Chapter Text
Fear was an interesting thing.
It had a rhythm and flow, something in the nature of it that could be a calm, slow, trickle but quickly grow into a rushing, pounding river of near-crippling paralysis.
She stood in her chambers, in the room she was born in, the room in which her mother had died, and Daenerys knew fear.
Dragonstone was near-deserted, now. Already, her Dothraki and Unsullied had begun the long march North, led by Ser Jorah and Grey Worm and Qhono. A surprising number of small folk had joined, but there were many who remained behind in the safety of the city walls, under the care of her Hand and Jon’s; the infirmed, the elderly, young mothers with babes still at breast, children with no parents to tend to them at all. All these remained, and in similar fashion, the only folk besides Jon and Daenerys who lingered on the shores of Dragonstone now were some of the Dothraki who could not easily travel. Someone must remain, she’d told herself, and the oldest of her Dosh Khaleen would stay and occupy her home as she and her King rode off to war.
She released a shuddering breath and smoothed a hand over the growing swell of her stomach, the smooth silk of her dressing gown cool beneath her fingers. This, here, was the source of the greatest of her fears, even as it filled her heart with almost limitless joy.
The words still rang in her ears, whispered in most sinister fashion within her soul. This kind of fear was the sort, that nipped at her heels like a wild, feral dog, that chased her even when she dreamed. There would only be one cure, she knew. She would birth a living child, or she would not, and deep down there lurked the knowledge that perhaps she could not bear it, to lose another.
It was almost enough to outweigh the frigid, icy fear that ran cold fingers up her spine, the horror that gripped her anew when she remembered the army that lay in wait for them, the one she must fight, that she had been born to fight.
With Jon.
That was what she believed, now, for as much as the thought made her hands tremble and a clammy sweat dew her palms. It seemed too much of a coincidence to be anything other than fate. When she looked back, now, on the path that had brought her to this very moment, standing bare-footed on the stone floor of her rooms, eyes trained on the dying light of day, she could see the larger pattern.
Every step she had taken had led her to this, now, to this war that she had been blind to before she had set sail for her home, armed with the only weapons that could turn the tide of the battle ahead. Every step had brought her forward, every pain had driven her onward, and now she was here.
And finally, at last, she was not alone.
Her head turned at the sound of the door latch, her smile rising easily, her fear receding, as Jon stepped over the threshold, a tray of food in hand, a small basket in the other.
What he saw on her face she was not sure. What she did know, however, was that he seemed to read her almost effortlessly. It was strange, to be known like this, to be known by another so deeply. Of all the things that had transpired, this was what she had never anticipated.
Daenerys had thought her heart all but dead when she’d left Meereen, but it was not. Not at all. It was gloriously alive, picking up speed as he stepped nearer, a soft smile curling his lips as he placed the tray on a low table near the wall along with the basket. Love had been the least of her concerns, and the King in the North had slipped past her every defense with breathtaking ease.
Now, she could not picture being without him, and that was its own particular brand of fear.
Strong hands cradled her cheeks with gentle pressure, lifting her face so that he could gaze down at her. “You’re worrying,” he whispered, and dropped a kiss to her forehead, the apples of her cheeks, his full lips seeking hers with a sweetness that belied his hard Northern exterior.
His thumbs rubbed her jaw as he waited for her to reply, gray eyes holding the same lingering concern that he no doubt found in hers.
“So are you,” she answered quietly, a wry smile creasing her lips as he let out a soft laugh.
He nodded, briefly, and let out a breath. “Always.” He released her face and took her hand, his palm warm and calloused as it cupped hers, and brought her to the table, waiting until she was seated to do the same. They shared the same plate, the roasted chicken and sparse vegetables that remained in her dwindling larder making her stomach growl angrily as she caught the scent.
That made him laugh anew, his dark eyes finding hers, dancing as he shoved a warm, thick piece of bread into her empty hands and took a large, ungracious bite of his own. “Eat,” he urged around the mouthful, “For our babe is hungry, I think.”
The mention was enough to send her hand to the place where his children grew inside her, and she moaned in relief at the first bite, chewing thoughtfully as he made short work of his first slice and reached for another. “Yes,” she said as she swallowed, watching the way his gaze shifted to her hand, following the movement as she traced the shape of her swollen belly, seeming to grow more prominent by the day. She was in her fourth moon, and soon her fifth would be upon her.
Another fear, for time was little more than shifting sand through her fingers. She had no desire to wage war while heavy with child, but there seemed no choice left to her.
With the way Jon’s soft look seemed to harden, she knew he felt the same. It would take at least two turns of the moon for their forces to reach the snowy North, and by then there would be little hiding that she was carrying a babe. She would be an easy target, in so many ways. For both the monsters they faced, and the men as well.
But she would always have enemies, she always had, and so she swallowed down that fear with another bite of bread, chasing it with water and forcing herself to relax, pretending as though such a thing were possible.
She nodded towards the basket set between them, the stack of ravens visible in a large pile, still sealed. Messages had accumulated while they’d been away, taking back the Throne that her family had forged, and now there were none left to read them but the King and Queen themselves. “I see you plan for us to work this evening, yes?”
Jon snorted and grinned around a bite of chicken, swallowing it down and casting his eyes briefly to the missives that waited. “For a bit, at least. I wouldn’t think to work all evening, though.” His brows waggled meaningfully, the suggestive way his eyes travelled down her seated form flooding her with warmth. “Not at that, at least.”
It was silly, she knew, that her cheeks could still flush. Jon was something she had partaken of with great abandon, as often as they were able, in a myriad of ways. And yet, here in the comfort and quiet of their chambers, with the candlelight gilding him in red and gold, the crackling of the hearth filling the silence between their words, somehow it still felt new, as though he were still something yet to be discovered, a depth remaining unplumbed.
Yes, he was still a mystery to her sometimes, this reluctant King, this warrior who could touch her so sweetly with his rough hands, who could love her so completely that every whole in her tattered heart had been filled with him.
He had his masks to wear, just as she did, but she liked him best like this, already in his bed clothes, eyes heating as he studied her, no need to be anything but himself.
He could just be Jon, right now, and she, just Dany, and that was the thing she loved the most, a simple comfort in times that grew more uncertain by the day. Time, that was what she wanted, time to love him more, and she reached across the table, taking his hand in hers, folding their fingers together and holding tight.
She wasn’t afraid to love him, not anymore.
It was losing him, that was what gutted her, any time the barest flicker of the idea crossed her mind. That, she would not allow.
“Dany,” he uttered, his voice rough, eyes full of equal measures of love and concern, “save it for the morning, love. Whatever it is. Let it rest for now.” He came to kneel before her, knees hit the floor, his jaw set and determined as he let his larger hand rest above hers on her stomach. “Let us have some peace tonight, hm?” When he looked at her, she could see the near-overwhelming fear in his dark stare. She could feel the way his hand trembled slightly as he followed the round curve of her belly over to her hip. “Fear is better felt in the day, when the sun is shining.”
He was right, of course. He had an uncanny ability to do that, to know what to say to her, to bring about a measure of peace when she needed it most. And so, she nodded, and raised her hands to curl around his neck, pulled him closer and kissed him softly. “I love you,” she breathed against his lips, and felt them curve up in response. “I think perhaps you’ve been a terrible influence on me,” she said with a broad smile, her fingers moving to drag through his short, bristling hairs of his beard. “I fear I spend an inordinate amount of time brooding, lately.”
He chuckled, the tension in him easing as he gave a tender look to her midsection, his hand ghosting across the swell once more before he rose to stand before her. “Oh, aye, I’ve no doubt about that. So, take it from one who is a master of the more melancholy arts, my love,” he continued, with an airy tone that she knew he was forcing, “Leave it for now. It will be waiting for you, when you’re ready to stew on it again.”
Then he cut off a drumstick and handed it over with great flourish, watching keenly as she took a bite, trying to do as he suggested, finding the warmth in his eyes and the quiet solitude of this place, of his company, enough to quell her fears, at least for a night.
With a smile, she took the meat, and in a matter of minutes, it no longer felt false, on her face.
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He sat behind her, propped up against the headboard and the many feather pillows that festooned the head of the bed, and she reclined between his bent knees, the basket of ravens on her lap as she lay her head against his chest.
“Let us see what greetings await, hmm?” She felt his hum of agreement at her question against her back, and handed him a random piece of parchment, claiming one for herself as well. In silence, they unsealed each, his task no doubt a bit more arduous than hers as he had to reach around her to break the wax seal, but he made no complaint at all. He chuckled, under his breath, and she craned her neck to find him grinning at the unfurled scroll he held to his left.
“Dorne offers their hearty congratulations on our conquest, and well wishes regarding our marriage and the news of our future heir.” He held the scroll out for her to read, and she felt a nervous shiver, something oddly vulnerable streaking through her as she remembered that Ellaria knew, of course, knew about the babe she carried, and soon every kingdom would. It was rather obvious, now, the small swell easy enough for the Dornishwoman to discern, when they had freed her from the dungeons below the Red Keep. It wasn’t a secret, exactly, but she felt protective over this babe in a way that eclipsed anything she’d felt before.
She felt a laugh rise, as well, when she saw the not-so-subtle suggestion that had followed the kind words of the last of House Martell, the Princess Arianne, that perhaps there might come a child to her as well, and might they consider a betrothal? She sighed, and lay her head back again, tipping her chin up enough to see his profile. “Seems a bit soon to speak of betrothals, I think.”
Jon kissed his teeth, exhaling a heavy breath. “No doubt.” He nodded towards the scroll in her hand, and she saw, when she peered closely in the flickering light of the oil lantern beside the bed, that it was sealed with a snarling wolf. She tensed, unsure, but when she glanced at him again she could make out the half-smile on his face. “Go on then, let’s see what they have to say.”
Dany swallowed hard, and broke the seal. She had learned, slowly, in quiet conversations witnessed only by the moonlight, of Jon’s concerns regarding House Stark. She knew well, now, of his misgivings where his sister Sansa was concerned, that he had feared even as he left her to see to the North that her goals might not align with his own. She knew, though it pained him to admit it, that he wondered often if she had meant for him to die in the battle to take back Winterfell from House Bolton, how she had neglected to tell him of the Knights of the Vale who were riding to their aid. She knew, though it made anger rise within her, that Jon was all that stood between Sansa Stark and total rule of the North for the eldest trueborn Stark.
As she unrolled the parchment, she discovered there were two missives contained, not just one. The first, rolled tightly inside the other, was written in a fairly sloppy hand, as though the writer had been in a hurry. Drops of ink splotched the paper, but the words scrawled across made her smile, as she read the contents aloud.
“ Jon -
I hear you’ve gone and got yourself married to the Dragon Queen. As your favorite sister you understand what is required to get back in my good graces, I think. I demand my new goodsister provide me with at least one ride atop a dragon, the great black one, I think .”
Dany laughed aloud, as did Jon, and she sat up, twisting to look at him. “I think I like her, already,” she said with a chuckle, warmth flooding her as Jon’s eyes danced with amusement. “She’s just as cheeky as you are.”
Jon snorted. “Far more than me, I’ll have you know.” He eyed the scroll. “Is that all she’s got to say?”
She heard the longing in his voice, and gave him a gentle smile, looking back to the parchment in her hands. “No, husband, there is more.” After a moment of thought, she handed it to him, to let him see his sister’s words for himself.
He took it readily, fondly, but as his face began to fall, his eyes tracking across the missive, she felt her stomach twist. “What is it?”
At her hushed whisper he looked up, his gray eyes stormy. “What I expected, I reckon.” He thrust the scroll back into her hands, his jaw tight and working as he looked away, silent.
She scanned the words quickly, drawing in a quick breath, her eyes narrowing.
Hurry back, I beg you. You are King, not just of the North, now, but of the other Kingdoms as well, and you must set things back to rights, here. Every day that passes Sansa tries to sway the banners to her favor, and I do not know if we can trust her aims, Jon. I do not want a war amongst us, not if what Bran says is true. Sansa does not believe it, though she has every reason to. Bran knows things he should not, and he says the dead are coming, that you are right. Sansa trusts Littlefinger, and I am afraid of what she means to do, with his whispers in her ear.
I miss you. I have missed you most. I trust you most.
-Arya
She had no reaction, for a moment, other than the way her heart seemed to turn over in her chest.
When she checked her gaze to Jon, she could see the coiling fury inside him. His voice was clipped and short as she held the other scroll towards him, not yet sure she trusted herself to speak, not wanting to poison his relationship with the eldest Stark sister further by unleashing the litany of curses she wished to let loose.
He took the scroll that was no doubt from Sansa loosely, as though it might bite him, and read it silently, his lips pressed into a tight line, almost to the point of rendering the flesh white. “Bloody hells,” he uttered, and handed it over, rising from the bed to pace as he waited for her to see for herself what Sansa had to say.
Word of your marriage and coming heir have reached us. While I am sure the Dragon Queen has quite captured your attention, and no doubt your heart, you cannot expect that the North will simply yield because you could not subdue your baser instincts. We will judge for ourselves when you deign to grace us with your presence, Your Grace.
-The Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell
Outside, Drogon screamed into the night, the mirror to the anger that seemed to race through her. She climbed from the bed, as well, to where he had ceased his endless movement to stand before the fire, and slowly, methodically, tossed the raven into the flames.
Together, they watched the parchment burn.
“She borders on treason,” Jon finally said, in a hushed tone. “She has tasted power for herself, and does not want to give it up. Foolish, but not wholly unexpected.” She saw his fist clench and unclench at his side, his scarred hand fiddling at his side, until she took it with hers.
Daenerys wished she had the words required to comfort him, but that was an impossible task. She knew well the bitterness of betrayal, especially in this manner, by one’s own blood. She would forever see the hate and rage on her brother’s face, each strike and threat stealing what lingering love she had held for him, the last of her blood. This wound cut deeply, she knew, and so she said nothing for a moment, simply squeezing his hand, and leaned against his side, her head resting against his shoulder as they stared into the flames.
It would be easy to simply hate the woman, but in a way, Daenerys thought she understood. Jon had spoken, sparingly, of what had happened to Sansa Stark, and though she had no patience for the Lady of Winterfell’s willful insolence, she could understand what had rooted itself inside Sansa.
“She’s afraid,” she whispered, and felt Jon stir beside her, knew without looking that he was peering at her. “And when people are afraid they do foolish things. But perhaps we can still salvage things, make her see the truth.” She turned, and wound her arms around his waist, leaning back to search his face, and gave him a crooked smile. “Though perhaps she has the right of it, for I most certainly went out of my way to appeal to your ‘baser instincts’, you know.”
He didn’t want to laugh, she could tell. He wanted to cling to his anger, to his hurt, but when she gave him an amused, knowing look he couldn’t help himself, and chuckled, his hands falling to her hips. With a roll of his eyes, he worried his bottom lip with his teeth, lips turned upward as he gazed down at her. “Aye, I reckon you did. In my defense, I held out as long as I could.”
Dany pursed her lips as he attempted to look weary and put-upon, and raised a hand to cuff against his shoulder chidingly. “It must have been very trying for you,” she said solemnly.
His lips twitched as he tried valiantly to retain his mask of woeful brooding. He clucked his tongue and tightened his grip, pulling her closer until she was flush against him. “Oh, aye. My tribulation has been endless.”
She took a step back, placing a warning finger against his chest as she saw what had sparked in his eyes, knew that if she did not put some distance between them, now, the remaining ravens would remain forgotten. “I know what you’re intending, you wicked man, despite your claims at innocence.” She giggled like a girl as he pulled her close again, growling into her neck before he nipped at the skin. “Let us see to the rest of those, first.”
She felt his groan even as she heard it, even as he sagged in defeat against her. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he muttered against her neck, but he managed a rueful smile as he pulled back, resigned. With yet another heavy sigh he made his way back towards the bed, ‘til he was situated on the side that had become his, just as the space to his right had become hers.
Dany hadn’t been lying, when she’d told him it was an awfully large bed for just her. She didn’t mind sharing. And with him, she intended to share everything, even the everyday minutiae of constant ravens and requests and demands.
Climbing onto the bed, she fought back the urge to curl against his side, wondering that the temptation to have him would override her desire to be done with this task that had sat neglected. She laughed lightly as she caught sight of him pouting, and tweaked his nose before laying a hand along the swell his babe had made, and taking a raven with the other. “That sad face you’re making won’t dissuade me, my love.”
His frown deepened, and he leaned close, ‘til his nose just brushed hers. “Are you sure?”
Jon could be very convincing, when he wished to be, but she would not be swayed. She allowed herself to peck a kiss against his lips, then shoved against his shoulder with a scowl. “Yes.” She made a show of examining the raven in her hand, her brow wrinkling as she tried to work out the sigil in the wax seal. It was not one she had seen, and she made a thoughtful noise as she studied it. “Do you recognize this?”
Clearly realizing his attempts at distraction would not work, Jon begrudgingly glanced at the seal, a lizard if she was not mistaken. Then he straightened, surprised. “I believe...Well, I think that belongs to House Reed. One of my bannermen, in the Neck. Odd, that a raven should arrive here from them.” He seemed rather disgruntled as he examined the mark. “They never answered my call when we tried to rally bannermen to take back my home.”
She thought he might wish to open it, and waited for him to reach for the raven, but he didn’t, just settled back against the pillows and gestured for her to continue. “If it’s bad news, Dany, just chuck it into the fire with Sansa’s, if you please.”
With a chuff of a laugh she broke the seal, carefully unrolling the brittle parchment, the script within quite cramped, but neat enough to read easily enough. She cleared her throat and made sure he had his attention as she began to read.
“ To the rightful King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,
House Reed wishes this raven might find you under better circumstances than on the eve of a great and mighty war, when time might be given for celebration. ” Her eyes widened, and she looked up to find Jon’s eyes flicking between her face and the parchment, before he gave a nod of encouragement.
She continued, though she could not help but think this raven might be bound for the fire as well, something ominous lingering at the edge of her mind. “ But regretfully, the Great War is upon us at last, and it is on your shoulders that our hopes for survival lay. Word has reached the Neck that you intend to bring your armies forth, and though time runs short, I must beg a boon of you, a visit to me here, at Greywater Watch, on a matter of much urgency .”
Dany paused, her eyes travelling faster than her tongue could manage, and what she saw next caused her to fall silent, to struggle to find her voice. For a moment she just stared at the words, shocked.
“Oh,” she managed, and felt Jon’s warm hand light upon her forearm.
“What is it?”
The worry in his voice shook her from her reverie, and she pressed on, unsure of how the rest of the message would land on him, with everything else they had to bear.
“ I fear there is a good likelihood we shall all die in the forthcoming days, and I wish to give our new King a gift that has been long overdue. For I am one of the few still living who know the truth of Jon Snow’s mother, and I can keep it from him no longer .” She looked up to find Jon’s face draining of color, his mouth open, his eyes wary as he moved closer. She read the rest almost absently, focused more on the play of emotions on his face than the words in her hands.
“ If a man is to face death, it should be in the full knowledge of who he is.
-Your humble servant, now and always, Lord Howland Reed .“
Gently, she lay the message aside, and crawled closer to him, raising the skirts of her dressing gown so she might sit astride his lap. Taking his face in her hands, she held him, until he met her eyes. This, she knew, was a tender subject for him. They had no secrets, not from each other, and for as much as Dany had confessed her longing to have known her mother, in Jon dwelt that same desire. But she, at least, knew the identity of the woman who’d birthed her. Jon had never known that luxury; it had been stolen from him the moment Ned Stark had ridden south, never to return.
His mouth opened and closed, several times, but no sound came forth, and she shifted closer still, and linked her arms behind his neck. “We can spare a few days,” she whispered, and kissed his forehead. “We should see this bannerman of yours.”
Jon licked his lips, something in his eyes so very lost that she felt tears begin to gather in her own. He began to shake his head, but she stopped him, pressing her forehead against his, their eyes level. “Yes,” she said. “I want to. I want you to know. You deserve to know.”
He looked down, his eyes seemingly focused on her lips, for several moments. “Dany,” he finally said, his voice heavy, “It doesn’t matter. Not really. I made my peace with this long ago.”
She let her palms rest against his jaw, keeping his head in place when he tried to look away again, forcing him to hold her stare. “You deserve to know,” she repeated emphatically. Then she reached down, and took his hand in hers, and laid it upon the gentle curve of her stomach. “For all of us, hm? So that when we win this war, and this babe is born, we may tell them of their grandmothers. Both of them.”
His eyes grew misty, and he sniffed, his tongue tracing his teeth until he raised his gaze from where his hand rested to her face. “You really don’t fight fairly at all, you know.” He chuckled, a watery sound, and smiled ruefully.
“No, I don’t. That’s why I win. That’s why we will win.” With an air of finality, she kissed him firmly, parting his lips with her tongue until he moaned into the cavern of her mouth. “We shall leave in the morning for Greywater Watch. And from there, we shall check on our armies, see what sort of progress they’ve made.” She kissed the tip of his nose, next, her lips dropping to hover above his as she whispered, “And Ghost, of course.”
He was finally swayed, with that, relenting and grabbing once more for the rounded shape of her hips, his palms hot through the thin fabric of her shift. “Can’t forget about him,” he said absently, repositioning her so that her pelvis was flush against his, their skin separated only by their bedclothes. “Can we be done, for the night, you think? I’m full up on tidings from the Realm.”
Capturing her tongue between her teeth she shoved the basket aside, to the foot of the bed, and then smiled down at him, taking in his hooded gaze as it traveled over her form. “Yes,” she said simply, and reached for the hem of his tunic, tugging it over his head with his aid. “There are other matters to be tended to, I think.”
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He loved her slowly, that night, his eyes holding hers even as she trembled and quaked around him, even as his seed spilled hot within her. They lay together, after, limbs tangled and dewed with sweat, smiling sweetly at each other, waiting for their hearts to slow and their breathing to steady, when he finally spoke again.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheek, and she did not need to ask his intent. She turned her head and kissed the center of his palm.
“I love you,” she said in return, and he smiled so broadly that his eyes were hardly visible, crinkling in the corners, his face painted in gold and red and shadow in the dying light of the room, the fire burning low now, as did the lantern.
“And I you,” he whispered, an intensity there that never ceased to amaze her.
A lingering worry plagued her, and she thought it best to speak it now, to rid herself of it, so she did not carry it any longer. “I don’t wish to come between you and your family, Jon. I do not wish to be the cause of the strife between you.”
Several heartbeats passed, his eyes dark and searching as he stared at her, only inches away. Finally, he released a sigh, and leaned in, and as her eyes closed she felt his lips light against each of her eyelids in turn, then her cheeks, then finally her lips.
He placed his hand on her stomach, and caught her gaze when he responded.
“You are my family now. Both of you. No matter what comes tomorrow, or the day after, or the next after that. Remember that. I love you more than anything, Dany. That’s what matters now.”
He shifted, putting out the lantern, and then pulled her against him, so that she was curled against his chest. And though she hadn’t thought it possible, his words brought her enough peace that she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, letting her fears and worries drift away to face again in the morning sun.
“