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Chapter Text

The winds blew hard come nightfall through Bellway, Colorado and by the time Daenerys had finished her supper, the storm had reached her farm. Typically, after supper she would read a while by the fireplace but the pattering of rain against the roof and the shaking of the window shutters from the wind made concentration difficult. She wasn't ready to retire for the night, though. The fire felt too soothing with her feet propped up on the coffee table and a quilt wrapped around her shoulders.

Daenerys Targaryen lived alone ever since her husband passed, but not for a lack of suitors. Quite the opposite, the woman attracted many and would frequently receive visits from men of all ages and occupations looking to take care of a pretty young widow such as herself. To all of those men, though, Daenerys refused.

“This farm is too big for one lady to handle on her own,” they would tell her and it was true that she needed help. Despite her strength and capability, tending to her many responsibilities proved to be quite strenuous for one person. Even so, Daenerys told them she needed no husband and sent them on their way.

Some men were old widowers, looking to support a woman while she took care of the children he already had. Some men were youngsters thinking they could sweep Daenerys off her feet with their fresh good looks. Some men were former soldiers looking to settle down. Some men were those who Daenerys had known for years and who thought maybe they had a chance now that no other man seemed up to snuff. But no matter the age, origin, occupation, or intention, Daenerys refused their proposals. Every single one.

Just as her eyelids began to droop and her head began to lull to one side, Daenerys heard a loud banging noise that startled her back to full consciousness. It was coming from a distance, someplace outside. The barn. It was the storm most likely, but the sound concerned her all the same. If she had forgotten to lock the barn doors, they could blow right open and allow the horses to escape.

Daenerys pulled on her boots and a wool coat and, better safe than sorry, grabbed her shot gun as well. Trenching through the mud, hair growing soaked by the dense rain, Daenerys saw a faint yellow light glowing out of a small window in the barn. Cursing under her breath, she approached the doors cautiously. It wouldn't be the first time someone had taken refuge in her barn during a storm, she just hoped she wouldn't have to shoot anyone this time.

Pulling open the barn door slowly, Daenerys held her gun, ready to fire, as she stepped into the barn. “Whoever's in 'ere better show themselves now! I don't wanna have ta shoot, but I will!”

Looking around, she didn't see anyone, just one lit lantern hanging on a hook beside the door. She checked each of her two horses' stalls but came across no one but the horses. Could she have left the lantern lit before going in for supper?

Grumbling under her breath with frustration, Daenerys extinguished the lantern and made her way back to her cottage, taking long quick strides to get out of the rain as quickly as possible. Stepping up to her porch and pushing open her door, Daenerys's heart stopped as she was confronted by a man with eyes as dark as the night sky, water dribbling from long strands of black hair peeking out from under his hat.
He bled from a gash above his brow and his short beard was sprinkled with mud. In his hand, aimed between Daenerys' eyes, was a silver pistol.

“My husband's asleep upstairs,” Daenerys firmly stated. “Take what ya want and leave before he wakes up and maybe this won't be the night you die.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, seeming more confused than anything else, the man asked in a deep, hoarse voice. “I've checked the upstairs, miss, and there ain't anyone else home.” His eyes trailed downward to her left hand. “And you're not wearin' a weddin' ring.” Sighing, the man lowered the gun to his side. “I apologize. I didn't realize a lady lived 'ere alone.”

Daenerys gulped, shivering from the wind that blew past her back as she stood just outside the doorway.

“My name's Jon Snow,” the man named Jon Snow continued. “I've been travelin' a long time and your home's the first one I seen in days, which is also the last time I had anything real to eat. I don't wanna take nothin' from ya, miss, but I'd sure appreciate it if you could spare some food and maybe let me rest by your fire til the storm passes.”

At a loss for words, Daenerys stood silently for a while, eyes moving over the man but never being able to meet his eyes. She felt she would freeze to the bone if she didn't get inside soon, but would she be any safer inside with him? He had lowered his weapon, and if he was true to his words, she could tell him to leave and he very well might, but Daenerys didn't make a habit of taking men at their word.

“Gimme your gun,” she demanded, thrusting out her palm.

As if expecting the command, Jon placed the gun in her hand. Immediately, she rose it, pointing the barrel at his chest. “Now you get off my farm before I shoot ya through the heart.”

Raising his hands above his shoulders, Jon told her “It ain't loaded, miss. I ran outta ammunition 'bout a week ago.”

Grumbling, Daenerys checked the weapon and sure enough, it contained no bullets.

“Please, miss?” It wasn't a beg, but his expression seemed sincere.

“I didn't see a horse outside.”

“Haven't had one of those for a while now either. Been either walkin' or hitchin' rides since a town called Jasper.”

Daenerys hadn't heard of a town called Jasper, which meant it was far, or fake.

“You got any more weapons on ya? Guns, knives, anything?”

She put the handgun in her coat and turned around her shot gun, pointing it at Jon while he pulled up his pant leg and removed a sheathed dagger from his boot, a wolf's head carved into the handle. Handing it to her, he said “That's all I got.”

With a sigh, Daenerys relented to her sense of charity and said “Sit down at the table then. There's some leftover stew still simmerin' on the stove.”

He thanked her, and Daenerys tried not to let herself be taken in by his politeness as she took her gun and his weapons to the cabinet just inside the front door, locking all three items inside with the key around her neck. Jon was seated at the table when she turned back to him, but she paid him little attention, simply walking on past him into the kitchen. After pulling a clean rag from the cabinet to dry her face and hair with, she ladled out a bowl of her homemade chicken stew, shaking her head at her own actions. Not just the part where she let this strange man sit at her table, but also the part where she forgot to lock the barn. She knew better than to be so foolish.

“Here,” she spoke curtly, setting the bowl in front of him with a spoon.

He thanked her again just before diving into the stew like it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

“You don't say grace then?” asked Daenerys as she sat down opposite him, wrapping the rag around her silver hair to soak up the water.

Suddenly, his spoon ceased shoveling and he looked up at her. Daenerys could have laughed at his expression, like he had done her a great offense by sitting at her table and eating her food without waiting a moment longer to thank the Lord for his good fortune.

“I like to pray silently,” he soon told her, then continued to eat.

“It's alright. I don't pray no more either.”

Mouth full, he asked “You ain’t gonna eat with me?”

“I already ate.”

It only took Jon another minute to finish the bowl and when it was all gone, he nodded his head in appreciation. “This was some delicious stew, miss.”

“You want more then?”

Cracking a half smile, Jon replied “If there's more, miss.”

Daenerys stood, took his bowl, and went to ladle him out a second helping. She also retrieved another clean rag. “Your head's bleedin',” she told him, setting the bowl down in front of him and handing him the rag.

He thanked her yet again.

“If you think by thankin' me so much it'll make me like you, it ain't gonna work. I still don't like you and I still don't want you 'ere, and you're still gonna have to leave once you're done.”

Pressing the cloth to the cut above his brow, he tried to meet her eye, but as Daenerys resumed her seat opposite him, she never relented – never let herself gaze into those dark eyes of his. She had given up trying to read the eyes of men a long time ago.

“You really ain't got yourself a husband? I mean no offense, quite the opposite actually, but you're a pretty enough gal and you make a good stew.”

“I don't have a husband because men only think I'm worth marryin' because I'm pretty enough and make a good stew,” she replied cheekily, but immediately rid her face of the smile that she somehow let slip.

Jon caught it though, and smiled back. “Alls I'm sayin' is that you livin' out 'ere all by yourself ain't safe. One woman can't defend 'erself against the kinds of ruffians ya might encounter out 'ere. Grifters and the like. Men runnin' from the law. Men just lookin' to take somethin' that don't belong to 'em.”

Daenerys took offence. “Like you? I think I can defend myself just fine against the likes of you, mister.”

Shaking his head, Jon chuckled. It seemed he had temporarily forgotten about his food. “You ain't gotta worry about me. I ain't a ruffian, I ain't runnin' from the law, and I ain't lookin' to take nothin' that you ain't gonna offer.”

“And what is it you think I'm gonna offer you past that stew?”

“Well.” He looked to the side, toward the sound of thick rainfall hammering against the side of the house. “That storm's somethin' else. Maybe you could let me stay the night. I don't intend on stayin' for free, though. Once the storm's over, I can help ya out with somethin' on your farm before I go.”

“That won't be necessary,” Daenerys stated, standing from her seat. “As soon as the storm's over I want you outta my home. You got that, mister?”

“Thank you.”

“And stop thankin' me. If you wanna show your gratitude, you'll be a gentleman in my home. You'll stay downstairs on that sofa tonight and if you so much as put your foot on that bottom stair right there, I'm gonna shoot you, mister. I'm a light sleeper and a good shot. You got that?”

Nodding, he spoke softly “I got that.”

“Good. I'll go get you somethin' to change into. Can't have you muddyin' up the rest of my home with those wet clothes you got on.”

* * * * *

That night, Jon Snow intended to do just as his host had instructed by remaining downstairs. Sleep rarely came easy to him, but the comfort of four walls surrounding him, a ceiling above his head, and something soft to lay upon quickly put his tense muscles and mind at ease. Before his host had retired to her room, she had brought him a bundle of clothing for him to sleep in. Jon did not find it peculiar that an unmarried woman would have men's clothes on hand. He figured they were a departed father's or maybe a brother's who was no longer around. He had asked her her name and she told him it was Daenerys Targaryen. Somehow Jon thought the unusual name suited her.

Waiting for sleep to overtake him, Jon found his mind wrapped around the face of Daenerys Targaryen. Even drenched from head to foot with rain water, Jon could tell she was a beauty, fair skin like alabaster, hair as white as a lamb's coat, eyes bluer than the sky on a sunny day, and a voice like warm chocolate. She was thinner and more petite than most women, but she was no waif. There was a strength in her presence, somewhat cold, but somehow inspiring. She seemed like the kind of woman who could tell you stories for hours and you'd never get bored. Jon thought he had learned his lesson about trying to speculate on a woman's nature, but he just could not understand how a woman such as she could go unmarried for so long.

Jon slept well that night, the rain patter outside lulling him like a pendulum, until he was startled awake by the sound of a loud crash and his host's voice cracking in a high-pitched scream from upstairs. This was why Jon Snow had to disregard Daenerys's instruction, why he had to put his foot on that bottom stair, why he bound up those stairs and burst into the woman's bedroom without a hint of hesitation.

Standing against the wall, shivering in her night dress that was soaked to the skin, Daenerys screamed once more as Jon barged into her room. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly as her teeth began to chatter. Jon grabbed the wool coat that hung beside the door and stepped up to his host, wrapping the coat around her shoulders. He then stepped to her bed, also soaked with water and covered with scatterings of wood and debris. Looking up at the ceiling was a hole the size of a large cart wheel, revealing the clear, dark blue sky tinted with a small bit of light as the sun began to peak over the mountains.

“Well,” Jon began, hands on his hips as he eyed the hole “at least it stopped rainin'.”

* * * * *

“I don't need your help!” Daenerys called up to Jon, who had taken the liberty of setting up a ladder and climbing up onto the roof.

“You're gonna need to replace this half of the roof!” Jon called back down.

Daenerys stood outside the house in a clean dress and shall, though still shivering from the chill in the early morning air. She shook her head in disbelief, grumbling under her breath. “I can take care of it myself!” she called back up.

Coming down the ladder, Jon replied “As sure as I am that you're capable of replacin' half a roof by yourself, why not let me help ya? You did somethin' nice for me, let me do somethin' nice in return.”

Frowning, she shook her head at her own misfortune. “How long does a thing like this take to fix?”

“If weather's good and I work all day, I can get it done for ya in a week.”

Daenerys sighed. “And I'm guessin' you'll need to stay here while ya fix it?”

The man nodded with a smile. “If that's alright with you, Daenerys. I reckon ya might feel more comfortable hiring some woodsmen from town, but I wouldn't need any compensation except a roof over – well. . . a place to stay, I mean.”

“Alright, then. You can stay til the roof's fixed,” she replied cautiously, but without any other real options. Hiring out would be much too expensive and she knew the men in her town too well to trust in their efficiency. She would just have to hope that this Jon Snow character was a man of his word.

* * * * *

The sky was clear that day and the air fresh after the rain. If it weren't for the goat manure Daenerys was shoveling, she would have delighted in just closing her eyes and breathing in the atmosphere. As she tended to her usual morning chores, she kept Jon in her peripheral, watching him atop her roof, tearing at the rotten wood. How strange the feeling was to have a man working around her home again, bringing back memories of a former life.

As Daenerys completed all of her daily chores, Jon took care to cover all of Daenerys's bedroom furniture with sheets and then went about carefully removing all of the rotten wood from the roof and tossing it down the side of the house. As the sun began to set beyond the mountains, Jon was just finishing up securing a temporary covering over the gap in her roof. The cloth wouldn't keep out any water if it rained again, which Jon was almost certain it would not, but it would hopefully keep out any animals or debris from getting in as well as keep some of the warmth inside the house.

Daenerys was waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder when he descended. “I fixed you a bath,” she told him.

“That's mighty nice of you,” he replied with a smile.

“Well, if you're filthy, my house'll be filthy too,” she stated pointedly.

“Can't argue with that.”

“I'll have supper ready when you're finished,” she told him, leading the way up the front steps and into her home. “You can leave your clothes in the bath room and I'll wash 'em for ya.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“Like I said, if your --”

“Right, right, if I'm filthy your house'll be filthy.”

Jon smiled at her while walking past, going up the stairs and to the left. Under the side of the house which still had a roof, there were two rooms with two closed doors. Though he had checked the house for occupants the night before, it was in such a rush that he hadn’t retained the contents of each room into his memory. So, unsure of which door lead to the bath room, he tried the first one. However, instead of a bathing tub, the small, dusty bedroom featured only a couple of wood furniture pieces hidden under old table clothes, a child-sized bed in one corner, and a few framed photographs upon the walls. The largest photo, even in the dim light still coming in through the window, Jon could clearly see was of Daenerys, appearing younger than her current age, standing blankly beside an older man of very broad stature and sporting a thick black goatee.

“What’re you doing in ‘ere?” Daenerys asked from behind him, unnerved.

Turning around and shutting the door, he replied “Sorry, I wasn't sure which door to use.”

Biting her bottom lip as if trying to force herself to let the misstep go, Daenerys nodded curtly and showed Jon to the next door. “I brought you some more hot water in case ya need it,” she said, handing him the cauldron she'd been carrying. It was heavy. She must be stronger than Jon thought.

After he bathed, he dressed in the clean clothes Daenerys had left for him. Like the clothes he'd worn to bed last night, he found them suited for a much larger man than himself. Not that he was small, but he was rather lean and of average height. Jon thought back to the picture he saw in the second bedroom, thinking these clothes must have belonged to that man.

“Rather big on me, ain't they? Your father's?” Jon tried with a chuckle after coming down the stairs for supper.

“My husband's,” answered Daenerys, beginning to ladle out stew from the pot in the center of the table into two bowls.

“Husband? What happened to you not needin' a husband?”

“I don't need a husband, but that doesn't mean I didn't once have a husband.” She picked a piece of corn bread from the bread basket and tore it in half. “He died six years ago.”

“Stew again?” Jon asked, taking a seat in the same position he had sat in the night before.

Daenerys sent him a glare as she took a bite of cornbread.

“Hey, I mean no offense. I love stew, and your stew if really somethin' else,” he said quickly.

“I don't know how to make many things,” she admitted. “I had to learn to cook on my own.”

“You've had to do a lot on your own,” Jon replied, digging into his stew. “Six years, huh? How old are ya, if ya don't mind my askin'?”

“Twenty-two.”

Jon's eyebrows furrowed. “Twenty-two?” he asked with a full mouth, some stew spilling from his mouth and back into the bowl. “You got married when you were sixteen?”

“I got married when I was fourteen. My husband died when I was sixteen,” she replied nonchalantly, staring down at her food while she ate in small bites.

“Shit,” Jon cursed under his breath, leaning back in his chair. “I'm sorry, Daenerys. That just don’t seem right to me, marryin' off a little girl like that.”

Letting go of her spoon and setting down her cornbread, Daenerys folded her hands in her lap, suddenly losing any interest in food. She didn't speak of that period of her life and she wasn't sure why she was speaking of it then, but she certainly did not expect him to react the way he did. She always expected that everyone would treat it as if it were normal, because it was. Girls as young as fourteen were married off all the time, but Daenerys always felt that just because something was tolerated, that didn't make it right. Always thinking her opinion was an outlier, she was taken aback by Jon's words.

“You alright?” he asked her when she remained silent for a while just staring at her hands in her lap.

“Yes,” she replied, forcing a smile at him and continuing her supper. “It happens all the time actually. Once a girl bleeds, she is a woman fit for havin' children.” She wasn't sure why she said the exact words which she always hated to hear come from others' mouths, or why she said them with such a complacent tone. Maybe she was testing him, wanting to see if he would fold and agree with her faulty logic.

Jon sighed. “The last time I saw my sister, she was fourteen and my parents were fixin' to have her married off to one of their friend's boys. Now, he wasn't no man or nothin', just a dumb kid like my sister, but still. . . never sat right with me. I just hope they didn't go through with it.”

Before Daenerys even realized it, she was looking into Jon's eyes. They were so dark, but not in a menacing may. They were soothing, really, like dipping your hands into warm mud. For the first time, Daenerys realized how young he looked, even with the short beard and the little scars that decorated his face. He had to have been not much older than herself. And he was actually rather pleasant to look at after having that bath. His dark brown hair was no longer greased and dirty, but smooth and falling in curls around his face, skin pale and lips plump.

“When's the last time ya saw your family?” she asked, wondering how he could not know if his sister had gotten married or not.

“Um, well I'm twenty-three now, so it's been five – no, sorry. I ain't so good at countin' – seven years.” In response to Daenerys's questioning look, Jon added “You see, I'm a bastard – my father's wife wasn't my mother – so when I got old enough to work, they sent me further West to work with the railroad and send money back. That was when I was sixteen and a year later I got word that my father was murdered, then not two years after that, I got word my step-mother had also died. And by then I had already lost track of my two little half-sisters and my three half-brothers.”

Daenerys looked upon Jon solemnly as the young man simply nodded his head, as if still not fully believing that was his real story and not a fictitious tale he told strangers along his journey.

“I'm sorry, Jon,” Daenerys told him softly.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Jon changed the subject “So you been takin' care of this farm by yourself since you were sixteen?”

“Mhm,” she hummed with a nod of her head.

“Wow. You really are a tough woman, Daenerys Targaryen.”

* * * * *

That night, after Daenerys had hung up Jon's laundry on the line outside and double checked the barn's lock, she settled in the chair beside the fire, re-reading one of the books from her small collection while Jon sat across from her upon the sofa-turned-bed. Without the wind and rain from the night before, the night was quiet save for the crackling of the fire.

“What're you readin'?” Jon asked her after quite a while of calm quiet.

“It's called The Scarlet Letter,” she replied. “You ever heard of Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

Jon shook his head. “What's it about?”

“A beautiful woman who has a child through an affair and is then forced to wear a scarlet “A” on 'er chest for the rest of 'er life so that everyone will know that she's an adulteress.”

Jon hummed under his breath. “Well, my mother had me through an affair. I reckon it wasn't her fault, though. She wasn't the married one.”

With a silent nod, Daenerys closed the book and rose to her feet, suddenly wary of learning any more about Jon's past or the opinions he had that matched her own. She found herself not actually disliking the man, which was a problem. “I should get some sleep. Lot's to do come mornin'.”

“Your mattress probably ain't dry yet,” Jon pointed out, eyes looking up at her with a hopefulness like the information would cause her to stay a while.

“I can sleep in the spare room.”

“On the child's bed?”

Daenerys didn't respond at first, chewing on her bottom lip instead. Eventually, she simply nodded her head and bid him a cordial goodnight.

* * * * *

The next morning began at dawn again for Daenerys, but that was life on a farm. She didn't wake Jon Snow when she went out to begin her daily duties. Something about waking a person from sleep made Daenerys uneasy. It felt like she would be pulling them away from an alternate reality, like the person she was waking was someone else entirely until their eyes were open.

After feeding and brushing the horses, Daenerys led them out of the stables to roam. Looking toward the house, she saw Jon, awake and by the clothing lines. She found herself watching him fasten his trousers, having already removed his borrowed shirt and had yet to replace it with his own now-clean one. Even from her distance, Daenerys could see the shadowed outlines of the man's muscles, lean and pronounced. It had been so long since she had seen a man's body that she found the sight of a simple bicep left her struggling for breath. As he tugged his shirt from the line, his head turned toward Daenerys and she quickly averted her attention back to the task at hand.

In just two minutes time, she found Jon approaching her, now fully clothed, boots and all.

“Mornin', Daenerys!” he greeted her jovially, clearly a morning person. He leaned forward against the wood fence separating the horses pen from the rest of her acreage.

“Mornin',” she replied neutrally.

“So, I was gonna head into your woods back behind the house, saw down some wood for the roof. Would go a lot quicker if I could use one of your horses to pull the trunks out to the house.” He lifted both hands up and jokingly declared “I won't steal 'em, I swear.”

“Alright,” she agreed passively and motioned toward the larger, all black stallion. “You can take Drogon. Viserion here is pregnant.” She smiled as she stroked the cream-colored mare's neck. “Be careful, though. Drogon's not wild 'bout strangers. ‘Specially men.”

Accepting the challenge, Jon hopped the fence and approached the beast slowly. “That's alright, buddy,” he told the horse in a soothing, near-baby-talk voice. “We gonna be best friends, ain't we? Gonna make your mama so jealous, ain't we? She doesn't know this, but I am great with all animals – oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean any offense. Yes, I am sure you are much more intelligent than those sheep. Yes, yes, and much more good lookin'.” He turned to Daenerys and whispered “Kind of an arrogant one you got 'ere.”

She couldn't contain her smile but hoped Jon hadn't noticed how bright it was or how sincere. She watched him hold out the back of his hand for the stallion to sniff. Slowly, Jon closed the gap between them and within seconds, the temperamental horse was under Jon's spell, allowing the man to rub his snout and scratch his chin.

Daenerys remembered all of the other men who would come around her farm, trying to impress her by showing her how much they knew about stallions. Drogon would never let them get their hand within inches of his face without snapping at it, sometimes even chomping down like their meaty paws were a fresh picked apple. Eventually, Daenerys couldn't tell if Drogon hated all men, or if he was simply feeding off of her energy. “Drogon's a great judge of character,” she would tell the men while she tried not to snicker. Was she supposed to say that to Jon now that Drogon had taken to him so quickly? She decided to keep her mouth shut.

* * * * * *

When mid-day approached and Daenerys was just about to head inside to fix something for her and her guest to eat, she glanced across her land to see the silhouette of a horse and rider coming over the bend in the hill from town. With a sigh, Daenerys took the handkerchief from her belt and wiped clean her hands and face as she crossed the pasture toward her front porch.

The rider wasted no time approaching and dismounted from his horse before her. He was an older man of maybe forty with a clean haircut and professionally made clothes and brand new boots. He walked like a drunkard, though, legs stepping unevenly and his arms swaying out at his sides.

“Can I help you, mister?” Daenerys asked. “I don't think we've met before.”

“No, we most certainly haven't,” the man replied, grinning. “I'm new in town, just acquired the hotel back on the main road from my poor departed older brother, God rest 'is soul. Been tryin' to get to know everyone a little bit. And a fine young lady such as yourself can feel free to call me Euron. And your name?”

“I hadn't any idea Mr. Greyjoy passed. I don't really leave my farm very often, I'm afraid. I'm so sorry for your loss.” Daenerys replied. “My name's Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Daenerys Targaryen? Well that certainly makes sense.”

“You know of me, Mr. – I mean, Euron?”

Chuckling, the man of about forty stepped forward, spurs scraping the dusty ground, and flashed a wide grin, revealing yellowed and rotten teeth. “Well you see, Miss Daenerys, I find myself hopelessly without any female companionship and when I asked around the village who was the most beautiful woman in Bellway without a husband, every single man said Daenerys Targaryen from the farm over the hill. Now that I'm seein’ you with my own eyes, I have to say, they were correct in their assessment of your beauty.”

With a huff, Daenerys replied “I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place for female companionship, Mr. Greyjoy. I believe the establishment your lookin' for is located above the tavern in town, just across Main Street from your brother's hotel if I'm not mistaken.”

“You've got me all wrong, Miss Daenerys. You see, I'm lookin' to make myself an honest man and I think you might be the perfect bride for a man such as myself. You see, I come from meager beginnin’s admittedly, but with my brother's unfortunate passin', I find myself with funds in an amount I am not yet accustomed to. I believe I possess sufficient means at which to offer you a decent life.”

“I'm flattered by the offer,” Daenerys replied in a tone of voice that in no way indicated that she was flattered by the offer “but I already have one decent life and I ain't lookin' for another.”

Smiling smugly, he stepped forward, closing the gap between them. He reeked of chewing tobacco and whiskey, but Daenerys stood her ground, looking straight up at him, focusing on his heavy brow rather than the eerie ice-blue color of his eyes. “You ain't one of those. . . lady lovin' types they got in the East are ya?”

“No, sir. It's just like I said. I ain't lookin' for a husband.”

“Alright,” he said, taking a step back. “I can respect that. I mean, we've only just met and all. Maybe I can take you out some night soon, treat you to some dancin' maybe. We can keep things casual at first.”

“Oh I don't dance, sir, and I've really got lots to do 'ere on my farm seeing as it's just me 'ere. I don't have time to be going out with men, women, or anyone else, casual or otherwise. I apologize, Mr. Greyjoy, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I've really gotta continue on with my work now.”

His smug smile turned into a smug scowl. “You know, little miss, it's customary for a lady to invite a man of my stature into their home for a drink of lemonade.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't got any lemonade,” she told him.

“Iced tea then.”

“All I've got is a bucket of rain water from the leak in my roof.”

Euron feigned amusement as he sauntered back to his horse. “You have a good day, Miss Daenerys.” After he pulled himself up on his horse, he looked back down at her and added “I hope to see you again real soon, now.”

After a spur to his horse's side, the beast trotted along in the path which they came and Daenerys finally let out a long breath, rolling her eyes at the deeply unpleasant man.

“Who was that?” Jon's voice asked.

She whipped to her side, seeing Jon Snow walking toward her from the side of the house, face wet with sweat and pink from the sun. His clothes were already dirty from a morning spent in the woods.

“Come on inside,” she told him before turning on her heel and marching into her home, having an uneasy feeling about what may happen if that unpleasant man were to turn around and see that she had been lying about it being just her at the house. The little town of Bellway wasn't the same sort of puritan community as in The Scarlett Letter, but Daenerys still wished to maintain her long-standing reputation of being completely disinterested in male companionship. The last thing she needed were all the single men in town to start coming back around thinking she was finally on the market.

“You didn't wanna introduce me to your friend?” Jon asked as he scraped the bottoms of his boots on the porch steps before following Daenerys into the house.

She shut the door behind them and went to the kitchen to warm up some leftover cornbread. “Apparently the owner of the hotel in town died and left the business to his brother. That was 'im.”

“What's he want?”

“To marry me.”

Jon smiled wider, amused as he leaned against the ice box, arms folded over his chest. “Oh really? What'd you tell 'im?”

“I told 'im what I tell every man who comes 'round here askin' me to marry 'em: get off my property.”

Laughing, Jon took a rag from the table and blotted at his face with it. “You get a lot of proposals then?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, I ain't surprised. I reckon a man would travel a thousand miles just to ask a woman like yourself to marry him.”

Throwing him a look of annoyance, she retorted “Those men don't know nothin' ‘bout me, women like me, or women in general.”

“You're probably right about that.” Jon took a breath, face turning more serious. “But, I reckon – wouldn't you wanna get married again at some point? You bein' out 'ere all alone for so many years – maybe havin' someone 'round to talk to and share in your burdens wouldn't be such a bad thing. And don'tcha wanna have kids some day? Not that you're old or nothin', but time tends to go by quicker than you expect.”

Jon watched Daenerys’s face that she kept down-turned at the stove, her eyes closed and her body still.

“I'm sorry,” Jon said quickly, taking a step toward her, holding out his hand to hover above her shoulder, not quite confident enough to lay it down on her. “I said somethin' I shouldn't've. It ain't my place to speculate on your life.”

“No, it ain't,” Daenerys replied pointedly, finally picking her head back up and looking at him sternly, though her demeanor quickly softened as her eyes made the mistake of meeting his again. He was standing so close to her. She wouldn't have to reach far at all to just feel his arm or his chest or his face, just to make sure he was actually real and that she hadn't hallucinated his entire being out of her own loneliness. The thought had crossed her mind. Six years was a long time not to touch another person in any more meaningful way than a handshake or the accidental brush of fingertips when she received her change from the cashier at the dollar store during her infrequent visits to town. Maybe Daenerys went mad the night of the storm, dreamed Jon up and his entire presence was part of an elaborate delusion.

And then, Jon's hand lowers the last inch, enveloping her shoulder in warmth as his fingers curled over clothed flesh and bone and muscle. His strong, yet gentle hand radiated so much heat that Daenerys thought she could melt into a puddle right on the kitchen floor.

“You alright?” he asked her softly.

Waking from her daze, she nodded her head quickly and shrugged his hand away, resuming her task as if the emotions budding inside of her weren't really there.

“Why do you care so much ‘bout whether I want a husband or not anyway?” she asked him, as she lit a match under the stove, going back to her usual ambivalent tone. “It ain't like you've asked me yet.”

“Yet?” he asked, taking a seat at the table. “You think I'm gonna ask you to marry me?”

“You'd be the first single man to come 'round and not ask me to marry 'im.”

“I can't marry you, Daenerys,” he told her.

Her brows furrowed, not out of disappointment, but out of resentment for allowing herself to feel disappointed.

“I mean no offense,” he replied. “I just don't have anything to offer you. I ain't go money, property, or even bullets in my gun. All I've got in the whole world are the clothes on my back and the boots on my feet and five half-siblings I haven't seen in seven years. Been tryna find ‘em for some time now but haven't had much luck. I reckon you could do a hell of a lot better than me for a husband anyway. Maybe the owner of a hotel or somethin'.”

Looking down at the ragged, yet handsome, young man sitting at her table, Daenerys chewed her bottom lip to keep herself from saying something stupid, like that he was probably more deserving of a good woman to marry than anyone in Bellway, that she didn't need a man's money or property or protection, that he was right before about how she could simply use someone around to keep her company and help with chores.

* * * * * *

Another couple of days passed and Jon finally had half a roof's worth of wood cut and carved and stacked up along the side of the house. However, after looking through Daenerys's tools, they both discovered that she hadn't long or thick enough nails suitable for the project. When Jon offered to head into town for them, Daenerys insisted that it would be better if she went herself. The town's folk had never met Jon before and she wanted to avoid anyone finding out Jon had been staying in her home.

She made the five-mile trip to the dollar store, Frey’s, on Main Street and found what she was looking for, getting twice the amount of nails Jon said he needed, just in case.

“You doin' some home improvements, Daenerys?” asked one of the elder Frey daughters as she counted out Daenerys’s change. The shop owner, Old Man Frey, had so many daughters that it was nearly impossible for Daenerys to keep track of them all, so she made sure to refrain from referring to any of them as anything other than “darlin’.”

“Just fixin' my roof,” she replied sweetly. “Didn't hold up very well durin' that storm the other night I'm afraid.”

“Well, these nails'll do the job, but please tell me you ain't tryna fix it on your own now. I could always send my husband over there for ya. Or my sister’s husband. Or my other sister’s husband. Or –”

“I've got it handled. But thank you, darlin’. You’re sweet to offer.”

“Alright, well, you be careful now.”

As Daenerys turned to exit the shop, she found her path blocked by the broad, swaying frame of Euron Greyjoy.

“Hello there, Miss Daenerys,” he greeted her with a maniacal grin. “I thought I saw that ivory hair of yours disappearin' in there. Allow me to walk you to your horse.”

With pursed lips and a look of annoyance, Daenerys stepped past him, exiting the shop and walking swiftly back to Drogon with Euron sauntering right beside her. She kept him in her vision, wary of any advances he may try.

A girl with long, stringy auburn hair and freckled cheeks skipped past – the Baratheon girl, Shireen, young but taller now than the last time Daenerys had seen her. She gave Daenerys a sweet smile and a wave before bouncing up the steps and into Frey’s. Daenerys immediately returned the kindly wave, but then soon noticed the way Euron’s eyes followed the girl, as if he was trying to consume Shireen’s every inch with his sinister stare. Discomforted, Daenerys found herself suddenly despising the man all the more.

As soon as she pulled Drogon's reigns loose, Daenerys offered Euron an ungracious “Thank you” before hoisting herself up onto the saddle.

“Miss Daenerys,” Euron began, staring up at her, eyes squinted into thin slits due to the harsh rays of the mid-day sun, “now I do apologize if I came off as rather gruff the other day. It ain't every day I'm confronted with a woman as beautiful as yourself.”

“I believe it was you who did the confrontin', Mr. Greyjoy,” Daenerys replied. “But, no harm done. I'm sure I'll be seein' you 'round every now and again and I wish to have a cordial relationship with everyone in Bellway, and that includes you, sir.”

Waving a hand in front of him like swatting away a fly, he replied jovially “Forget that 'sir' and 'Mr. Greyjoy' nonsense. I do insist you call me Euron. I understand now that a woman such as yourself has to be cautious around men like me, but once you get to know me, I believe you'll come to quite enjoy my company, cordial or otherwise.”

“Cordial is all I'm after,” Daenerys insisted. “You have a good day, Mr. Greyjoy.”

Chuckling, Euron said “You are givin' me quite a challenge, ain't ya? I reckon these games are common among pretty ladies, but I assure you that no matter what games you play, I am a persistent man and I do not give up easy.”

“I must be on my way now. Time to feed my flock I'm afraid.”

As Daenerys turned Drogon in the direction of the road, Euron moved his hand a bit too close to Drogon's snout, causing the beast to nip at his fingers. Leaping back, Euron scowled at the horse. 'He's a great judge of character,' Daenerys wanted to say, but restrained herself for the likes of Euron Greyjoy and simply gave Drogon a pat of gratitude as they galloped along down the road.

* * * * *

As she and Drogon approached the house at a respectable trot, Daenerys heard the familiar sound of a shot gun being fired in the near distance. Startled, she turned toward the noise, eyes falling on Jon's form across the pasture, walking with his back to Daenerys and toward where her sheep had been grazing but were now scattering and running in every which direction. He looked to have Daenerys's shot gun perched on his shoulder.

Quickly, Daenerys dismounted Drogon and ran into her house, seeing that her gun cabinet by the door had been broken into and indeed her shot gun was gone. She grabbed Jon's silver pistol and, from a drawer at the bottom of the cabinet, she pulled out some small shell bullets which thankfully fit the weapon. Once back atop Drogon, she raced after Jon.

“Hey!” she yelled out as she caught up to him at a gallop, pulling on Drogon's reigns to slow him down.

Jon turned around just as Daenerys was dismounting and in quick fashion, she marched up to him and lifted the pistol, pointing it to his head.

“Ya put some bullets in it, then?” he asked with a pleasant smile, as if Daenerys had shown him a pillow she'd just stitched and was looking for his approval.

“Gimme my gun,” Daenerys demanded, holding out her other hand.

“Alright,” he said easily and dropped the shot gun into her awaiting palm. His smile had faded, realizing how angry Daenerys was. “I'm sorry 'bout your cabinet.”

Glaring up at him, she slid the pistol into the belt around the waist of her dress and went back to Drogon, hitching the shot gun to his saddle. She re-mounted her horse and told Jon firmly “Stay 'ere. I don't wanna have to shoot you.”

Jon raised his eyebrows and watched as Daenerys kicked Drogon into a gallop in the direction he had been walking. Disregarding the woman's demand, Jon followed her path across the pasture.

When Daenerys reached the area of which her sheep had been startled into vacating, her eyes widened. With a gasp, she halted Drogon and dismounted him, stepping cautiously toward the animal lying dead in the grass – a mountain lion, bloodied from a single gun shot to its side. She wasn't sure how long she stared at the beast, but she didn't look away until she heard Jon's voice beside her.

“Like I said, I'm sorry 'bout your cabinet.”

Looking him in the eyes now, she wanted to say thank you, but somehow couldn't allow herself to be gracious. “You're a good shot,” she said instead.

He simply nodded in response, then stooped down beside the predator, placing his hand upon its head and stroking the fur like he would stroke a child's hair if they were sick in bed. “Poor thing,” he softly spoke. “But, I suppose that's life.”

When he stood back up, Daenerys reached into her pocket and handed him the boxes of nails he would need for the roof. Then, she pulled his pistol from her belt and handed that to him as well – a peace offering.

“You know how to cook a lion?” she asked him with a little hint of a smile.

* * * * *

That night, the two partook in a hardy supper of mountain lion steaks, having a good laugh over the strange taste, especially after so much effort had been put into skinning, gutting, and figuring out how to cook it, still unsure if they did it correctly. Half way through their meal, Jon insisted on cracking open one of the few bottles of wine Daenerys had in the house and shortly after that, they had forgotten their food all together, moving into the living room and taking the wine with them. They sat facing each other on the sofa, trading the bottle between them and sharing silly stories from their childhood.

“So, you're tellin' me,” Daenerys began, taking a sip of wine straight from the bottle, “that you got struck by lightenin'?”

“Yes! I was struck by lightenin’!” Jon insisted, taking the bottle from Daenerys and drinking a long swig then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Shaking her head emphatically, Daenerys stopped laughing to say “If you were struck by lightenin' you'd've been burnt to high heaven and I ain't seen any burn scars on ya.”

“Listen, maybe it was a tree branch that hit me on the head. That's very possible. But that doesn't explain what happened when I woke up!”

“What happened when you woke up?”

“Well, now, this is a secret, Daenerys,” he told her in a low voice, leaning forward. “You can't share this information with no one, alright? Can I trust you?”

“Yes, tell me!” she laughed.

“Alright, alright, I'll tell ya.” He leaned forward a few more inches, nearly closing the gap between them. Daenerys wasn't sure if it was the wine or not, but she found herself not minding the closeness as he whispered “I developed, like. . . special abilities. I'm talkin' like extraordinary abilities. Supernatural? Maybe. Witchcraft? I dunno, but I'm tellin’ ya, this ability is –"

“What ability?!”

“I became an amazin’ dancer.”

Shaking her head, Daenerys grabbed the wine bottle from Jon's grip and took another sip. “Dancin' is your extraordinary ability?”

“You bet your boots it is!” Jon hopped up and pushed the coffee table to the side of the room until the rug between the couch and fireplace was uncovered. Holding out his hand to Daenerys, he said “Let me prove it to ya then, since ya don't believe me.”

Smiling down at her lap, cheeks red from the wine and the silly man before her, she shook her head.

“Come on now,” he insisted. “I promise I won't step on your toes. Dance with me, Daenerys.”

She looked up into his dark eyes. “I don't dance.”

“I didn't ask ya if ya danced. I asked ya to dance,” he replied, wiggling his fingers impatiently.

Sighing heavily, Daenerys decided to humor the man. He did shoot a mountain lion for her after all, so maybe a little box step was the least she could do. She set the near-empty wine bottle on the floor and as soon as she placed her hand in his, Jon pulled her up so fast she lost her footing and fell against him. Immediately Daenerys pushed herself from him, brushing Jon’s hands away from her like they were toxic. She raised her fingers to her left cheek, feeling the flesh that had grazed Jon's clothed chest during her stumble.

This time, Jon offered Daenerys his hand with a tentative optimism, eyes staring into hers and beckoning her back into his arms. More anxious now, Daenerys placed her trembling hand in his, and this time, Jon lead her to him slowly until they were standing mere inches apart. His fingers curled around her hand as he raised them together to shoulder height. He slid his other hand around to rest on the middle of her back.

“You can put that hand on my shoulder,” he told her softly.

Biting her bottom lip, Daenerys abided. She suddenly felt flushed, heat enveloping her entire body. Maybe it was how close they were to the hearth, or maybe it was her intolerance to alcohol that made her temperature rise, but Daenerys had a sinking suspicion that it was all Jon, his firm hands on her, his dark eyes gazing down at her, his manly scent filling her nose and taking over her good sense, sense not to be standing so close to a man.

“Just follow my lead,” he whispered down at her. “You're alright with me.”

“There ain't no music,” she said, breathlessly, up to him.

With a smile, he replied “The music's in your head.”

As Jon began to move his feet, Daenerys followed, head turning down to watch and make sure she was doing it right.

“Don't look down,” he told her. “Your feet'll know what to do all on their own. You just keep your eyes on me.”

She looked back up and as he moved with her slowly around the small room, Daenerys felt she may drown under his gentle stare. She couldn't hear the music in her head, like Jon said she would, but she heard something much more soothing: the voice of her dearly departed Great Uncle Aemon. “A Targaryen alone in this world is a terrible thing,” he would say whenever she wanted to run off unsupervised, every time she'd talk about running away all together. She had always longed for independence, but perhaps she had taken it too far in the last six years. She'd isolated herself too much, she'd allowed herself to become overwhelmed by the slightest touch of another human, she'd been alone too long and she was finally realizing just how terrible that was – finally realizing that maybe she didn't want to be alone anymore, and that maybe she wouldn't have to be.

But that was ridiculous. All of her family was gone, and there was nothing Jon could do to change that. He said it himself, he couldn't marry her. He had nothing to offer her, and even if he did, he was a man with a mission to find his own family, not to start a new one.

Suddenly, Daenerys felt a tear escape her eye and slide right down her cheek. In a panic, she pulled away from Jon, taking a couple steps back and bringing her hand up to her face, wiping away the moisture. She chuckled, trying to pass off her crying as nothing significant. “I'm really not used to drinkin'” she told Jon, who was looking upon her with a unreadable expression. “You're really good at that. I wouldn't say extraordinary, but you're alright.”

After a moment of agonizing silence, Jon finally replied “Well, the truth is, I've just got a sister who loved to dance and she always needed a partner.”

She turned her back to him, hating herself for not being able to control her emotions, wiping and wiping and wiping at her eyes but the tears just kept coming. And she hated him too, for being so sweet and funny and nonthreatening while also being strong and masculine and comely.

“You were a good brother, then?” she asked him.

“Tried to be.”

With slow steps, Jon approached her, reaching his hand out to touch her shoulder, but before his skin could meet the fabric of her modest dress, the air filled with an echoing cry from outside, startling the both of them. It wasn't the cry of a person, though, it was the cry of a horse.

Daenerys's heart immediately began beating a thousand times a second as her mind went to Viserion, due to give birth any day now. Perhaps this was the day. Without even a glance back at Jon, she grabbed one of the gas lanterns from a hook on the wall and ran out of the house, bounding across the grass, slick from the nighttime fog. She hadn't even realized Jon had been running alongside her until he was pulling open the barn doors for her. She had forgotten to lock it again.

As she followed the whimpers quickly to Viserion's stall, Jon pulled a box of matches from his pocket and began lighting the other lanterns in the barn. He then brought them each to the hooks closest to Viserion until her entire stall was filled with yellow light and Daenerys knew for certain that her mare would become a mother very shortly.

Jon watched the woman before him as she hitched up her skirt and climbed into the pen, taking her horse's snout in her hands and pressing a kiss to the top of her nose. He watched everything Daenerys did to help her distressed mare give birth.

“I need water,” Daenerys told him, the first time she looked at him since they entered the barn.

Obeying without a word, Jon grabbed a large bucket on his way out of the barn, running around to the well pump. When he returned, Daenerys was standing stiff in the pen, staring down at a white foal, lying motionless and steaming in the hay.

“Daenerys,” Jon tried, holding the bucket out for her.

She remained still, though, eyes glued downward, arms trembling at her sides.

There was no time for confusion, though. Jon hurriedly climbed into the stall and overturned the bucket of water onto the foal before rolling up his sleeves and digging his fingers inside its mouth to clear the mucus from its airway. In a moment, the foal sprung to life, literally. The little guy's eyes popped open, revealing bright red irises, and hopped up onto its long slender legs, wobbling back and forth and falling back into the hay before his mother came over and began licking the rest of the mucus from his white coat.

“Daenerys?” Jon asked, stepping close to her.

Finally, she looked up at him then back down at the foal. “I just – I don't know. . .”

“Let's go inside,” Jon suggested softly.

After Daenerys nodded, Jon blew out the lanterns and followed her out of the barn. As she locked it up, Jon rinsed off his hands at the well. It wasn't until they were back inside by the fire, sitting on the sofa Jon had been calling home, that Daenerys was able to speak in complete sentences.

“I knew what to do,” she insisted quietly.

“I know.”

“I just. . . froze.”

“It can be frightnin'.”

“I wasn't frightened. I. . .” Sighing deeply, Daenerys put her head into her palm. “He was lyin' there. . . I was lookin' at 'im, and I knew what to do, but. . . suddenly, I wasn't seein' the foal no more.”

Jon put his hand on her back and held it there even when she flinched. “What'd you see?”

Staring at her lap, she replied “My son.”

“I didn't know you had a son,” Jon replied, but suddenly the child sized bed in the spare room made sense. “Where is he?”

“He died the day I gave birth to 'im.”

“Daenerys. . . I'm so sorry.”

She took a hard, shuddered breath. “Turns out, just 'cause a girl's old enough to conceive a child, doesn't mean she's old enough to have a child. I was too small, and my baby's head was too big. I had to decide whether to try havin' 'im and probably die, or let the midwife kill 'im in order to save my own life. . . I may as well've murdered my son with my own two hands.”

“It was an impossible choice.”

“I made it, though,” she replied, suddenly feeling so utterly undeserving of the hand upon her back, of the warm eyes gazing down at her so sympathetically. “I'd always wanted to be a mother. It was the one thing about my marriage that brought me joy. It brought my husband joy too, and he wasn't the type to find joy in anything. I reckon he didn't wanna marry me almost as much as I didn't wanna marry 'im. Sometimes you just gotta take the best option your offered, I suppose. But when I told 'im I was with child, he was so happy. He built all the furniture in that second room upstairs ‘imself – said he wanted everything to be perfect for when the baby arrived. I don't know if he ever loved me, but while I was pregnant, he was the perfect husband, and I knew he would be a great father.

“But, then he died. Got cut real deep on his chest one day and within a week, the infection caused a fever so bad he passed in the middle of the night before it was light enough to ride out to the doctor. And by that time my Great Uncle, who raised me, had died and so had my last livin' brother. All my husband's relatives were gone as well. I was all alone and nine months pregnant at sixteen. So when I was given that choice, me or my son, I would've died for him in an instant, but there was no one to take care of 'im. He woulda been alone in this world, an orphan. Somethin' in me thought that was worse than dyin'. But I'm probably just selfish.”

“That ain't selfish,” Jon said adamantly. “You're the least selfish person I ever met, Daenerys Targaryen, and you ain't got nothin' to feel guilty about. What happened wasn't your fault. Fact of the matter is, you shouldn't've been forced to marry someone so young. You shoulda been allowed to grow up and decide for yourself when to get pregnant and who to get pregnant by. No one should ever have to go through that sorta thing.”

Shaking her head, Daenerys finally turned her gaze to his compassionate eyes. “Well life just ain't as kind as you, Jon Snow.”

His hand left her back and Daenerys immediately regretted her forceful tone of voice. She should have remained silent, staring at her lap and then maybe they could just sit together for the rest of the night with his hand upon her back. But then his hand appeared in front of her face, resting ever so gently against her cheek while his thumb wiped away a tear from under her eye. She found herself leaning into his touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“Life can be cruel,” Jon breathed. “But, I dunno. It seems like every once in a great while, life gives back a little of what it takes away. . .”

Daenerys's eyes blinked open, looking upon Jon's face, thinking that she might not mind the feel of his short beard against her skin or maybe even the taste of his chapped lips.

“. . . It brought me here, to you.”

Suddenly, Daenerys felt her breath catch in her throat and she pulled away from the man's hand, standing up and smoothing down her dress nervously. “I think it's 'bout time we both got some sleep,” she said hurriedly. “Goodnight, Mr. Snow.”

Perplexed by her sudden movement and her use of such a formal title, Jon's eyebrows furrowed, but he remained silent as she left swiftly up the stairs.

Daenerys barely slept that night. She simply laid in a ball upon the miniature bed in the second bedroom, hugging her knees and crying silently into her night dress.