found the wolf’s care endearing, if a bit overzealous.

Drogon and Rhaegal dropped their charred prey—what resembled a few sheep and a pair of goats—from their claws, stomping around in the snow with distaste despite the potentially irreversible damage they had already done to the idyllic Northern countryside.

Viserion nosed through the prey his brothers had caught, selecting one of the sheep.

Daenerys leaned against Drogon’s leg, her son settling so she could sit upon his foot rather than the cold snow. “Kirimvose, tresy,” she murmured at her fiercest son’s affection.

Drogon gave a pleased trill before returning to his meal.

When her children finished eating and settled in a sort of circle, protecting her from the wind with their sheer mass, she began speaking to them of the war to come.

“Our greatest battle yet, ñuha riñar,” she said in Valyrian. “We must be swift. Agile. Their king of ice will aim to kill you, as you are fire made flesh. I will do my best to watch out for you, protect you, but you must be careful as well. I cannot lose you, ñuha riñar.”

Viserion lifted his head, gently nosing at her stomach. Concern warmed the scales in her skin, all of her children expressing worry for their newest sibling.

A sibling she thought was never possible.

“I know,” she murmured. “I will be careful, too. For both of us. But I cannot abandon my children to the dangers of war for the child growing within me.”

Drogon growled as if sensing the fear his mother tried to suppress.

Unable to hide her emotions from them, she simply decided to sit with her children. She could not offer reassurance—nor would she be able to with their bond. Instead, she went over the plans in her head, hoping it would benefit her children somehow.

Her children stirred, turning their heads in unison to her apparent visitor.

“Care to dine with me this evening, my Queen?” Baelor asked from a respectful distance from her children. “I promise a meal devoid of battleplans and maps.”

She gave a beleaguered sigh. “I suppose I could be tempted by such an invitation.” She stood. Viserion and Rhaegal shuffled away, giving her room to walk. Instead, she waved a beckoning hand at Baelor. “Come. Let Drogon meet you before you join us flying into battle.”

Baelor didn’t hesitate, though he did approach carefully. “Has anyone ever rode with you?”

“Never. But you’ll be riding with me, as a passenger rather than a true rider. Between that and your dragonblood, I think he will be amenable.”

“Amenable,” he echoed. “Perfect.”

Baelor stood at her side. Daenerys reached a hand out towards Drogon, who slowly pressed his snout against his mother’s hand. She took Baelor’s hand in her free one and guided his open palm towards her son’s scales. Drogon held still, but a rumbling emanating from his throat and the narrow focus in his blood-red eyes showed his attentiveness.

Breath shuddered out of Baelor as his hand met scales. Drogon pushed into his hand, almost teasingly, making the newly found Targaryen stiffen.

“He likes you,” she murmured. “He’s playing around a bit.”

“Playing around,” he echoed again. “Perfect.”

She knocked her shoulder into his. “If I had known all it would take to shock Northerners into silence, I hold all council meetings amongst my dragons.”

Indigo eyes bored into hers. “I am no normal Northman.”

Noses brushing, Dany smiled into a kiss. “No, and thank the gods for that.”

Baelor nipped at her bottom lip and she swayed back into the kiss. His arms snuck under her cloak to wrap around her waist, pulling her fast against him.

A hand found her stomach, calloused palm shielding her womb. “How have your children reacted to their unborn sibling?”

It sounded foolish, but hearing him call her dragons her children, humanizing them, acknowledging how important they were to her… it warmed Dany down to her toes despite the snow.

“They knew before I did.” She told him of her dragons nosing at her stomach. “They seem protective of us both. And accepting of you.” She played with the curls loose at his neck. “Of their family.”

“Dany,” he murmured, leaning into another searing kiss.

Too soon, a page came, summoning Baelor urgently back to the courtyard. They did as the servant asked, Dany whispering farewells to her children in Valyrian.

Baelor escorted Dany back, her hand on his arm. Ghost rejoined them from wherever he’d wandered to when his master took over guard of Dany—quite the duo two, they were

Chapter Text

Arya was waiting for them in the courtyard, dressed in her leathers with a sword at her side.

His favorite sister. The only one who ever saw him as a brother.

“You still have it?”

“Needle.” She nodded, grinning. “It’s served me well.”

He felt a pang of grief for the life he and his Stark siblings were supposed to have. He was meant to teach her how to swing a sword. “You’ll have to show me what you’ve learned over the years,” he said, not bothering to hide the gruffness from his voice.

She smirked, an expression he hadn’t known he missed. “I’m sure I will be able to teach you a thing or two. You haven’t gotten slow in your age, have you?”

A laugh startled its way out of him. “My age?”

“The white hair is aging you, brother,” Arya snarked. “That’s what brought me running back here, you know. When I heard that you and Sansa were alive, I started my journey back. But when I heard you were advising the Dragon Queen on how to protect Westeros, I knew I had to get here fast. I remember you and Rob running around this very courtyard, playing knights. Remember when you two tried to flank Father from his front?”

Baelor found himself blustering. “We were eight!”

“Too old to make such a mistake.”

He started to protest, before he stopped himself from launching into a petty squabble. He’d forgotten how easily siblings could rile each other up. He pulled Arya into another crushing hug. “Where did you return from?”

Arya’s gaze shuttered. “Jon, I—”

“No, no. You don’t owe me answers.” Baelor looked into his sister’s eyes—ones that used to match his own. “I should have looked for you, Arya. I should have searched very corner of the continent until I found you—”

“Did you know I was alive?”

“No, but—”

“Jon, you swore vows to the Night’s Watch. You believed me dead. There was no reason for you to abandon your duty to search for a ghost.”

He dropped Arya’s gaze, shaking his head as the guilt threatened to overwhelm him.

Dany’s hand landed on his elbow. “Perhaps you would rather have this discussion in private, my love?” she whispered in his ear.

Arya’s smirk widened as if she heard Dany’s words.

Baelor nodded, resting his hand atop his Queen’s. “I’m not certain you two have ever been properly introduced. Dany, this is my sister, Arya Stark. Arya, this is Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of Dragons. And many more titles that seem to escape me at the moment.”

Dany laughed lightly. “I have little need for titles when meeting your sister, Jon. It is a pleasure to meet you officially, Arya.”

Arya only hesitated for a moment before shaking Dany’s outstretched hand. “Likewise, Your Grace.”

“Please, call me Dany. You’re Jon’s family.”

You’re family, Dany meant. Arya was part of their family.

“Let’s get out of the wind,” he said.

“There’s a surprise waiting for you inside, after all. You didn’t think we sent that poor page out into the snow for nothing, did you?” Arya teased.

Baelor shook his head, replacing Dany’s hand to the crook of his elbow so that he could escort her inside. Dany had no living family left—except for himself. He didn’t want her to feel like an outsider, not anymore than she already did in Winterfell.

Arya led them into the Great Hall, grinning over her shoulder before stopping at a chair. Sansa already stood beside the chair, a rare, genuine smile on her face. A chair with handles and wheels, which she used to turn the seat to face Baelor.

“Bran?” he choked out, his heart beating at a fever pitch. Yet another younger sibling he’d written off for dead, never searched for, never protected—

“This is no time for guilt over the past,” his brother said. His voice was faraway, detached, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I have seen him.”

“Seen who?” Baelor hoped his mouth wasn’t gaping like a fool.

“The Night King. The Army of the Dead will be here in a matter of hours.”

“Hours?” Dany questioned. “Our estimates gave us at least two days.”

“Your estimates were wrong,” Bran answered, his tone still aloof. “The first wights will be visible in about two hours.”

“Bran, how can you know this?”

“I do not simply know it, I saw it. I am the Three-Eyed Raven. I see much, now.”

Baelor fought the urge to insist Bran explain what exactly that meant, but Dany’s grip was tightening on his elbow.

“We need to tell our advisors. Our troops.”

She was right, of course. He needed to get armed, make sure his men were in position.

To prepare himself for what he must do.

He squeezed Dany’s hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Yes, my Queen. I will see that our forces are informed, that they ready themselves and get into position.”

“The elderly, and the women and children, we need to see they are safe.”

“I will see that all non-fighters get to the Maester’s Tower as we discussed, Your Grace,” Sansa said, surprisingly genuine.

Daenerys took it in stride. “Thank you, Lady Sansa. I will see to my Unsullied and Dothraki. Jon, you will see to the Westerosi troops?”

“Aye, my Queen.”

“I’ll make sure everyone is getting into position rather than infighting,” Arya said, walking off with a purpose.

Sansa followed her sister’s lead, pushing Bran along with her.

Dany made to leave, but Baelor caught her hand gently. “Wait, Dany, come with me. I had something made for you.”

She relented, but not without a nervous scoff. “As much as I enjoy gifts, love, I am not sure this is the time.”

He just led her to his chambers—well, the room where he kept the belongings he didn’t leave in Dany’s rooms. He picked up the parcel, happy it was wrapped in a swath of black fabric.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her.

Dany raised a brow at the obscure shape, unwrapping the parcel to reveal an elegant gambeson and a light chest of dark mail.

“Armor?” She traced a finger over the scaled design the blacksmith had somehow managed to weave into the mail.

“It’s light. It wouldn’t do for you to be weighed down by a full suit of armor. But I couldn’t think of sending you—you both—into battle, and not having anything to shield you.” Dany made to protest, but Baelor continued. “I know I will be with you. I know you will be on Drogon. But battle can be unpredictable. I just wanted even the slightest bit of peace of mind—”

“I know,” she said, catching his wrist and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. It’s perfect. I trust you will not be going into battle without your own adornments.”

He chuckled. Despite the rough-and-tumble life she’d had with the Dothraki, the struggles she’d endured—she was still a princess. Adornments.

“I’ll leave you to dress and see to your men.”

Dany trapped him in a searing kiss, as if trying to press into him her fear. And her insistence that he come back to her.

A knock on his door narrowly preceded Ser Davos entering. “Jon? Ah, sorry, lad. Your Grace. I was just looking to see if you’re ready to check the archers’ positioning.”

Dany stepped out of their embrace, picking up her parcel of armor. “I’ll see you out there, my love. Drogon and I will wait for you.”

A reminder and an order—she was not even considering Baelor taking to the field.

Knowing what he knew….

He nodded, acquiescing. “I’ll see you in but a moment, my darling.” He pressed a kiss to her temple on her way out.

As his recurring dream rushed through his mind—a nightmare, more like it, and a nightmare that was soon to be true—Baelor called out to his Queen:

“And Dany?”

She looked back at him, lilac meeting indigo.

“Have Doreah make sure your braids are tight.”

Chapter Text

Missandei and her handmaids were somber as they dressed their queen for war.

While she had never before worn armor, Daenerys was pleasantly surprised by how natural it felt. As Baelor had promised, the lightweight mail was not overly cumbersome. It was fitted close enough to her form that it moved with her rather than leaving her swimming in it.

Doreah did indeed braid her hair, as did Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui. Each took turns working on the smaller braids which they tucked and wove into her hair. A braid per victory, Dotharki tradition. Her victories in each of her cities in the Bay of Dragons. Taking the cities, but also protecting the former slaves from the masters. Defeating the Sons of the Harpy.

But also her personal victories. Mounting Drogon for the first time. Freeing Viserion and Rhaegal, and gaining their forgiveness for her misguided decision to cage them. Even before that, surviving the Red Wastes mere days after losing her child and her husband. Saving her children— and herself—from the House of the Undying.

Surviving both husbands. 

Surviving Viserys.

Dany rested her hand over the imperceptible swell to her stomach. If this babe was anything like Rhaego, she wouldn’t show for at least another moon, if not two.

If the babe lived that long…

If Dany lived that long.

Jhiqui held up Dany’s cloak, one made of black fur. She wore her black flying leathers underneath her mail and gambeson. As night fell, she had no desire to be more visible than necessary. Not only for her own safety, but for Drogon’s. Having a rider dressed in Dany’s usual white furs would make him a much more noticeable target for the Night King’s spears.

Dany stood, turning to allow her handmaid to cloak her. Irri helped with the iron fastener, looping the chain through her three-headed dragon broach.

“We wish strength and safety upon you, Khalessi,” Irri said, Jhiqui and Doreah murmuring their own well wishes.

“Thank you, my ladies. Lady Sansa knows to wait for you four before barring the doors. You will be safe.” She embraced her handmaids before dismissing them to head to the tower.

“Our concern is with you, my Queen,” Missandei said softly. “I know Drogon will carry you as best he can, but the Night King’s spears…”

Dany pulled Missandei into a hug. “You are my oldest friend. You know I cannot simply stand by as those loyal to me fight a war I have led them into.”

“I understand. That does not mean I do not also wish you would stay with me, safe.”

The queen leaned back. “I know.” She straightened the three-headed dragon circlet Missandei wore fastened at her throat and the Hand pin above her breast. “I trust you to guide our people if I cannot.”

Her friend stepped back in shock, shaking her head. “Daenerys—”

“I plan to live, my friend. But if I should fall, you must take my place.”

“I am no queen, Daenerys.”

“You are my family, Missandei. I see you as a sister; I have for years. I trust you to have the best interests of our people at heart. To listen to them. Take them back to Essos, or help them find a home here. The Dothraki and Unsullied trust you, they know you.”

Missandei was clearly searching for means to protest, lips pursed.

“Please, Missandei.”

Her Hand sighed. She gave a firm nod. “Of course, my Queen. I will honor your wishes.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

---

This was a stupid war.

Dany and Baelor flew above the carnage on Drogon, bathing the Dead in dragonfire. Visibility was dropping rapidly, the frigid mist moving in as the Night King marched closer. Wights marched relentlessly, all but throwing themselves into the Living.

For every hundred she burned, a hundred more took their place.

Her Dothraki fought to fend off the wights attempting to climb up and unseat them, their usually undaunted warhorses spooked by the Dead. The Unsullied were holding the line, protecting the retreat and the walls from the wights that managed to get through the trenches. Dany had lit the first line of barricades, turning the wights to ash but sacrificing the wooden spikes guarding the trench.

The Westerosi armies were slowly dissolving into more chaos than her Dothraki thrived upon. Their lines were becoming disjointed, letting wights past them‚ some of which were clamoring for the walls, others were turning back on the soldiers to attack from their weak flanks. Baelor kept trying to shout orders for them to reposition when Drogon swept low enough, but over the din of battle it was impossible to hear him.

Finally, the Night King became visible. He was rows and rows back on the field, guiding his skeletal horse at a leisurely walk as he surveyed the carnage ahead of him with the expressionlessness Dany had expected of a dead man.

Baelor’s hand abandoned his grip on one of Drogon’s spines in favor of tightening on Dany’s hip at the sight of the Night King. Dany looked back at him and, despite the fire in his indigo eyes, shook her head. It was too soon. 

The Night King was too far back, his army too vast for Dany to fly Drogon away from the front lines. Viserion and Rhaegal were doing their best to aid in the firefight, but without a rider to guide them Dany had urged them to avoid getting too close to the human forces. To pull Drogon away from the front lines so soon would risk their forces being overwhelmed.

Dany turned Drogon into continual sweeping passes, burning at least a hundred wights in one go. The temporary gaps she created in the horde of Dead were filled almost instantly by more wights lumbering forward to take their place.

Their men were forced back beyond the first set of barricades, her Dothraki funneling back and around the Unsullied shield line to begin attacking the flanks of the Dead. The Westerosi attempted to fill the holes in the Unsullied, throwing up shields of their own.

The archers were flagging. Despite the thousands of dragonglass arrows the blacksmiths had forged, they were running low, shooting sparingly in hopes of avoiding wasting shots.

It was just as Dany was attempting to estimate how many of her Dotharki had fallen on the field, the first ice spear flew past Dany’s head.

Baelor pressed Dany down into Drogon’s back. She pulled Drogon into a sharp turn, coaxing him to climb away from the Night King’s reach.

“Now, Dany!” Baelor cried. “We’re running out of time!”

She spared a glance at him before returning her focus to guiding Drogon through evasive maneuvers. Baelor’s white hair whipped around his face as they flew on dragonback, making him look like a true Targaryen prince.

Deciding to trust him, Dany steered Drogon away from the front lines.

Towards the Night King.

She saw him raise another spear and take aim. Getting higher would be farther out of the Night King’s reach, but Drogon was slower climbing through the air.

As she saw the Night King wound up to throw—

 “Ilagon!” she cried.

Drogon dove. The spear sailed above them, missing yet again. Dany pulled Drogon out of the dive, but didn’t dare let herself relax.

The plan was simple in concept. Once enough wights had fallen and they’d drawn the Night King out, Dany would guide Drogon close enough to begin bathing him in dragonfire, Baelor flying with her to protect them from spears. Either cutting them away with his sword if possible, or just as another set of eyes.

With Drogon approaching head on, the Night King didn’t even notice Dany summoning Viserion and Rhaegal to her. They slipped into the darkness, silently flanking.

The Night King raised another spear. Dany yanked Drogon into a series of twisting turns, attempting to be erratic in the face of their proximity to the threat. Despite Dany’s every attempt to guide her child, the spear tore straight through Drogon’s wing.

Her mount roared, veering directly for the Night King in his fury.

Drogon bathed the dead man in fire without needing Dany’s direction. The Night King dismounted and raised another spear, but Rhaegal came careening out of the shadows, his own flame distracting the Night King mid throw.

The spear missed, but Dany quickly realized the Night King’s focus had shifted. Viserion screeched, joining his brothers in burning the Night King, but within the flames, he stood untouched.

Unbothered despite being in the middle of a firestorm, the Night King looked out across the field. He began a slow march towards Winterfell—and raised his hands.

Across the field, fallen wights and Living seemed to shudder. The Night King continued his death march, his power rippling over the bones he sought to command. He wrenched their resting souls back to this earthly plane, forcing them into a life of servitude and endless war.

She saw a flash of steel out of the corner of her eye as Baelor drew his sword. She was about to point out to him that her dragons had melted Night King’s stash of spears, to insist they fall back to burning the wights until they came up with a plan to kill the head of the monstrous army, when Baelor swung his legs over the side of Drogon.

He pulled her into a searing kiss, mumbling something into her lips before twisting away—

And leaping from Drogon’s back, directly into the maelstrom of three dragons, sword pointed at the Night King’s heart.

Chapter Text

As it was all unfolding before him, Baelor felt none of the fear and stress he had during his dreams. He watched as the wights overwhelmed the armies of the Living, forcing them back behind the first set of barricades and trenches, then the second, then threatening the walls.

He held fast as Dany burned hundreds if not thousands of wights in pass after pass over the field, unflinching in her steering of her mount. Her riderless children each held a flank, stopping wights who threatened to attack the sides of their armies by bathing them in flames.

Then he saw it. Saw him.

The Night King emerged from the thick fog he’d created astride his skeletal mount. He threw multiple spears at Dany. She urged Drogon through evasive maneuvers so steep they had Baelor’s stomach turning, but even her expert flying was only so good. An ice spear ripped through Drogon’s wing, enraging the dragon, who dove for the Night King.

The other two dragons converged, joining their elder brother in his attack.

The Night King raised his hands, resurrecting every fallen soldier to his unholy, unyielding cause.

And that was when Baelor saw it. The way Dany leaned forward astride Drogon, the way the wind ripped at the insistent strands of hair that escaped from her braids.

He knew his next move. He knew his role, his purpose.

He drew Longclaw. Dany looked back at him, gaze pinched with confusion.

He allowed himself one deviation from his dreams. He leaned forward and stole one final kiss from his Queen, his love, his family.

“I’m sorry, Dany,” he murmured against her lips.

And threw himself off Drogon’s back.

He narrowly managed to angle himself such that he avoided Drogon’s beating wings.

He plunged into the three torrents of dragonflame, the tip of Longclaw pointed directly at the Night King’s heart. He felt the fire turning his clothes to ash, licking at his skin, but he did not let his sword waiver.

A frigid blade pierced the Night King’s chest amidst a maelstrom of dragonflame.

The Army of the Dead fell.

Dany was alive.

Her children and their unborn babe were alive.

Winterfell was saved.

And he could rest.

---

Dany knelt beside the corpse of the love of her life, unmoving. She did not know how long she stayed there, staring at his silent, motionless form as snowmelt seeped into the knees of her trousers.

In her peripheral, men were moving about the field. Locating their dead. Tending to the wounded.

His clothes had been badly burnt by her children’s flames. Underneath the soot and ash, she could see the deep redness of his skin where he’d been burned.

There was no wound on him. No lifeblood seeping from him.

Had the fall killed him? Or had she? Had the fire she ordered her children to rain down been what took his final breath from him?

Drogon was behind her, giving her more space than he usually did when she was out in the Northern elements. Could he sense her uncertainty? Her guilt?

Sunlight leached through the clouds. People cheered from the battlements of the keep, welcoming the new dawn. 

It made Dany want to scream. This was no time for relief, no time for rejoicing.

Baelor’s eyes were still open, his red irises vacant. He looked so pale, lying in the ruined snow.

The Night King had shattered when Baelor’s sword pierced his chest. Leaving no trace behind. No proof of Baelor’s incredible sacrifice.

Men were assembling pyres, gently laying bodies down on beds of ironwood and pine.

A hand met Dany’s shoulder, jolting her from her reverie.

“My Queen. The Northmen are asking after Lord Snow’s body.”

Greyworm. Her loyal commander spoke in Valyrian, giving them a guise of privacy on the open field.

“They want to bury his bones with his ancestors. In the crypts.”

Dany snarled, feeling remnants of the fire that had once coursed through her veins just hours ago. “They will not have him.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“They turned their backs on him. They never accepted him. They never wanted him, not as he truly was. They will not have him for eternity.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“He will have a pyre. In the tradition of our house.”

“As you wish—”

“His own. A place of honor. For his sacrifice.” Her voice broke. Her fingernails bit into her palms, the pain keeping her grounded.

Greyworm returned his hand to her shoulder. A light weight so as not to be overwhelming, but a comfort nonetheless. “I will see it done, my Queen.”

He let her be, going off to see to her wishes.

A gentle wind wove over the field, stirring a few wisps of white hair into his face. His expression was still marred with seriousness, with the stress and focus of his final moments. Not even in death was he at peace.

Dany leaned forward, gently moving the hair from his face. With a trembling hand she could not feel, she closed his eyes and smoothed out his brow. Attempting to give his physical form a semblance of the peace she hoped he was feeling in the afterlife.

Silent steps preceded her next visitor. Arya.

“He was a hero,” she choked out. “You both were.”

Dany fought a scoff. She’d done nothing. Her dragons’ flames were not enough to stop the Night King. Her added forces had not turned the tide in the favor of the Living.

The only lasting effect she had was burned into Baelor’s skin.

Baelor’s sister was gone as swiftly as she had come.

Her grief warped to anger. She fought the urge to scream, to rage. At fate, at the Night King—at Baelor.

A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

I came back for you. In whatever way you will have me.

Only to leave her. Leave them.

Her stomach lurched, nausea threatening to claw up her throat.

She’d lost her parents before she knew them, one to madness, one to the birthing bed. She lost her eldest brother before her birth. She lost the only family she had ever known to madness yet again, madness that drove him to hold a sword to her. She lost her sun and stars, her babe. She lost another, who she’d never even known was growing within her.

And now, her nephew, her lover, her family…

If she lost the babe now… she did not know if she could survive it.

“Your Grace, the pyres are ready.”

The sun had risen past its peak, shining in the midafternoon sky.

Dany was freezing, her mail covered in frost. She’d lost all feeling in her legs and hands. 

“Your Grace?”

A cold nose pressed into her cheek. Ghost. Come to mourn his master.

One of his ears was now notched, his white coat spattered with blood and mud. His red gaze never left Baelor’s unmoving form, though he leaned into Dany’s side.

Lending her his strength.

Dany felt herself nodding. Men in Westerosi garb lifted Baelor onto a gurney, escorting him to his funeral pyre.

She didn’t remember standing, let alone walking across the silent field, but she found herself beside the pile of ironwood and tinder. Her children had followed her, their warmth leeching into her skin from their scales in her chest.

A calm swept over her at the sight of Baelor’s body nestled amongst the wood. The whispers of the warlocks of the House of the Undying came back to her.

She mounted the pyre, kneeling again beside Baelor.

And she understood.

“Dracarys.”

Her children didn’t move. Drogon trilled at her, Viserion and Rhaegal shifting their stances.

Three treasons will you know… once for love…

And gods how she had loved him. And he betrayed her, pressing a gentle, loving kiss to her lips before leaping from Drogon’s back.

Three mounts must you ride… one to love…

Baelor saved the living, but doomed her to a life of solitude. Breaking her heart. Leaving her alone.

“Your Grace!”

Three fires must you light… one for life and one for death and one to love…

Drogo’s pyre, his and their son’s deaths—they had given her the life of her dragons.

Fire bathing the Night King, a pyre for death. Fulfilling the Song of Ice and Fire, whether the Night King was Ice or Jon…. She supposed she’d played her role.

…one to love…

“Daenerys!” Missandei.

“Dracarys,” she ordered. Three dragonscales warmed in her skin, filling her with her children’s worry at her grief, with their confusion at her order. They’d lit many a funeral pyre, but never with their mother on it.

She was the Unburnt, she was fire made flesh. But Baelor was supposed to be the Undying. Equally as mystical, equally as touched by magic and fate. Her lover, her partner, her family—

“Dracarys!” she bellowed.

Three roars filled her ears as flame began to lick at her sides.

Chapter Text

Shouts and screams echoed across the open expanse of bloodied snow.

Reachmen, Stormlanders, and Dornishmen alike rushed towards the Dragon Queen as her children lit the pyre for the White Wolf—with the queen on it. Lords still mounted on their horses hollered orders at their men. To do what exactly was as unclear as why the queen had told her dragons to light the pyre with her on it.

Her own men— Unsullied and Dothraki—did not make such moves. This was far from the first time they had seen their queen enveloped in flame.

But these were no ordinary flames.

Not like the ones on the Dothraki sea that had lit Khal Drogo’s pyre. Flames lit from tinder and linen, flames the queen walked into and walked out carrying three dragons born from stone.

Not like the ones that burned the khals of Vaes Dothrak. Flames made from timber and thatch, flames the queen lit and walked out of the Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea.

Those flames had been red and orange, yellow and white at the hottest centers. Miraculous in that she remained untouched, Unburnt—but benign in appearance.

These flames were not benign.

Amidst the expected oranges and yellows danced green and red, gold and black.

The wood was engulfed in an instant, the northern ironwood strong but no match for three torrents of dragonflame.

Through the flames, the indistinct figure of the Dragon Queen was occasionally visible. She appeared to be kneeling, then shifting to lay within the flames as if she were resting amongst the embers.

The dragons kept up their firestreams, their roars and trills filling the air with a mournful, desperate song.

Armored men stopped as close as they dared, giving the raging dragons a wide berth. A crowd gathered on the ramparts of Winterfell, straining to see over the mass of soldiers encircling the dragons.

After what felt like an eternity, the dragons ceased their flames. In unison, they took to the skies.

Triplet shadows circled the pyre, watching along with the survivors of the Great War as the flames slowly began to dim.

The field was so silent, men closest to the pyre found themselves walking closer. In curiosity, in fear of both leaders—heroes, truly—having fallen in the flames.

The Hand of the Dragon Queen, the Lady Missandei—broke from the crowd. She held up a hand, asking the soldiers to stay where they were, coaxed by whispers emanating from the fire.

The Dragon Queen.

Her soft timbre reached the ears of her closest friend. The lady approached calmly, but the quake in her clasped hands betrayed her dismay.

Please.

Please, Baelor.

Come back to me, my love.

The flames banked in the winter wind.

As the fire finally died, exposing charcoal and glowing embers, two forms remained.

Their flesh was pale, untouched by the flames that had ravaged the pyre around them.

A female form dressed in mail and tatters of cloth and leather laid tucked into the side of the man. His clothes were even worse for wear. A few red marks marred his skin where her red-hot mail had touched his much more fragile skin.

The woman’s hair fell around her in silver-gold waves, shaking slightly as she wept into the man’s chest.

But the man…

Jon Snow had gone into the pyre, with red eyes and white hair, a sign of his improper resurrection at Castle Black. Chest riddled with half-formed scars that would never fully heal. Mind muddled, spirit torn between the land of the living and the beyond.

Where the Red Woman had beseeched her Lord of Light to bring back the soul of Jon Snow. To bring him back, to return to his body the Prince Who Was Promised.

But Jon Snow was not the Promised Prince. Thus he was brought back wrong, his features distorted, turned as wrong as his direwolf’s albino characteristics or perhaps attempting to resemble his true Targaryen heritage.

But he did have a part to play. The Lord of Light returned Jon Snow’s soul to his body and sent him off on his destiny: to return the Prince Who Was Promised.

Only when Jon Snow was in the presence of Daenerys Targaryen did his mind truly return from the afterlife, did his spirit truly reignite.

Did his eyes turn indigo—a true indication of his dragon blood.

But the man on the pyre—

His hair was dark Stark brown, nearly black.

And his eyes—as they shot open—were an amethyst grey.