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Chapter Text

Just a few notes before you start reading:
- This story takes place in King's Landing; Jon and Dany are around 21/22 years old; as this is a fanfic based on a book and not the series, Jon has a hybrid appearance linked to Ghost - white hair, red eyes and a slightly "animalistic" appearance, as well as a more wild personality; as in the series, Jon is the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, but since their marriage was never legitimized, he is still considered a bastard. However, in Robb's will, Jon was legitimized as a Stark and heir to Winterfell. After the long night, he abdicates his right as lord of the North to live with Daenerys as her king consort, making Sansa the protector of the North. His real name, unlike in the series, is Aemon Snow, Aemon Stark some time later, reinforcing the idea that he is as much Stark as Targaryen. I really wanted to explore this in depth with chapters, but I don't have the capacity for it. I mean, I don't think I could be consistent with the events of the books without leaving any plot holes, so this will be the information you'll have so far. Maybe I'll do a chapter or two exploring more of their past, but the focus will be on their lives now as parents and rulers. Oh, and in case you have any doubts, I really don't think they'll have a happy ending in the books (there's a 90% chance our Dany will die). Anyway, this is a fanfic for those who like the couple, especially in the books.

Chapter Text

Daenerys.

The new moon hid King's Landing under a veil of darkness. The towers of the Red Keep rose like shadows, and the gate torches could barely move the night away. Daenerys dismounted exhausted, her legs heavy, her body throbbing from days of travel and nights of forced smiles. The sea salt still stuck to the silver hair, and the embroidered dress seemed to weigh like an armor.

All I wanted was a shower, sweet wine and silence. Preferably in this order.

Jon was waiting for her under the arch of the gate. The black cape hid the figure from him, but the white hair escaped under the hood, and the red eyes burned in the dim light like living embers. It wasn't a cold look - there was something there that warmed her inside, even when he didn't say a word.

- I just want a bed... and silence - Dany murmured, handing the reins to a sleepy squire.

Jon didn't answer. The small smile - almost a contained growl - appeared on his lips.

- I can give you both - he finally said. - Or something better.

She arched her eyebrow, too tired to guess. But when he took his hand and drove through the side corridors, he didn't argue. They didn't go to the royal quarters. The steps echoed softly in the narrow passages, illuminated by spaced torches.

- Jon, what are you up to?

- I don't want the queen today. I just want you. - The voice was deep, almost animal. - Change those clothes.

In a small chamber, away from curious eyes, simple clothes waited: wool tunic, hooded cape, boots without embroidery. Dany laughed, exhausted but amused, as she undressed the royal silk. Jon dressed equally modestly, but even so the broad-shouldered bearing and predatory walking betrayed who he was.

⸻

Jon.

She didn't ask any more questions. I knew there was a plan, and I trusted it. Jon moved like a Ghost in the snow, silent and attentive. The city slept, but never in peace. Porto Real smelled of smoke, sea breeze, cheap wine and sewage. Drunken voices echoed from distant taverns, dogs turned garbage in the alleys, and the warm air always seemed too humid.

They went through dimly lit streets, avoiding patrols, until they reached a tavern near the river gate. Jon felt his heart speed up - not from fear, but from excitement. It's been years since I've seen Daenerys laugh without calculation, without subjects, without counselors or crowns. Today, he thought, she will laugh again.

The tavern was full of sailors and fishermen. The lute music was badly played, but alive. The air was heavy with smoke and wine. No one looked twice at the hooded couple who came in.

- Two mugs - said Jon, throwing coins on the counter. - From the fort.

Dany raised an eyebrow and smiled.

- Trying to get me drunk, Stark?

- Trying to remind you that you still know how to laugh - replied Jon, drinking as if the wine were water.

She coughed as she swallowed the first sip. The heat spread quickly, letting him laugh lightly. Under the hood, the violet eyes shone, and Jon felt something wild grow inside him.

They danced. Bad, but they danced. Dany was spinning with his silver hair escaping from the hood, and Jon, for the first time in months, let out a real laugh - not the restrained half-smile of a counselor or king, but an open, almost childish laugh. A drunk man tried to get too close, and Jon gave him such an icy look that it was enough to push him away.

- You're looking like a hungry wolf - laughed Daenerys, leaning against the counter, panting.

- I'm hungry - Jon replied, his red eyes fixed on her. - But not of food.

⸻

Daenerys.

It was strange to feel anonymous. Strange and delicious.

For a few hours, she was not the Mother of Dragons, nor the Chain Breaker, nor the Queen of Westeros. She was just a young woman, drinking wine with the man she loved. Jon was different - lighter and wilder at the same time. The unaligned white hair, the blush of the wine, the look that seemed to cross her like a blade.

They left late at night, stumbling through the alleys. The bay wind was cooler, but the heat of the wine made the blood run fast. They were laughing, bumping into each other, until Jon pulled her under a dark stone arch, away from any torch.

- What if someone sees us? - she asked, still laughing.

- So you'll know what a king does when he's lucky - murmured Jon, before kissing her urgently.

⸻

Jon.

The taste of the wine in her mouth was sweet and acidic at the same time. The smell of the city mixed with the heat of Daenerys' body, and Jon didn't remember when he had laughed like that for the last time. Not even when I had looked at her without also seeing the crown.

They came back like thieves, using secret passages and avoiding guards. The heart beat like Ghost's before the hunt. In the real room, the silence weighed, until they locked themselves inside and the silence was broken.

The kisses came hot. The laughter became sighs. Thick wool and royal silk fell to the ground, piece by piece. Jon's red eyes shone like fire, but it was human heat - and animal too. The candles illuminated the room with trembling light, and the night, which seemed about to end, prolonged as if it refused to die.

The doors closed behind them with a deaf snap, muffling the last echoes of laughter in the city. Jon turned the key before any servant dared to interrupt.

Daenerys dropped the cloak on the floor without care - she didn't even look like the same queen who spent hours worrying about protocols and flags. The simple dress she had worn as a disguise slipped down her shoulders when Jon pulled the cord from his back, and fell at her feet as if he had begged to be forgotten.

His heart beat like in a battle. Every sip of wine turned into heat running through the veins. He saw her naked under the dim light of the candles, her golden skin illuminated as if it were made of flames. For a moment, it wasn't the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in front of him - it was just Daenerys, his wife, the woman he wanted as much as the air.

Jon approached slowly, feeling the sweet smell of her hair mixed with sweat and smoke from the tavern. When he kissed her, there was no hurry, just a deep hunger that had been kept for days. The hands slid down her waist, firm, pulling her close to his body.

- I missed you - she whispered, biting her lower lip.

He didn't answer with words. He gently pushed her to the edge of the bed, laying her on the still cold sheets. The wolf in him growled low - not audible, but present - and Jon let some of this savagery escape. Kisses went down her neck, down her shoulders, until Daenerys arched her back in a short moan when his mouth reached her breasts.

The candles flittered on the nightstand, as if they wanted to watch. Her breathing accelerated, her fingers turned in his white hair tightly. When Jon knelt between her legs, Daenerys let out a drunken laugh - part surprise, part pure desire.

He tasted her with cruel patience, feeling every shudder, every moan swallowed by the lips. Daenerys tried to say something, but the words dissolved into a muffled scream when he deepened his touch and tongue. He held her firmly by the hips when she wanted to escape the pleasure that came too fast.

- Aemon... - her voice was almost a sob.

When he finally went up to find her, both were panting, their skin wet. Jon penetrated her with a single slow movement, and the world seemed to shrink until it fit into the space between their bodies. The rhythm began contained, but soon became urgent, desperate - as if they were trying to recover every second stolen by real duty.

Daenerys scratched his back, pulling him deeper, and Jon bit her shoulder so as not to scream. The warmth of the wine, the feeling of absolute belonging, everything mixed. When the climax came, it was almost violent - a roar stuck in his throat, an open scream from her, both trembling as if the Fortress's own floor trembled under them.

They fell exhausted on the crowed sheets, laughing low, with irregular breathing. Jon ran his hand over her face, pushing away her hair stuck with sweat.

- We should run away more often - he murmured.

- And leave the throne alone? - she replied, still out of breath.

- The throne won't miss us.

She smiled, sleepy, and fell asleep in his arms before he could say anything else. Jon stood there, listening to her heart slow down, feeling whole for the first time in weeks.

Chapter Text

The room still smelled of wine, melted wax, and the warmth of two skins that had met like fire and ice the night before.

Daenerys was breathing deeply, her silver hair spread across the pillow, when the door banged open.

— Kepa! Muña! (Dad! Mom!) — the childish voice echoed before they both even woke. — Ziry iksos tubī! (it's today)

Rhaegar rushed in, his bare feet slapping the carpet. His wavy silver hair was disheveled, falling over his violet eyes, which shone like pent-up fire. His Valyrian-featured face resembled a masculine version of her own; if it weren’t for the smile and the wild hair, she might have sworn Jon’s blood had ceased to have any effect after he was resurrected.

— Today is my name day!

Jon opened his eyes slowly, stifling a laugh as he saw his son standing before the bed, his chest puffed out like a little king.

— We almost forgot… — he murmured sarcastically.

Daenerys sat up slowly, stretching out her arms. Rhaegar jumped onto the bed and wedged himself between them, trembling with anticipation.

Right behind him, Lyanna entered through the door, led by a serving girl trying to keep up. Her silver-gold hair was tangled, and her violet eyes half-closed with sleep. Unlike her brother, she had taken after her father’s northern features, reminding Daenerys of Arya at times.

— He wouldn’t let me sleep — she complained, yawning loudly. — He was up all night talking about his name day.

— Because it’s important! — Rhaegar retorted, clutching his mother’s arm. — I’m already four.

— Four isn’t much — Lyanna grumbled, but ended up throwing herself into Jon’s lap, hiding her face against his chest.

Daenerys’s soft laughter filled the room. She kissed her firstborn’s forehead.

— Ñuha tresy sēnagon. (“My son has grown.”) — Her mother tongue was a way for only her and her son to communicate, since Jon only understood a few words that Daenerys repeated, like “I love you”, “my love”, “faster” and Lyanna was still very young.

Rhaegar lit up at the compliment and answered proudly, stumbling slightly over the Valyrian words:

— Nyke jāhor eman sȳz jentys. (“I will be a good prince.”)

Jon exchanged a look with Daenerys. Though he didn’t understand the exact meaning, he could read his son well, and for a moment, neither of them saw only the boy — but the distant echo of everything he might one day be.

⸻

Shortly afterward, the family gathered in the breakfast hall. The table was lavish: freshly baked bread, golden honey, southern citrus fruits, and spiced eggs. Rhaegar sat upright in his chair, striving to look dignified, though his leg bounced under the table with impatience.

— What do you want for your name day? — Jon asked, handing him a slice of honey cake.

The boy raised his serious violet eyes and answered without hesitation:

— I want to meet Viserion, so I can finally have a dragon like you.

— You don’t choose a dragon, he chooses you — Lyanna said, rolling her eyes. Despite being a year younger, she spoke as if she were the older sister and never missed a chance to needle her brother.

There was a brief silence. Daenerys placed her hand over her son’s, her gaze soft but steady.

— As soon as the Dragonpit is ready, we’ll bring your winged brothers from Dragonstone. Then you can see Viserion with your own eyes.

Rhaegar took a deep breath, absorbing the promise as if it were more valuable than any material gift. Then, with unexpected conviction for someone only four years old, he murmured:

— I’ll wait. But he’s already mine.

Lyanna snorted, stealing a piece of cake from her brother’s plate.

⸻

The next few hours were a whirlwind of preparations. Servants scurried about, carrying banners, while the soldiers of the Kingsguard donned polished armor for the occasion. The Red Keep’s corridors filled with the aroma of roasting meats, spices, and wine wafting from the bustling kitchens.

When the doors to the great hall finally opened, a roar of voices filled the air. Nobles, lords of King’s Landing, and even artisans chosen to represent the people eagerly awaited the royal family’s entrance. The tapestries of three-headed dragons shimmered in the golden light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

Daenerys walked ahead, resplendent in a blue silk gown, her dragon crown resting on her loosely braided silver hair that fell to her waist. Jon followed beside her with equal grandeur, his red eyes steady and his posture firm — though his discomfort with the pomp was clear on his face. He, too, wore blue.

Between them was Rhaegar. He wore a dark velvet tunic embroidered with silver, his wavy strands of hair carefully arranged, though stubborn locks still fell across his forehead. The boy struggled to maintain a serious demeanor, but his violet eyes burned with anticipation and pride.

Lyanna walked beside him, holding the handmaiden’s hand, until she darted forward to wedge herself between her brother and their parents, drawing quiet laughter from those present.

— Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. King Aemon of House Stark. Princess Lyanna of House Targaryen — the herald announced. — And finally, the Crown Prince, Rhaegar of House Targaryen!

A thunderous applause filled the hall. Nobles bowed, the people cheered. Rhaegar lifted his chin, whispering in Valyrian, low enough for Daenerys alone to hear:

— Pōnta ñuhys issi. (“They love me.”)

She smiled, proud and yet fearful of the fire so early lit.

⸻

The feast began. Lavish tables stretched across the hall, and musicians filled the air with joyful melodies. Noble children ran to Rhaegar with gifts: small wooden swords, a dragon carved from black stone, a miniature horse.

— I want my real gift — Rhaegar said as he approached his mother, his fingers caressing the carved dragon. — I want to see Viserion.

Daenerys knelt before him, holding his small hands.

— Ñuha tresy, the dragon is still on Dragonstone. But the Dragonpit will be ready, and then he will come here. — Her violet eyes softened. — On that day, you’ll be able to meet him, as you’ve always wanted.

Rhaegar nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. Jon, sensing this, lifted the boy and sat him on his shoulders.

— Until then, you’ll have to make do with cake — he said, drawing laughter from his daughter.

The musicians’ song rose, and the servants brought out the large name day cake: three tiers, decorated with small flames made of caramel sugar. The people applauded, and Lyanna clapped so hard she laughed at herself.

— I want the fire part! — she shouted.

From his father’s shoulders, Rhaegar raised his arm like a little king, receiving the applause and affection of the people, never taking his eyes off the horizon beyond the hall’s windows — where, in his imagination, the dragon he saw in his dreams was waiting for him

Chapter Text

The sea seemed endless. Gray waves crashed against the hull of the royal ship, rising like liquid walls that dissolved into foam before beginning their cycle again. The wind howled between the mast ropes, and the billowing sails carried the vessel swiftly. The smell of salt permeated the air, mingled with the constant creaking of the wood.

Daenerys stood at the bow, her hand resting on the cold rail. Her silver hair, loose, stirred like white flames against the stormy sky. She stared at the horizon, where the sea met the dark clouds. It wasn’t just the voyage itself that stirred her—it was the destination. Dragonstone. The ancestral home of the Targaryens. The place where her children awaited her. She missed them every day, but it was too dangerous for them to remain in King’s Landing without a place made specifically for them; she had never forgotten the events in Meereen. It had been almost a moon since Rhaegar asked to meet Viserion as a nameday gift, and they only had time now to grant the boy’s request.

Jon approached, silent as ever. His black cloak fluttered in the wind, and Ghost, lying a few feet away, kept his red eyes fixed on the queen, alert for any movement.

— You’re restless — Jon said quietly, so only she could hear.

Daenerys took a deep breath before replying:

— It’s been so long since I’ve seen them. I miss them by my side.

He stood beside her, his eyes also turned to the horizon.

— I miss Rhaegal too. Sometimes I feel as if I left a piece of myself on that island.

Daenerys turned her gaze to him, studying his sharp profile, the set of his jaw, and smiled almost imperceptibly.

— You two are more alike than you know.

Before he could answer, quick footsteps echoed across the deck. Rhaegar appeared, his silver hair wet from the sea spray, running nonstop.

— Are we close to arriving yet? — he asked, clinging to his mother’s arm.

— That’s the third time you’ve asked that, son. — Jon laughed as he further ruffled Rhaegar’s hair until it was a silvery tangle. Daenerys rolled her eyes, trying to hide a smile.

— Let me fix that. — She took the boy’s hand and led him to the cabin. She combed his hair carefully, untangling the knots the wind and Jon had created. Her son’s hair was already past his shoulders. To avoid further such situations, Daenerys tied it into a half-up bun, keeping it out of his face. — When you think your hair is ready for a cut, just let me know, okay? — She finally finished styling it.

— I like my hair like this — he said, looking at himself in the mirror. — It makes me look older.

— It makes you look more like Mom — Lyanna said, yawning. She had just woken up.

— Yeah, I like that.

They were almost there, the sun already beginning to dip below the horizon when the ship rocked harder. The sea was rougher, and the crew moved quickly to adjust the sails. Daenerys held steady for a few moments, but then a stronger wave shook the ship, and a sudden sickness rose in her throat.

She leaned against the rail, breathing deeply.

— Is everything okay? — Jon approached, his voice thick with concern.

— The rocking… — she answered too quickly, swallowing hard. — I’m not used to it.

It was a lie, and Jon knew it. She had crossed entire seas, often on far worse vessels, and had never wavered. But he didn’t insist. He simply held her arm firmly until she regained her balance.

Daenerys lifted her chin, as if trying to dispel any sign of weakness. She returned to watching the sea, disguising the slight tremor in her hands. The nausea passed as quickly as it had come, but left her with a strange sensation, as if her own body were playing tricks on her.

Night fell, and the stars began to dot the dark sky. The moon reflected off the water, forming a silvery path that seemed to lead straight to Dragonstone. The crew lit torches, and the deck was filled with the dancing flames.

Rhaegar fell asleep first, exhausted from the excitement, his head resting on his mother’s lap. She murmured songs in Valyrian, her fingers running through her children’s hair. Lyanna, more resistant, took a while to close her eyes, but was eventually overcome by the constant rocking of the sea.

Jon watched the scene in silence. His heart ached to see her like this: mother, queen, woman. So strong, yet so vulnerable. For a moment, he wished this crossing would never end, that they could live just like this—together, no thrones, no crowns, just them and their children.

Daenerys felt his gaze and looked up. There was something unspoken between them, something that didn’t need to be expressed. She placed her hand over his, squeezing it gently.

The sea flowed on, and Dragonstone awaited them.

The ship glided slowly through the sea until it anchored near the small dock of Dragonstone. Night had already departed, and the sky was now a pale blanket tinged with orange hues by the rising sun. The island loomed before them like a sleeping beast: mountainous, rugged, made of black stone that gleamed in the morning light. The towers of the fortress dominated the horizon, silhouetted against the clouds like sharp claws.

Daenerys took a deep breath, feeling a shiver run down her spine. This wasn’t just a place. Part of her soul rested there—along with her dragons.

The children moved closer to the railing to get a better look. Rhaegar’s eyes widened at the sight of dragon heads carved into the stone, their mouths open in eternal roars.

Jon approached, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to take in every detail of the fortress. Ghost growled softly, his ears pricked, but soon calmed when he felt Jon’s firm hand on his white fur.

When they disembarked, the sounds of the sea were replaced by the clack of boots against stone. The path wound uphill to the keep, a long staircase that seemed endless.

Daenerys led the way up, her dress dragging against the ancient stones. However, after a few dozen steps, her body felt heavier than expected. A tightness in her chest, her breath short.

She paused for a moment, resting her hand on the stone wall, as if simply contemplating the view. Jon, alert, noticed immediately.

— Are you tired? — he asked quietly, so his children wouldn’t hear.

— Just… it’s been a while since I’ve been up these stairs — she replied, quickly resuming her pace.

Jon didn’t insist, but followed closely behind her. He knew it wasn’t just fatigue. Dany rarely let herself be overcome by physical exertion, and this sudden exhaustion worried him. Still, he respected her silence.

Rhaegar ran up the stairs, eager, nearly tripping with each step, until Jon had to reprimand him:

— Slowly, or you’ll reach the top before everyone else and pass out from wasted breath.

Lyanna trailed behind, unhurried, watching everything with her usual bored expression. Sometimes she kicked small stones, as if the Targaryen ancestral castle were just another place.

When they finally reached the main courtyard of the keep, a deep rumbling sound shook the ground. A roar echoed from the top of the walls, followed by another. The children flinched instinctively, but Daenerys looked up with a smile that lit her tired face.

From the sky, three immense shadows tore through the air. Drogon was the first to descend, colossal, his wings outstretched like the night itself. His talons scraped the stone as he landed, and the roar he let out made everyone’s hearts pound.

Soon after, Rhaegal appeared, more agile, spinning before landing hard. His green scales glinted in the sunlight. And last, Viserion hovered in the air for a few moments, his white and gold form almost ghostly against the sky, before descending silently.

She stepped forward without hesitation. Drogon lowered his head, allowing her to touch his black scales. The warmth emanating from his body enveloped her like an embrace. Daenerys closed her eyes for a moment, her heart finally soothed. Soon it was Viserion and Rhaegal’s turn.

Jon stood a few steps behind, watching. He felt the same call coming from Rhaegal, who stared at him with glowing red eyes. The air around the dragon seemed to vibrate, and Jon knew this reunion couldn’t be postponed for long.

Rhaegar, for his part, ran a few steps, trying to get closer to Viserion. His eyes were filled with fascination, and every muscle in his body trembled with anticipation.

— He’s beautiful… — he murmured, almost in a trance.

Lyanna, clinging to Jon’s leg, murmured softly:

— They’re so big.

She couldn’t hide the curious glint in her eyes as she saw Viserion more closely.

Daenerys caressed Drogon as if rediscovering a part of herself. She murmured words in Valyrian. The dragon roared softly, as if responding. Jon watched her with a mixture of respect and desire: in that moment, she seemed more than a queen. She seemed a living myth.

The dragons were gathered, and each one present sensed in the air that something greater was about to happen.

The air on Dragonstone seemed to vibrate. Each breath of the dragons made the torches tremble, and Jon felt his heart beat in time with that deep sound, almost a thunderclap trapped in the green creature’s chest.

Rhaegal approached slowly, his immense shadow cast against the courtyard walls. His green scales gleamed in the golden morning light, but what most captivated Jon were his eyes: red, intense, alive. The same ones he’d carried on his own face since the transformation Ghost and the fire had inflicted.

The dragon lowered its head, and silence fell. Daenerys knew it was the decisive moment—there was always a moment when the dragon decided to approach or retreat, to accept or reject. But between Jon and Rhaegal, she already knew the answer.

Because it had happened before.

⸻

The first time, Jon could hardly believe he was still breathing. Dragonstone rose like a black fist against the stormy sea, and he felt stranger there than anywhere else. The dark corridors, the dragon-engraved stones—everything seemed to whisper to him that this was not the world of a Northern bastard.

But there was something stronger than doubt. A call that didn’t come from the queen, nor from the throne. It came from above, from the courtyard where the wind carried the scent of ash and heat.

Jon remembered well the weight of his boots against the stone as he climbed the stairs. Ghost growled low, restless, but didn’t move away. And then, when he reached the top, he saw him: Rhaegal, hunched over like a living mountain, his red eyes fixed on him.

The dragon didn’t roar. It didn’t move. It just watched him.

Jon felt his blood run cold and burn at the same time. He had seen dragons before, yes, but always from afar, always through Daenerys, who controlled them as if they were part of her. Here, however, there was no one between them. Only man and beast.

And the gaze.

Red against red.

It was like being pierced by fire and ice at the same time. Those flaming eyes saw neither Stark nor Targaryen. They saw neither king nor bastard. They saw loneliness. They saw exile in flesh and spirit.

Jon took a step. Another. The wind burned his face, and still he did not turn away. When he raised his hand, he believed it would be his last gesture before being reduced to ash. But his fingers brushed the rough, hot scales, and nothing came but silence. A heavy, living silence, like a wordless oath.

Rhaegal inclined his head, moving even closer, and a blast of hot air hit Jon’s chest, nearly knocking him backward. Not a threat. A recognition.

In that moment, Jon knew he would never be alone again.

⸻

Now, years later, in the same courtyard, the call returned.

Jon took a deep breath, and the world seemed to shrink until only he and Rhaegal remained. The memory of that first touch still burned in his fingers, but what he felt now was even more intense. There was no fear. Only reunion.

— Rhaegal… — he murmured.

The dragon tilted its neck, and the deep rumble that escaped its throat made the stones vibrate beneath his feet. Jon moved forward slowly, until he was so close that he could feel the heat radiating from its immense body. He raised his hand, and, as years ago, touched the green scale.

The roar that came wasn’t one of anger. It was one of greeting. A sound that sent shivers down the spines of every man and woman in the courtyard.

— Nyke jorrāelagon ao. (I missed you) — he whispered in Valyrian, his voice trembling. 

Rhaegal let out a low roar, and the hot breath blew Jon’s white hair across his face.

The children watched, fascinated. Rhaegar stood so still he seemed to have forgotten to breathe. His small, clenched fist betrayed his eagerness—the desire to be in his father’s place, touching this dragon whose name was already a legend.

Lyanna, on the other hand, showed no such eagerness. But her violet eyes were fixed on Rhaegal with a surprising intensity, as if she understood instinctively what was happening.

Daenerys took a few steps closer to Jon. Rhaegal’s warmth enveloped her, and she felt her heart pound. Jon, his crimson eyes mirroring the dragon’s, seemed, for a moment, less man and more beast. A beast that, nevertheless, was hers.

She touched his arm, and Jon looked away from Rhaegal for just a moment, turning back to her. In his gaze, Daenerys saw tenderness, the same man who loved her, but she couldn’t deny it: there was also something beyond. Something neither she nor any throne could ever control.

The dragon backed away slightly, but kept its head lowered, its red eyes fixed on Jon as if in a silent promise.

In the courtyard, the sun was already rising high, gilding the green scales. Jon kept his hand against the beast’s body, and for a moment, it seemed as if time itself had stopped to watch.

The air felt colder as Viserion moved. Unlike Drogon, who roared like a storm, and Rhaegal, who radiated warmth and life, the white and gold dragon glided across the courtyard as if made of wind and snow. His scales glinted in the sunlight, reflecting pale, almost ethereal hues. There was something about him that wasn’t just strength—it was silence. An ancient silence, one that weighed more heavily than the roar of the other two.

Rhaegar took a step forward. The boy’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his violet eyes wide at the sight of the dragon.

— He’s the most beautiful… — he murmured, almost voiceless, as if speaking louder could break the spell.

Daenerys, who knew every subtle change in her children, noticed the tremor in the boy’s clenched fist. Rhaegar wanted to touch, wanted to run, wanted to throw himself at the creature that dominated his dreams. But at the same time, his body hesitated—and it wasn’t out of fear. It was out of the instinctive respect every mortal feels before a dragon.

Viserion tilted his head, his golden eyes locking with the boy. The air felt thin, as if every breath had to be stolen by force. Rhaegar swallowed, lifted his chin, and took another step.

— Valo nēdenka — Daenerys murmured in Valyrian, her voice low, as if speaking as much to the dragon as to the child. (Calmly.)

Daenerys fought the urge to intervene. She couldn’t break this moment. Rhaegar had to face this alone, just as she had so many times before Drogon. Still, her mother’s heart pounded.

Jon silently assessed the scene with the animal gaze he’d inherited from Ghost. Tension clung to every muscle. He knew dragons weren’t predictable.

But Viserion didn’t roar. He didn’t retreat, nor did he advance. He simply watched. His deep, golden gaze pierced Rhaegar as if measuring him. There was a cold calm, a silent judgment.

Rhaegar lifted his chin, repeating Valyrian words with the eager accent of someone who had learned too quickly. He spoke reverently, but his tongue was harsh, caught in his throat with emotion.

Viserion watched. His colossal head tilted slightly, his amber eyes fixed on the boy. There was an obvious curiosity, but also a distance. The dragon took a deep breath, releasing a hot vapor that made Rhaegar’s silver hair stir back. The boy took a step closer, held out his hand—and the dragon didn’t react.

Neither retreat nor advance. Just the firmness of an insurmountable wall.

Jon felt the breath catch in his son’s lungs. That moment was a rejection without being so, an acceptance that never came. And when Rhaegar finally let his hand fall, there was a moist glint in his violet eyes that he tried to hide.

— He… doesn’t want to — the boy murmured, his voice barely audible.

The child bit his lip, turning his face away, and in that gesture, Jon saw the first seed of frustration blossom.

Lyanna, at his side, had remained aloof, as if the scene were distant. The girl always carried a certain air of indifference on her face—not disdain, but a cold, lazy curiosity, as if she didn’t see the weight of things. She didn’t take a step forward, didn’t try to call Viserion over.

And yet, when the dragon’s amber eyes swept the group, they rested on her for a moment.

It was brief. A gaze, intense, but so fleeting it seemed random. Lyanna held his gaze, without moving.

A shiver ran across his skin, so subtle it might just have been the wind coming off the sea.

Jon saw it. Not in his daughter’s body, but in the silence that fell there. A silence different from the one that had surrounded Rhaegar. Daenerys noticed it too—she didn’t need obvious signs; she knew her children and her dragons.

But that was all it was: a silent exchange, an almost invisible spark.

Lyanna looked away immediately afterward, as if it didn’t matter. And Viserion, for his part, merely raised his head and blew hot air through his nostrils again, as if letting the moment pass.

Rhaegar, consumed by his own disappointment, noticed nothing. For him, there was only the frustration of the outstretched hand that hadn’t been received.

— We can try again tomorrow — Daenerys said calmly, standing and kissing her son’s silver hair. — Dragons aren’t conquered in a single breath.

The boy nodded reluctantly, his gaze lowered.

Lyanna, silent, walked toward her mother and took her hand with apparent disinterest, as if she simply wanted to return to the keep. But Jon couldn’t help but notice how her eyes, for a moment, returned one last time to the white dragon.

Night fell over Dragonstone like a velvet blanket. The sea below roared against the rocks, but within the fortress a rare calm reigned. The children slept: Rhaegar lay on his side, his fist still clenched in a dream, as if holding what he had failed to conquer during the day; Lyanna, serene, almost motionless.

Daenerys watched them for a moment, and her heart both heavy and lightened. The future was there, breathing slowly in two small forms—but so were the dilemmas, the pains to come, inevitable as tides.

Jon approached silently, the warmth of his body driving away the chill that always seeped into the stones. His red eyes rested on his children, and there was tenderness in his fierce expression. He reached out and smoothed a strand of hair that fell across Lyanna’s face, a gesture simple but full of care. His gaze, for a moment, strayed to the open window, where the moonlight silvered the room. It was the same distant look he had when he heard the wind in the North or Ghost’s howl on daydreams.

— Come with me — he said suddenly.

Daenerys’s eyebrows rose in surprise. — Now?

— Now. Like last time.

He took her hand, and together they descended the corridors, avoiding the few guards they had brought on the journey. It wasn’t difficult: Jon walked like a shadow, and Daenerys knew the shortcuts of her own fortress.

When the courtyard opened before them, she understood. Drogon waited impatiently, his black wings moving like a contained storm. Beside him, Rhaegal lifted his head, recognizing Jon.

Her heart raced. It had been years since they had flown together like this, without courtship, without political purpose.

— We can’t delay; I don’t want to leave the children alone.

Jon approached, his red eyes reflecting the glow of the torches. — We won’t be long. Relax a little, Dany.

And when he said her name, there was a fervor in the sound that burned hotter than the dragons’ breath.

Drogon bowed, allowing Daenerys to climb onto his back. Jon, in turn, walked to Rhaegal. The green dragon didn’t hesitate—he lowered his head, as if he’d expected it. Jon ran his hand over the warm scales, a natural gesture, and mounted.

A brief glance between them, and then the wings spread.

The sky greeted the roar of the two dragons like thunder. Dragonstone shrank below, reduced to shadows and embers, and the wind sliced their faces. Daenerys gave a short, clear laugh that was lost in the air. Jon, silent, felt every muscle of the dragon beneath him pulse in tune with his own heart.

They flew together. Over the sea that shone like black glass. Over the thin clouds that hid stars. Two dragons, two riders, no kingdom, no throne, just flesh, fire, and sky.

For a moment, Daenerys closed her eyes and let the wind strip her of all the weight she carried. And when she opened them again, Jon was there, parallel to her, his white hair whipping in the wind, his wild face illuminated by the moonlight. He looked neither king nor bastard nor hero. He looked simply like himself.

And she loved him all the more for it.

Their wings sliced through the sky until, finally, the dragons descended onto a hidden beach, a cove guarded by cliffs where only the sea dared enter. The ground was dark, damp sand, reflecting the silvery light of the moon.

Drogon and Rhaegal retreated, their colossal heads resting on their paws, like silent guardians. The air smelled of salt, ash, and night.

Jon helped Daenerys down, and when her feet touched the sand, she couldn’t help but laugh nervously. — If anyone finds out…

— Let them find out. — He pulled her by the waist, his red eyes burning.

She opened her mouth to retort, but the words died when he kissed her. A hot, urgent kiss, so full of desire that it made the sand crunch beneath their footsteps. The sea roared around them, but it was only a distant sound, unable to drown out what was happening between them.

On that forgotten beach, there were no crowns, no councils, no children, no kingdoms. There was only Jon and Daenerys, two lovers under the moon, with dragons as witnesses.

And the fire that had always been theirs, as old as the world, burned again.