#have another one of jon and rhaegar that have to adjust

[rhaegxr]

"There is more of Rhaegar in you." ↳ Dany & Rhaegar parallels.

[dalekofchaos]

Targaryen restoration au

Imagine if the following happened.

Rhaella lived through childbirth and got to take care of Dany and Viserys

Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys were able to escape to Dorne before the sacking of King's Landing

Arthur Dayne took a pregnant Lyanna to Starfall to find proper care to deliver Jon. But let's say in this au Rhaegar told Arthur the Prince that was promised must be named Daeron III

Jon Connington is called and returns to serve his lord's children

At some point they all link up and begin to plot to restore House Targaryen and take what is rightfully theirs. With Fire & Blood

With Rhaella, Ser Willem, Elia and Arthur around. Viserys never descends into madness and becomes more well adjusted.

Lyanna survived childbirth. Lyanna could not return home. She's too ashamed after her actions led to the deaths of Rickard and Brandon and she knows if she returns with her son, Robert would kill them. Arthur and Lyanna raised Daeron together. One thing led to another and they fell in love.

With outside forces preventing the crown from finding them(Doran, Varys and Illyrio) the Targaryens are never found.

Dany has a happy childhood and while they move every often, she has happy memories with her mother, brother and cousins.

With Rhaella, Doran, Oberyn Arthur and Jon Connington around, Aegon, Rhaenys, Viserys and Daenerys all grow up well versed into politics. Arthur and Oberyn properly turns Aegon, Daeron, Rhaenys, Dany and Viserys into warriors.

Because of Arthur's presence, he would not allow or tolerate Jorah Mormont.

With the vast wealth of Illyrio and Varys influence, an army of sell swords are at their disposal. They have the Golden Company, Windblown, Second Sons, Unsullied, and Storm Crows

With an alliance with Dorne, Aegon is betrothed to Arianne, House Tyrell are known Targaryen loyalists. Daeron is betrothed to Margaery and Daenerys is betrothed to Willas, The Targaryens could reach out to the Greyjoys and promise revenge and plunder. Viserys is betrothed to Asha.

I don't know if the dragons would factor into this au. Maybe there is a ritual, magic via the red priests/priestesses or something they found that could hatch the dragon eggs. If so the dragons are given to Rhaegar's children because prophecy. Aegon's Dragon will be named Visenya(Drogon) Rhaenys' dragon will be named Meria(Rhaegal) and Daeron's will be named Ghost(Viserion)

The War of the Five Kings turns into the War of Kings & Dragons.

Renly runs back to Stannis after he finds out the Tyrell's true allegiances. The brothers put behind their grievances and stand together.

When Cat goes to treat with Renly, she is surprised that Stannis and Renly stand together. They offer Robb a choice, join us. The Lannisters must be dealt with and then deal with the invading Targaryens.

Battle of the Blackwater ends with the Stark-Baratheon alliance victorious. Robb rescues Sansa and Joffrey is executed. Cersei is executed and Tommen is fostered at Casterly Rock by Tyrion. Tywin falls in battle.

Littlefinger is executed and Varys escapes in time to meet with the Targaryens.

The Targaryens arrive. They are met with Dorne, the Ironborn and the Reach.

All out war.

The Targaryens obviously win. But they are smart. They give their enemies the chance to bend the knee.

Then the Targaryens, Starks, and Baratheons unite their forces and marches North. to face their true enemy.

Aegon VI's small council

Hand of the King:Jon Connington

Grand Maester:Marwyn

Master of Whispers:Varys

Master of Laws:Oberyn Martell

Master of Ships:Mace Tyrell

Lord Commander of the Kingsguard:Arthur Dayne

Meanwhile I can see Euron return and hire a Faceless man to kill Willas Tyrell. Euron tries weasels his way into Dany's good graces. There are two ways we can play this. Dany sicks the Kingsguard to kill him or he slowly begins to corrupt her. Blame Viserys and cause Targaryen infighting. And after Viserys is out of the picture. Euron helps Dany take the throne and cement the Targaryens and the Greyjoys alliance through marriage, let the Long Night kill her cousins and they can rule the Iron Throne together and he has the means to bind the dragons to her will.

In the scenario where Dany stays loyal to her family. Euron is captured and is awaiting his execution. With no dragons to burn him. Dany has him executed by Wildfire. "Dracarys"

Ending 1:Rhaegar's prophecy is true and his children save the realm from the Long Night

Ending 2:Aegon, Rhaenys and Daeron sacrifice themselves to end The Others, while Dany brings peace to the realm

Ending 3:The unholy union of Euron and Dany plunges the world into darkness.

[the-king-andthe-lionheart]

So this is definitely in response to that certain dark section of our fandom (you know exactly who you are) who are throwing a fit about the Arya and Daenerys fandoms enjoying the possibility of a canon Daenarya friendship in the future.  So let’s look at all the quotes that possibly foreshadow a future Arya and Dany friendship and put it into context.

It was very dark right now, she realized. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest and shivered. She would wait quietly and count to ten thousand. By then it would be safe for her to come creeping back out and find her way home.

By the time she had reached eighty-seven, the room had begun to lighten as her eyes adjusted to the blackness. Slowly the shapes around her took on form. Huge empty eyes stared at her hungrily through the gloom, and dimly she saw the jagged shadows of long teeth. She had lost the count. She closed her eyes and bit her lip and sent the fear away. When she looked again, the monsters would be gone. Would never have been. She pretended that Syrio was beside her in the dark, whispering in her ear. Calm as still water, she told herself. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. She opened her eyes again.

The monsters were still there, but the fear was gone.

Arya got to her feet, moving warily. The heads were all around her. She touched one, curious, wondering if it was real. Her fingertips brushed a massive jaw. It felt real enough. The bone was smooth beneath her hand, cold and hard to the touch. She ran her fingers down a tooth, black and sharp, a dagger made of darkness. It made her shiver.

"It's dead," she said aloud. "It's just a skull, it can't hurt me." Yet somehow the monster seemed to know she was there. She could feel its empty eyes watching her through the gloom, and there was something in that dim, cavernous room that did not love her. She edged away from the skull and backed into a second, larger than the first. For an instant she could feel its teeth digging into her shoulder, as if it wanted a bite of her flesh. Arya whirled, felt leather catch and tear as a huge fang nipped at her jerkin, and then she was running. Another skull loomed ahead, the biggest monster of all, but Arya did not even slow. She leapt over a ridge of black teeth as tall as swords, dashed through hungry jaws, and threw herself against the door. - Arya III AGOT

Here is the initial passage that has to do with dragons in Arya’s story.  She comes across the dragon skulls in the dark and feels afraid of them.  She feels as if the eyes of the skulls were watching her and did not like her. She also doesn’t recognize them for what they are.  She initially refers to them as monsters, but later she comes to realize they are dragons: 

This time the monsters did not frighten her. They seemed almost old friends. Arya held the candle over her head. With each step she took, the shadows moved against the walls, as if they were turning to watch her pass. "Dragons," she whispered. She slid Needle out from under her cloak. The slender blade seemed very small and the dragons very big, yet somehow Arya felt better with steel in her hand. - Arya IV AGOT

Now admittedly the first quote does sound like the foreshadowing could suggest antagonism between Arya and Dany, but the second quote doesn’t suggest this.  Arya thinks of them as if they are old friends.  That is the most notable sentence of the paragraph, not the fact that she slid Needle out.  But when you actually look at this paragraph you actually see a duality here.  The monsters did not frighten her.  They seemed almost old friends.  Yet she slides her blade out and feels better?  So for me this quote just seems to foreshadow that Dany will be Arya’s friend, yet Arya will remain wary of her dragons like anyone naturally would be.

So putting these two quotes into context, it tells us that if Arya and Dany will meet they will initially be antagonistic and wary of each other (most Daenarya fans I’ve seen acknowledge this will likely be the case).  However it also suggests that this wariness will eventually fade and they will become friends.  Arya doesn’t need to think she is wholly safe from the dragons to have a friendship with Dany.  EVERYONE is wary about the dragons, just like most people would be unsure and most likely afraid if they were in the same room as a large cat or a bear. 

But this isn’t Arya’s only dragon connections in the narrative.  Arya’s closest relationship is with Jon, who is half Targaryen.  In Braavos Arya is fascinated by the courtesans and the Black Pearl in particular:

"The Black Pearl," she told them. Merry claimed the Black Pearl was the most famous courtesan of all. "She's descended from the dragons, that one," the woman had told Cat. "The first Black Pearl was a pirate queen. A Westerosi prince took her for a lover and got a daughter on her, who grew up to be a courtesan. Her own daughter followed her, and her daughter after her, until you get to this one [...] - Cat of the Canals AFFC

The woman with him could not have been more than a third his age. She was so lovely that the lamps seemed to burn brighter when she passed. She had dressed in a low-cut gown of pale yellow silk, startling against the light brown of her skin. Her black hair was bound up in a net of spun gold, and a jet-and-gold necklace brushed against the top of her full breasts. As they watched, she leaned close to the envoy and whispered something in his ear that made him laugh. "They should call her the Brown Pearl," Mercy said to Daena. "She's more brown than black."

"The first Black Pearl was black as a pot of ink," said Daena. "She was a pirate queen, fathered by a Sealord's son on a princess from the Summer Isles. A dragon king from Westeros took her for his lover."

"I would like to see a dragon," Mercy said wistfully. - Mercy TWOW

There is even foreshadowing that Arya will form a closer relationship with the Black Pearl in the future by becoming an apprentice for her so Arya can refine her highborn manners so it’s easier for the FM to place her into highborn society to do their work, because why not utilize a highborn girl in this way?

But also notice that Arya/Mercy is friends with a girl named “Daena” which is ridiculously close to the name Daenerys.  And in the same conversation with Daena (Daenerys) Arya/Mercy also said she wished to see a dragon.  And no this isn’t “Mercy’s” wish, this is Arya’s wish:

As Arya crossed the yard to the bathhouse, she spied a raven circling down toward the rookery, and wondered where it had come from and what message it carried. Might be it's from Robb, come to say it wasn't true about Bran and Rickon. She chewed on her lip, hoping. If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I'd just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan's stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn't ever fly back unless I wanted to. - Arya X ACOK

Doesn’t really sound like Arya hates dragons or have any issues regarding them.  She wants to see them irregardless of any fear they may inspire within her that everyone would naturally have upon seeing a dragon.

Arya also expresses a wish to fly throughout her narrative and she also has wing symbolism in her arc:

If I was a crow I could fly down and peck off his stupid fat pouty lips. - Arya X ACOK

If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself.  And if it was true, I'd just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan's stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn't ever fly back unless I wanted to. - Arya X ACOK

I wish I could change into a wolf and grow wings and fly away. - Arya XIII ASOS

She might be bald and skinny, but Mercy had a pretty smile, and a certain grace. Even Izembaro agreed that she was graceful. She was not far from the Gate as the crows flies, but for girls with feet instead of wings the way was longer. - Mercy TWOW

Also lets not forget how similar Arya and Dany are to each other and how many parallels they share.  They are both lost princesses exiled and sent to Essos, specifically Braavos, after their father's deaths at the hands of Lannister's.  They each know what it's like to be bought and sold and to be enslaved – Dany as a child bride and Arya as a child soldier.  And they both have pretenders trying to take their claims.  Both have been forced into becoming smallfolk, living in poverty and starved.  And they both know what it's like to be hunted and scared.  They adapt exceedingly well into other environments and cultures, and their morality and sense of justice are very attuned, as they seek to protect those that can not protect themselves.  Very protective, they are both empathetic and maternal and care for the sick, ailing, and dying.  Both of them are survivors and have both suffered abuse and sexual assault (more so for Dany, but it's still there).  They are both clever and know how to manipulate people.  They are both polyglots and both of their deepest desires are for home and family/pack.  They both try to live up to the image of their older siblings (ie Sansa and Rhaegar).  Arya is said to look and act like Lyanna and Daenerys is compared to Rhaegar by the people that knew him.   They are both very close to their house sigils and even dream about them and the mystical beasts they both own.  They both love horseback riding and they both have encountered mystical prophets.  Wanted/considered becoming sailors and they both have fantastic people skills.  Not to mention that it was Arya who said that the slaves should have killed the masters, while Dany is leading a slave uprising to overthrow and yes, execute the masters.

Dany is also not some “mad queen” and she does listen to the people who knew her father and Rhaegar.  She is learning the truth about the monster her father was and learning to accept that.  So there is no reason why Dany should continue to feel antagonistic towards the next generation of Stark’s for something they didn’t do.  

I’ve also seen comments about how the fire devastation that is within Arya’s story must clearly mean “Dark Dany” and that Arya and Dany will be antagonistic towards each other in canon when they meet.  I’m assuming these people are referring to the burning barn scene:

"You take her!" she yelled. "You get her out! You do it!" The fire beat at her back with hot red wings as she fled the burning barn. It felt blessedly cool outside, but men were dying all around her. She saw Koss throw down his blade to yield, and she saw them kill him where he stood. Smoke was everywhere. There was no sign of Yoren, but the axe was where Gendry had left it, by the woodpile outside the haven. As she wrenched it free, a mailed hand grabbed her arm. Spinning, Arya drove the head of the axe hard between his legs. She never saw his face, only the dark blood seeping between the links of his hauberk. Going back into that barn was the hardest thing she ever did. Smoke was pouring out the open door like a writhing black snake, and she could hear the screams of the poor animals inside, donkeys and horses and men. She chewed her lip, and darted through the doors, crouched low where the smoke wasn't quite so thick.

A donkey was caught in a ring of fire, shrieking in terror and pain. She could smell the stench of burning hair. The roof was gone up too, and things were falling down, pieces of flaming wood and bits of straw and hay. Arya put a hand over her mouth and nose. She couldn't see the wagon for the smoke, but she could still hear Biter screaming. She crawled toward the sound. - Arya IV ACOK

Arya rolled headfirst into the tunnel and dropped five feet. She got dirt in her mouth but she didn't care, the taste was fine, the taste was mud and water and worms and life. Under the earth the air was cool and dark. Above was nothing but blood and roaring red and choking smoke and the screams of dying horses. She moved her belt around so Needle would not be in her way, and began to crawl. A dozen feet down the tunnel she heard the sound, like the roar of some monstrous beast, and a cloud of hot smoke and black dust came billowing up behind her, smelling of hell. Arya held her breath and kissed the mud on the floor of the tunnel and cried. For whom, she could not say. - Arya IV ACOK

This chapter does not mean that Dany is going to go “evil” or “mad” and start burning stuff to the ground.  You guys do remember that Dany has three dragons right?  And that Dany is only the dragonrider to Drogon?  That leaves two other possible dragons that could be stolen from Dany.  We have Euron/Victarion who has the dragon binder horn and then we have Aegon who may or may not be able to claim one of those dragons for himself.  There is also the possibility that Euron dies or Aegon dies and someone else will take their places as dragonriders via Targaryen blood or use of that horn.  So besides Dany we have Aegon, Jon, Euron, and Tyrion who may all ride dragons within the story as they all have the proper set-up and foreshadowing for it to be a possibility.  So why is it the automatic assumption that it will be Dany burning shit down?   

Not to mention, wildfire has the same types of language used as the two quotes above:

And then some vast beast had let out a roar, and green flames were all around them: wildfire, pyromancer's piss, the jade demon [...] From bank to bank there was nothing but burning ships and wildfire. The sight of it seemed to stop his heart for a moment, and he could still remember the sound of it, the crackle of flames, the hiss of steam, the shrieks of dying men, and the beat of that terrible heat against his face as the current swept him down toward hell. - Davos I ASOS

So considering there not only is there a ton of foreshadowing that it will be Cersei who destroys King’s Landing with wildfire, but also there is foreshadowing that Jon Connington will do something incredibly drastic to win and keep the Iron Throne for Aegon.  And may I remind the audience that the fires Arya went through and experienced in the Riverlands had zero to do with Dany.  They were the direct result of the Lannisters.

So if Arya IV ACOK is foreshadowing a future fire she is stuck in, there is no evidence that the fire will be caused by Dany nor that the fire is dragonfire.  And if you are going to point out the show as evidence, let me tell you something, go to the youtuber The Dragon Demands and watch his videos dissecting everything about the scene of Dany burning King’s Landing by using the script, listening to BtS content, looking at the storyboards, actually noting that a scene of Cersei looking out the window, depicting her watching people put barrels of wildfire on the battlements, etc.  Because the compilation he makes proves that Dany burning KL the way that she did in 8x05 was a last minute change.  It was supposed to be an accidental wildfire explosion before they changed it so they could justify Jon killing her.  But I’m sure even with the evidence you’ll still cling to the idea of Dark!Dany because you are incredibly insecure about your fictitious ship and your blatant mischaracterization of your favorite “pure as the driven snow /s” character, because there is literally nothing in the books that foreshadows Dany going “mad” or “dark”.  So why don’t you take your jealousies about Daenerys and Arya and the very possible Daenarya friendship somewhere else.

[kellyvela]

Sansa Stark and The Feather

What we know about ‘The Feather’?

Pilot Episode: Robert Baratheon laid ‘The Feather’ in the hand of Lyanna’s statue.

Season 5: What Token Did Sansa Find? The Series Creators Explain

As she paid homage to her ancestors in Sunday's episode, Sansa Stark made a surprising discovery in the crypts of Winterfell: a feather on the grave of her Aunt Lyanna. Where'd it come from? Think back.

"The last time we saw the statue of Lyanna was in the pilot episode," explains series co-creator David Benioff. "King Robert Baratheon laid this exotic, tropical bird feather in her hand. As we were preparing the scene [with Sansa], we thought: That feather’s probably still there. People haven't been going down there and cleaning up much. Certainly after Ramsay destroyed Winterfell, there hasn’t been a janitorial crew going down and vacuuming." "We thought it would be kind of a great thing to have Sansa wondering about it," co-creator D.B. Weiss notes. "Hopefully viewers wonder: Where did I see that before? – and then remember that in the first episode of the show, this is something that Robert left to remember the woman he loved."

“Exotic, tropical bird” huh? Like a bird of the Summer Isles perhaps?

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

Season 8: ‘The Feather’ is featured in Game of Thrones | Season 8 | Official Tease: Crypts of Winterfell (HBO) 

Sansa Stark is there too.  She appears just after ‘The Feather’.

Season 8: ‘The Feather’ is featured in Game of Thrones | Season 8 | Official Tease: Aftermath (HBO)

People are speculating that ‘The Feather’ represents Sansa.  You can believe in it or not, but you can’t deny that the Show made sure that ‘The Feather’ is linked to Sansa.  They could have made Jon the one finding ‘The Feather’ for example, after all, he is Lyanna’s son; but they opted for Sansa. 

And finally, thanks to the Huffington Post we also know this:

The Cersei scene that might ruffle some feathers

Let’s begin with a defining scene between King Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark in the Winterfell crypts.

The scene that aired on HBO is slightly different from the scene in the Cushing script, but the gist is the same. Robert asks Ned to be his new Hand of the King, a position left open after Jon Arryn’s death. That’s when Robert places something small but highly symbolic on a statue of his onetime betrothed, Lyanna Stark: a feather.

And that pretty much sums up the sequence you saw in Season 1

But in the script found in the Cushing library, Queen Cersei plays a pivotal role in this exchange’s aftermath ― so much so that her involvement would have changed a Season 5 episode, the recent Season 8 teaser and possibly more. 

The following scene is written into the pilot script found at Cushing and involves Cersei visiting the crypts right before the feast at Winterfell:

Cersei exits the crypts, crosses the courtyard and walks into the antechamber between the kitchen and the Winterfell great hall. The celebration for the king’s arrival is underway, and servants are rushing past her with food. The queen’s handmaidens make adjustments to her outfit and remove her heavy fur.

Then Cersei reveals something she has inside her sleeve:

Why does it matter?

The episode that aired on HBO gave no indication that Cersei was aware of the feather Robert placed on Lyanna’s statue, let alone that she removed it to be burned.

Without this intervention, the feather goes on to play an important role in HBO’s recent Season 8 “Game of Thrones” teaser, falling to the ground as Jon Snow walks by and freezing when a wave of cold air rolls over it.

Even before that, the feather was featured in Season 5, Episode 4, “Sons of the Harpy,” when Sansa Stark visits the Winterfell crypts and comes across the token Robert placed on the statue years ago.

The series’ creators, Benioff and Weiss, acknowledged the feather’s station in the crypts to Making of Game of Thrones, explaining that, after all this time, the feather would surely still be there because there “hasn’t been a janitorial crew going down and vacuuming.”

“We thought it would be kind of a great thing,” they added, “to have Sansa wondering about it.”

Why Sansa? And why a feather?

If you’ve been living under a Casterly Rock your entire life, you might’ve missed the curious role that birds play in “Game of Thrones.” There’s Varys’ spy network of “little birds,” there’s the High Sparrow, there’s the Three-Eyed Raven, and then there’s Sansa, who is often referred to as a “little bird” or “little dove.” These characters have a few things in common: They’re misunderstood, underestimated and often hold powerful information.

The feather could hint at how Lyanna, too, was a misunderstood character, another little bird. It could also serve as a symbol for her secret, her child, Jon Snow.

Now remember, in the Season 5 episode in which the feather reappears, viewers still think Lyanna had been kidnapped and raped by Prince Rhaegar. It hadn’t been revealed that she and Rhaegar were actually in love, married and had a baby — a secret that, with her dying breath, she made her brother Ned promise to keep.

The connection to Jon is reiterated in that Season 8 teaser when he looks back at the feather. Could Cersei’s burning the feather in the scrapped pilot script have been a hint at something else on the way? Will she do the same to Jon?

With Dany’s dragons flying around and Cersei having blown up part of King’s Landing with wildfire, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine a fiery run-in between Cersei and Jon in the future.

The cut feather scene is perhaps the first small hint of Cersei’s penchant for burning her enemies’ “cities to the ground,” as she likes to say. Considering HBO’s “Dragonstone” teaser from late in 2018, which shows a fire engulfing the signature Lannister lion, more flames are likely in the Lannisters’ future. And, just possibly, Jon Snow’s.

So, Cersei took ‘The Feather’ that Robert laid at Lyanna’s statue hand, then asked for “A word with the Stark girl”, and after that, she intended for ‘The Feather’ to be burned..... Very, very interesting.

We can bet that the “Stark girl” Cersei wants a word with, is Sansa Stark, her future daughter in law.

Cersei hates Lyanna Stark. Lyanna had not only Robert’s affections, but also Rhaegar’s; and we must remember that Cersei wished to marry Rhaegar and be her beloved Queen.  Lyanna took that dream from her, twice. Robert and Rhaegar loved the “Stark girl”, not her.    

And now another “Stark girl” will marry the Prince and be Queen.  Cersei must do something about it. 

Since Lyanna is dead and Cersei can’t do anything about it, but burn ‘The Feather’, she would take her revenge with this new “Stark girl”.  

Here we have to remember Cersei’s paranoia with Maggy the Frog prophecy and the Younger more Beautiful Queen that will cast her down and take all that she holds dear.  Yes, that’s Sansa.

So, this never aired scene could also means that the now very popular “Kidnapping plot” is gonna happen in Season 8. The theory claims that Cersei will kidnap Sansa..... and I hate it.  But GOT never gives us nice things :( 

As I said before, you can believe that ‘The Feather’ represents Sansa in the new Game of Thrones | Season 8 | Official Tease: Aftermath (HBO) or not; but you can’t deny that the Show made sure that ‘The Feather’ is heavily linked to Sansa Stark. 

Good night.

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 Jon floated up toward wakefulness, muddled by sleepy confusion. Where . . . ? This was not his room in the Red Keep, and—he breathed deeply of the musky-sweet smell of her. Daenerys. He rolled over, finding her sprawled on her belly. Her tangled braids coming undone, pale hair gleamed in the dull orange pulse of a dying fire. Jon watched her chest rise and fall, limbs loose and relaxed in sleep. A band tightened around his heart. Love had ambushed him. Here he was, smote by it, drowning in it. Only a few days in her presence and he knew he would kill or die for her. Follow her anywhere.

A kernel of hope wished to point their horses north, show her the Riverlands and his lady aunt’s home of Riverrun, then north again until Winterfell. Home. Uncle and Lady Catelyn would give them a prince’s welcome. Cousin Sansa would twitter around Daenerys happily, flatter her with her fine manners, offer to braid flowers in her hair. Cousin Arya would pilfer honeycakes from the kitchens and chatter about the goings-on in the castle—she always had a talent for making swift friends. Jon had loved her immediately. Once he heard word of dragons, Cousin Bran would pounce. Little Rickon would be too shy at first, and Robb . . . Jon breathed a sigh. Jon and Robb were natural good-natured rivals. Both could ride and fight and hunt as well as the other, though Robb could jest and sing. More like Rhaegar than Jon himself was. He hated the jealous weed in his heart, but it remained, clinging by stubborn roots. A nagging whisper wondered if Daenerys would take more to his handsome, erudite cousin.

Jon nestled closer, draping his arm around her. Mm, so warm and she smelled so good. He twined his finger around the white silk ribbon threaded in one of her unraveling braids. Their wedding ribbon. It touched him that she wore it in her hair. No, Daenerys loved him, pledged herself to him.

“I love you,” Jon whispered into the stillness. With a snuffle, she rolled over. Nestled into his chest with a sound of contentment. Jon’s heart melted, hands combing the snarls from her wild hair. Like silver-gold silk between his fingers, warm and wavy. The press of her naked skin was a thrill, though without the usual urgency of arousal. Her warm, solid weight was a comfort. The cadence of her snores soothed him, and Jon whiled away a pleasant hour drifting in and out of sleep. His mysterious aunt, watching her blather in Dothraki astride her silver mount was startling. There was so much of her life that he didn’t know. We have time to learn. I’ll tell her about Winterfell and the Wall and the godswood, King’s Landing and Blackwater Bay. The idea of crossing the sea appealed to him. Adventures they could make together. And dragons! Gods, to see a living dragon!

Jon dreamed of dragons. Gliding through the sky on powerful wings. Gleaming scales in half a hundred colors. Red and black like the Targaryen sigil, pale blue like Rhaena’s Dreamfyre, silver and green and bronze. Beautiful and terrible as the skulls in the Red Keep, cloaked in flesh once more. Fire and Blood. Welcome, they said in voices like thunder. Welcome, cousin. Daenerys appeared in his mind’s eye, moonspun colors soft against the vivid scales of their brethren. She should have looked small, frail in the face of their might, but she did not. She shone. Daughter of dragons, bride of fire. Mine. Fire was in their blood, tracing all the way back to the dragonlords of Old Valyria. He woke slicked with sweat and hard as iron. The fire had died, leaving the room in complete darkness. Daenerys slept on, draped on his chest. The need for her was a fever inside him. Jon eased her onto her back, peeling his trapped arm from beneath her head.

“Dany,” he whispered, nuzzling her ear, “nyke jorrāela ao.” {I need you.} Jon peeled back sheet and coverlet. He would rouse her. Slow and gentle, until she was drenched in honey and whimpering for him. Jon adored the strength and steel in her, but loved the taste of her surrender even more. Jon lay on his side, his cock throbbing against her hip. He leaned close, nuzzling the soft skin of her upper chest. One hand cupped the ripe weight of her breast, teasing the nipple with his thumb. Feeling it pebble under his touch delighted him. Gods, her skin was so soft, so warm. His hand smoothed down, stroking her belly, tracing her hipbones, petting the coarse hair of her sex. Jon’s mouth filled with water. So wet already. Slick from their earlier loving. One finger gently parted her folds. The softness and heat of her stirred an ache deep in his gut. A whimper answered him as his finger grazed her pearl.

“Jon?” He loved the sound of his name spoken in her sleep-slurred voice.

“Dany. Come here to me, love.”

Jon groped for her chin and tilted her head toward him with his free hand. He kissed her as his fingers delved and stroked in a rhythm. That soft mouth was pliant beneath his, though not for long. Her thighs clenched around his hand, her own grasping his cock. Jon growled against the seal of her mouth. Gods, would it always be like this? Passion sweetened by a knowing touch? Craving her more than the breath in his lungs? Jon persisted, teasing her pearl with his fingers despite the near-overwhelming twin pleasures of her hand milking his cock, her tongue plunging into his mouth. She would fall first. Soft little cries vibrated against his lips, her hips bucked and squirmed and—yessss Daenerys broke the kiss to moan as her pleasure washed over her. Jon breathed deep of her scent, wishing for even the faintest hint of light. He wanted to look into her violet eyes, delight in her kiss-puffed lips. Jon sucked her honey from his fingers. Gods, he loved how she tasted!

Daenerys reached for him, groping for his face. A squeak of the bed-ropes and she fumbled astride him. Jon hummed in approval, kneading ripe handfuls of her arse. His cock lay heavy against his belly, hard and leaking.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Daenerys asked with a hint of laughter in her voice. Jon chuckled, adjusting her weight with a shift of his hips. She slid down to press a string of hot, open-mouthed kisses on his chest. Jon gasped at the suction of her mouth on his nipple. Sensation swamped him, her mouth, the press of her weight, the wet kiss of her cunt on his thigh.

“D—Dreamed of dragons. And you. I woke hungry for you.”

“Jon,” she whispered. Jon pumped his cock, shuddering a little at the pleasure of it. He held it up, offering it to her. Daenerys’ hand covered his and she teased him, rubbing the slick head with her thumb. Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth. With a soft cry, Daenerys sheathed herself on him. Jon’s head thumped back on the mattress. Sweat dewed on his skin. Fire surged to life between them, heat and bottomless hunger.

“So sweet. Oh fuck . . .” he said. Deprived of his sight, the feel of her was so vivid and vibrant. Slick and hot and soft . . . Jon’s hands smoothed greedily over the sleek shape of her body. My wife, my blood, my dragon.

Daenerys rocked above him, sinuous and slow, her nipples taut against his palms. Eager for her mouth, Jon rose on his elbows and drew her down to him. The kiss was deep and messy, their tongues tangling. Jon took her lower lip in his mouth and nipped it. Daenerys hummed, rocking faster.

“Oh yes,” Jon hissed against her mouth, “Ride me, love. Fuck me.” Daenerys moaned at the words, taking him deeper. Jon matched her rhythm with upward thrusts of his hips. The pleasure built in his chest, his gut, his balls. The bed squeaked beneath them. The sounds of wet flesh slapping together was almost obscene. The smell of her filled his nose. He felt the tension building, heard the shakiness of her cries. She was close.      

“W—When my dragons are grown, we will ride together. And no one in this world will stand in—in our way,” she said. Jon couldn’t hold it back. His spine arched, pleasure burst behind his eyes and he was spilling his seed inside her. Another couple strokes and she followed him with a thin cry. They writhed together, mindless in the throes of it. Daenerys slid off him, crawling close to lay her head on his chest, panting against his neck. Blindly, he sought her mouth. This kiss was sweeter. Pleasure unfurled and meandered through his veins as they rocked, sweaty and sated. Jon gathered her to his side as the sweat cooled and the thunder of his heartbeat mellowed. Jon breathed deep of her scent, petting her hopelessly tangled hair.  

“Truly? Do you mean it?” he asked.

“Hmm? What, Jon?” Daenerys said, pressing a glancing kiss to his collarbone. “About me and your dragons.” Despite the dark, he could feel the press of her gaze.

“Of course. You are Targaryen. My blood, my husband. I’m sure one of my children will take to you. And we will be unstoppable.” Jon remembered the sheer power of the dragons of his dream, and thought uncomfortably of his father and kin in the Red Keep.

“But--” he said. Daenerys cut him off with a swift kiss. Daenerys bumped her forehead to his, pressed so close he felt the ghosting tickle of her eyelashes.

“Husband, I have no desire for a throne, especially your father’s. Rhaegar can keep his Seven Kingdoms, and give them to that pretty Dornish son of his. I will never make war with him, I swear that to you.” Some secret tension in him dissolved and fell away in relief. Jon tilted his chin to kiss her.

“Thank you, my wonder.” Daenerys nuzzled his cheek with her nose.

“I only meant that once my dragons are grown, we can do as we please. Neither magister nor king nor god can tell us otherwise.”

“’Like their dragons, Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men,’” Jon quoted.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked. There was a certain smugness in her tone that made him smile.

“Some dusty book of Lord Tyrion’s at the Red Keep. He has a particular fascination with dragons.”

“I knew he was a clever man,” Daenerys said, curling beside him. Jon chuckled.

“Don’t say that within his hearing. His head will swell.” Daenerys’ finger traced the shapes of his chest and belly with ticklish lightness. A ghosting touch along his ribs made him stifle a giggle.  

“How is it that your lord father named him Hand? Men of his stature are not well regarded in Essos.” Jon bristled a bit; Lord Tyrion was a good friend. The delicate curiosity in her tone mellowed him.

“Tyrion is the son of a great Western house, the Lannisters. His father Tywin was Hand to your lord father King Aerys. Tyrion held the position on the small council of Master of Coin at his father’s decree. After my lord father quelled the Baratheon rebellion, and after Lord Tywin died, there was some upheaval on the small council. My lord father admired how Tyrion managed the chaos in King’s Landing after Renly Baratheon raised the treacherous Reacher lords and marched on the city. The post of Hand seemed a natural fit.”

Daenerys made a sound low in her throat.

“There is much of Westeros’ politics I don’t know. Perhaps my lord husband would educate me?” Jon grinned at the indulgent affection in her tone.

“And my brother the king knows about his Lorathi wife?”

“Yes. Shae was handmaiden to my lady stepmother during the Baratheon rebellion. She was . . . memorable.”

“Memorable?”

“Aye,” Jon said, grinning, “she is a deft hand with a dagger.” Daenerys giggled. Such a bright, merry sound, he thought. Gods, he was besotted. Jon rubbed his cheek against the crown of her head, feeling the ticklish slide of her hair, and considered himself supremely content.

“Were they attacked?”

“Aye. It was a group of thieves coming to take what they could during the unrest in the castle—Her Grace Lady Elia and my half-sister Rhaenys were at the Sept of Baelor at the time. The thieves wanted their jewels. Shae quickly disabused them of such a notion.”

“I imagine Her Grace was grateful.”

“She was. The Dornish are an intemperate lot as a rule, though generous to fault. Martells, especially.”

“‘Intemperate?’ You’re such a priggish northerner, my love!” Daenerys said, with a light, playful slap to his chest. Jon rubbed the spot, caught between amusement and affront.  

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” he said, sitting up. Even with his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could only make out the shape her, the faint pale gleam of her hair. He could feel the glow of her smile despite that. His Winterfell cousins were boisterous, but respectful. His half-siblings tended to snipe, and Tyrion quipped. Though he prickled at the being the butt of a joke, he found he liked the taste of Daenerys’ gentle brand of teasing.  

“I said you’re priggish.”

“That’s what I thought!” Jon said, pouncing on top of her. Daenerys squealed as he tickled her ribs, under her arms. Her laughter was heady as they thrashed and wrestled. Before long they were both breathless and wheezing with mirth. After a moment of rest, Daenerys retaliated, devilish fingers finding a ticklish spot on the bottom of his foot.

“No, no no, stop that!” Jon said, wiggling back and finding only empty air. He fell off the bed and landed with a hard thump on his rear. That made them laugh even harder. Jon clutched his sore sides.

The door burst open with a halo of gold lamplight and Grey Worm shouldered in with his spear. Jon leapt to his feet, one arm flung back to protect Daenerys. He squinted into the light, wishing for his sword.

“Jelmazmo, this one heard--” Grey Worm’s stony face revealed only the slightest hint of surprise in the widening of his black eyes. Jon stood straight, unconcerned with his nakedness. A quick flash of anger banished the lingering euphoria of laughter.

“You heard what, soldier? You thought I was abusing my wife? You came to skewer me with your spear? Shall we settle this on the training yard?” Jon said, fists balled. Grey Worm did not so much as blink or lower his spear.  

“Gods save me from bull-headed men!” Daenerys said, shoving past his protecting arm.

“Grey Worm, you do me honor by seeking to protect me, but I need no protection from Jon. Go back to your bed. Now.”

“But Jel--”

“I said: Now.” The steel in her tone was as cold as Uncle’s sword Ice. Grey Worm set the lamp on the hook and shut the door behind him with an emphatic thud.

“And you! You want to duel my bodyguards? Anyone at all who looks at you squint-eyed?” Daenerys said, poking his chest hard. Naked, flushed pink with her hair in glorious disarray. His cock twitched in interest. Jon clenched his jaw, his ire climbing.

“Yes! If I must. I would never hurt you.” The hard glint in her violet eyes softened. She cupped his cheek, stroking his beard with her thumb.

“I . . . I have suffered at the hands of men in the past. After Ser Darry died, I was a wayward princess alone in the world. My people wish to protect me.” Jon swallowed down hot choler in his throat. ‘Suffered’ she said. Every manner of horror rose in his mind’s eye. His beautiful wonder, abandoned. How he wished to embrace her. No, no. He wouldn’t trigger any harsh memories by rough gestures. Jon fell to one knee and cradled her hand between his.

“I will never hurt you.” The words felt so small, so ineffectual. Daenerys smiled.

“I know that. Do you think I would marry you if I didn’t?” she said with an arched brow. Jon turned her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, closing her fingers as if to cherish the touch.

“What can I do to put you at ease? To earn the respect of your people?” he asked. Daenerys tugged his hand, drawing him up to his feet. She nestled into Jon’s arms. He let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and kissed her forehead.  

“I trust you already, husband. As for my people, all it will take is time,” she said, tilting her head up to look at him. Jon twined their wedding ribbon around his finger and tugged gently.

“Time we’ll have when we sail for Pentos. I’ll look for a ship in the morning. Come. Let’s get some sleep.”

 Daenerys was not an early riser. Jon enjoyed waking at dawn, watching the sun rise with a hot cup of tea. There was a sort of peace in those quiet minutes, suspended between day and night, sleeping and waking. Jon wiggled from bed in the grey predawn. At the ewer stand he washed with cold water and a bar of lye soap. He combed and tied his hair, dressed and armed. He even dispatched a kitchen lad to fetch their breakfast. All this while his wife lingered in bed, going so far as to bury her head beneath the bolster to blot out the light peeking through the shutters.

In her sleep, she’d kicked off the coverlet. Jon chuckled. He quite liked the view of her bare-arsed in the morning.

“Daenerys. Dany, love. Wake up,” Jon whispered, stroking the small of her back. She mumbled something and rolled away from him, curling into a tight ball.

“Dany. Wake up,” Jon said, louder.

“Unngh,” she groaned. One bleary violet eye glared at him from beneath the bolster. Jon schooled his expression to neutrality. In her current mood, she might not appreciate his amusement.

“It’s after dawn. We need to get moving.” Daenerys grumbled as she swung her legs to the edge of the bed, dragging the coverlet with her. Silver hair hung in a messy snarl. That, plus her sleep-flushed cheeks and owlish blinking eyes made for a fetching sight.  

“Good morning,” he said.

“’Morning,” she said, yawning, “I need Missandei.”

“I’ll fetch her.”

“And tea. Hot. With lemon.”

“As you say, my lady,” he said, layered with sarcasm. Was he her body servant? They shared the same royal blood! Daenerys’ scowl relaxed into an expression of half-chagrined contrition.  

“Please,” she added. Jon grunted. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Part of learning each other’s’ rhythms, husband. I dislike waking, on any circumstance.” Jon kissed the back of her captive hand.

“You’re right, of course. We will learn more about each other. We have time. First, Missandei. I’ll ready the horses.”

Missandei shared a room with Grey Worm. It was the Unsullied guard who opened the door, already dressed and armored. Immaculate down to the laces of his boots. An air of mutual dislike chilled between them.

“My lord,” he said with the barest incline of his chin. Jon’s temper rankled at the casual address.

“Daenerys is asking for Missandei.”

“I am here, my lord,” she said, slipping past Grey Worm with a murmured word in Valyrian.

Unblinking, Grey Worm said: “Bisa mittys iksis tolī iā rīza et iā zaldrīzes.” {This fool is more a lizard than a dragon.} It took considerable effort not to react to such slander, especially said in that atrocious bastard Valyrian. The words lilted and lurched like a drunkard. Missandei was quick to admonish him.

“Ilva dāria pāsaga zirȳla. Lyks, jorrāelo.” {Our queen trusts him. Peace, love.} Jon studied the translator. Her hair was a soft black cloud around her head, bound away from her face with a silver headband. The black leather trousers and deep green tunic were of a fashion of Daenerys’. It was a subtle remark of how highly his wife esteemed the slender young Summer Islander, to garb her in the same clothing. Like family. Jon found a smile for Missandei, heartfelt and easy.

“Her first intelligible words this morning were that she needed you,” he said. Missandei’s answering smile was wary, but warm.

“She is a dragon upon waking. The easiest way to soften her is with tea and bread with honey,” she said.

“Good to know,” he replied. Missandei made her way down the hall to their room. Seconds ticked by as Jon held Grey Worm’s hard black gaze. Jon rested his hand casually on the pommel of his sword, his thumb worrying the dragon tail etching.

“Shall we ready the horses?” Jon asked at last. Grey Worm gave a bare nod. Rakharo and the other big Dothraki—whose name Jon could not place—were shoveling down bacon and bread in the taproom.

“Daenerys Jelmazmo is breaking her fast. We ready the horses and find a ship.”

“At last! Leaving the cold, miserable sunset land for home!” Rakharo said, swiping grease from his mustache. Jon chuckled. For his part, he was eager to begin their journey as well.

“Come, let’s find a ship.”                

[tomakeitbeautifultolive]

Which Stark do you think Ashara turned too?

*rubs hands together*

Oh, I’ve been patiently waiting for the day I’d get this ask! Big thanks to @ktwrites who helped me iron all of this out long ago! 🐺

I. Ashara probably wasn’t dishonored at all.

“If I had unhorsed Rhaegar and crowned Ashara queen of love and beauty, might she have looked to me instead of Stark?”

Barristan Selmy believes Ashara was dishonored at Harrenhal. But here’s my take on why he might think so: Selmy was working alongside fellow Kingsguard Arthur Dayne, who was most likely an overprotective older brother to Ashara. Whether or not Ashara consented to whatever took place, her brother might not have seen it the same way.

Case in point: Brandon Stark. After all, the person who seemed to be the most upset by Rhaegar crowning Lyanna was her overprotective older brother, who considered it a dishonor. I suppose he could be a total hypocrite, but based on what we know about the Starks in the story—why assume the worst of him? Because he’s ‘wild’? (We’ll come back to this, later)

Lastly, to me, it always seemed curious that two of the most honorable men around—who both had Lyanna and her son’s best interest at heart—felt it necessary to fight to the death at the Tower of Joy. Selmy knew it was ‘a Stark’, but Arthur might’ve known exactly which one—Ned. *adjusts tinfoil hat*

II. Ashara looked to Ned Stark, not Brandon.

We can probably rule out Benjen Stark as a suspect, who was 14 at the time. That out of the way, it is this vague mention of ‘Stark’ that leads people to believe that Brandon Stark was the one to ‘dishonor’ Ashara. However, by the time this topic ever comes up, we’re already told by several characters (Catelyn, Cersei, Edric Dayne and Harwin, a guard at Winterfell) that the rumors are of Ned and Ashara, not Brandon!

And the stories are known from Dorne to King’s Landing to Winterfell. That’s basically the whole damned realm!

• Meera Reed recounts to Bran how Ned and Ashara met at the Tourney at Harrenhal:

“The crannogman (Howland Reed) saw a maid with laughing purple eyes (Ashara Dayne) dance with a white sword, a red snake, and the lord of griffins, and lastly with the quiet wolf (Ned Stark) … but only after the wild wolf (Brandon Stark) spoke to her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench.”

• Catelyn confronts Ned about Ashara:

“And they told how afterward Ned had carried Ser Arthur’s sword back to the beautiful young sister who awaited him in a castle called Starfall on the shores of the Summer Sea. The Lady Ashara Dayne, tall and fair, with haunting violet eyes. It had taken her a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face. That was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her. “Never ask me about Jon,” he said, cold as ice. “He is my blood, and that is all you need to know. And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady.” She had pledged to obey; she told him; and from that day on, the whispering had stopped, and Ashara Dayne’s name was never heard in Winterfell again.”

• Catelyn later reflects on Ashara after Ned’s death:

“If Jon had been born of Ashara Dayne of Starfall, as some whispered, the lady was long dead; if not, Catelyn had no clue who or where his mother might be. Ned was gone now, and his loves and his secrets had all died with him.”

• Even Cersei Lannister is aware of Ned’s relationship with Ashara:

“How dare you play the noble lord with me! What do you take me for? You’ve a bastard of your own, I’ve seen him. Who was the mother, I wonder? Some Dornish peasant you raped while her holdfast burned? A whore? Or was it the grieving sister, the Lady Ashara? She threw herself into the sea, I’m told. Why was that? For the brother you slew, or the child you stole? Tell me, my honorable Lord Eddard, how are you any different from Robert, or me, or Jaime?”

• When Arya encounters Edric Dayne (nephew to Ashara) meets Arya, he tells her:

“Your lord father never spoke of her? The Lady Ashara Dayne, of Starfall?”“No. Did he know her?”“Before Robert was king. She met your father and his brothers at Harrenhal, during the year of the false spring.”“Oh. Why did she jump in the sea, though?”“Her heart was broken.”Sansa would have sighed and shed a tear for true love, but Arya just thought it was stupid. She couldn’t say that to Ned, though, not about his own aunt. “Did someone break it?”“Perhaps it’s not my place…”“Tell me.”“My aunt Allyria says Lady Ashara and your father fell in love at Harrenhal—”

Edric Dayne (nephew to Ashara, who curiously goes by the nickname ‘Ned’) tells Arya that his aunt killed herself over a broken heart, implying it was her father who drove Ashara to do it.

• Arya later discusses the strange tale with one of house Stark’s guards, Harwin:

“Lady Ashara Dayne. It’s an old tale, that one. I heard it once at Winterfell, when I was no older than you are now. I doubt there’s any truth to it. But if there is, what of it? When Ned met this Dornish lady, his brother Brandon was still alive, and it was him betrothed to Lady Catelyn, so there’s no stain on your father’s honor. There’s nought like a tourney to make the blood run hot, so maybe some words were whispered in a tent of a night, who can say? Words or kisses, maybe more, but where’s the harm in that? Spring had come, or so they thought, and neither one of them was pledged.”

Harwin implies that as a young boy, he heard gossip of Ned and Ashara Dayne, even going so far as to paint a picture for us about what might’ve happened between them at the Tourney.

I see their: “The Honorable Ned Stark would never!”

And I raise them a: “What is honor compared to a woman’s love?”

Perhaps this is a mocking nickname, akin to Jaime’s “Kingslayer” or Brienne’s “The Beauty”. And would he really never? Oh, you mean the guy whose whole life is built on a series of lies? Yeah, him.

This isn’t me besmirching the man, either. But to say that a young man without a pledge riddled with what was likely a mutual lust with one the most beautiful women in all seven kingdoms—Yeah, he probably would. Like Harwin told Arya, it was no stain on his honor. Not yet.

And I see the argument that “Ashara wouldn’t want Ned, he was too shy to talk to her”. I can assure you, many women find that sort of thing attractive/endearing (myself included). To quote ladyofdragonstone (albeit a bit out of context, lol)…

“Ned can get it.”

III. Defending the honor of Brandon Stark.

Let’s take a closer look at Brandon and his character.

Many assume that his ‘wolf’s blood’ means he was promiscuous. But let’s look at the context in which it’s described by Ned:

“Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. ‘The wolf blood,’ my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave.“ Arya heard sadness in his voice; he did not often speak of his father, or of the brother and sister who had died before she was born. “Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”

Now if you don’t come away from this paragraph assuming Arya and Lyanna to be promiscuous, why should we assume ‘wolf’s blood’ means something different for Brandon?

Yes, Brandon had a tasteless joke about his sword—‘I want it sharp enough to shave the hair from a woman’s cunt’, but considering some of the raunchiest jokes I’ve ever heard were from when I was about Arya’s age in grade school… I’d say a joke graphic or sexual in nature doesn’t ensure someone’s promiscuity, either.

Somehow, Brandon has got the reputation for being a bit of a ‘manwhore’, yet the only person we can confirm he’s slept with was Barbrey Ryswell, whom he almost certainly cared for—yet duty required a match with Catelyn Tully, instead. Barbrey seems to still harbor love for Brandon, even lamenting that she never got to be a Stark. She said he wasn’t shy about taking what he wanted, but there’s no actual proof he’d ever taken anyone else’s ‘maidenhead’ other than hers.

“The day I learned that Brandon was to marry Catelyn Tully, though … there was nothing sweet about that pain. He never wanted her, I promise you that.”

She can promise it. And to me, it sounds like he might’ve genuinely cared for Barbrey. The woman is still haunted by this all these years later. Sounds like she loved him, too.

“I still remember the look of my maiden’s blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes.”

This is open for interpretation (as is everything), but to me, the fact that she bled might hint that he didn’t have a lot of experience with women.

Lastly, back to Brandon’s protectiveness for a moment. He had to be restrained from confronting Rhaegar after his sister was ‘dishonored’ with a garland of roses. Upon her disappearance, he accompanied his father to King’s Landing to confront Rhaegar and retrieve Lyanna. When Aerys captured them, Brandon even choked himself to death in an attempt to reach his father, to save him.

Assume what you will about Brandon’s sexual proclivities, but…

Family meant everything to Brandon Stark.

Maybe he was a raging ‘manwhore’, just like Robert Baratheon.

…But (and you know what the Starks say about everything that comes before the word ‘but’) I don’t believe for one minute that this man turned around and slept with (or gods forbid raped) Ashara Dayne, who his brother was so fond of, he was rendered speechless and red-faced. That’s not Brandon Stark. Brandon asking Ashara to dance with Ned was just another good brotherly deed amongst many.

“And what is duty against the memory of a brother’s smile?”

I’ve put a lot of thought into this very topic. And in my research, I can say that there just isn’t anything, not even his supposed ‘reputation’, that might hint at Brandon dishonoring Ashara Dayne at the Tourney at Harrenhal—nothing but the name ‘Stark’. 🤷

[arcadianambivalence]

History is a Wheel: GOT 8x05

*steps up to the podium and adjusts the microphone*

I…liked it.

*cue the Flynn Rider surrounded by swords gif*

Hear me out.

I could say wisdom is learning from other people’s mistakes and that wisdom is sorely lacking in this situation.  I could say history is like a wheel, for the nature of man is fundamentally unchanging. I could say that everything you’re about to see is like something you’ve seen before.

And it’s true.  That is what this episode was all about: no matter how people try, tragedy will echo and echo throughout time.  Because not everyone will learn from the past, and some that do will find themselves unable to do anything until it’s too late.

Varys begins the episode playing the role Ned Stark did all the way back in season one.  Realizing the danger of one upcoming ruler, he tries to push for a legitimate heir, one who is more militant and dutiful.  But that quickly backfires.  Betrayed by a “friend,” he is executed by the very ruler he attempted to stop…and the tragedy he wanted to avoid happened anyway.

Tyrion spent much of Joffrey’s reign from a position of privilege.  Until late in the reign, he was able to talk back to Joffrey without risk to his person.  Now the tables have turned, and Tyrion cannot hide behind his status as uncle or son of a powerful lord.  To make matters more complicated, he plays the role of Catelyn Stark this episode: releasing Jaime (prisoner yet again) to King’s Landing to bargain for the lives of innocents.

During the Battle of the Blackwater, Cersei was prepared to poison, if not herself, then her son.  Why?  Not because she wanted to control him to the last, but because she knew what would happen to him: the same massacre that Elia Martell, Rhaenys, and Aegon died of.  She would fight to very end to keep that from happening to her family.  And she did.

Jaime’s defining moment was his murder of Aerys (and saving half a million people).  And what is his fatal wound?  A stab in the back by another king.  Talk about poetic irony!  He spent his entire arc questioning: where is my role in the present?  Do I serve House Lannister?  Do I follow Lady Catelyn’s wishes?  Do I build a future with Brienne?  With Cersei?  

In the end, there is no future for him.  Jaime went back for Cersei because of his story arc.  Because he’s remembered that as a knight, he swore to protect people.  He couldn’t protect Elia Martell during the Sack or Queen Rhaella from Aerys.  Ultimately, his attempt to save another queen leads to her death.  Trapped on all sides by debris from Rhaegar’s little sister and her dragon, the two die together as Cersei always said they would.

Speaking of living in the past, Sandor once again leaves behind a chance to start over.  Revenge is greater than mercy, or even life itself.  It’s a horrible, horrible irony that the trauma stemming from burning alive culminates in burning Gregor alive…and Sandor too.  Revenge is a fire that consumes you.  A very obvious metaphor, but apt nevertheless.

But before he dives headfirst into revenge, Sandor pushes Arya back.  She still has a future if she gives up revenge.  If she does not become like him.  And this saves her to witness ash raining down on the survivors of King’s Landing.  Time and time again, she tries to help the mother and daughter (a representation of her own mother and her innocent self), and every time she fails.  Mercy and compassion are torn apart by fire again and again.  And when Arya leaves King’s Landing, it looks like Harrenhal.  Covered in blood and ash, she looks like a ghost.

Maybe some part of her is.

You can see traces of our history, too.  Arya’s flight through the ashen streets of King’s Landing is a nightmarish peek into the final moments of Pompeii.  At one point, she stumbles upon a group of mothers cradling their children.  The staging of the scene is a direct reference to remains found in the ruins of Pompeii.

And all this could have been avoided.

No, not avoided.  Post-poned.

Daenerys was always going to do this.  

Daenerys is her father’s daughter, the dragon’s daughter, the blood of old Valyria.  But family history is not family future.  She chose the conquering path.  She chose fire and blood and not patience or mercy.

Joffrey called for Ned’s execution.  He called it mercy, too.

And like Joffrey, she was always going to do this.

As she told the Thirteen of Qarth in season two, “We will lay waste to armies and burn cities to the ground.”

As she told Hizdar in season five, “One day, your city will return to the dirt, as well.”  “At your command?”  “If need be.”

As she told Tyrion in season seven, “I have three large dragons.  I’m going to fly them to the Red Keep.”

She’s told Jon and Tyrion and Grey Worm and Davos and Jorah and anyone who would listen who she is the entire time.  And she’s told the audience.  If the audience did not listen to history, then like Jon, they too followed in fear or stood behind a title and a savior, a dream of restoration and peace from someone who always said she would take it with fire and blood.

And she did.

Is it too late to learn from the past now?

[geekprincess26]

The Absence

For @goodqueenalys as part of the May 2018 Jonsa Exchange.  Thank you as always for your patience and kind words, love!  Also, many thanks to the amazing ladies over at @jonsaexchange for making the magic happen!

Summary: Jon Targaryen has returned to his native Britannia and freed his ancestral sword, Dark Sister, from the stone in which his father's death had trapped it. He and Ned Stark, King of Northumbria, must band together to defeat the Saxons and save Britannia, but first Britannia must be united through Jon's marriage to Ned's daughter Sansa. Marriage, however, proves to be much more than just beds and kisses, and Jon and Sansa struggle to adjust to their new life. When disaster strikes and a witch's enchantment takes Sansa from Jon, they must each question their previous beliefs about each other and about how far each will go in the name of love.

“Ned.”

The woman’s face was pale as the moon.  Her red hair spilled about her head on the pallet like waves of blood, like the blood that flowed from her fading heart.

Her husband knelt in front of her, his hand entwined with hers.  He shook his head, and a faint groan passed through his lips.

The woman raised her head a hand’s breadth off the bed, her neck muscles straining with the effort.  Her husband hastened to support her head, but she shook it and held her trembling right hand out toward the little girl standing behind him.  She was no more than eight and her mother in miniature, from the red hair to the pale skin and quaking hands.

“Take it off, Ned,” said the woman, her voice low but hard as the iron of the chain mail her husband wore more and more often these days to beat back the Saxons who had first swept onto Britannia’s shores from the east and south and now were encroaching onto the borders of the Stark family’s kingdom of Northumbria.

“Cat…”  Ned Stark swallowed thickly.  “Cat, she should not have to – ”

His wife, still straining to hold her head off the bed, shook it weakly.  “Father to son and mother to daughter, Ned.   When your time comes, you must do the same for Robb.”  She turned her head a hair’s breadth toward the doorway that led into the chambers of her young son, who had just this morn begun to recover from the same illness that was draining the life out of her.

Ned let out another groan.  It sounded like one of the cattle birthing.  At his side, little Sansa trembled harder and struggled to keep her hands clasped in front of her.

“Ned,” Catelyn Stark pleaded again, desperation seeping into her voice.  “You must.  Please, Ned.  The light must remain.  Please.”

Her husband’s face contorted into a spasm he covered with his hand.  When he had recovered himself, he reached down and pulled off the gold ring encircling his fourth finger.  The sapphire in the middle glowed, lit from within by a pale fire emanating from the heart of the stone.  Ned’s face twisted again as the jewel left his hand.  The light faded, and as soon as the ring had ceased to touch his finger it flickered out, leaving the stone nearly black.  Catelyn nodded once again toward little Sansa, and Ned drew the leather thong out of his hair, strung it through the ring, handed both back to his wife, and put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders.

“Come, love,” murmured Catelyn, and Ned urged his daughter forward until she was within Catelyn’s reach.  Catelyn held out her hand to the little girl, ring and string both resting on it.

“For you, sweetling,” she said, her voice but a whisper now.  “Keep it safe for your husband, yes?”

The little girl’s lips trembled, but she nodded and took the ring from her mother’s hand.

“Good girl,” whispered Catelyn.  “Shall you give your word, then?”

Sansa nodded again.  “I – I give my word as a Stark,” she said, and burst into tears.  Catelyn put a gentle hand to the back of the girl’s head and drew her down to lay her head on the pillow.  Ned reached a hand out to each of their heads and kissed them both in turn.

Catelyn sighed, rested her hand against her husband’s cheek, and took a labored breath.

“Promise me he will be worthy,” she whispered.  “Promise me, Ned.”

One tear left the corner of Ned Stark’s eye, trickling down his cheek and into his wife’s hair.

“I promise, my love,” he choked out, burying his face into her shoulder.  “I promise.”

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

“Don’t bother promising me you’ll be back before the sun sets again, Jon Targaryen,” Sansa Targaryen snapped at her husband as she yanked taut the ribbon she had just wound through her hair.

She had tried to be a good and patient wife during the eight moons’ turn of their marriage, but Jon had done the same thing three mornings in a row, and she was irritated beyond the measure of man at the moment.  She wondered for a moment if he was deliberately baiting her, but dismissed the thought at once, for cruelty was not Jon’s way.  No, usually when he angered her it was without even trying.  Judging by the confounded look on his face, he did not see why it should trouble her that he was taking his men out hunting for boar and stags until dusk for the third day in a row, leaving the petitions and the inventories and the smallfolk’s petitions for her to handle alone.

Sansa let out a sigh through her clenched teeth.  Jon’s lower lip was curling out just so again, and that always made it impossible for her to remain utterly angry at him, for she would remember that he was not a cruel or boorish husband, merely a frustrating one.   He had, in fact, been downright kind if a bit uncomfortable when her father had brought her to London for their wedding, not at all what Sansa had been expecting of a man said to have been descended from dragons.  Even her father had seemed pleased with him, and that was saying a good deal, for Ned Stark liked no one easily, and Jon Targaryen had been far from his first choice of a husband for his only daughter.  Quite apart from the rumors about his ancestors having mated with demons, Jon was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, who had been King of Cornwall and Northumbria’s mortal enemy.  He was said to have slain at least fifty men in every battle he fought and refused to leave the field until he had dipped his famous sword, Dark Sister, in the blood of at least a hundred more.

But then the Saxons had come roaring onto England’s southern shores, and King Rhaegar had received word of their coming too late to summon all of his men.  The Saxons had routed him in battle and slaughtered all of his men but two.  They had tried to take Dark Sister from his body so that his infant son could wield it one day, but according to the account they later gave, Rhaegar with his dying breath had flung the weapon into the air, whispering an incantation after it, and with a mighty jolt, the earth had split open and a stone in the perfect shape of a square had risen out of it and swallowed all but the hilt of the sword.  Terrified, the men had fled just in time to spirit Jon and his young mother, Lyanna Snow, to safety in Brittany.

Over the next twenty years, the Saxons had battered kingdom after kingdom until Northumbria alone had stood against them.  Desperate, Ned Stark, Northumbria’s king, had rallied all Britons he could find, in Northumbria or otherwise, who would fight for his cause.  He had divided his forces and sent his son and heir, Robb Stark, to the east with the larger portion of his men, taking the rest south with him to divert the Saxon army.  But the diversion had failed, and the Saxons had slain Robb and most of his men in battle.  Ned Stark had gotten word of the enemy’s movements too late to save his son – indeed, only just in time to turn west to avoid the surviving Saxons, who were bent on wiping Ned and his men off the face of the earth.

But Ned Stark had beaten them to Britannia’s southern shores, and that on the very same day when Jon Targaryen had returned to the shores of Britannia with five thousand men and drawn Dark Sister out of the stone that encased it.  When they saw him do what thousands of Saxons and Britons alike had been unable to accomplish, his men had proclaimed him the king of all Britannia and urged Ned Stark to bend the knee.  Even many of Ned Stark’s men had thought it a wise plan, for the Saxons had found victory in uniting under Cerdic, their own high king.  But others of Ned’s men, mostly the richest and those who still held territories of their own, were loath to accede to that plan, so they and Jon had struck a bargain.  Sansa, Ned’s sole remaining child, would wed Jon, and their eldest son would rule over Britannia after both men had died.

When he had returned to Winterfell to gather both his forces and his daughter, Sansa had cried for the first time since her mother’s death.  Her family’s priest had always said that God could bring good out of any hardship, but Sansa had seen nothing but her, Robb, and her father’s heartache and loneliness proceed from her mother’s death.  Must God take Robb too, and now her, the only child left to their father?  Unless her being forced to give her life and future to the son of that demonic dragon king could be called good, which Sansa very much doubted, she saw naught but death and darkness.

So did the land around her.  Autumn’s cold winds pummeled the hills and coasts as Sansa, her father, and their men plodded south and west toward Cornwall, where Jon Targaryen had established a base at his birthplace of Tintagel Castle.  Scarcely a day passed when a gust of wind did not force tears out of the corners of Sansa’s eyes and into her hood, and more than half the time the tears came from more than the wind, despite Ned’s kind assurances.

“I have taken the measure of many a man in my day, sweetling, and he is an honest one,” he murmured one night as they huddled around a roaring fire over which the soldiers were roasting three deer and a wild boar for supper.  “I also inquired of his men, and to a man they praise his kindness and his concern for the welfare of all under his care.  And he has no bastard children, whether here or in Brittany.  I believe he will care well for you, daughter.”

Sansa swallowed a scoff and narrowed her eyes at the fire.  Among soldiers, a kind man could simply mean one who would execute his enemies with a clean beheading instead of gutting them like fish.  That same man could inflict all manner of bruises on his wife and still be termed kind and generous, as Sansa had seen with one too many of her father’s men.  Ned Stark himself had loved his wife dearly and treated her as a precious jewel all the days of her life.  He had deserved to wear Catelyn Stark’s marriage ring; but Sansa was not idiot enough to think most men were the same way, and she cringed to think of the jewel her mother had gifted her on her dying day gracing the finger of a man who had the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen, who had been as famous for his brutality as for the rumors that he had gained Lyanna Snow’s hand in marriage by kidnapping her and raping her son into her belly, running through his veins.  

But when she had met Jon Targaryen, he had bowed and addressed her as “Princess” and taken her hand with a warm, gentle grip, and he had not attempted to take his husband’s rights with her before they were wed.  When he had shown her her chambers in the drafty old castle, he had said she should but ask him if she wished for more rushes spread on the floor, or more blankets for her and her ladies’ beds, or more wood for the fire, and actually looked concerned, as if he meant it.  He asked her every day if her rooms contained everything she needed, and the night before their wedding, he had apologized that he had not a ship to spare to send for lemons from Hispania to make a lemon cake for her, but said they would have one upon the year’s anniversary of their wedding.  Sansa, who loved no food better than lemon cake, had let her jaw drop at those words.  When she found her tongue, she had thanked him and protested that of course that was not necessary, but he was very kind.  His dark eyes twinkled again, and she wondered if he thought to make fun of her; but the moment passed, and later she reflected that a jape at her expense would have been far preferable to cruelty in any case.

But Jon showed no cruelty, or indeed anything like it.  Indeed, when Jon’s and Ned’s men had carried them into Sansa’s chambers after the wedding feast, Jon had struck a man whose hand had wandered too close to her chest, and as soon as he too had been deposited on their marriage bed, he had shouted at everyone to leave the room at once.  He had murmured his apologies to Sansa for her treatment, his face reddening as he said it.  Then he had asked if she would like to leave on her shift for the rest of the evening.  Sansa, a maiden who knew little about bedding except what she could glean from her ladies’ gossip, had never thought to have such a choice; but her new husband had honored her wish to retain her shift, and before he had raised its skirt to take her maidenhead, he had kissed her gently on the forehead and cheeks and hands – particularly her left hand, now adorned with the silver filigree ring he had given her as a wedding gift – and then on her trembling mouth, and his lips felt warm and firm and surprisingly lovely against her own.  His hands were even gentler as they lowered to trace the outline of her waist and hips, and he even haltingly asked her permission to pull up her shift and ready her with his fingers.  Their touch discomforted Sansa at first, but did not hurt her; and then he kissed her again, and though there was pain when he took her, his lips eased it very much.  After they were finished, he had whispered his apologies for her pain, but Sansa only shook her head, wondering that he should even mention such a thing.  Perhaps, she thought, God had taken mercy on Jon and given him the blood and nature of his kind, dead mother, and not the demon blood that ran through the veins of Rhaegar and his ancestors before him.

But Sansa had awoken the following morning to find that Jon had already left their chambers to don his armor and train with his men; and she did not see him again until supper.  Their days followed much the same pattern over the next two moons’ turn: Jon would rise before her and spend much of the day preparing his men for their planned strike at Londinium in the heart of the Saxons’ territory.  As the days stretched into weeks, the castle and the land around it became home to all manner of Britons who, hearing of Jon’s arrival in Britannia, streamed into Cornwall for shelter from the Saxons’ brutality, pledging their loyalty and aid in the coming battles.  Ned Stark had been nearly as occupied with his own people, training many of his own men alongside Jon’s and directing some hundred more to return to Winterfell in Northumbria and fortify it against any Saxons who might escape Jon’s attack; and so the feeding and housing of the refugees had largely fallen to Sansa and to Jon’s older advisers, Lords Jeor Mormont and Davos Seaworth.  Both men had treated their new queen with the utmost respect, and their advice had been a great boon when quarrels over land and possessions had broken out and had to be mediated.

By the time the sun set every day, Jon and his men were invariably exhausted and in sore need of bathing, food, and rest.  In fact, the night after the wedding, he looked almost half asleep when he came to Sansa’s chambers.

“A cup of wine to ease your fatigue, my lord?” she had asked, and scolded herself silently for forgetting that Jon had said the previous day that since they were now husband and wife, it was only fitting that she call him by his given name.  He shook his head, and Sansa removed her linen robe and sat down on the bed.  She winced as she did so, her body still sore from the previous night when Jon had taken her maidenhead.  Jon noticed her flinch, and his eyes widened, and he apologized again and said he would not touch her; and despite Sansa’s protests, he left for his own chambers and did not take her again until after her moon blood had come a week later.

Gradually, Sansa’s body accustomed itself to her husband’s evening ministrations, and quickly the pain lessened and vanished, and if she enjoyed it less than he did, judging from the heat of his kisses on her brow and lips and his ecstatic murmurs of her name against her throat and shoulders, still it was neither brutal nor unwelcome; and every now and then Jon’s hands, always wandering and gently stroking her body’s curves, brushed a spot or two that gave her tingles of pleasure.  Usually, he noticed it and touched her over and over until she hummed with delight; and the night before he departed for Londinium with her father, she found herself returning his kisses with a fervor that matched the gentle undulations of his body upon her own.

But as intimately as Jon touched her at night, he was equally short and blunt during the day – not just with his men, but with his wife.  He always asked after her comfort and the state of her rooms and whether she wanted anything, and once or twice, to her great surprise, he had collared a man whom he deemed had been leering at his wife and had thrown him out of the castle to spend the night in a tent in the snow; but other than that he said little to Sansa.  She tried at first to ask him about his training and whether he would like the boar or the venison to be served for dinner; but he gave short answers, and after some time Sansa gave up, supposing that all his energies were taken with the upcoming campaign against the Saxons.

But Jon’s daytime brusqueness always faded on the nights he came to her chambers, and on the morning he left for Londinium, it melted altogether, when to Sansa’s surprise he held her tenderly in bed and kissed her and whispered, “God be with you, my Sansa.”

Her lips were swollen with his kisses by the time she stood in front of the castle watching him gallop away with his men; and she found herself absently touching them throughout the day and wondering if he had left her with child.

He had not, as it turned out; and they would not get the chance to try again to make one for nearly four moons’ turn, until Jon and Ned had met the Saxons in battle and fought for a night and a day, until the blood of the slain men had soaked an acre and more of ground, and Ned had saved Jon from Cerdic’s death blow, suffering a near-fatal wound for his efforts so that his new son-in-law could recover in time to run the man through.

As soon as the battle was over and the remaining Saxons captured or killed, Jon had sent for his wife, who exchanged cold, damp Tintagel Castle for an equally cold albeit less damp and grander castle in Londinium.  She arrived to find that Jon had had her chambers cleaned and lit and well-prepared, and had thanked him sincerely; but he had only nodded in that brusque way of his and said he was glad to hear it, and gone on to greet Lords Davos and Jeor.

Ever since then, Jon had labored day and night alongside his men to rebuild Londinium.  Much as he had done at Tintagel Castle before, he left the two older lords and Sansa to order the housing of the refugees and the running of the castle.  He often worked long into the night, forcing Sansa to have to explain his absences to the folk crowded into the castle’s halls every night for supper and every morning to bring their petitions to their new king and queen.

“He works to repair Londinium and make it a home for any in Britannia who wish to dwell in peace and safety,” she said over and over to knight after knight and to lord after lord.  Most of them accepted her word, especially after it had been repeated by Lords Jeor and Davos; but some grumbled and demanded personal audiences with the king, especially the testier lords who were now regretting promising their lands’ future allegiance to the sons of a Targaryen, even a Targaryen who had helped to save all of Britannia from the Saxons.

So every night, when Jon asked as he always did when they sat in his solar with Jon chewing roughly on his supper and Sansa sewing clothing for those among the smallfolk who needed it most, and when Jon took a moment to ask Sansa or her ladies needed aught, she would tell him which lords had asked for audiences with him.  He always agreed to see them, but his patience grew thinner each time, especially when the lord in question had made repeated requests for more and more of Londinium’s scarce resources to be sent off to his particular land with no regard, as Jon judged, for what the remaining Britons could spare.

“I have done with Lord Arryn’s haranguings,” he grumbled one night.  “He cares more for his coffers than for his own people.”  He yanked off his belt, causing his jerkin to swivel tightly to one side.

Sansa pursed her lips.  “Norfolk is a large territory,” she replied, pulling a string with more vigor than usual through one of the fur pelts Jon gave her every day from whatever wild wolves or bears or foxes he and his men had caught wandering too near to Londinium.  “My father said the Saxons laid particular waste to it.”

Jon shook his head.  “You have seen our ledgers,” he answered.  “I have allotted him as much as we can in proportion to his need.”

“Then hear him and reassure him that if he needs aught more, we shall do what we can to provide for him,” said Sansa, measuring her words carefully.  “A bit of assurance, even flattery, to a difficult one such as Lord Arryn is a small price to pay for his continued allegiance, especially considering he himself commands the allegiance of so many others.”

Jon blew out a sigh of sheer frustration.  “Aye, and what further price must I pay?” he demanded.  “He must understand – they all must – that the suffering of our own people here in Londinium must be relieved as well.  I care less about his ranting than about their lives, and he must see it.”  He pulled out the leather thong binding his wild curls away from his face and sat down abruptly on Sansa’s bed.

“No,” he continued.  “If he demands an audience with me tomorrow, I shall refuse it.  He and all the others must see I cannot be bought or swayed away from the welfare of those who need it most, especially not for the sake of their idiotic politics.”

Sansa rolled her eyes.  “Idiotic politics, if done correctly, can aid a realm more than harm it,” she replied.  “Keeping his favor is crucial, especially now, and merely listening to him without giving your word for further resources, even listening for an hour or two, could do that.  So if you wish to refuse him, do it yourself.  I will not do it for you.”  She lifted her chin and crossed her arms over her chest.

Jon stood up, stalked over to the fireplace, and prodded a log with more force than was necessary.  “Very well,” he sighed; but when he sat down on the bed again, he reached for Sansa much more tentatively than he had for the log rod, and he stroked her hair so tenderly, and his mouth was so gentle on her own that Sansa could not stay irritated at him; and the following morning, he remained abed long enough to kiss her on her forehead and wish her a good morning before he donned his clothing and rose to join his men in another day of toil.

All was well for a few days; but Lord Arryn and a few others remained particularly troublesome in their demands, and every day Jon met with one of them, his temper was shorter when he emerged from the audience, and he and Sansa repeated their bedtime arguments more and more often.

“One would think two demons instead of one spawned me, as they say,” he snapped one night after a particularly long session with Lord Baelish, a nettlesome little man who would not cease begging Jon for the control of a territory in Suffolk which Jon had already promised to his own men.

Sansa scoffed.  “They are grumblings, naught more,” she replied, rubbing her temples; she had had to deal with Lord Baelish and his adversary for two days solid before Jon would agree to hear the matter between them.  “And should you take more time to listen to your lords, they should see it more clearly.”

Jon whirled around, struck the solid stone mantel with both hands, and winced.  “And is not the work I do every day enough?” he cried.  “I tire of politics and petty quarrels.  Every roof my men and I build every day gives shelter to more people who should otherwise die in this winter.  I have not the time to risk their lives on the squabblings of fools!”

“Neither do I,” Sansa snapped back.  “I should rather spend all of my own time sewing more of the clothes I can make to keep those same people warm, but I must listen to the squabblings of fools if you will not, Jon Targaryen; and if you wish to show the rumors false, and yourself a king who will build as well as slaughter, then you must hear them as well!”

Jon’s mouth opened, and then shut, and his jaw tightened, and for a moment he blinked as if he would cry.  Then he whirled again and stalked out of the room.

Sansa sighed heavily and rubbed her temples harder.  She wished she could swallow her words out of the air into which she had spoken them, and she knew she should follow Jon to his chambers and ask his forgiveness for them; but her head hurt, and so did her pride, and she must finish sewing the cloak on which she was working, and Jon must know he was nothing like his father in truth.

But Jon did not bid her good morning the next day, and he stayed out working with his men later than usual that night; and although he asked her as always if any had requested audiences with him, and whether Sansa or her ladies was in want of anything, it was curtly done, and Sansa replied with equal stiffness.  The air between them chilled with the late winter winds every day, and for a time Jon did not ask to spend the night in Sansa’s chambers.  When next he did, she had just had her moon blood, and her body was still aching, and so was Jon’s head, and they argued again before he removed his jerkin and climbed into the bed.  When he reached out to touch her, she shifted and felt the ache again and flinched.  Jon withdrew his hand from her as if she had been an open flame, and pain flashed across his face, and his lower lip trembled by a hair’s breadth; and he left her chambers at once and did not return.

More days and weeks passed, and the winter with them; and one day, when the snows had fully melted to reveal a new Londinium studded with strong new dwellings and granaries, Jon had taken a party of his men off to the forest to hunt, for the castle’s stores had gotten dangerously low.  On her way to meet with the steward, Sansa overheard three of the kitchen maids whispering about how happy the king had looked on his way out of the gates.

“I should be happy to avoid Lord Arryn and Lord Baelish, if I were him,” said one girl.  Another rolled her eyes at her companion.

“Not so unhappy for you,” she retorted, “considering the way you ogle at him.”

The third girl giggled, much to the other’s chagrin.

“He should rather ogle at the queen than at you, Lena,” she rejoined.  “Certainly more than the king, for I have heard he has not visited the queen’s chambers in near a month.”

“Maybe he is happy to be leaving her behind, then,” the first girl said.  “She must have as little talent in the bedchamber as she has much at sewing, if he despises her bed that much.”

Sansa flinched and swept into the next hallway; and, try as she might, she could not quite forget the maids’ words, which sang over and over in her thoughts for the remainder of that day and the next, when Jon departed again to go hunting and did not return until after the moon had risen.

So when he said quietly on the third morning, “I shall return before sunset if you accompany me, my lady,” Sansa’s jaw dropped.

Was he offering her peace?  Had he decided to return to her bedchamber?  Perhaps he, too, had heard the servants’ gossip and meant to head it off by appearing on a public excursion with his wife?  But why would he want her to hunt?  Christ only knew she was no great hand at riding, let alone hunting.

“Not to hunt,” Jon continued, flushing just a bit.  “I thought we could perhaps have a picnic for you and your ladies and some of my men.  We discovered a pretty spot by a stream yesterday, and – ” He shrugged and the tips of his ears went red.  “I only thought you might enjoy it.”

So it was that not two hours later, the royal couple and their attendants galloped off into the forest just west of Londinium.  The sun shone brightly, and as they approached the woods, primroses and gillyflowers and lilies began to appear among the grass and the bushes.  Sansa could not help but smile, and at one point she stopped to pick a handful of the flowers.  When she mounted her horse again, however, Jon, who had been riding abreast of her and Lord Davos, was nowhere to be seen.

Sansa urged her horse to a faster pace, thinking Jon would be just ahead.  Sure enough, there he was, deep in some discussion or another with Davos and Jeor.  When greeted him, he nodded and gave her a brief, “My lady,” and then turned back to Jeor.  He gestured in the direction of a spot off to their right before turning back in his saddle to face Sansa.

“We shall gallop anon, my lady,” he said.  “You and your ladies may keep at your own pace; we wish to ride on ahead and shall not disturb you.”

They galloped off, and Sansa sighed, her shoulders sagging into a most unqueenly posture.  So it must be as she had thought, then; Jon had no care for her, only for the gossip.  Perhaps he would never return to her bedchambers to pepper her with his kisses and caresses, or his arguments, or his armfuls of pelts and new rushes for her floor, and –

“My lady, are you well?”  Lady Jeyne Poole asked at her side.  Sansa swallowed against the lump in her throat and nodded.

“I wish to ride alone for some time,” she said when she could form the words.  “I shall gather what flowers I can to make us crowns for the picnic.  You and the others should do the same, Jeyne, and I shall meet you before the sun reaches mid-morning at the ridge yonder.”

She pointed toward a gentle slope in the ground some hundreds of yards away.  Jeyne opened her mouth, but thought better of whatever she had been about to say and nodded.

So Sansa urged her mount off just a bit further into the woods, where there was no Jeyne or anybody else to see the tears streaming down her cheeks.  Flowers of all colors and sizes now surrounded her; but seeing the blue roses reminded her of Northumbria, which she had left behind.  Seeing the lilies of the valley made her think of the creamy white gown she had worn to wed Jon, and of their first night together, when he had touched her so gently and taken such care to cause her as little pain as he could.  Seeing the primroses reminded her of how Jon’s face flushed when he argued a particularly sore point.  And there was the hillock lace, which resembled Jon’s face with the color drained out of it when she had flung his lineage back into his face and implied he was as bad as his father, and how thoroughly he had ignored her after that, and how stubborn he was, worse than a mule, unyielding as the thousand-year-old oak trees of Northumbria’s great forests and every bit as unfeeling –

So thoroughly was Sansa engrossed in her thoughts that she failed to notice the fallen tree branch blocking the way in front of her.  She only felt her horse give way in front of her, and her hands close on thin air as she reached vainly for its bridle, and the painful thump of her back against the ground just before her head lolled back to meet it, and then she knew no more.

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“My king, I’m sorry, but we can’t find her.”

Jon whirled to face a very apologetic Lord Samwell Tarly, whose face was paler than usual.  Beside him were several of Sansa’s ladies.  All of their faces were whiter than Sam’s, if possible.

“She said she would meet us on yonder ridge at mid-morning,” piped up Lady Jeyne Poole, her voice trembling.  “We came, but she did not, and we found Lord Sam and told him, and he and your men came to our aid, but we cannot find her.”

Jon stared at her as his heart first slowed nearly to a stop, then started racing faster than a horse.  Sansa had not seemed happy about accompanying him, and he could not entirely blame her for it.  After all, he had avoided her much – too much, he admitted to himself – since they had last fought.  It had pained him to no end to think she thought him anything like his father, and he had taken some time to lick his wounds.  When Sam had told him about the rumors being whispered about among the servants, rumors that he shunned his wife and her bed because she was too dull, or nagged at him like a harpy, or demanded too many things for her rooms, or failed to attend to her wifely duties in favor of her sewing and hearing petitions and doing tasks a lady should know to leave to her husband, he felt first crushed, then angry, then determined.  He would show Sansa that he was nothing like his father, if that was what she needed, and he would begin by giving her things she loved; for if lemon cake was out of his reach, her favorite sweetmeats were not, nor now were the spring flowers.  So he and his men spent two days bringing in game the cooks could cure, and then he arranged a picnic, which he and his lords had ridden ahead of Sansa and her ladies to prepare.

But now Sansa was nowhere to be found.

Lady Jeyne had said she had ridden off alone and looked unhappy.  Did she hate the thought of being in his presence so much now?  Had she gone off into the woods alone to be rid of him, and possibly everyone else, so she could weep or gather flowers or do whatever she liked in peace and purposefully ignore him for the rest of the day?  But no; she would not break her word to her ladies, no matter what she felt about him.

A cold knot formed in the pit of Jon’s stomach.  Something must be terribly wrong.

He wanted to leave the whole damned party behind and run through the forest as fast as he could, screaming her name aloud, and not stop until he found her and held her in his arms.  Christ above, he would take assistance from Lord Arryn, even Lord Baelish, if it meant finding her more quickly.  Instead, he took a deep breath to calm the knot in his stomach and enable himself to speak.

“To your horses,” he ordered the men around him.  “Lady Jeyne, you shall come with us and show us exactly where you saw the queen riding last.  Sam, Grenn, Pypar – ” he nodded to three of his youngest lords in turn – “you shall stay here with the provisions and the rest of Sansa’s ladies.  I shall return by sunset, if not sooner.”

He threw himself into his mount’s saddle, took the reins, and wiggled his toes with impatience until the Lady Jeyne and the other lords had mounted their own horses.

“That direction, you say, Lady Jeyne?” he asked, and Lady Jeyne, now wiping tears from her cheeks, nodded.  Jon pivoted his horse and galloped off as though every demon in hell were after him.

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Sansa’s head throbbed in time with the movements of the horse beneath her.  She moaned and tried to turn in the saddle, but instead her face met a cloth-covered wall.  She pushed away, but flopped forward and would have fallen had not someone grabbed her from behind.

“She’s waking, milady,” said a rough voice from directly behind her.  Sansa gasped and tried to open her eyes.  But it was night, and she could barely make out the shapes of a few trees around her and, when she turned, the chest of a tall man whose beard nearly scraped her face.  He was, she saw, the one holding her, and his eyes gleamed almost merrily down at her in the moonlight.

Sansa tried to scream, but only a rasping sigh emerged, and her head nearly burst with the effort.  She tried to push the man away, but he only held her more tightly.

“Sir Beric!”  A woman’s voice, low and throaty, made the man turn in his saddle and Sansa with him.  The horse halted, and a hooded figure walked over to them.  It was a woman, and she reached into her robes, removed a small bottle, uncorked it, and held it up to Sansa’s lips.

“Drink, my lady,” she said.  “For the pain.  And you – ”  Her voice sharpened, and she raised her head to speak to the man behind Sansa.  “Not a hair on her head.”

Sansa felt the man nod behind her.  “Aye, milady,” he said, clearly chastened.

The woman’s eyes gleamed under her hood as she gave him a fierce stare at which Sansa cringed.  Then she turned back to Sansa.

“Drink,” she said again.  Sansa shook her head, but the woman pinched her chin with surprising strength and poured a hot, pungent liquid down Sansa’s throat.  It tasted of mead and earth and how Sansa imagined honey would taste if it rotted, and she moaned in protest before the darkness took her again.

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The next time Sansa awoke, she found herself in an ancient stone courtyard surrounded by equally ancient walls with moss in their cracks.  Someone took her horse’s bridle, and before she knew it, she was being handed off the horse to a stocky, middle-aged knight with thinning sandy hair.  A woman robed all in red swept to his side.

“Can you stand, Your Grace?” she asked, addressing Sansa, and Sansa recognized her voice as that of the woman from the night before.  Sansa felt like collapsing in a heap and perhaps vomiting as well; but her father had taught her and Robb never to let an enemy see one’s weaknesses, and she was not about to begin now.

“I can stand, and I wish to leave,” she said as loudly as she could.  The woman merely smiled.

“The last is not possible,” she said, as if pointing out that the sky was covered with the thick, gray clouds that now obscured the sun.  “We are well hidden here, and here is your purpose.”

“My purpose?” Sansa stared at her and felt the knight who had shared her horse approach her other side.  She scolded herself for not turning and running while she could, but a quick backward glance revealed a heavy set of iron-barred wood gates, which two other knights were now fastening shut.

“The Lord of Light has a purpose for all,” replied the woman, her voice lowering to a singsong lilt.  “His king awaits you inside.”

Each of the knights took one of Sansa’s arms.  That was when the fear struck her harder than her head had struck the ground when she had fallen from her horse; but she lifted her chin, set her jaw, and spoke no words as the men escorted her inside.

The red woman led them through a series of chambers and into a long room with an enormous hearth on each side and a platform at the end.  There, sitting on a stone chair, sat a middle-aged man.  He was garbed all in brown, and his weary face was topped with bushy, severe eyebrows and a gold crown with a ruby in the shape of a heart adorning the center.  When he saw the approaching party, he rose.  The red woman nodded to him, and he to her; but both knights bowed, dragging Sansa to the floor with him.

“Enough.”  The man’s voice was reedy but stern, and the knights stood at once, again pulling Sansa with them.  He made a short motion with one hand, and they released her and stepped back.  Sansa’s legs shook, and for a moment she thought she would fall, until she managed to plant her right foot onto the stone floor and move the left to stand beside it.

“My apologies, Sansa Stark,” said the man.  “I gave orders that you be handled gently.  I trust my men obeyed them.”  He glanced sideways at the red woman, who gave a single nod.

“Welcome to Glastonbury Castle,” the man went on, and Sansa could not stifle a gasp.  Glastonbury Castle was in the heart of Somerset, the home of the Baratheon family, who had fortified themselves behind the crags and swamplands that surrounded their land during the Saxons’ invasions.  They had ridden out neither with nor against the Saxons in favor of barricading themselves in what safety they could find.  The man in front of Sansa could be no other than Lord Stannis Baratheon, last surviving son of King Steffon Baratheon.  King Steffon had been nearly as famous a warrior as Rhaegar Targaryen in his day; but his son had foregone war in favor of forming his own kingdom away from the Saxon incursions.  His wife had died some years previously – due, some rumors said, to the witchcraft that Stannis and his men practiced, red witchcraft from the heathen lands far to the east.  Sansa’s eyes darted to the black filigree necklace adorning the neck of the red woman.  In the middle sat an enormous ruby, lit from within as by fire.  Fire from hell, Sansa remembered the rumors whispering about the source of Stannis Baratheon’s power; and she could not help but shudder.

“You have nothing to fear from us, Your Grace,” said the red woman, and Sansa forced herself to look upward into the woman’s dark eyes.  “Indeed, we offer you the queenship of Somerset in keeping with your birth, and queenship at length of all Britannia.”

Stannis Baratheon cleared his throat.  “The Lady Melisandre means to say,” he said gruffly, “that you will be my wife.  My daughter Shireen has lacked a mother too long; and I mean to have sons to take my throne and the throne of Britannia after I am gone.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.  “My right name,” she said when she could speak again, “is Sansa Targaryen.  I am the wife of King Jon Targaryen, King of Britannia, and therefore I cannot marry you.”

She prided herself on how calm she sounded; but both the lord and lady gave her pitying smiles, as if indulging the fantastical whims of a child.

“You have borne Jon Targaryen no children,” said the Lady Melisandre, “and your marriage can easily be set aside.  And he has not the firm allegiance of all his lords, who can be persuaded easily enough to follow the only king who could defend his own people from the Saxons – especially a king with a beautiful wife and sons.”  She smiled at Sansa, who felt her blood run cold.

“My husband will not allow this,” she said, her voice beginning to shake.  “He is a mighty warrior, and he has more allegiance than you think; and he will not give me up.”

This time, both the lord and the lady laughed.  Sansa pursed her lips together so tightly that she felt the blood drain from them.

“If I am told aright,” said Lord Stannis, “he has not favored your company for some time; and if he has no sons by Ned Stark’s daughter, his agreement with the lords of Britannia is null and void, and he will certainly lose their allegiance.”

“So,” said Lady Melisandre smoothly, “if you will but sign a letter to Jon Targaryen to this effect, and marry King Stannis, he shall negotiate a new agreement with the other lords; and you shall bear him sons, and mother his daughter Shireen, and be queen of all Britannia.”

“You are mad,” Sansa bit out, before remembering that such a flat refusal might anger the king and make him recant his instructions that his men were to cause her no harm.  She bit her lip and took a deep breath.

“Or,” she continued, “perhaps you underestimate my husband’s willingness to win me back.  He might pay a fine ransom for me; and with it you, my l – Your Grace, might win yourself a bride from Brittany or Burgundy, and the allegiance of her house, and prosper your own kingdom through your trade and relations with them.”

The king frowned.  “No,” he said, “it must be you, Sansa Stark; for you are the daughter of Ned Stark, and the North of Britannia will not have peace with us unless I win their alliance through you.”

“You are of the blood of Britannia’s kings,” said the Lady Melisandre, her eyes glowing to match her pendant.  Sansa shrank back.  “Only the blood of those kings can return Glastonbury to its prosperity and power.  Yes, you it must be.” She smiled in a way that made Sansa’s blood run cold.  “And this place is well hidden.  You may rest assured that Jon Targaryen will not find it.”  She nodded to a young man standing next to the king, who drew from his robes two pieces of parchment and a long quill.

“Will you sign the letter?” the woman asked, taking both from the man and holding them out to Sansa.  Sansa stood her ground and shook her head.

“No,” she replied.  “My husband shall come for me.”

She dearly hoped it was the case as the two knights marched her off into the depths of the castle; for what if the Lady Melisandre was indeed a woman of the dark arts and had managed some sorcery to hide Glastonbury Castle?  How long would that sorcery last?  And what – Sansa gulped back tears as one of the knights knocked at a set of doors, which was promptly opened by a young maid dressed in brown and scarlet – what if Jon, after some time of looking for her, decided she was not worth the effort, and he would rather have a wife who did not fight with him so much as she did?

Sansa heard none of the words the flock of maids surrounding her spoke.  She barely recognized it when one of them asked her if she should like a bath; and the moment the water was brought, she ordered them out of the room, climbed into the tub, and wept.

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Every day after that, Sansa rose to let her new maids dress her in a gown in some variation of brown or red.  She had never liked either color; instead, she had preferred green and blue.  Jon had remarked a few times when she wore a particular blue gown back in Londinium or Cornwall that it made her eyes look pretty.  The tips of his ears had reddened each time he had said it; but his eyes had been so wonderfully soft, like his lips when he had kissed her.  Sansa tried to blink back the tears that sprang into her eyes every time she thought of it.

Aside from dressing and undressing, she was allowed only to read and sew.  The day after she arrived at the castle, she met Lord Stannis’s daughter, Shireen, a child of perhaps ten years.  Half of her face was covered in scars; but she was nonetheless a pretty little thing, and very courteous, and when she found that Sansa liked to read, she asked if they could do it together.  So it was that Sansa spent many of her afternoons listening to the child read any number of tales, and one or two of them were favorites of Jon’s, and when Shireen read them Sansa had to face the window so no one would see the tears pouring out of her eyes.  When Shireen left, she would insist on sewing alone; for sewing made her think of the nights she had spent with Jon in front of her chambers’ roaring fires, and how he had entered them carrying furs for her sewing and rushes for her floor, and even more wood for their fires.  Sansa had half-scolded him, telling him one of the men could handle such things; but he had said a husband should take care of his wife, king or no king.

Twice a day, once after she broke her fast and once after supper, she had an audience with Lord Stannis and Lady Melisandre, who asked her if she had changed her mind.  Sansa always gave them her firmest no, and hoped dearly that Jon was near to finding her; for although both lord and lady accepted her answers, and though they ordered no ill-treatment of her, Sansa could not be sure they would not at some point turn to such tactics to get their way.  The uncertainty of it hung over her day and night, and the only time she escaped the gnawing feeling was during the last minutes before she undressed for bed, when she finished her sewing with a stitch of golden thread, so that she could keep count of the days she spent in Glastonbury, and especially so that she could show them to Jon and tell him she had not forgotten him any more than she hoped he had forgotten her.

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“Your Grace, with respect, I agree with Lord Jeor.”  Lord Royce’s commanding voice echoed off the stones of the great hall.  “You have searched thirty acres and more about the place where Queen Sansa disappeared these past ten days, and yet you have found no trace of her.  What makes you think she can be found within forty or fifty?”

Jon rounded on the man, barely restraining a snarl.  “She is my wife and queen,” he replied.  “What good were my vows to protect her if I cannot find her to be protected?”

“Aye,” sounded Lord Pypar’s soft voice near his elbow, “but, Your Grace, what if she does not wish to be found?”

Jon stared at the man, his mouth agape.  Lord Pypar grimaced and said nothing more until Lord Arryn spoke up.

“You have said yourself that you found no trace of her,” he said.  “Often such a thing means that the one who vanished did so of a purpose.  Perhaps she has returned to Northumbria and her father.”

Jon’s eyes crackled with anger.  “You of all should not presume to speak of this to me, my lord,” he spat.  “You imply your queen to be a coward or a turncoat when she is neither.  She fortified and held Tintagel Castle against my return for months before we fought the Saxons, and she has provided for your people and borne your vicious and frivolous complaints with far greater patience than you deserve.”  He gritted his teeth against the heaving of his chest.  “Speak another word of this and you may leave Londinium, to keep my counsel no more.  Nor any others of you.”  He turned in half a circle to spread his glare about the room.  “Lords Tarly, Heathwell, and Horn – ” he inclined his head in turn at Samwell, Pypar, and Grenn – “ride at dawn tomorrow, and as many days after that as we must in order to find my wife.”

“Aye, and what about your people, Your Grace?”  This time it was Jeor Mormont who spoke.  Jon turned to face the man as though the latter had just stuck a knife into his back.

“They need to have their petitions heard and their needs seen to,” Lord Mormont continued, “and a leader in the event of any further attacks.  The kingdom needs its king.  Its king must not lose it.”

His eyes shone with warning and concern; but Jon’s own flashed back with anger.

“Then you and Lord Seaworth may arrange for it, Lord Mormont,” he ground out.  “You have my full permission to do these things as long as it takes me to find Sansa.  The kingdom is no kingdom at all without its queen.”

He turned on his heels and stalked out of the room, realizing only later that he had referred then to Sansa before all the lords by her first name only, as he had always addressed her in private, when they sat together in her chambers or his solar and Sansa sewed and hummed and sometimes even smiled at him, when she allowed him into her bed and let him kiss and caress her heavenly body and bury his head into her shoulder as his body entwined itself with hers over and over and over again.

Jon reached his chambers and yanked on his sword belt so hard that it snapped in two.  He cursed loudly and yanked even harder on his jerkin, ripping it off too.  What if Sansa truly did not want to be found?  What if she had thought him so much like his father that she would deceive him, break her word to her ladies, and run as far away from him as she could go?

Jon’s finger hooked into the leather thong that bound his hair and ripped it free, howling as it caught a vicious snarl in his curls.  He could not think of it any more.  He could not bear it.

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Sansa gazed listlessly out of the window of her chambers.  Autumn was waning over Britannia, and it was nearing a year’s turn since she had married Jon.  She remembered him promising her a lemon cake when the day arrived.  She remembered how she could not help smiling, even though it had been their wedding day and she had been anxious and afraid, before he had taken her to bed so gently and shown her she need never fear him.  She remembered him never failing to ask every day they lived together whether she and her ladies had all they needed, no matter how tired he was or how overwhelmed with other duties.

“Your Grace?”

Sansa turned to see little Shireen standing at the doorway, a book in her hands.

“May I read with you?” the girl asked, and Sansa, not trusting her voice, nodded.  The child’s face brightened at once, and she rushed to seat herself in her customary chair, carefully opened the book, and began to read.  Sansa, however, paid little attention.  She was too busy remembering how Jon smiled when she thanked him for supplying her with more furs, or when he spied the flowers he had whittled for her out of sticks adorning her bedside table, or when she assented to him coming to bed with her; and how gentle his lips and hands were, and how awestruck he looked the first time she removed her shift for him altogether, and –

“Your Grace?”

Little Shireen’s voice pulled Sansa out of her reverie, and she bent to regard the child’s questioning face.

“Yes, Shireen,” she asked.

“My Papa says you shall marry him and become my mother before the spring comes,” said the child.  “Is it true?”

Tears flooded Sansa’s eyes, and she blinked desperately to keep them from rolling down her cheeks.

“We shall see,” was all she could say.

Please, Christ above, defeat this witch’s enchantment, she prayed, sinking to her knees on the floor after the girl and her maids had left the room.  Let Jon find me.  Let me repent to him of my words, even if he does not forgive me for years.

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“Jon, we’ve already been to this place before.”

Jon turned to Lord Samwell Tarly, who was just behind him.  Outside the company of the other lords, Jon, Sam, Pypar, and Grenn had long addressed each other without formality, for they had grown up with him in Brittany since all four were but children.

Jon stared in the direction Sam was pointing.  Three trees stood slightly apart from the others at the bottom of a small hill.  He cursed as he remembered seeing the same sight the prior day.

“I see, Sam,” he barked.  “We shall turn the horses and go opposite to find a different path.”

Grenn sighed.  “We said the same thing yesterday,” he pointed out, “and the day before at the forked oak, and then last week back at the river, and last month – ”

“Aye, Grenn, I know,” Jon interrupted him.  “That doesn’t mean we can’t turn back and try again.”

“Jon.”  Sam’s voice was so low that Jon had to step to his side to hear it.  The young lord gestured toward the brook behind him.

“It’s the same one as we crossed when we first entered the forest more than a moon’s turn ago, do you not think?” he murmured.

Jon stared hard at the stream of muddy water.  His heart sank as he recognized a knot of oak trees near the edge.  He cursed again.

“Aye.”  Sam nodded.  “But the sun is in a completely different place in relation to the brook, Jon.  The brook shouldn’t even be here.”  His brown eyes shone with fear.  “I would say we have been making one large circle this entire time, except that the sun is different.  Jon – ” his voice lowered to a whisper, “the priests say there are no such things, but I’d call this an enchantment.  I doubt if there is a way for us to escape back to Londinium now.”

Jon stared at him in horror.  During his boyhood, he would have agreed with the priests; but as soon as he had pulled Dark Sister out of the stone near the site of his father’s death, he had believed altogether differently.  The air felt suddenly cold around him, and he shivered.

“Get Pyp and Grenn,” he ordered Sam.  “Let us see if any way forward can be found.  Not back to Londinium, Sam – forward.”

Sam sighed heavily and turned to retrieve the other two lords.  Jon leaned his body into his tired horse’s saddle, bent his head to rest flat against the leather, and prayed with all his might that the God his people swore had guided his hand against the Saxons could break the enchantment and, more than that, protect Sansa from whatever evil effects the power behind it was trying to work on her.

Sansa, he murmured over and over again, until he felt Sam shaking his shoulder.  Sansa.

Sansa, he whispered with the wind that brought the first snowflakes of winter swirling around them.  He remembered her telling him how she and her brother would hold their mouths open and catch snowflakes on their tongues as children.  He remembered her smiling when she said it, and laughing when she and her father’s men had tried to teach his bumbling southern lords the Northumbrians’ traditional snowflake dance, a light, whirling number danced in all Northumbrian halls every night from the falling of the first snowflake of the winter to the last melt of spring.  She had even smiled at Lord Arryn and Lord Baelish, who certainly had always regarded him with more favor than they had him.

Perhaps she had been right, he admitted to himself as he drew his cloak about him, or at least more in the right than he.  If he had followed her advice and suffered another few audiences he had not wished to grant, perhaps she would have thought differently of his resemblance to his father.  Perhaps she would not have flinched at his touch when he had gone to her bed that last time.  Perhaps she would have stayed to have a picnic with him that horrible day when everything had gone wrong.  Perhaps she would have seen how much he missed her smiles, and her sewing cloaks for children who had none in front of the fire, and her astonishing memory of how much the castle had in its stores every day and how much game and how many furs he and his men must bring in so the people of Londinium could eat and breathe and live day after day.

Sansa, he whispered at night as he, Sam, Pypar, Grenn, and their growling stomachs huddled shivering in their cloaks around a dying fire.  He thought of her smile again, and the warmth of her beautiful body, and the heat in her eyes as she told him she would not be made a messenger of his disgruntlement to the lords he should be facing like the king he was.

He felt like a king no longer.  He cared about being a king no longer, or at the least very little.

What good, after all, was he or his kingdom without Sansa?

Sansa, he whispered again, and, before he even realized he had spoken the words, Sansa, my love.

He felt a sudden warmth, like the flicker of a candle under his hand, at the base of the fourth finger of his left hand.  Groaning, he pushed his cloak loose enough to look at it.

The sapphire in the middle of the gold ring had begun to glow at the center.  Jon stared at it, shocked, and rose to his feet before he had realized it.  The glow intensified.

“Sam,” rasped Jon, nudging the other man with his foot.  “Pyp!  Grenn!”

It took some time to awaken them all, and more for them to focus their weary eyes on the icy stone glowing on Jon’s hand, and yet more for them to get up and saddle their horses, grumbling all the while.  Jon nudged his own horse this way and that, watching astonished as the sapphire glowed either more or less brightly depending on the direction the animal turned.

Finally, he settled on the direction that brightened the stone the most, and urged his friends on against the freezing wind.

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

Sansa woke before dawn.  In her sleep, she had drawn her blankets so tightly around her that for a blissful moment she thought they were Jon’s arms, and sighed in delight.

Jon wanted to return to her bed.  Jon must have forgiven her for her harshness and her ungratefulness.  Jon was holding her again.  Jon –

Sansa felt a sudden burning sensation against the fourth finger of her left hand, still encircled by Jon’s marriage ring.  She wrangled it from the covers and sighed with disappointment once she realized that she was not in Jon’s arms at all, but in her captive bed at Glastonbury Castle.

Then she saw the glowing red stone in the middle of the ring and clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

The stone was an ordinary ruby; that much she knew, for Jon had told her about it when he had given it to her at their wedding.  It had belonged to his mother, he had said, and she had told him before she died to give it to the woman he married.  She had occasionally noticed the stone glimmering in the sunlight, but now it was glowing in the dark like a dancing flame.

Jon, she sighed without thinking.  Then her heart leapt.

What if Jon had found her after all?

But when she scrambled out of bed to stare out the window, she only saw the faint light of the stars and the gray of early dawn beginning to creep over the sky.  The torches burned low in the courtyard below her.  There was no sign of Jon, or indeed of anyone else.

Sansa sighed.  It was foolishness to hope Jon had come after all this time.  Perhaps the light emanating from the stone was all a trick of her mind, a bitter echo of her dearest wish.

Jon, she whispered as she sank back down onto her bed and let the tears flow down her cheeks.  Jon, my love.

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

The next evening, Lord Stannis and Lady Melisandre did not summon her to her usual audience with them after supper.  Instead, just a bit before sunset, Sansa heard the shuffling of at least a dozen pairs of feet passing her door on their way down the hall.

A stab of terrible hope pierced Sansa’s heart.  She sent her ladies to fetch her a bath.  As soon as they had left her bedchamber, she scurried to the window and stared down at the courtyard.  Two knights rushed across it, carrying torches, and yet two more scuttled after them.  Sansa waited by the window with bated breath for several minutes until the antechamber doors opened to admit Lord Stannis and Lady Melisandre themselves into the courtyard.  When they reached the other end, they huddled together with the lord’s knights and spoke for several moments.  Then Lady Melisandre turned back toward the castle, and Sansa ducked to avoid her keen eyesight, but not before she made out the words Jon Targaryen on the woman’s lips.

Sansa’s heart leaped into her throat just as one of her maids re-entered the room with a jug of water.  It was Rose, her youngest maid, and Rose was exactly what she needed, she realized as she turned to address the girl.

“I am not yet ready for the bath, Rose,” she said.  “The water for my last bath was far too hot when it was first poured, and I am afraid this may be the same.  Do you very much mind trying it out for me?”  She gestured toward the girl’s clothes.  “You may get in all the way if you so wish.  I do not mind.”

Rose looked a bit confused, but curtsied anyway.  “Yes, milady,” she said, and darted into the next room.

Sansa felt a bit guilty for taking advantage of the poor girl’s dullness, but once she had ensured the maid was fully immersed in the bath and facing the room’s other wall, she made sure to leave her own rich clothes behind after the stole the maid’s.  She could at least ensure the girl got to keep them.

The heat Sansa had felt on her skin beneath her ring intensified as she darted into the hallway, and when she looked down, the stone was glowing even more brilliantly than it had done the prior morning.  She stumbled as best she could through the castle’s halls, trying to remember the way she had come in nearly a year ago before she realized that that way would not do anyhow.  She waited in a corner until she saw two kitchen maids approaching, then followed them into the kitchens and scuttled behind yet another maid who was passing out the door into the chicken yard.  Gasping, she hid in the darkened far corner of the yard and waited until the guard had turned away from her before heaving herself up over the wall.  Two of her fingernails caught and broke in the cracks between the bricks as Sansa used them for leverage, and when she dropped off the top of the wall, she landed in a gorse-bush and hummed in pain as its thorns tore holes in her clothes and skin.  But Jon, Jon, Jon was still the highest thought in her head, and to its tune she tore herself painfully free of the thorns and stumbled around the corner of the castle toward the sound of voices.  She emerged into a grove of bushes just to one side of the courtyard and saw four ragged-looking men standing in front of the door, which was open but guarded by four armored men.  Lord Stannis and Lady Melisandre stood just in front of them, regarding the strangers fiercely.

“She can hardly be called your wife if she wishes the marriage annulled, for she has borne you no sons or daughters,” Lord Stannis was saying, and one of the men stepped forward.  The guards crossed their swords to bar his way, and the man growled; and Sansa’s heart leapt as she recognized both the deep timbre of his voice and the curls that sprang in a gnarled mass off his head.

“And what proof have I that she wishes it so?” Jon demanded.  “I will see her now, and hear it from her own lips; and if you have harmed her, Lord Baratheon – ”

“He is ‘Your Grace’ to you, Jon Targaryen,” said Lady Melisandre, and Jon growled again.  “He took no part in the pact the other lords of Britannia made with you, as you well know.  He is the King of Glastonbury, and his sons with the queen will be the king and princes of Britannia; for His Grace’s family has been her since long before you and your father were born, and how long do you think your men will follow a foreigner above a Briton born and raised?”

“I care not if he wishes to be called a king,” Jon replied, and Sansa heard him measure his breaths as he sometimes did when he would as soon shout at a lord as speak to him.  “If a title is what you wish, Stannis Baratheon, then a title you may have; but I have made vows before my God to my wife.  If you release her to me and she has suffered no harm, my men and I will leave you and yours in peace; save only for the witch at your side, for her grievous enchantments have kept us wandering through wood and snow and ice and thorn, away from our kingdom and our families, for the space of a year.  She shall be tried and punished as my justiciars see fit.”

Sansa crept a bit closer, until she could see the profile of Jon’s face in the firelight.  It was smeared with dirt and blood alike, and she saw deep scratches that her fingers ached to bind.  He must have faced far worse thorns than she had.

Then she heard a laugh that made her bones quake; and Lady Melisandre stepped forward until she was close enough to breathe on Jon’s face.  Despite her laughter, Sansa thought the woman looked a bit uncertain; but her voice betrayed no hint of it.

“You may attempt to try and punish me, Jon Targaryen,” she hissed, “but you will fail and you will fall, and your men with you.  You should be grateful I have suffered you to pass this far.”

Jon ignored her and turned back to Stannis Baratheon.

“I say again, my lord,” he said, “that if you have not harmed my wife, release her to me and I will treat with you, for your house and mine have no quarrel, and I would deal and prosper with you now that the Saxons have met their end.  All I ask is for the fair trial, in front of my men and yours, of this woman.”  He gestured to the Lady Melisandre, who grinned at him cruelly.

“You should leave, Jon Targaryen,” she said.  “Your wife is beyond your reach.  You and yours should go before I change my mind.”

“Enough!”  Jon roared.  “Where is Sansa?  If you have harmed her, witch, you shall pay, no matter what else you may do!”

He lunged forward, but one of the guards struck him in the stomach, and he doubled over, wheezing.  Sansa shrieked and ran forward.  Before she could reach his side, however, one of his companions grabbed her by the arm.  It was Lord Samwell Tarly, she realized after a moment of staring through the grime and blood on his face.

“Lord Tarly, unhand me!” she cried.  “I have not been harmed!  Jon!  I am here!”

Jon and his companions turned to face her at once.  Lord Stannis and Lady Melisandre did the same.  Everyone except the red woman looked both shocked and bewildered.  Jon stared at her as he would have done a stranger who had accosted him on the road.

“Who are you, girl?” he asked.  “I do not know you.”

Sansa frantically scrubbed at her face, where she supposed the dirt and blood from the gorse-bush had gathered.

“’Tis me, Jon!” she cried.  “Sansa!  Your wife!”

Jon only shook his head, and so did his companions.  Sansa stared from man to man frantically, willing them to recognize her.  Her eye caught the Lady Melisandre’s face, which was adorned with a foul expression of triumph.

It must be the enchantment, she thought, and two tears scrolled out of her eyes and down her cheeks.  The witch had enchanted not just the woodlands of Glastonbury, but the captive herself; and now Jon did not know her, and could not know how desperately she had waited and hoped for him.  She tried to blink the rest of her tears back, and as she did a red flash caught her eye; and there on Jon’s left hand was the marriage ring she had given him, and the sapphire was shining like a tongue of icy flame.  Sansa threw off her cloak and held out her own hand, lit by the glowing ruby on her own marriage ring, to grasp her husband’s.

“Jon, look at my hand!” she cried.  “You gave me this ring on our wedding day, and it began shining when you came near, and I want no annulment, because I have waited for you, if you will have me – Jon, I am sorry!”

Jon’s eyes widened, and he clutched her hand and stared at her ring; and when he raised his eyes to her own, they were wet and disbelieving and overjoyed.  He seized her in his arms and lifted her off the ground and buried his face into her shoulder, and Sansa breathed in the pine and salt and warmth of him and shut her eyes.  A shriek of horror opened them again promptly, and Jon nearly dropped her; and they both turned just in time to see the ruby in Lady Melisandre’s necklace split down the middle as she clutched at it in vain, and the necklace crumbled to ash.  The witch’s face sprouted wrinkles and lines, and her hair turned white as snow; and her frame shriveled, and her robes fell off it, and she collapsed on the ground, a corpse that looked a thousand years old.  Stannis Baratheon gave a loud wail and collapsed to his knees next to her, weeping; and the guards, stunned, stepped back and allowed Jon to carry his wife into the shelter of the castle’s walls.

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

“Will he be fit to resume his duties before we leave, do you think?” Jon asked Sansa once the stricken lord’s attendants had carried him off to his chambers and attended to the witch’s bones.  They were seated in an antechamber eating bread and meat from the kitchens; but Jon would only use one hand to eat, and clung to his wife with the other.  She smiled faintly.

“I do not know,” she answered.  “He has a nephew at Somerset Castle two days’ march west, however; and we can send for him if need be.”

Jon nodded and looked down, as he had been doing so frequently, at Sansa’s left hand.  “When did it begin to shine?” he asked, and Sansa blushed.

“Just a day ago,” she answered, “when I awoke thinking of you and how much I wished to be back with you.”

Jon stared at her in wonder.  “You truly did not wish to leave me?” he asked, his voice down to a whisper.  Sansa shook her head at once.

“I never wanted to leave you, Jon,” she whispered back.  “I only fell off my horse, and she must have taken me while I was asleep from it, and – Jon, do not trouble yourself with what either of them said.  I love you.”  She stroked a curl off his cheek and gave him a trembling smile.  “I think the stone must have begun shining once I realized it.”

Jon held up his own hand.  “So did mine,” he admitted.  “We were out in the middle of the forest, lost, in the winter, or what we thought was the winter in her enchantment, and I wanted nothing more than to have you with me so I could tell you how sorry I was for how ill I showed you I loved you, and…”  He shrugged.  “I felt the warmth of it on my finger, and when I looked it was glowing, and it glowed more brightly the closer I got to you.”

Sansa lightly rubbed his face next to a particularly deep scratch.  “Oh, Jon,” she murmured.  “How many acres of thorns did she force you through before you found me?”

He shrugged again.  “It matters not, my love,” he said, his eyes shining almost as brightly as his ring.  “I would go through them ten times more, if it meant you would come home with me and stay, and let me be a far better husband to you than I was before.”

He still looked unsure, as if she might vanish in front of him; and Sansa shook her head.

“You were always a good husband to me, Jon Targaryen,” she said.  “It was not your own fault that I failed to see it as I do now, my love; and of course I will go home with you.  I even think I shall stay.”

Her lips twisted into a japing grin, and Jon’s face split into the widest smile Sansa had ever seen.

“For true, at your word?” he asked just before his lips descended to take her own.

“For true, at my word,” she murmured, brushing her nose with his as her lips opened eagerly under his.  “For true, and for always.”

Note: This is not a conventional Arthur-Guinevere romance. Rather, I based it on an incident in Caradoc of Llancarfan’s Life of Gildas, in which Melwas, king of the “Summer Country” (possibly meaning Somerset), kidnaps Guinevere. Arthur spends a year searching for her and assembles an army to attack Melwas and free Guinevere. In Caradoc’s account, the British saint Gildas negotiates a truce and facilitates Guinevere’s rescue, but in this story, our lord and lady have built just as much of a wall between themselves as Sansa’s kidnapper has erected between them, so I thought it only fitting that they do the negotiating and rescuing on their own terms.

[winelover1989]

So it was so cool that ‘A Dance with Dragons’ didn’t just start with a Jonerys chapter transition, but a Tyrion - Dany - Jon chapter transition right off the bat.  Haven’t been sucked into an asoiaf book this quickly until ADWD.  If you don’t want to read the entire series, you can just read this book, this is where the Essos & Wall/Beyond diverges from the show in the best possible way. 

So Tyrion starts his trip at the mansion in Pentos where Dany started her story and it’s really cool in the sense that Tyrion started his journey by travelling to the Wall with Jon, he unites wildling mountain clans and gets them to follow him into civilisation on his way back from the Vale, convinces themto join his family’s battle and later even includes them in his joint effort with his sister to protect their home against an invader. A nice condensed parallel of Jon’s arc and now he gets a mini version of Dany’s Essos journey too. Varys isn’t his travel companion yet but he’s similarly emo...

Jon & Dany both start out having a hard time adjusting to positions of power - Lord Commander & Queen, having problems with middle aged men in terms of politics and getting to Dany’s Meereen plot, it’s very well laid out. The Yunkai conflict is clear and doesn’t require guesswork like the show. Also it finally makes sense why her fiance guy was hell bent on opening fighting pits, because he bought shares in them while they crashed after Dany closed the pits and he’s using culture as an excuse to make profit. As someone who paid my way through college by investing during the recession at the right time, this finally makes sense. Even the reason behind her considering to marry him makes more sense, because he’s a rich & powerful guy with connection in Yunkai. I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy book Meereen...

Some cool quotes from my first Dany chapter in ages.. Like I laughed so hard at this I choked on my coffee... Out of no where during a serious political scene :D

If he proposes again that I wed King Cleon, I’ll throw a slipper at his head, Dany thought.

Five Aegons had ruled the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. There would have been a sixth, but the Usurper’s dogs had murdered her brother’s son when he was still a babe at the breast. If he had lived, I might have married him. Aegon would have been closer to my age than Viserys. Dany had only been conceived when Aegon and his sister were murdered. Their father, her brother Rhaegar, perished even earlier, slain by the Usurper on the Trident.

Oh damn, if only Rhaegar procreated to make a backup Aegon before dying, if only...

Though that could also be yet another hint dropping for this Aegon’s death end of the book, liek George has no chill with that in ADWD... On a happy note, this is a super cute dragon mom moment with hints that Drogon & Viserion might just have to fight at a much larger scale some day : 

Viserion sensed her disquiet. The white dragon lay coiled around a pear tree, his head resting on his tail. When Dany passed his eyes came open, two pools of molten gold. His horns were gold as well, and the scales that ran down his back from head to tail. “You’re lazy,” she told him, scratching under his jaw. His scales were hot to the touch, like armor left too long in the sun. Dragons are fire made flesh. She had read that in one of the books Ser Jorah had given her as a wedding gift. “You should be hunting with your brothers. Have you and Drogon been fighting again?” Her dragons were growing wild of late. Rhaegal had snapped at Irri, and Viserion had set Reznak’s tokar ablaze the last time the seneschal had called. I have left them too much to themselves, but where am I to find the time for them?

It’s interesting that the first Jon POV starts with him warged into Ghost but the funny thing about Jon chapters is George is really going to town with his death hints right from the start, with him constantly chanting Maester Aemon’s advise in his head, “Kill the boy” and saying “Ghost is more alive than I am.” *wink* because he’ll warg into Ghost post death... If it’s not obvious then there’s this prediction Melisandre casually drops on him :

Melisandre’s red lips curled into a smile. “I have seen you in my fires, Jon Snow.” “Is that a threat, my lady? Do you mean to burn me too?” “You mistake my meaning.” She gave him a searching look. “I fear that I make you uneasy, Lord Snow.” Jon did not deny it. “The Wall is no place for a woman.” “You are wrong. I have dreamed of your Wall, Jon Snow. Great was the lore that raised it, and great the spells locked beneath its ice. We walk beneath one of the hinges of the world.” Melisandre gazed up at it, her breath a warm moist cloud in the air. “This is my place as it is yours, and soon enough you may have grave need of me. Do not refuse my friendship, Jon. I have seen you in the storm, hard-pressed, with enemies on every side. You have so many enemies. Shall I tell you their names?” “I know their names.” “Do not be so certain.” The ruby at Melisandre’s throat gleamed red. “It is not the foes who curse you to your face that you must fear, but those who smile when you are looking and sharpen their knives when you turn your back. You would do well to keep your wolf close beside you. Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel. It was very cold.” “It is always cold on the Wall.” “You think so?” “I know so, my lady.” “Then you know nothing, Jon Snow,” she whispered.

Wow she really has a weird way of flirting and if it’s still not clear than the prologue of the book is the death of a random wildling warg named Varamyr who wargs into a wolf after his death. 

“When the man’s flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains.”

So this guy tries to warg into a human before dying but the person really puts up a fight and it seems like this warg’s spirit is expelled in a very trippy way before it finds a wolf to warg into… It’s a good passage if you’re curious about what’ll happen to Jon after his death...

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that’s in it, he thought, exulting. A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. Before their hearts could beat again he had passed on, searching for his own, for One Eye, Sly, and Stalker, for his pack. His wolves would save him, he told himself.

That was his last thought as a man.

True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake. Then he found himself rushing over moonlit snows with his packmates close behind him.

[commandercrouton]

Jonerys Secret Santa 2017

Here is my submission for Jonerys Secret Santa. I was assigned @violet-eyes-silver-hair for this year, and I hope she really likes my fic! This is my first fic for the fandom, and it is still Christmas here so I made the deadline. I am so sorry I posted this so late. As soon as I got home, I unloaded my car and went straight for the laptop to upload it. This day has been hectic!

Violet eyes met brown eyes for the first time across the fire that was burning in the backyard of the party. She had blonde hair that looked white in the moonlight, and wore a ocean blue dress that highlighted her pale skin. A necklace that looked like a dragon’s tooth fell between her breasts. Jon stared for a second too long at the area where the necklace fell and looked up to find her staring at him with arched eyebrows. Jon blushed furiously and looked away, his cloak billowing in the wind.

His brother didn’t notice a thing as they continued their conversation, red cups in hand running low on beer. When Jon glanced back to the young woman, she was gone. He took a small sip of the cheap beer, and pretended to listen to his brother ramble about this new girl he was interested in. He didn’t understand why his brother’s frat decided to throw a costume party when Halloween was a few weeks ago.

“Did you hear me?” Robb interrupted his thoughts.

“What?” Jon blinked rapidly.

Robb rolled his eyes. “I said your ex-girlfriend is here.”

Jon looked up to see Ygritte’s red hair flash through the crowd. He wondered if she was bringing her new boyfriend as well.

“You okay?” Robb asked.

“Yeah, we broke up a while ago. We are fine now.”

“You’re too forgiving.”

“And you should be bringing me another beer,” Jon joked, thrusting his now empty cup to his brother. Robb smirked as he walked into the frat house to get more of the alcohol from the kegs they bought.

Jon stood there awkwardly, staring at the people surrounding the fire dressed in different costumes.

“What are you supposed to be?” The voice was quiet and commanding.

He turned around to find the petite blonde woman he was staring at. Her entire persona was regal and refined. She stood tall with an air of grace and power. Immediately he knew she was the type of person to get what she wanted, no matter the obstacles.

“I’m a Northern Commander,” he answered, feeling foolish in the attire he borrowed from his father. “And you are a…,” he looked over her outfit and couldn’t figure out what she was.

“I am a dragon queen,” she answered, winking. He grinned at her teasing tone.

“Don’t queens usually wear crowns?”

“A crown does not make a queen.”

“Very true. Where are your dragons?”

“I think a drunk girl stole them from me. They were cute stuffed animals.”

Jon laughed and he was pleased to see her smile a little at his response. “I’m Jon,” he introduced himself, bowing to the queen in front of him.

“Daenerys,” she answered, smiling even bigger as he finished bowing.

“I’d bend the knee, but…” he gestured to his heavy outfit and the fallen leaves on the ground.

“So what are you doing here. You don’t seem to know the members of this fine fraternity.”

“My brother dragged me out. He is trying to convince me to join next semester. Speak of the devil,” Jon said before his brother clapped him on the back. Jon could see Robb eyeing the new girl, and felt a surge of jealousy. It wasn’t Robb’s fault he was so likeable, but Jon was too familiar with girls preferring his brother over him. Robb handed him the drink and he smiled at Daenerys.

She nodded politely in his direction before turning her attention back to Jon.

“Is this the brother who is trying to get you to join?”

“That I am,” Robb interjected. “If I can’t convince him to join, maybe you can.”

“Unfortunately I cannot help you either. I am only here because my friend dragged me out. This isn’t really my scene,” she answered, never breaking eye contact from Jon.

Robb grinned as he realized there were sparks flying between this girl and his brother. Jon had been ignoring girls since him and Ygritte broke up the first month of the school year. It was a shock to both of them since they both chose this school to attend together.

Robb pretended to check his phone and told the two, “Sorry guys, but Theon needs me. Some guys are challenging us for our beer pong title. You two have fun!” He walked away, turning around to wink at his brother out of sight of the blonde girl. Jon raised his eyebrows in warning, causing Daenerys to turn around to see Robb grinning at the two.

“I am starting to believe there was no challenge,” she said.

“And you would be right.”

She stood tall and adjusted her long sleeves of the dress. He noticed her hair was done in beautiful and intricate braiding. He was about to ask her a question about her major, when they were interrupted by another person.

“Daenerys!” A beautiful black woman wearing a sheer grey dress stumbled onto Daenerys. She stumbled under the weight, and tried hard to regain her footing.

“Missandei how much have you had to drink?” Daenerys tried to shrug off her taller friend, but wasn’t succeeding.

“More than I intended. Tyrion is such a bad influence,” Missandei slurred. She saw Jon standing awkwardly besider her friend, and grinned. “Who is this handsome man? I knew I dragged you out for a good reason. Don’t mind me you two. If you want to bring him home tonight, we can sneak him in. Rhaegar won’t ever find out,” she tried to whisper, but failed miserably.

Jon blushed furiously at her suggestive tone. Who was Rhaegar?

“I am so sorry, but I think we have to go. It was lovely meeting you Jon.”

“Do you need help?” Jon saw how Daenerys was struggling under her friend’s height. She bit her lip nervously and darted her eyes back and forth trying to figure out how best to get her to the car. Jon saw the indecision and grabbed the other side of Missandei.

“Where to?”

Daenerys smiled a true smile at him, and his heart skipped a beat. Her normally stoic face completely transformed when she smiled.

“I have a car a block down from the house waiting for us.”

“Lead the way,” Jon answered, adjusting the weight so her friend was leaning more on him than Daenerys. She instructed him as they weaved the way through the crowd until they finally emerged from the house.

An older gentleman leaning against the lamp post ran toward them.

“Miss, is everything alright?” the stranger asked as he took the weight of Missandei off of Daenerys.

“Everything is fine Jorah. Missandei just had a bit too much fun. We should go home.”

Jorah nodded before realizing Jon was standing by them. Jorah appraised Jon warily before sharing a glance with Daenerys.

“He is a friend,” she affirmed.

“I’ll carry her to the car. We should get you ladies home.” Jorah scooped up Missandei and stood off to the side.

“Do you normally have men waiting for you outside of parties?” Jon joked, but immediately realized how inappropriate it sounded.

“Jorah is a close friend, and I guess you could say, bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard? Are you really a queen?” Jon teased.

Daenerys face became guarded as she shook her head no. “Goodbye Jon. Maybe we will see each other again. You seem like quite a man.”

Jon nodded, urging himself to ask for her number. Women like her don’t appear everyday. As he was mustering up the courage to ask her, she turned and walked away from him. He watched her stride confidently to her friends as they began the walk to their car. Jon waited a moment before he turned around himself and entered the party once again.

“You didn’t even ask for her number! You’re a fucking idiot, you know that. She was hot, and she was totally into you,” Robb berated Jon as they had lunch in between classes in the middle of the week.

Jon put his head in his hands and groaned. “I know, I fucking suck,” he moaned. He brushed his hair out of his face and tied it into a bun. “I don’t even know her last name, or how to find her. I don’t even know how to spell her name.”

“I can ask around, see what I can find out. Man, I was sure you had taken her home! Do you have any more details that can help us find her?” Robb grabbed the mug in front of him and took a sip of the black coffee.

“It doesn’t matter, I think she has a boyfriend.”

Robb looked at him questioningly. “What makes you say that? Did you see her with someone?”

“No, it was something her friend said. She said they could sneak me in their home without letting...what was his name? Rhaegar, I think…anyways, without him finding out,” he replied.

“Rhaegar? That does seem weird, but that doesn’t mean it’s her boyfriend. Could be a jealous ex, or a prude roommate. What else do you remember?”

“She said she had a bodyguard. That was really weird. He was waiting outside for her and helped carry her drunk friend back to the car. Part of me believes she might really be a queen,” Jon let out a frustrated sigh. If he ever met a pretty girl, thoughts of her would disappear by the next day, but she was different. Her looks haunted his dreams, and he thought he heard her voice on more than one occasion while waking in between classes. Wherever he looked though, she was nowhere to be found.

Jon looked up from his plate of food to see his brother’s face twisted into concentration. “What?”

“No fucking way,” Robb muttered as he pulled out his phone. Jon knew it was useless to try to get any information from him now. Robb wouldn’t talk until he was sure on his decision, or if he needed advice. From the looks of it, he knew what he was doing.

“Was this her?” Robb asked, thrusting the phone in his hands. Jon grabbed the phone and found pictures of the blonde haired beauty all over the screen.

“Why are there so many pictures of her on Google?”

“You really know nothing Jon. She is Daenerys Targaryen. I can’t believe it. The company said she was taking a year off from school.”

“What company? Why did you make her name sound all fancy?” Jon asked, scrolling through the countless photos of her. There were photos of her in formal wear, with suspected love interests, going to clubs with her friends, leaving the airport in sweats and sunglasses. He felt a pang of sympathy for her at the lack of privacy she had growing up.

“She is Daenerys Targaryen, heiress and partner to Targaryen Empires. One of the top ten businesses on the fortune five hundred list. Her brother is Rhaegar Targaryen, the President of the company. He inherited it from their father when he went mad. She is supposed to help takeover the business when she finishes school.”

“I guess that explains the bodyguard. Once word gets out she’s here, people will go crazy. I’m surprised she blended in this well. The media seems to follow her wherever she goes.” Jon handed back the phone.

“Well thank her brother for that. He has been leaking to the media the different countries she has been visiting on her ‘year off.’ Now we know it’s bull,” Robb answered. “I can’t believe you snagged a Targaryen.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Jon frowned.

“Like what?”

“Like she is some piece of meat. It’s not like that.”

Robb stared at his brother a moment before apologizing. “You’re smitten with her,” Robb teased.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Just help me find her. Without blowing her cover. Maybe ask your friends if they knew a Missandei or Tyrion,” he added, remembering the names of her friends.

Robb agreed and began texting his frat brothers for more information.

Daenerys groaned as she saw her brother’s name flash along the screen on her phone.

“Hello Rhaegar.”

'How is my darling younger sister? Are classes okay?’

“Classes are fine. What's wrong?”

'Straight to the point, just like Viserys taught you. I'm calling because Jorah let it slip you didn’t wear your disguise to the party you went to.’

Daenerys cursed under her breath, making a note to talk to Jorah about the meaning of loyalty. “It was a costume party. No one recognized me. They were too drunk anyways to remember me. I blended in, just like you asked,” she reasoned.

'Dany we made an agreement. If you were going to college away from home, you must wear that wig and keep Jorah close by at all times. No exceptions. You are recognized from your hair. You wanted a normal experience, so you have to make the effort to keep it,’ he reprimanded her.

“Fine, I will wear the brown wig to everything else. But the minute the media catches on to your lies about me travelling, I will burn that wig to ash,” she threatened.

Rhaegar held back a laugh. 'The wig isn't that bad.’

“I disagree. Anything else? I am meeting Tyrion for a tutoring session. Finals are coming up, and I will not fail.”

Rhaegar paused before deciding to continue. 'Jorah also mentioned a boy at the party…’

“And?” she challenged.

'Is he a boyfriend? How much does he know about you.’

“He knows nothing. I just met him at the party. He did not even ask me for my number.”

'You sound disappointed. Did you like this boy?’

“He was interesting,” she admitted. Looking at the clock, she realized she was late to meeting Tyrion, and rushed off the phone with her brother.

Daenerys drove and parked on campus in a record amount of time, and rushed to the library on campus. She glanced at her rose gold watch and saw she was only a few minutes late. The doors to the library automatically opened and she glanced around to find Tyrion waiting in the common area for her.

There were only a handful of people who knew who she really was, and he was one of them. He saw her enter the library and rose to meet her.

“Forgive me for being late, my brother called me. Seems Jorah let him know I didn’t wear this to the party,” she apologized, and gestured to the wig on her head.

“No apologies neccessary. What are we studying today? Politics or history?”

“History. I need to go over the War of the Roses. My professor advised it will be heavily covered on the final.”

“Right then, let’s get started shall we.” Tyrion led the way to the elevators and led the way to a quiet corner on the top floor of the library. The two spent the next few hours going over important names, dates, and battles until it was drilled in her mind permanently.

Daenerys stretched and sighed. She still had to finish a paper for her literature class.

“Need a break? I know an excellent pub with the most amazing honey mead,” he suggested.

She frowned in response. “I have not forgotten how you influenced Missandei drinking at the party. She was completely incapacitated the next day,” she lectured him.

Tyrion laughed in response.

“It’s not funny. I had to take care of her all day!” she reminded him, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Missandei mentioned you met a cute boy at the party. Perhaps you are really mad you had to leave Jon behind.”

“You know him?” she asked.

“Jon Stark. His major is environmental studies, and is on the rugby intramural team. I am also told he has a white husky named Ghost. Many siblings, but only has one brother who attends the college with him. They are roommates in an apartment a few blocks away from campus.”

“How do you know this?” she asked, impressed by his knowledge in not only subjects, but people as well.

“That’s what I do. I drink and I know things. I also know you made quite an impression on him.”

“Really now?”

“Yes really,” a roguish voice came from behind them. Daenerys’ heart skipped a beat at the northern accent she faintly recognized. She turned around to find Jon smirking at her, a backpack slung across his shoulder.

“Jon,” she said, shocked to find him standing there. He looked even more handsome than she remembered. His face had a romantic glow in the firelight, but now in the flourescent lights, she could view the curls of his hair, his strong jaw, and his arm muscles rippling underneath his tight jacket.

“You’re a hard woman to find Daenerys,” Jon told her.

“I’ll leave you two alone. Daenerys, I’ll see you this weekend for our next session.” Tyrion excused himself and left the two to talk and catch up.

“You look different without your cloak,” Daenerys started.

“You look different with that hair. Wasn't your hair blonde?”

A faint blush covered her cheeks as she consciously moved a strand of the brown hair behind her ear.

“You don’t have to explain, I figured it out, Ms. Targaryen. People seem to follow you wherever you go. It is a nice disguise.”

Daenerys stiffened at the sound of her last name. She was worried someone would overhear and then her cover would be blown. She eyed him as he mentioned her name, worried he only found her for her toes to the company. Her fears were unfounded though when he didn’t seem to be interested in her name.

“It was my brother’s idea,” she answered quietly, quickly glancing around to make sure no one else was around.

“Can I sit down?” Jon asked. She nodded in response and motioned her hand to the seat next to her.

“I want to explain that I have no intention of telling your secret to anyone. My brother helped me figure it out. He knew I was interested in finding you again, and he helped me locate Tyrion.”

“You wanted to find me,” she plainly stated, hoping he would elaborate more.

“I was quite fond of you at the party, and I’ve been kicking myself that I didn’t get your number. So I was hoping to find you and ask you out for a date this Friday.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Ask me out,” she smiled at him.

Jon smiled sheepishly and asked her, “Would you like to go on a date with me this Friday?’

“I’d love to,” she replied.

The two stayed in the library to talk for a bit longer before Daenerys insisted she had to go home to finish her homework. As Jon was walking Daenerys back to her car, their fingers would graze cautiously, until Jon gathered the courage to grab her hand completely.

He was shocked to feel a spark of heat shoot through him at their first contact. Jon knew she felt it as well from the look she gave him. Neither of them knew the date they would go on would be their last first date, but they both knew this relationship would be the start of something amazing.

Fin

[shazyloren]

The Gift

Summary: Daenerys was told she'd never have children, not until the sun rises in the weest and sets in the east, when the seas run dry and the mountains blow in the winds like leaves. So when she realises she has not bled in three months; all she can do is thank the reason why she is with child.

Rating: Explicit

Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11981115

Daenerys hadn't seen Jon since arriving at Winterfell; more over since he found out his true heritage from his brother Bran and loyal friend Sam. It hadn't bothered Daenerys that they were both related; for centuries the Targaryens and Valyrians before her inter-married to keep the magic within them strong; to keep the bond with the Dragons alive. But Jon; he'd become distant; not just from her, from everyone as he tried to process this information. If Daenerys was honest with herself; she was slightly angry at Rhaegar for causing all the pain he had. She couldn't help but feel for both of the woman that fell for him and bore him children.

Lord Tyrion had told her that Jon would eventually come around; he's been told his whole life is a lie and that he's never been a bastard. He has the most sort after lineage in Westerosi history. He was a man of bother fire and ice, and he held such power within him that even Daenerys had been drawn too. Tyrion had confided in her that he was worried she'd be mad and turn on Jon for having a stronger claim than she does but she did not. Instead; she felt a longing, a sensing of loneliness being quelled. She was not the last Targaryen; she had never been. It just supported her idea of having a marriage alliance between them both to secure power and alliances and defeat both Night King and Cersei Lannister together.

As Daenerys sat in the hot bath that was drawn from her in the depth of Winterfell's walls; Missandei was mindlessly playing with her hair. "Greyworm said that he heard some of the young boys speaking of your beauty"

"Which young boys?" Daenerys couldn't help but smile; some of the young men from House Manderley had been following her around entranced and it had made her feel special. As Jon had not been seen by a living human the last few days she didn't mind a little attention where it was otherwise missing. "The Manderleys?"

"No your grace, the Glovers" Missandei brushed Daenerys hair as she bathed in the hot water, her skin being cleared from the heat which would effect others so. Daenerys had to smile at Missandei's words, at least someone was getting something out of this war. Let boys be boys and men be men; for soon no one would have anything.

There was a silence which passed between the two as Missandei continued to brush and wash Daenerys' hair. The heat starting to dissipate slowly. This meant it was time to wash Daenerys' body before she shivered in the water when it got too cold. Missandei swept the cloth across Dany's skin, bits of mud and stuff unknown stuck to her as she had flown Drogon in the early morning. As the small council had not met she took her dragons out for a fly to keep them exercised.

Suddenly Missandei stopped and stared at Daenerys' naked flesh and body. Dany felt uncomfortable as Missandei stared at her breasts and felt her own arms cross her body. Missandei looked up and smiled. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but when did you last bleed?"

"When did I last bleed, whatever makes you ask such a question?" Dany said in shock, a question she had not been asked in a long time.

"Your breasts have grown and your belly looks swollen"

These were the last words she expected to come from Missandei's mouth; words Irri had uttered to her all those years ago when she became with child to Drogo. But the woman had said she could not have children until the sun rose in the the west and sets in the east, when the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. Never. But when she thought on it; she had not bled since before King's Landing; nearing three months since her last bleed. She had not thought about it; for she had been too busy with the war and the threat above the wall.

But sat in the drawn bath she thought about what had happened to her body. She looked down at herself and saw Missandei was right, her breasts had grown slightly and her belly was indeed ever-so slightly swollen with life. Her hand fell to her stomach and pressed it to feel the life inside it, the hope and joy it was to represent. Her womb had quickened and she was with child.

Daenerys was overwhelmed. A child; for her and Jon. This was something she'd dreamed of for longer than the dream of having the Iron Throne. Having that hope taken away from her had drove her to love her Dragon's unconditionally; but to be given a second chance, to be given the opportunity to be a mother... Daenerys felt the tears stream her face as the reality set in. She was thankful, thankful to the old gods for they had blessed their son, Jon Snow with the seed to quicken her womb.

Missandei helped her out of the bathtub. "My queen, are you happy?"

"Yes" She beamed as the tears wouldn't stop. "I never thought I would be given another chance to be a mother to a human; I thought that was over when my dragons were born. But I have been blessed and I've been given the seed to launch a dynasty; for a future worth saving"

Daenerys dressed in her evening clothes and left the bathtubs immediately to find Jon. She needed to tell him first; it would not be right to tell others before and risk him alienating himself from her further. She knew his feelings on fathering a bastard after all the years he suffered, even if it was for nothing. Daenerys wanted nothing more now than to marry him to secure their alliance and their reign over the kingdom. They had something to be together for; and no child of Daenerys was going to grow up in a world where the dead roamed and the Lannisters were in power. Missandei let her be as she roamed the castle by herself and looked for her King.

She saw Lady Arya in her quest to find Jon; she said she'd seen him in the Godswood a few hours back; praying to the old gods for an answer. Daenerys had just bowed her head and continued on her search. She saw Brandon but thought better than to seek his council, for he probably already knew of her pregnancy and may be able to even see whether she had it in the future; he was a strange creature. She crossed paths with Lady Sansa and Ser Davos who had pointed her in the direction of his chambers in which they'd just seen Ghost wander towards. She should've checked their first but she had not found him in their earlier in the day. He had very much wanted to be alone.

As her shoes could be heard walking across the stone floors of the Winterfell halls she was suddenly filled with dread; what if he wants nothing to do with me, or the baby. What if he's not comfortable to be with me since he's my relative. All these thoughts flashed across her mind before the Targaryen in her told her she was being stupid and that Jon would come round to both his lineage and his role in her womb being quickened.  

She came to his chambers, the guards at the end of his halls nodding as they let her by. She stood for a full ten minutes, her hand raised as if she wanted to knock but not being able to actually connect her hand with the wood of the door. You're being stupid, she rationalised in her mind. And so, with a quick curse to herself, she knocked and waited.

Nothing.

She knew he was in there as the guards at the end of the hall were patrolling. And she knew he wasn't in that much of a mood as otherwise he'd have said no one, including her, would be able to knock on the door. So she knocked again and waited some more. It wasn't until a full two or three minutes after that she heard the shuffling of feet and the bolts on the door being unlocked. As the heavy duty door swung open and revealed him to her; she felt her breath skip. He was breath-taking. His curls were all out and his eyes were hungry with questions and lust. He didn't say a word, just pushed his door open slightly wider and allowed her to step through.

And so she did; her courage only taking her a few steps in. It was then she noticed Ghost sprawled out by the fire, taking up half of the floor with his gigantic body. He was asleep, his tongue hanging out of his mouth with a peaceful look on his face as he dreamed.

"What is it?" He said rather too rudely for Daenerys liking. He immediately realised his mistake and his eyes became softer. "Sorry, still adjusting to... certain things"

"Understandable" She uttered with a smile on her face. "You know that nothing had really changed for us, however"

"I guess not in some ways. Sansa, Arya and Bran are still my siblings" His gruff accent sounded like music to Dany; as if someone was playing a harp and she could pick out which chords were his voice. "And you... you are still Dany to me"

"Is that all I am?" Daenerys asked accusingly, unsure of what he meant. "Do you not wish to be my lover anymore? My husband?"

"Daenerys, we've never spoke about a marriage alliance. I thought that maybe you did not wish to be with me since we found out about...our lineage" Jon Snow was being stupid, Daenerys concluded. And she found it endearing. She didn't answer his question with words, she just began to undo the clasp at the back of her evening dress. Jon looked at her with such a longing that Daenerys found herself becoming instantly wet. It is okay to engage in sex while being with child, wasn't it? She and Drogo had many times. "Daenerys..."

The way he said her name was like a warning, and Daenerys never listened to warnings. She wanted to show him her swollen belly, the life he'd given her. And so with a swift action, her dress fell to the floor revealing her body to him in all it's wonder. Jon's throat tightened visibly as he looked at her. Daenerys eyes filled with tears as she looked at this man looking at her with longing. She wanted him inside her more than anything; but she could not bed him without telling him.

He saw her tears and instantly crossed to her and enveloped her into an embrace that was so filled with love and passion it meant Daenerys tears did not stop; they only flowed more. He brought her over to the bed where they sat down together, her naked body lent against his. She felt safe; like she never wanted to be anywhere ever again. "What is it, my Queen?"

She was given the courage in that moment; his words of support, of knowing that he was still hers, that he wanted her in the way she wanted him. They were Daenerys of House Targaryen and Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen. She felt more confident then and there that he'd love her and their child unconditionally; from this day until the end of their days. She finally mustered the courage to speak, and when she did, it was as if there was no one else in the world but the three of them. "I'm with child"

She moved so she could see his face. His eyes spoke first, shock and confusion; she had told him she was barren, that the witch who murdered her husband had told her she would not have children. She then saw surprise; it was bad timing in terms of the wars to come. Then came the love and adoration that she'd felt while he'd looked into her eyes when spilling his seed into her on the boat for the first time.

Daenerys stood up while Jon was sat on the bed and moved to be in front of him; her body the only thing he could see. She took his hand from off of his own lap; his shock and surprise still stopping him from formulating words. She placed his hand on her belly and began to cry at his touch. It was then she remembered her sex was slick and waiting. "Love me unconditionally, love our child unconditionally"

"A babe" Jon managed to stutter. Daenerys nodded; her own tears pooling her eyes.

"You've quickened my womb; you've given me the one thing I've always wanted, what I was told I could not have" The emotion began to pour out of her and she couldn't stop. "For years I thought I was the last Dragon, alone in Slaver's bay surrounded by enemies who wanted to destroy me and my dragons. But I kept going; I did not know what for but I kept going all the same. And then I met you and I fell in love as you told me I wasn't like my family that came before me; that I was different, that I was special. You held me in your arms as you made love to me, as you pledged your allegiance to me. You released inside me and gave me the one gift I could never thank you enough for. Your seed is inside me; and it is strong"

"Daenerys" He whispers as he pulls her gently onto his lap and meets her forehead with his own. Jon kissed her so softly it moved Dany. He wanted her and she wanted him. "All my life I wanted a child of my own; this seems all too surreal"

"It's real; I know you would not want a babe to grow up a bastard in this world, but if we marry..." She whispers quietly. "I am so thankful to you, you've returned a child to me. If it's a boy, we can call it Eddard"

Daenerys saw tears pool at the rims of Jon's eyes, a smile so large spread on his face that Dany knew he was happy about it. And this was confirmed to her when Jon then says something so out of the blue; that any uneasy tension in Daenerys disappears as she realises Jon wants their child too.

"If it's a girl, we should name it Rhaella. Would you like that?"

She did like that, she really did.

And so she wanted to show Jon how happy it made her. Usually, Jon teased her for hours, his tongue would roam her folds and flicker at her click, his hands would fondle her breasts and tweak at her nipples. But tonight; she needed him straight away. She released his cock from his trousers and helped shuffle them down to the floor; they were both naked and suddenly the room was quiet, only Ghost's soft breathing could be heard and even that was silent. Their kisses were eager and filled with such animalistic passion that when Jon took one of Dany's breasts in her mouth as she sat astride his lap, her fingers clawed into his back.

"Jon" His name had escaped her mouth before she could even control herself; but it spurred Jon on to make her moan even more. Finding Dany's entrance, his cock pressing against her inner thigh as she lingered over him in heated anticipation. Jon gave her one finale kiss on her breast before gently pulling her as close as possible and sliding his cock into her slick sex.

He grunted at Daenerys tightness around him; they hadn't in a while and he knew she'd been with no one else. Daenerys knew he'd been with no one else and it turned her on even more as Jon filled her up and she sank onto his lap fully. Daenerys wanted to moan her name so loud that all of Winterfell could hear as her lover filled her up. But she held it back; she wanted to concentrate on riding out her release with him. "Dany"

The way he said her name was pure ecstasy for Daenerys, and she hadn't even started to shift up and down to create their rythmn yet. So when she did and he moaned again, his gruff, northern accent turning her on; she couldn't help but push him so he was lying on his back and she was fully ready to ride the wolf. Slowly she began to ride his cock as it slide three forth's of the way out of her and back in to her hilt.

Her folds was on fire now; the friction causing so much pleasure Daenerys thought she was gonna release all over Jon within seconds. But she kept going, the thought of seeing Jon's own face come undone with her driving her. The thought of their babe being made; that night on the boat, flooding her mind as she sped up her rythmn. She couldn't hold back the moans now. "Oh, Jon. You feel so good inside me"

"Daenerys, gods you are breathtaking" He moaned, throwing his head back, not wanted to break eye contact with her but not being able to help it as the sensation takes over him. He switches back to look at Dany as she rides his cock and he can feel him coming to an end. But he holds it; they're both holding back, wanting to spill their love together. "Dany, gods"

"Jon, yes, yes, yes" Dany breathes in short raspy breaths as she feels herself begin to tighten around Jon's erect cock. She looks him directly in the eyes and brings him back up to meet her, her speed becoming faster and faster as he practically slams into her. One of his hands roam her breasts once again and rubs her nipples in a circular motion; the other, smacks her left buttock as she rides him and grabs at the flesh there.

"Daenerys, my good girl" Jon's uttered words turned her own even more, he'd never spanked her before and gods did it feel good. She was crying now at how good all the touching felt and how powerful she felt in that moment; and as she looked into her king's eyes he became rattled and his eyes burned into hers. His hand that was on her buttock moves over her stomach and travels to her clit, he rubs it slowly at first eliciting moans from her that he didn't think she could make. He thought she'd made every sound but as he flicked and teased her clit Jon's ears burned with the noise of Daenerys Targaryen, his queen.

As his rubs got faster; she started shouting, she couldn't help it but it just felt do good to feel the King In The North inside her and pleasing her the was he did. She rode his length hard and fast and her walls started to shake and tighten around his erect penis; wetter and wetter until she began he release with him. "Yes, Jon yes, yes, OH GODS YES"

Jon grunted as he spilled his seed in Dany, still rubbing her clit even though she stop the friction and began to shake with her orgasm. She released all over him, and heavens it was beautiful. He wanted to taste her, but perhaps another time, for now they were laid down, her on top of him as they quake in the aftermath of their love making.

"I love you, Jon Snow"

"And I you, Daenerys Targaryen"

[samwpmarleau]

Do you have any headcanons for aegon vi and rhaenys?

Well, since they were both killed when they were infants, I don’t really have much for their canon selves. But in an AU where they’re able to grow up, below the cut are some headcanons.

Shoutout to the salt squad for contributing to the list.

Rhaenys:

She’s a Martell through and through who loves fiercely and once her good opinion is lost, it’s gone for good.

She never forgives Rhaegar for what he did.

She wears her heart on her sleeve, which makes it difficult for her to hide her distaste when patriarchal lords speak to her, but she’s working on it.

She’s lowkey Rhaella’s favorite grandchild, in no small part because Rhaella can’t forget the way Aerys had said “she smells Dornish” when Rhaenys was a baby, and she never wants her to think she’s unloved.

She wishes she didn’t dislike Jon, because he is kind and he is well-meaning, except she can’t get over the fact that the only reason he exists is because her father committed adultery and got a 15-year-old pregnant. Then one day, there’s a tourney they all end up attending and when Jon wins the joust he gives Elia the crown, so from then on Rhaenys decides that maybe she should try mending bridges.

She loves when Oberyn comes to visit, because every time he does he teaches her a new poison or weapon, and she rather enjoys people being intimidated by her.

Balerion never gets any less ornery, though he does let Elia and Aegon pet him and becomes even more hostile towards men than he used to be. (Rhaenys does nothing to change this behavior.)

The Kingsguard are all her “uncles,” but Arthur, Jaime, and Lewyn are always more or less tied as her favorite, and she enjoys how they each try to curry her favor.

She’s thick as thieves with Viserys, who since he never suffered the trauma that he did IOTL, is an almost completely well-adjusted person.

The Blackfish replaced Jon Darry (much like Jaime/Jon, it was partially to keep the riverlands in line but also Brynden wanted to be kept out of politics), and even though Rhaenys knows he was on the opposite side in the war, he’s always respectful to her, Aegon, and especially Elia–which is more than could be said for Darry–and that makes him okay in her book.

She’s instrumental in convincing Doran that Daemon Sand is a good, honorable person who’s the son of a chief vassal and that forcing Arianne to marry someone she doesn’t love is downright unfair, and she (and Aegon, who ends up legitimizing him as an Allyrion) is equally as instrumental in quelling the relative scandal that arises from a bastard becoming the future prince consort of Dorne.

She really wants to forget about the way Robb Stark looks at her when she and Aegon stop at Winterfell on their annual progress, and she wants to forget even more about the way her heart flutters when he asks her to dance.

Aegon:

He’s born with silver hair, but it begins to darken once he hits two or three, and ends up as black as Rhaenys’s. His eyes are indigo like Rhaegar’s but darker, so much to the realm’s dismay, he ends up looking more Dornish than Targaryen.

He doesn’t want the throne one bit. He’s not interested in arcane matters like Rhaegar was, but he did inherit his bookishness, and if he had his druthers he’d become a maester of the Citadel.

Although he’s far more reserved than his sister, he doesn’t tolerate disrespect towards his family either, and it only takes once for lords to realize it’s not a good idea to piss him off. (He doesn’t do anything excessive, but much like Rhaenys, once you’ve lost his goodwill it’s difficult to gain it back.)

If he could, he’d abdicate and hand the throne over to Rhaenys, but he knows that especially after Rhaegar and Aerys’s actions, his own title is tenuous enough and trying to get lords to accept Rhaenys would be impossible. But what he can do is name her an advisor on his Small Council, and even though the lords on it grumble, her opinions and judgments are good ones, so they have to suck it up.

Robert, Hoster, and Jon Arryn had every reason to rebel, given the circumstances, but nevertheless he can’t exactly allow them to live and risk another attempted usurpation, so they’re executed, their houses are neutralized, and he makes a point to tell the remaining members that they shall be treated fairly if they remain complacent. He neutralizes the Lannisters, too, for despite their lack of rebellion, they hadn’t helped either, and he doesn’t want to allow Tywin to get any ideas.

Over and over from the loyalists he hears that it was a mistake for his mother to pardon Ned Stark, but he knows why she did it. He knows she saw Ned, his new wife, and his baby son, and that had things gone differently, it could have been her and her children at their mercy, and she’s tired of unrest. He placates the loyalists and tells her in private that he’d have done the exact same thing.

He burns all the scrolls that contained the prophecy. He doesn’t ask Aemon to do the same, for the Wall is out of sight and out of mind, but he refuses to have the thing his father ruined the realm for in his home, he will not have it.

It’s sort of an open secret that Elia and Arthur end up as a thing, and even though it’s not proper, she more than anyone deserves to be happy and so he just pretends not to know about it.

He’s betrothed to Margaery to reward the Tyrells, but he can’t decide whether he finds her or her brother Garlan more attractive.

The situation is superficially an analogue of the Blackfyre Rebellion (Aegon=Daeron II, Jon=Daemon, Rhaenys=Daenerys), but unlike Daemon, Jon isn’t a dick who wants the throne–he’s quite happy where he is, thanks–and there’s no Bittersteel to enable him being a dick, so Aegon’s reign is one of peace.

[moonlitgleek]

Rhaegar is born a girl. What changes?

What doesn’t?!

The two obvious changes that immediately jump at me are Steffon And Cassana Baratheon’s drowning, and Robert’s Rebellion. If Rhaegar is a girl, Steffon and Cassana do not go to Volantis in search for a bride for the crown prince, and thus do not go down with the Windproud in Shipbreaker Bay, neither does Lyanna Stark get snatched leading to the Starks’ murder and sparking the rebellion. But there is a lot of changes beyond that.

On the magical front, Rhaegara would be far less prone to think of herself as the savior figure in the prophecy, since everyone was looking for a male prince. While this does not mean she would be any less interested in the prophecy, at least she would not live her entire life with the expectation of this grand destiny or feeling personally responsible for it; she would not get herself all twisted up in the burden of being the only one who could save the world, which could make any political actions on her part more rational and prudent. That’s not to say she’d necessarily think that the prophecy has nothing to do with her - after all, she exists because of the prophecy and as an attempt to acquire the prophesied savior, and the circumstances of her birth match the “born amidst salt and smoke” part too well for her not to make the connection. While this is one of the signs that is supposed to herald the Prince that Was Promised, in the absence of any specific qualification to identify the other two heads (at least as far as we know), the princess might take the similarities between her own birth and the prophecy as a sign that she is one of the three heads of the dragon. More so, perhaps, if she harbors any negative feelings about herself for not being this promised prophetic figure that her parents married specifically to produce and that her family paid a hefty blood price to aid in a tragedy that marked her own birth, only for their efforts to result in a princess who is decidedly not the person that they all sacrificed so much to acquire. That might lead her to cling even more to the idea that she does have a part to play in the prophecy, and that those sacrifices were not for nothing.

On the political front, the nature of the relationship between Aerys and Rhaegara would probably change. While I do not imagine the princess would be any less dissatisfied with her father’s growing instability than her male counterpart (or any less invested in preparing for the Long Night which would require royal authority to help bolster the Night’s Watch), Rhaegara stands little chance of being the target of her father’s paranoia and contempt in this scenario as her gender would make her significantly less threatening to his throne. With the damaging historical example of Rhaenyra’s short queenship and what it meant for the Targaryen succession working against her, the princess would have a hard time finding any substantial body of support that could counterbalance her father’s, or establishing anything resembling the court her male counterpart kept. Oh she’d definitely win hearts with her beauty and courtesy, and she’d have nobles vying for her hand and her favor, but not the support that would enable her to do something as drastic as overthrowing her father, especially as she’d be battling precedents of royal succession and the popular patriarchal view of how one queen’s misrule was a decisive affirmation that women should not have the throne. No one would look at Rhaegara as an appropriate replacement for her father, which makes the possibility of her posing any danger to Aerys’ throne very minimal indeed.

On a wider scale, Rhaegara being the king’s only surviving child for 17 years means that the Targaryen dynasty would be in serious trouble with no male male-line heir to continue the dynasty after Aerys, which makes the dynasty look quitevulnerable to the nobles, not least of all the Southron Ambitions bloc. While Rhaella’s many pregnancies might sustain the hope that the queen would produce a healthy male heir, the repeated losses the queen suffered would cause many to worry about the succession in the absence of a clear heir. Never in its near 300 years on the throne has the Targaryen dynasty faced a situation where the succession was between a woman or a male descendant of a woman. In the event of the king’s death, not only would the realm almost certainly face a succession crisis prompting a Great Council to convene, but the question of succession could see the royal succession adjusted once more as the “iron precedent” of the Great Council of 101 gets overturned by necessity. No longer would it be said that the throne can not pass to a woman or a male descendant of a woman. With the future of the dynasty on the line and with the political ramifications of not producing a male heir in mind, the pressure on Rhaella to produce a healthy male heir would be astronomical. I would not be surprised one bit if some voices advocated for Aerys to put her aside and take another, probably proven fertile, wife. 

That situation works really well for the Baratheons, though, as Steffon Baratheon would become quite the powerful lord, and extremely important to both the crown and the Southron Ambitions bloc; he’d be an ace to whoever allies with him. While that might lead to the SA betrothals to happen a little earlier as Rickard Stark and Jon Arryn move to cement their alliance before Robert, the most valuable marital prize in the land at the time, could get betrothed to another, it’s how that new influential position could affect the relationship between Aerys and Steffon that interests me. Steffon enjoyed an amiable relationship with Aerys in canon (at least it appeared so on the surface, though admittedly we do not know all that much about Steffon’s personality, how involved he was in the SA bloc, or what his view of his cousin was). But while we don’t really know where Steffon stood, we know that Aerys trusted him enough to entrust him with the search for a bride for Rhaegar in OTL, and it’s even speculated that Steffon and Cassana tried to produce a girl (who turned out to be Renly) for the crown prince to marry. If that relationship remains the same in this au, it’s a given that Robert would be betrothed to Rhaegara: not only does he have Valyrian blood and would make a more traditional match for the Targaryen princess as her cousin, but that betrothal would be a smart dynastic match as it consolidates Targaryen power by binding the two competing claims to the throne in a show of unity between the two Targaryen-blooded factions, lest anyone think the crown weakened by the lack of a male heir (prior to Viserys’ birth) and open to conspiracies and schemes, or susceptible to yet another civil war.

But I find it possible that Steffon might find himself the new target of Aerys’ paranoia in light of how much more powerful he’d be in this scenario. Looking at canon, it does not seem like Aerys’ suspicion of Rhaegar or Tywin was precipitated by any particular action from either. It was more a matter of them overshadowing Aerys and earning growing prestige and esteem in court. Which means that Steffon could fall victim to the same paranoia that caused Aerys to deliberately sabotage his heir and alienate his Hand so openly in OTL. It’s worth noting, however, that Steffon would still have a much better shot at avoiding Aerys’ paranoia in this scenario than canon Rhaegar or Tywin did considering his distance from court. His residence at Storm’s End means he would not be in close proximity to Aerys for the king to start obsessing over how much power his cousin has or how the nobles at court perceive him. But it’s not a sure thing, especially if Steffon’s presence in court grows as the probable heir presumptive.

Steffon wouldn’t even need to do anything for Aerys to start distrusting him. After 17 years with a daughter as the king’s only surviving child, I would not be surprised if those dissatisfied with Aerys’ reign flocked to Steffon as an alternative possibility for a better and saner monarch in the same way they flocked to Rhaegar in OTL, though it’s unknown how receptive Steffon would be to them. But as the years pass, some might start seeing Steffon as the de-facto heir to the throne, and with his connections to the Starks and the Arryns, it might be his cousin, rather than his son, whom Aerys would fear usurpation by. Indeed, Steffon would make for a very attractive prospective king: he has a very strong claim to the throne as the closest male heir to the Targaryen king; he has (at least) two healthy male heirs which secures the succession in a way that would make him more appealing than Aerys, or even baby Viserys after he is born; he grew up in court and has strong relationships within the Red Keep including a friendship with the Hand Tywin Lannister; he has strong allies in the Arryns and the Starks (and later, the Tullys) based on his heir’s fostering in the Vale. And if Steffon’s presence in court increases in this au, he’d have a front row seat to Aerys’ rapid deterioration, and might start capitalizing on his existing connections, just in case.

But regardless of what Steffon and Aerys’ relationship would look like, the Baratheons would still be a much appealing prize to the Southron Ambitions bloc, especially as the years pass with no surviving crown prince in sight and they figure it’s unlikely that the royal couple would produce one. Of course, if Aerys starts distrusting Steffon, the king could start looking too closely at the SA bloc, and might even try to stop their betrothals to prevent Steffon from gaining a substantial power bloc, same as he did with Rhaegar in OTL.In the same vein, his requirements for his daughter’s bridegroom would be vastly different from canon as he’d look for the most advantageous marriage he could make for her to bolster the power of the Targaryens against the Baratheons. I wonder if he’d even consider officially recognizing her as the Princess of Dragonstone prior to Viserys birth, in an attempt to circumvent any attempt to put Steffon on the throne, though this would not be a sound political move because it would bear too much of a resemblance to Rhaenyra and would bring the Dance to mind which really would not help the princess’ bid for the throne, which ultimately defeats Aerys’ purpose.

I’m afraid I can not really expand on this au more than this, otherwise I’ll just twist myself up in endless possibilities (trust me, I tried. You do not want to make me start going about the prospective power blocs during the Defiance of Duskendale, and what each faction might have hoped to gain. Somehow I ended up talking about the Great Council of 233, which was how I knew I needed to stop here.) I’ll say, though, that the political landscape in the face of Aerys’ rapid deterioration means that something is bound to happen sooner or later even without Robert’s Rebellion - whether that something is Aerys committing another form of catastrophic political blunder and sparking an uprising, or someone finally making a move and calling a Great Council to set the throne to right - either of which could easily lead to the Targaryens losing the throne to the Baratheons, because Viserys was as mad as Aerys and showing signs of it even in childhood according to Barristan Selmy, and because even if Rhaegara already has a son when any of that goes down, the kid would still have a bad track record with a mad grandfather and a mad uncle, not to mention he’d be a child going against a man grown who has heirs and quite the power bloc at his back. So the Baratheons still stand a rather good chance of gaining the throne in this scenario. It’s only that Rickard and Brandon do not die, Ned and Cat do not wed and neither do Jon Arryn and Lysa, our current generation of Starklings does not get born, Jon Snow does not exist, and the world would have to make do with only two heads of the dragon, probably without actual dragons.

[jonsa-creatives]

I loved that Dom! Jon post that was posted for another, and I've got my own Prompt! Dom!Sansa, is upset with Jon Targaryen (publicly revealed), when he returns home. He is to never leave the north without His Queen's permission, and she wants his children. Thanks!

Hi Anon!

Thank you for reading the Dom!Jon post and for this new prompt.. It’s quite a stretch for me as I’ve always imagined Sansa as sweet, kind and gentle BUT I will try nonetheless. Plus I am a sucker for any dom/sub aus lol.. Hope this doesn’t suck LOL.. Hope you like it Anon!

*Summary: slight spoilers from S7. Canon divergent au - Night King died along with all the wights because Jon managed to kill him, D@ny is dead,  Cersei is dead, the North crowns Sansa Queen while Jon was absent and Tyrion is King on the throne. Jon returns home after refusing to rule even though it is known he is now Jon Targaryen (but not legitimised yet). This may not be Jon friendly and probably a bit OOC. TW: mentions of rape, past abuse, flogging, whipping etc*

Unbeta’d so pls excuse any mistakes or typos!

Mood music inspired by Where’s My Love by Syml

~ Mod Elle

Do As My Lady Commands

“Your Grace! The gates!”

Sansa hurried to the entrance as escorted by her guards. Archers, aiming at the intruder if he proved to be one, ever ready to protect their newly crowned Queen in the North.

The chains rattled as the heavy gates opened and Sansa watched as a familiar figure all wrapped in furs sat tiredly on a horse. Sansa continued her gaze as the horse trotted in, knowingly, as if it was returning home. As Sansa approached nearer as the mare stopped, the figure fell onto the snowy grounds at her feet before she could greet him. The furs told her it could be some lost wildling, seeking rest and refuge from the harsh winter, but the head of jet black curls told her otherwise.

An audible collective gasp could be heard as the figure turned and laid on his back, panting and face streaked with dirt and caked blood. Jon..

“Your Grace… What shall we do-”

“Close the gates and fetch the Maester. Nobody enters unless on official business. Not a word goes beyond the gates about this. Take him inside,” Sansa ordered, her voice loud enough for all present to hear. 

Jon. No longer the Jon I know, now.

Jon opened his eyes and squinted as they adjusted to the dimly lit room. It seemed familiar, the scent of lavender and roses filled his nostrils as he took in a deep breath. He could feel his feet touching the floor but his hands… his hands were tied above him. Jon moved his hands but the steel cuffs only clinked in response. Everything around him smelled and looked familiar but why was he being held captive? In his own home, right here in Winterfell? 

The thought made him angry and Jon struggled to break free of his restraints.

“Stop moving. They will only cause more pain if you do,” a husky yet sweet voice greeted him from the shadows. Sansa..

“Sansa? Is that you? Oh good.. would you please untie me? Why am I here?”

Jon heard a ruffling of clothes and slow footsteps as a tall slender figure emerged to greet him. Sansa was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her copper locks shone in the candlelight and her blue eyes stood out fiercely as they met his.

“You’re here on my orders. Not the least bit of what the Northern lords think you deserve. But I am kinder than most and this is after all, my home. I will do as how I see fit. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you Jon? Or are you Jon Snow even?”

“Sansa… I don’t understand… Yes, I am Jon. Your brother! We took back Winterfell from the Boltons.. You came with the Knights of the Vale.. I am Jon, Sansa!”

Sansa smirked and for a moment, Jon remembered the sweet and kind Sansa he recognized. He watched helplessly as Sansa walked away from him to retrieve a scroll that sat on a table nearby. Sansa opened it and read out loud as Jon’s eyes widened in horror.

“Lady Sansa, it is with great sorrow that this message comes bearing the news of your half brother Jon Snow. He was seen last with Queen D@enarys Targaryen, in a battle against the Undead. It is not known if he is still alive. But I must tell you now, that the dragon queen is dead with her dragons and the battle was won. My Lady, it is my duty to tell you that Jon Snow, the King in the North had sworn fealty to D@enarys in exchange for protection and a military alliance. And my Lady, you must know that Jon Snow is not who you think he is. He is a Targaryen. Your cousin, borne of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He stands to inherit rule of the Seven Kingdoms including the North. Him bending the knee was all a ruse. Be careful, my Lady, I know the North is your home and it is rightfully yours to protect. You are the rightful Queen in the North and Jon shall not be named King any longer.”

Jon’s heart ached as every word Sansa read cut through him like a knife. Sansa must know that he would bleed for the North, that no matter what, he would always be a Stark.

“Sansa.. Please.. That person who wrote that to you just wants you to hate me-”

“Is this true? That you swore fealty to her? And that she’s your aunt?”

“Sansa.. I didn’t know then. Until I received news from Tyrion when we talked about succ-”

“So it is true.. You’re not a Stark. You never were,” Sansa said quietly as she shook her head at him in disbelief. 

“No! Sansa please! I would die for the North! It’s a part of me-”

Jon’s cheek burned as Sansa interrupted him with a sharp slap across his face.

“Don’t you talk about the North as if it meant anything to you! My father lied for you! Robb died to protect the North! And you… You gave it up in hopes for what exactly? You betrayed me and you betrayed the North!”

Tears stung his eyes and Jon hung his head low in shame. Yes, it was a betrayal and now, it wasn’t even his to give away in the first place. Winterfell had always belonged to Sansa. He never wanted to be King.

“I never wanted to be King. You know that, Sansa.. the White Walkers were coming for us and we were all going to die. I needed as much help as I could get, Sansa.”

Sansa scoffed at his weak admission. “That will always be your reason wouldn’t it? There was no news of you and we were all tired of waiting around for you. I had to hold down the fort and rule for you!” 

Jon looked up to meet her stare and there was nothing he could say to make it better. What was done had come to pass, at least there was no danger of the Undead coming for any of them now. All Jon wanted was to return home. Or at least the home he once knew.

“Aye Sansa, you were born to rule. They chose well.”

Sansa turned away from him as she placed the scroll down back on the table.

“This room.. Do you know what this room was?” 

Jon looked around him. It was bare and unkempt, save for a rickety old bed and a worn mattress on top of it. It was nothing to speak of really except Jon looked out of the slightly open window and saw only the horizon and snow capped valleys. He was high above the grounds of Winterfell. The tower…

“He kept me here, while I was his wife. He beat me, used me, raped me and did whatever he wanted with me. No one came to help, no matter how hard I screamed. No one heard me. No one dared.”

“Sansa, please… don’t.”

Sansa held a flogger in her hand and stroked its tails gently. It did not go unnoticed by Jon the small stones that were attached to each and every tail. Sansa pulled a string that held together the cloak Jon was wearing. He did not even notice he was bare naked underneath. A sudden chill went up his spine and goosebumps pimpled his skin. The thin makeshift cloak fell to floor at his feet.

“The Northern lords elected to have you thrown in prison for betraying the North. They wanted to see you hanged for pretending to be a Stark, as Ned Stark’s bastard. They wanted you dead, mostly, for being a Targaryen. But do you know why you’re here instead?”

Jon shuddered and felt his voice leave him. He could only shake his head.

“Me. They listened to me. I asked them to spare your life… on the account of taking back Winterfell back from the Boltons. Do you still remember that?”

“Sansa.. I-”

THWACK!

Jon grunted as the flogger lashed across his back. 

“Of course you do. I watched as you ran back to WInterfell foolishly, when the Knights of the Vale came and took over for you. I have to stop wondering why I am always here to save you when you can’t save yourself.”

THWACK! THWACK!

The pain seared past through his skin and Jon felt it in his bones. His weakened state could only slump against his restraints and Jon saw the rest fade to black.

A moan escaped his lips as he felt the world move around him, albeit in a rhythmic fashion. Sharp pain that attacked his back made him wince, but alas, could not fight against the pleasure he felt on his cock, enveloped in warm wet flesh. A soft whimper drifted into his ears and it sounded like a symphony to him. He fought hard to open his eyes but he was drifting in and out of consciousness to barely register what was happening.

The whimpers slowly became moans and the voice seemed so familiar to him. He stretched out his hands to touch but again felt the leather cuffs rub against his wrists. He was lying down this time with his hands tied above him. There was nothing more he yearned for than to feel the soft skin that rubbed against his every time their bodies met. 

“Jon.. unhh… I’m so close.. unhhh..”

“Sansa…oh gods.. Sansa..” Jon called out, his heart and mind hoping and wishing he was right. Whoever it was sounded and smelled too much like her. But felt divine. The way her walls clung tighly onto his cock and clenched, made him howl like the half wolf he was.

“Ahh… yes stay there! Right there.. Ahh!” the soft voice continued and Jon only pushed his cock further and harder up, jabbing into the warm wet hole that welcomed him so fervently. A sudden contraction and spasming came over his cock and milked him as Jon felt his peak wash over his entire being, spilling his seed deep inside - whoever it was that was sprawled on top of him. 

Jon panted and for a brief moment that he opened his eyes, he caught a flash of red hair and blue eyes staring straight at him as he felt his hands being released from the cuffs. The lavender and rose scent was unmistakably Sansa. Could he be wrong? Sansa would never go near him, after all that had happened. But the drowsiness took over and and Jon drifted back to his slumber once more. 

“So, Jon Targaryen, what do you have to say for yourself?” Lord Royce stood facing him, his face full of disapproval. A loud mumble was heard around the hall as the Northern lords grunted their agreement. Jon smiled in spite of his predicament. Some things never change.

“My Lords, I know that I’m standing here waiting for my punishment for treason but if I have to die, then let me die as a Stark. It is my final wish and it is my hope that you will honour it.”

Lord Royce and the rest of the lords looked at each other questioningly and turned back to him. Jon wondered what more it could be now. He had been held as prisoner, locked in a tiny cold room in the tower for months, under the orders of Queen Sansa. It was safe to say he was treated rather well, despite the flogging and whipping that came from the Queen herself. Though Jon often looked forward to the drowsy coupling that came after; the drink he was given had milk of the poppy, lulled him into a sweet unconsciousness,  as it soothed the pain. It  was prescribed by the Maester - but it wasn’t strong enough to stop his cock from doing whatever the mysterious mistress wanted. 

Whoever she was, she was the woman of his dreams. Quite literally. Perhaps he may never find out nor know her name. It was his day of judgement and he was ready to face death a second time. And he hoped it was his last.

“Death? Do you think you were going to be let off so easily? After what you’ve done?” Sansa’s commanding voice made Jon turn around. There she stood in all her flame haired glory, looking every bit a Queen. She walked slowly towards him and Jon couldn’t help but notice the slight swell of her belly under the thick furry cloak.

“Your Grace.” Jon greeted as he bowed his head.

“My lords, I know that we’re here to discuss the fate of one Jon Targaryen but as fate would have it, perhaps the gods have spoken and have decided to be kind to him,” Sansa addressed the hall as she stood facing them. That was his chair once, as Jon looked on wistfully.

“ I am with child.” 

The hall erupted with loud hushed chatter among the men and all Jon could see was Sansa standing and smiling at him. He looked around him to make sure he wasn’t in another dream.

“And it’s Jon’s. Now, you must know that I do not wish for this child to grow up to be a bastard like he did, so we will be wed in a fortnight. I will have him decreed as a true born Stark and House Stark will continue through both of us. That is my decision and it is final.”

Even louder chatter echoed within the walls of the Great Hall but Jon had them tuned out and watched as Sansa came closer to where he stood.

“Wasn’t this what you wanted? To be a Stark? Now you are,” Sansa whispered to him, her scent undoubtedly struck Jon and he realised whom his dream lover was. Sansa smiled as she took his hand and placed it on the gentle swollen bump of her abdomen. Jon nodded and finally understood. Whatever Sansa had done to him, he forgave. But what Sansa had given him, there was nothing that he imagined could prepare him for it.

“Aye. And we the Starks, shall endure.”

FIN

Thanks for reading! I tried my best lol

[tigereye771]

New Year, New Beginnings, Part 12/?

Pairing: Jon/Sansa

Part 12/?

Previous Parts: I’m just posting the link of the previous part which has links for all previous parts.

[Part 11]

When Jon re-entered the house, he found everyone gathered around the TV watching a football game. While there was still some tension between Tormund and Sandor, their taste in football teams seemed to run the same and they mutually cheered one side as Arya rooted for the other.  Jon watched the game with them for a few moments, but kept glancing around.  Sansa was missing from the group and he had assumed she was in the kitchen, but she never came out to the living room to be with them.

“Where’s Sansa?” Jon asked Bran who half watched the game and half texted on his phone.

“In her work room,” Bran replied.  At Jon’s confused look, he clarified.  “Down the small hall and to the right.  There was a sun porch that we converted into Sansa’s workroom.”

Jon nodded and headed in the direction Bran had laid out.  A few moments later he found himself hovering in the doorway as he watched Sansa on her knees fixing the hem of a dress.  His eyes went to her pert, rounded bottom before he caught himself and he cleared his throat to get her attention.  Sansa looked over her shoulder, pins in her mouth.

“Mmmf,” she began before she remembered the pins and took them out.  “Jon!  Did you need something?”

“No, just wondering where you were since everyone else is watching the game,” Jon replied as he moved into the room.  He looked around and noticed a sewing machine in one corner and a table in another. One short side of the room was just a large shelving unit that had various fabrics and other items neatly stacked in each cubby.  There was a small rattan loveseat and a chair that matched it.  A worn oriental carpet covered most of the floor and a small rolling rack with a few other pieces of clothing on hangers was pushed off to one side. Lamps illuminated the room but Jon thought with the one wall of windows that curved upwards to form a partial roof of glass that this room would be quite bright in the daytime.

“Football is not one of my favorites,” Sansa replied, making a small face that had Jon smiling slightly. He remembered when he, Robb and the younger children would play tag football on the Winterfell lawns, Sansa would always sit primly on the sidelines either with a book or some crafty thing like sewing or knitting.  At the time he thought she was too prissy and ladylike to not join in the fun, but looking back, he only felt a fondness for that Sansa.  As he watched her finish pinning the hem of the dress, he felt that fondness bloom into something warm in his chest.  

“New dress?” Jon asked nodding at the gown.  While lovely, he didn’t think it really suited Sansa.  

“No, this is something I made for a client,” Sansa replied.  

“Client?”

“Yes, I do some dressmaking on the side.  I’ve got a couple of regulars and they always want something around the holidays for the parties.”  

Sansa’s back was to Jon as she continued to work on the dress so she didn’t see how his face fell. He admired all that Sansa had done and was doing in supporting her family, but he could not help but feel anger that she was working so hard.  The café and the seasonal job were bad enough, but she was also doing dressmaking on the side?  He could see the dark circle under her eyes and the weary look that she didn’t quite manage to hide during dinner.  She was killing herself working so hard and it would be so simple to just offer her money or even a better paying job, but Jon knew she would not take it. For some reason, she was determined to do everything on her own and he felt that same resistance from Arya as well.

You can’t buy her.

Sandor’s earlier words came back to him and he indicated he wasn’t talking about Baelish.  Jon looked at the back of Sansa’s head as she continued to work.  She was pretty, beautiful. How many men have tried to prey on her knowing she was vulnerable because she was so young and needed money?  Have any succeeded?  Jon didn’t like to think about Sansa at the mercy of some man who offered her help if she offered-

Jon quashed that line of thinking.  It would do no good.  He would only get angry and Sansa would wonder why and he couldn’t say he hated the thought she might have been propositioned or worse, forced into a situation where she had to trade herself to help her family survive.

“I’m glad to see you kept up with your designing,” Jon said instead, trying to banish those dark thoughts of what else Sansa might have gone through the last few years.

Sansa sat back on her heels and looked up at the dress.  “It does feel nice to still have my hand in it.”  Her voice was wistful.

“It’s not too late,” Jon replied.  “You can always go back to school, change…careers.”  

Sansa shrugged and continued to work.  “Maybe. But right now, I have to be practical.”

Jon felt sadness descend on him as he continued to watch Sansa work.  It wasn’t fair that she had to shoulder such responsibilities at such a young age.  It wasn’t fair to any of the Stark children.  

Jon continued watching Sansa work. The silence didn’t feel awkward or strained, in fact, it was rather comforting.  While the room was clearly a work space for Sansa, it also had a cozy and calm quality to it.  Jon could imagine himself reading in the afternoons in such a space as Sansa quietly continued working.  It was a pretty and enticing picture.

“How’s living with Rhaegar?” Sansa suddenly asked, breaking the tranquility that had surrounded him.

Jon sighed.  “I’m still not completely comfortable around him and Dany.  My aunt,” Jon clarified when Sansa raised an eyebrow and realized she may not be familiar with the family nickname.  

“It’ll just take time. There’s no timetable for these things, Jon,” Sansa continued.  She frowned at her work and then made an adjustment.  “Maybe you should consider getting your own place.”

Jon was startled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you live and work with them.  That must get overwhelming at times.  Maybe having your own space will make things easier.”

Jon paused.  Rhaegar had swooped in the moment he was released from the hospital and he had been living with his father and aunt ever since. Jon simply hadn’t thought about finding his own place.   Living with them also was a source of friction with Ygritte.

“You might be right,” Jon replied slowly.  “And it might help things with Ygritte. She doesn’t get along with Rhaegar and Dany.”

“Ygritte?”

Jon went on to explain about his girlfriend, realizing that aside from saying he had a girlfriend, he hadn’t said much about her to Sansa or any of the Starks.  He felt a small stab of shame for having so easily forgotten about her when he was with the Starks.

Sansa nodded as Jon talked about his girlfriend, not letting him know she had already met the woman. There was no point in talking about that, but she couldn’t help feel a small flicker of disappointment.  They were obviously serious if Jon moved her in with his family and was now considering moving out into a new place in order to make her feel more comfortable.

“It must be hard for her, being so far away from home and what she’s used to,” Sansa replied when Jon had explained his history with Ygritte and the friction between her and his newfound family.

“Sometimes I don’t think she’s even trying.” Jon was surprised at how bitter his words were.

Sansa looked at him thoughtfully.  “Have you talked to her about it?”

Jon sighed.  “You mean when she’s not out partying?”

“Not quite your thing, going clubbing and dancing, eh?”

“Was it ever my thing?”

Sansa chuckled. “No.  I don’t seem to recall you being a fan of that.  Still from what you’ve told me, it sounds like you and Ygritte simply haven’t had much time for yourselves.  Maybe all you two need is just some time away from everything and everyone?”

Jon paused as he pondered her words.  It was true. He had been in the hospital and went from there to Rhaegar’s and there hadn’t been time for him and Ygritte to really connect after discovering he was not who he had led her to believe.  A small part of Jon began to squirm uncomfortably, wondering if the man Ygritte loved and cared for was the persona he crafted for his undercover work and not him.  Had the two of them made this awful mistake based upon a cover?

“Maybe you’re right,” Jon said slowly.  “Ygritte and I really haven’t had a chance to get to know each other when I’m not, well, pretending to be someone else.”

“Sansa?”

They both looked up and saw Arya standing in the doorway.  “Gendry and Sandor are leaving now.”

“Oh, I have some leftovers in the fridge for them.  I’ll go get them,” Sansa stood up and left the room, Jon on her heels.   Jon watched as she handed Sandor a bag filled with Tupperware containers and leftovers from the meal. She gave a similar bag to Gendry.

“The car looks good, Little Bird,” Sandor assured Sansa, earning a snort from Arya.

“Thank you for providing a different set of eyes, both you and Gendry,” Sansa replies.  “I also put some cookies in there so remember to take those out and not shove the whole bag into the refrigerator.”

The two men bid good night to the Starks, Sandor looking at the clock and then giving Jon a pointed look who firmly planted his feet and decided he was not going to leave at least for another half hour.  He changed his mind a few minutes later when he saw how weary Sansa look and Tormund frowning at Jon too.

“I guess we should get going also,” Jon said.  “I know you have an early day tomorrow and it’ll be my first day at TI.”  

“It’ll be fine,” Sansa replied.  He saw her hesitate a moment and then hand both himself and Tormund two small packages. “I normally give Sandor and Gendry some left overs because they live alone and neither can cook. I didn’t think you two would be interested, but I did pack up some cookies for you both. You don’t have to ta-“ Tormund snatched his package out of Sansa’s hand quickly and exclaimed.

“Your cookies?  Of course we want them!” He held the package up to his nose and inhaled deeply.  “Chocolate chip?”

Sansa looked at the big man in amusement.  “Close. Double chunk, chocolate chip with M&Ms.”

“Marry me,” Tormund groaned as he clutched the package close to his heart.  “Just let me toss you over my shoulder and I’ll steal you away from this life!”

Sansa laughed but Jon scowled at his friend.  “Can’t you just say thank you like a normal person?”

“Not when cookies are involved,” Tormund replied.  “Milady, your humble servant thanks you for the lovely meal and the cookies.”  He held up the package.  “And if this wanker doesn’t eat his, I definitely will.  My offer of marriage stands because not every woman cooks as divinely as you.”

“Tormund, just go wait in the car!” Jon snapped as Sansa giggled over his friend’s antics.  As soon as Tormund left with a hollered goodbye to Bran and Arya and a wink to Sansa, Jon turned back to Sansa.  “Thank you for the cookies and sorry for Tormund.”

“It’s fine.  He’s got his own certain charm.”

“Well, he’s right about one thing though, your cookies are terrific.  Thank you, Sansa.”  He paused simply looking into Sansa’s eyes for a moment and saw her returning his gaze.

“Night, Jon!” Bran suddenly called out, breaking the mood.

“Bran,” Jon nodded to him. “We’re doing the movies on Wednesday, right?  Us and Arya.” He looked inquiringly at Sansa who shook her head.  ‘Work’ she mouthed and Jon nodded understandingly.  “We’ll go get pizza that night.”

“Thank the Gods no turkey!” Arya replied. “’Night, Jon!”

Jon chuckled and turned back to Sansa.  “Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night, Jon. Thank you for all your help today.”  She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

Jon felt his face heat and his mouth form into a smile as he nodded at Sansa and nearly stumbled out of her door.  When he got into his car he saw Tormund looking pointedly at him and at the spot on his cheek where Sansa had kissed him.

“Not a word, Tormund. Not a word,” he warned his friend.

[rey-kryze]

THE LAST TARGARYEN: jonerys fic [ requested ]

YOU SAID YOU WERE TAKING REQUESTS: HOW ABOUT ANOTHER JON AND DANY FINDING OUT HIS TRUE PARENTAGE BUT INSTEAD OF JUST THEM LEARNING ABOUT IT, ALL THE PEOPLE AROUND THEM REACT TO IT TOO. THE STARKS, TYRION, DAVOS, MISSANDEI, ETC. I JUST FEEL LIKE I HAVEN'T SEEN ENOUGH WITH OTHER PEOPLE FINDING OUT. THANKS SO MUCH FOR EVERYTHING YOU'VE CONTRIBUTED TO THE FANDOM

I imagine that in show!canon he’s not going to learn of his heritage until after him and Daenerys have conceived a child ( and whether or not they’re even aware that they have, but it would be a cause of tension insofar as their newfound connection ). And I do believe when he comes back to winterfell, is when he’ll hear it .

What with Bran having SEEN the truth of it, and Sam heading north to where he believes Jon to be , so both people who’d have access to this knowledge will converge there. And Daenerys will sort of be an unwelcome bystander to the most of it.

fair warning : this got really, really long . 

    Hope was hard earned these days ; after the meeting in the Dragon Pit , and the word of a treasonous , murderous Queen -- it didn’t feel true, in banking on her support as anything other than a front to appeal to those that questioned her rule . Daenerys doubted severely that when called upon , any Lannister forces would rise to defend the North from the Long Night . Still, still she clung to that little glimmer of hope , however small a light it’d become underneath the oppressive force of Winter. 

      Eastwatch had fallen , the few men there ran to the Northern cities, sending out every last raven, to every family ; from Last Hearth, to Bear Island. The Wall had been taken down by a great beast ; rumors varied, some say it was a sea serpent made of pure ice, and others --- others say it was a dragon with haunting blue eyes. The boat ride north had proven uneventful , aside from whatever time she could spend with Jon, primarily filled with tactical speak, strategy, and long term planning of this unfathomable war. Though it was unmistakable now , that they two were very much in love : what a fools time for this, Jon had thought, while Daenerys kept quiet about whatever her opinions were regarding their relationship. 

      Tensions ran high as all the Silver Queen’s armies sailed for the Weeping Water ; it would be a safe ride to Winterfell, what with The Dreadfort housing only ghosts, The Great Keep of Winterfell was the last true fort that stood between the Night King’s armies, and the rest of the seven kingdoms. 

       Eight thousand Unsullied , one hundred thousand Dothraki, and two dragons do not go unnoticed ; the countryside had come alive , they looked to the Targaryen girl with as much reverence , as they did fear . 

        She wanted to help them , but would her massive forces not be a strain ? Resources are well kept, and rarely shared but this many men, horses, and winged beasts could not live on the idealism that led them there.  She cannot think of this , cannot lean on her doubt when already there was plenty enough reason to have it ; instead , she’s focusing on Jon, they both rode at the head of their forces ( their , a union of two separate beings ).

         Winterfell loomed in the distance , drawing nearer and nearer faster than she could adjust --- she knew Jon , King in the North , had sent word to his family and his men in the North to inform them of their arrival , but as the armies converged , it became clear to Daenerys that her soldier outnumbered the populace , a hundred to one. 

         They’re met by Sansa , the Lady of Winterfell, and a small shadow who she knew to be Arya, though only the Lady spoke , Daenerys felt the most of what was said, through the eyes of the younger sister. “ We welcome you to our halls.” Indifference colored Sana’s tone, though, she warms a great deal when she can finally look upon Jon , knowing he’d been unharmed and seeing it are two entirely different senses of comfort.  

           It took several weeks, but they’d all settled in ; from Tyrion, Theon, Missandei , Davos , and even Varys , all people who had , however unknowingly before now, lead their lives to this very purpose. To save their world, and all within it . Quite a daunting concept, but for now, within the walls of this keep, and fires chasing out the cold of Winter, it was easy to pretend, at the very least that the world wasn’t going to end tomorrow. 

           Jon had taken this brief respite to go down to the family tombs ; paying respect to the dead had a different tone now that he’d had them at his throat. However , he hoped to find solace here, in the dark, wet catacombs that smelled of old hay , and smoke. Standing before the statue of his father, Lord Eddard Stark, he’s left feeling small ... how could he hope to follow in his footsteps ? To lead these good men to their deaths ? He wonders what he’d have done , if the events of the past had not taken him away. 

            He’s not alone , that much he knows and while he feels the eyes burning into his back, he’s too stubborn to give them the satisfaction in seeing the worry on his face. “ What d’ya want ?” accent thick, it’s clear enough that he didn’t want to be disturbed and yet --- “ Father told you the next time you saw him, you’d speak of your mother.” A chill settled on Jon’s skin, and he turns to see Bran sitting, hands neatly folded and a grey look of indifference set like stone in his face . “ how d’you ---” Sansa had tried to warn him, that Bran, the three eyed raven ; saw things, knew things that only you, or no one could know. 

         Jon swallows back the taste of bile, but nods towards Bran all the same. He continues, “ Father is dead, he never got that chance to. But I know. I saw. I was there the day you came screaming into this world, covered in your mother’s blood. She died, you killed her.” Without emotional inflection , he looks past Jon, onto the neighboring statue of Lyanna, “ She was your mother, the Lady Lyanna Stark.” 

        He could see Jon means to cut him off , as if he were disgusted by such a notion : his father and his aunt ? But Bran’s hand lifts , a request that he let him finish, and as begrudged as Jon might be, he listens. “ Your father was not my father, nor Sansa’s, Arya’s, Robb’s , or Rickon’s . And you are not a bastard.” He pauses, wheeling himself nearer to the statue of his aunt, and Jon’s mother, “ Lyanna Stark, or more appropriately, Lyanna Targaryen conceived a child in secret, but only after a true marriage to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. You are their child, and your name was not to be Jon, but Aegon. I’ve needed to speak to you about this for a long while now , but a great many things stood in our way.” 

        Jon cannot believe him ; wants to call down the Maester and have Bran medicated for whatever lunacy had perverted his mind beyond the wall. But he sees it, sees the truth to his words and it leaves him feeling hollow. You may not have my name, but you have my blood . His father’s words echoed ; he’d meant his sister’s , but that made him no less a Stark , though , in knowing he carried the blood of a dead and dying house , filled him with something else : dread. He looks away from Bran , who can quite clearly see through him , Rhaegar had been Daenerys’ brother, and that meant he was her family in more ways than one. 

        He’s not so much bothered by their intimacy ; but she’d convinced herself that she was the last Targaryen, and if what Bran said was true --- his thoughts are interrupted , his brother wheeled past him and cast him a parting look, his final words hung like icicles waiting and wanting to pierce him through. “ You are the rightful heir to the Iron Throne Jon. More than your Queen would be.” 

         Jon cannot keep such truth to himself , he has no want nor reason to usurp Daenerys’ claim , and he has no intention on letting any such suspicion pervade his honesty. He’s called a meeting of all the lords, and ladies currently making base of Winterfell, as well as the Queen herself, and all her many advisors. He stands at the head of the table, he’s told no one, and was almost grateful that Bran had recused himself from this announcement. He doesn’t know where to start, and so he doesn’t , not really ; he tells the story that his brother had told him, and as he’d believed it, so should they. 

         And they did. All eyes are on their King, when Lady Lyanna Mormont speaks  , “ If what you’re tellin’ us is true. You are not the heir to Winterfell, not the eldest child, either trueborn or bastard.” It is non-confrontational, but the implication rings out above the murmurs of the crowd, and Jon nods, “ Aye, ‘m not the rightful King you all deserve. it’s a title that’d fall to Bran but he denies it.” his weary gaze shifts to Sansa, who sat by his side and had refused to react to the news. Jon steps down from his seat, and over to hers, setting the cloak she’d made him on her narrow shoulders, 

        “ Sansa is the eldest trueborn child of Lord Eddard, and Lady Catelyn Stark, and the rightful Queen in the North.” There’s a boisterous amount of cheering , but it’s quite clear that the news Jon had broken, was still being absorbed by most. His eyes pick up on a few noteworthy reactions ; Varys, looking as if he already knew, but there’s a glimmer of .. what was it, hope ? In his beady little eyes. Tyrion, who is smiling into his wine, and himself trying to read the crowd. Missandei , bows her head to him when their gazes meet. Arya, who is as unreadable as Sansa, they’re both staring at Daenerys herself, which is where Jon’s gaze settles last, and he feels his throat going tight.

       She’s excused herself, not that anyone was particularly interested in what she did , or what she said, aside from the select few who’d made it their life to do just that . It’s cold, when she steps into the courtyard but the brisk wind was sobering , it allowed her to breathe when the great hall, had not. Her hand is on her chest and its twin, her belly ; she’s reeling from the news. She was not alone , her eyes are filled with tears that cannot fall ; they’d freeze, she thinks , but it was by will alone that her pale lashes dam them up, she squeezes her eyes shut. 

          When she had watched her brother die , he had deserved it , but even in knowing that it was a fate he’d brought upon himself, she felt the pain of his death so acutely , she’s never sure if she entirely recovered. He was the last of her house , as she had been, and if their dynasty before had not fallen into ruin, he would have given her pure blood Targaryen heirs , to keep their family strong, their blood, true. Now , she thinks she knows , for whatever reason Mirri Maz Duur’s words ring out against the tide of her racing heart. Jon had been the one that would come back to her , as death’s grip had already attempted to hold him once and he’d slipped through it , when your womb again quickens with life . Her hand that’d instinctively fell to her stomach, grips the thick fabric that covers it, and her fingers quake.  

         This revelation , in the center of Winterfell’s courtyard somehow belays the worries of war , that Jon was the true born heir of the Seven Kingdoms , she remained unphased --- if what they had was worth all they’d been through, and every bit more to come , their union would be all the more significant and no less either of their birth rights . She’s walked rather quickly back to her chambers , located near enough to Jon’s that they could meet without rising suspicions, but not so close that it was obvious he’d wanted her there. Secrecy felt , poised, practiced , but now an unnecessary posturing ; he was her blood, her family, and it’s all come to light under the sharp relief cast by this knowing, this knowledge.

       The convergence of their respective paths, the lives they’ve lived not knowing ; it has all brought them two, the last Targaryen’s together and in that fire forged a new life, one that bloomed in her belly. How cruel had fate been , to keep them apart so long ? But how kind was it now, that they had a love , a bond of mind, body , and soul that not any other could claim ? She loved him, Jon , and a part of her always had.

          Blood of my blood, I am not alone anymore.