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Chapter Text

She recognised his steps. It led her to think about Ser Jorah, but this time the thought made Dany smile. A day before, it wouldn't have been possible. Today, the smile came to her easily.

"When I was a child, Viserys used to tell me about this place," she reminisced. Something mundane to get the conversation going, was her intention, but Jon, predictably, didn't take the offer, and she continued, wistful. "He said once that the Iron Throne was made from a thousand swords of Aegon's fallen enemies. I couldn't count to that many. I imagined the Throne to stand higher than the sky."

She turned, smiling again, and watched Jon approach.

His gait grew unsteady; red-rimmed, darkened with feeling eyes contrasted with paled skin. He hadn't yet cleaned up after the battle, and his armor was dull with soot and grime. His hair hung in limp, oily tresses where it wasn't pulled into knot. He looked every inch a warrior, and every inch a king. For once, she thought, he looked fit to stand beside Daenerys Targaryen. He could have sat on the Throne and looked like he belonged.

But the Throne was made with a single monarch in mind. She stared at Jon, waiting for his decision.

"Have you been down there, in the city?" he asked.

"No. I imagine it is still burning."

"It will, for days."

He looked at her this entire time, and yet Dany felt unseen. She sighed impatiently.

"This is war, Jon. I tried to be merciful, and Cersei killed my best friend. Even after Rhaegal, I still tried... But she persisted, and brought death upon herself and all these people. They know whom to blame."

"Doubtless," Jon quietly agreed.

He still hadn't approached her and the Throne, so Dany forced herself to be the one to cross the distance. Unbidden, her hand rose and found his elbow, and her other hand Dany laid on his side consciously. Through the layers of clothes and armor, his body radiated heat, and she basked in it; as if he were a dragon too.

His eyes, they were as unreadable as Drogon's once were. She remembered the night spent on the terrace of the Great Pyramid, the serpentine sounds of scales rustling along the shingles, slitted gaze. It took her almost dying in a Pit for Drogon to come back to her side.

She had almost died many times while in Jon Snow's vicinity, with him doing nothing to protect her. The realization took her aback; she drew away, but then his hands stopped her.

"So many have died today," he rasped, gravel grinding and embers crackling instead of a voice. "Smallfolk and nobles, soldiers and refugees, slain in the streets. Old, women, children – gods, Dany, children! Little children, burnt!" there was something dark and terrible in his still unseeing eyes. Like a memory. Like pain.

Pain, Dany could understand.

"It was necessary," she explained, patient. When he simply stared uncomprehendingly, she swayed closer to him and lifted a hand to caress his cheek. "I needed to win this war for it to end. This city was enemy, and I've slain it. I promised I will, Jon, don't you remember?"

He was silently crying once more.

"This is over now," she said, as kind and gentle as she could. "The war, the deaths, Jon, all of it is over. The wheel is broken. Now, we will rebuild. We'll build a new world, a better world, and we'll do it together. Will you help me? Will you stay with me?"

Please, she didn't say. Please, stay with me. Please, be with me. The words never left her. She was done begging. It was his choice now and his alone.

His face was empty, hollow, when he led Dany across the hall and up the dais, when he seated her on the Irone Throne and knelt in open servitude. His hands caught in hers, it was probably (definitely) a bit too intimate a gesture for making the pledge, but she didn't mind, consumed by sheer happiness of finally, finally having him.

That was how the men found them, when they had enough of time without Daenerys Targaryen and stormed the hall with shouts of exuberant joy and cries of battle that was still keeping their blood hot and red. She expected for Jon to withdraw then, ashamed of their proximity as always, but he didn't move until she prompted. Even then, he stepped no farther away than a step down and to the right, mirroring the position Torgo Nudho took on the left. Qhono stood a step below Torgo Nudho, and that was all, the ranks of her Council decimated, her family lost. She ran a hand along the armrest, silently asking her ancestors to watch upon her today in their stead.

The iron of the Throne was cold and sharp to the touch.

"Behold!" Jon's voice thundered, forcing poignant hush upon the crowd. "Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Meereen, the Khal of Khals of the Great Grass Sea, the Mother of Dragons! Long may she reign!"

Those weren't all her titles, but they were the ones that mattered the most, and she could cry in relief that Jon knew it, that he understood. But her eyes were dry, her face flushed warm with fierce pride and joy, and all her being felt weightless with accomplishment. The men filling the hall erupted with cheers and calls of victory, sharing in her triumph, and outside the castle the armies echoed them so loudly that ashes swirled again in the air, disturbed from shouting, and stomping of boots, and clanging of swords against shields and pikes against ground. Then the single sound drowned any other out – the shrill, ear-splitting and earth-shuttering roar of the dragon.

Dany threw her head back and laughed.

"Long may she reign!"

Chapter Text

Much as she wanted to stay for celebrations, however long would those last, she could not. This was the time to act, and act quickly. For an entire year she had been lenient, giving into her so-called advisors' doubts and staying her hand. Only Ellaria Sand, a vile usurper herself; and Olenna Tyrell, pragmatically ruthless with grief, answered her call as her subjects. The Greyjoys had the benefit of brokering their own alliance. Jon Snow, but not the North, came to her in rebellion to swiftly become her most prized acquisition since the start of conquest. But where were all the others? Had she truly been expected to believe there were only these families and the Lannisters? What was about the Redwynes and the Hightowers, the Sunglasses and the Crabbs, the Celtigars and the Velaryons, the Blackwoods and the Mallisters, the Borrels, the Graftons, and the Waynwoods, and dozens more? She had had little questions for houses of Dorne, of course; but none whatsoever for the northern ones, each of those clamoring to besmirch her upon arrival and yet so very careful to hide behind their former king when the time came to acknowledge that he was right – without Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, the North would have been no more.

Half a moon ago, the anger surging at the mere memory of those smug eyes on icy faces would have made Dany sick from herself. Today, she was taking that anger and adding to the fire, purposeful in her lack of forgiveness, her burning hatred.

She was justified to rage, to hate, and to abhor them, she repeated to herself until the truth of it stopped frightening her.

She was in the right.

They were not.

And she knew very well that there would be no peace.

Still, she very nearly froze at the sight of Arya Stark. If Dany herself was immaculate, and Jon managed to somewhat scrub off the worst of the grime, the young woman standing between them and Drogon was downright filthy. Ashes and blood caked on her skin, and hair, and leathers, and fresh blood kept seeping from the cut on her temple and glistened on her cracked lips. She seemed ignorant of her state as she locked eyes with Jon and her face contorted.

"You are alive," she spat through her bloodied teeth.

The animosity Arya directed at her brother shook Daenerys. Was this the girl he spoke about with such longing? Was this the girl whose return made him shed a tear before Dany's War Council? Vaguely she became aware of the growing crowd, and knew somewhere there were a few northerners from the numbers Jon led into the city.

"We are," he said, flat and disinterested. "Have you come to finish the job?"

"Mayhaps I will," Arya snarled. She stood stock still, but her fingers twitched lightly around missing daggers. Jon took note of her fidgeting and stepped front, obscuring Dany's view of their – adversary? she tried, but the word 'enemy' refused to leave her mind.

Sansa and Brandon made it widely known that Daenerys Targaryen was their enemy and nothing more. Now, it seemed, Arya was openly siding with them.

Yes, she understood with newfound clarity, bolstered with the sight of Jon standing his ground between her and his family. They were enemies. There will never have been peace. She knew now, ridden from the last vestiges of hesitation, how she was played, how eager exactly Tyrion had been to dance to Sansa's tune, how Sansa betrayed not only her, but Jon in the first place.

"Leave, Arya," Jon said. "Take my own horse... Hells, take any ship you will, and leave. Go north or go west, I don't care anymore. Or stay – and die."

"That's implying her men would be able to stop me," Arya laughed, heedless of the witnessing crowd.

"I am one of her men," was the calm answer, and her taunting laughter broke with a sputter. "You are good, Arya, I admit it. You are good, but for all your games and pretty words, you don't know death, and I very much do." He walked to her, finally allowing Dany a glimpse of their expressionless, if somewhat tender faces. He lifted a hand to tuck a ragged lock of hair behind her ear. "I will kill you if you stay."

"It's not you," Arya murmured. "You'd never... I am your family, Jon."

"I wasn't family when you preyed upon the woman I love," he told her casually. "I wasn't family when you put a knife in my hands and sent me to kill her simply because I was the one she'd trust to come close for long enough."

She stared at him in betrayal, still ignoring the fact that Daenerys stood right there, right near the man Arya tried to turn into her murderer. It would have worked, Dany thought, detached. She remembered the hands stopping her from leaving, the hollowed look, the silent and wordless pledge. It should have worked.

She wouldn't have known until it was done.

She was ought to have Arya Stark taken and executed right there and then. She was ought to burn her alive and have her ashes scattered in the streets, indistinguishable from the ashes of countless others. A part of her, that knew life on the run and assassin's blades and poisons, ached to give the command.

"Why didn't it work?" Arya asked almost petulantly, if not for an idle, calculating cold in her eyes; and suddenly Jon backhanded her so hard that she was flying back, hitting the ground, and rolling over. She finally got her feet back under her and sneered, vicious and bleeding from torn cheek, ready to fight, and froze in place only when Drogon, silent until then, rumbled warningly from above her head.

Daenerys never urged him on. It was Jon who glanced briefly at Drogon and nodded, and for some reason, it was enough for Drogon to unleash his flames.

Chapter Text

Cold-blooded.

She had never once known Jon to be capable of a cold-blooded murder. He was sometimes painfully ignorant; he was prone to retreating into his own mind at the cost of awareness for another's plight. He was able to watch an execution proceed, nothing about him belying turmoil. He was fearless. He was brutal. He was careless.

He was, above all, a deeply feeling man. Passionate. Empathetic.

He wasn't a killer.

Or so she believed. He'd disappointed her before. Dany wasn't sure why exactly the act of killing her would-be assassin, the woman who had already tried once to take her life, with both their own kin's hand no less, felt disappointing to her. It was, if anything, the strongest proof of Jon's loyalty to her. It was him finally, finally choosing Dany. She should have been elated.

His arms circling her waist tightened, and she briefly leaned back, pressing against his chest. If she could, she'd have touched his hand in reassurance, but there was no letting go of Drogon's spikes. The sea smoldered and smoked beneath, the rising storm having tossed the wreckage every which way about the bay. There could be hiding a whole boat, just big enough to put a scorpion on her bow. There could be another ambush waiting closer to Dragonstone. Dany wasn't taking chances anymore.

“It's not much longer now,” she called over the rushing winds.

“I know, I can see Dragonmont,” Jon called back. He sounded calm, distracted even. It was better than those few ugly, awful sobs he'd let out when Drogon soared into the sky – that she just knew were because of Rhaegal, because the freedom of flight was lost to him as Dany's children were lost to her. The wound still ached, though, and Dany felt not so much sorry for Jon as she was pettily satisfied on Rhaegal's behalf.

Vengeful and wounded or not, she never again wanted to hear him in such distress. Maybe cold-blooded murder was not so bad a thing, after all. She, herself, had become used to lashing out in anger. Fits of crying over her losses were behind her now, but she recalled days spent in transition – days she lost to her grief, and loneliness, and growing paranoia, ended abruptly with acts of treason and acts of burning.

Maybe this was Jon's transition. She wondered what, then, he would emerge looking like.

With a small sigh, he pulled closer once more and rested his chin on her shoulder. Right then, she wanted nothing more than to turn her head just so and kiss Jon senseless. Later, she promised. They had later now. They had time, and each other, and Dragonstone will be their safe haven. She will destroy the memories of wasting away on that terrace, of his pinched, forbidding grimace he wore when he shook off her embrace. She will be tasting wine and honeyed spices on his tongue instead of smoke and salt.

“I love you,” escaped her mouth, and then Drogon was, thankfully, swooping down with exhilarating speed and a roar that hidden any reply Jon could have given; except the brief, feather-light touch of his lips to her cheek, obviously. She melted into the caress, hating herself for that weakness and still so glad.

They landed on the cliffs, graceless and heavy with exhaustion that seemed to belong to all three of them. Jon was the first one to dismount. He slid down Drogon's flank more than climbed down, and took a few moments to find his footing. Even then, he was leaning heavily against the dragon and barely managed to help Daenerys. If she fell into the grass, she'd have taken him down with her; fortunately for them, she was Khaleesi. She was going to fall off her steed no more than she was ready to die, which was not in her plans.

“You are tired,” she observed simply. There was a small rueful smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, and her heart leapt.

“Aren't you?”

“Dreadfully,” she admitted. They took off at a leisured pace, and she found herself swaying lightly on her feet. Each step, though, brought her closer to Jon, until they were pressed together, his arm around her shoulders; until he was, eventually, almost carrying her up the path to the castle; so she couldn't complain. Even when a party met them, made of the castle guards and her Dothraki handmaidens, she only murmured her instructions and allowed Jon to lead her to her royal chambers. Their royal chambers, she promised, half-asleep and half-drunk on contentment.

She awoke briefly when the handmaidens lowered her into the bath full of steaming water. As they carefully scrubbed and washed, mindful of the heat, and set on freeing her hair from war-braids, she looked around for Jon, but he was absent from the room. “Little Khal went to bathhouse,” a giggling girl told her, and Dany nodded, because of course he did, it made sense.

Next time she had woken up was well into the night. She lay tangled in the sheets, with Yqqi and Qohai sharing her bed, both snoring quietly and holding onto her with mighty force. She frowned and pushed herself up, looking around worriedly.

But Jon was there. He sat in a chair near the hearth, staring into the flames with unfocused, bruised from the lack of rest eyes. His hair was wet and loose around his face, the clothes clean and simple, but unfit for sleep. As she watched, he leaned forward and held a hand against the fire.

“Jon?”

“It's fine,” he whispered back. “I am not touching it. Just warming.”

“Why aren't you in bed?” It was cold in the castle. He was used to northern winters, of course, but if he felt the need to warm himself beside the fire, he should have gone to sleep, beneath good blankets, preferably in Dany's arms. She remembered when he was lain on the ship, unconscious, bundled in furs and freezing cold to the touch, and shuddered.

“It's fine, Dany,” he repeated, terribly gentle. “Go back to sleep. Please.”

Huffing, she leaned back into the pillows and immediately found herself engulfed in the sleepily grubbing embraces of the girls. Jon chuckled, softly, warmly; she couldn't stay angry with him then. Closing her eyes, she heard him rising and walking across the room. He adjusted the covers and tucked in the bit in the foot; and returned, silent, to his chair.

Shortly before dawn broke, when Qohai tried to rouse Yqqi to start their day but managed only to wake up Daenerys, he was still there, dosing lightly. He stirred as the commotion grew, and watched them with that hollowed smile Daenerys had come to resent.

She pushed Yqqi out from under the covers, merciless, and sent the girls on their way, then turned to face her lover.

“Come here, Jon Snow,” she ordered – or maybe snapped, but she was fed up with his meek act. She didn't care what clothes he was wearing or if he had morals. “Or so help me gods.”

“Dany,” he said.

“No.”

Finally, he nodded and got to his feet. She saw exactly when weakness struck, making him stumble and flail for purchase, and sprang to help. He was heavy and lagging in her grip, but it was a short walk, and they stumbled their way to the bed without calling for aid.

Contrary to her expectations, he was neither cold nor feverish, but merely numb from exhaustion. Beneath the blanket, he lay quietly and stared at nothing, unable to give up. She took to comb through his hair with her fingertips; and by the time a pale sun rose above the sea, he was breathing slowly and shallowly, if not asleep, then at least pretending to be.

She didn't want to leave him alone, but there was a Realm to take care of. With one last caress, she slipped away, hoping he would forgive her.

Chapter Text

She didn't wait for long. Willas Tyrell might have waited for her summon. He entered the throne room with a deep bow and looked calm and alert.

“My Queen,” he said. “If I may offer my congratulations?”

“You may,” she answered, disconcerted. Congratulations were in order. He was, however, the first Westerosi to remember his courtesies. She tried to recall what others said or done since she declared her victory. There were only her Dothraki's rambunctious jubilation and the Unsullied's proud and stoic looks. And Jon, finding her in that hall.

And Arya.

“You won the war, avenged your family and allies, and put an end to the Lannisters and their atrocities,” Willas was saying. “I am sure your victory will be long remembered, just like the Conquest is, and that your reign will be long and prosperous.”

She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to think about it. But Jon's devastation and the smell of charred bones, long cold when they were laid to her feet by the herder, wrenched the confession out of her. “I burned the city,” she whispered. “I burned thousands of people, alive, and ordered to butcher everyone taken captive. Even though the bells rang their surrender. It was necessary. Is it still a victory worth remembering?”

He stared at her with hard eyes, dull green on his golden, blemished with burnt marks, face, and smiled with his teeth gleaming.

“My lady, I would have burned that city to the ground myself. And I swear to you, had you acted honorably, had you believed their claims of surrender, you and your armies would have already been dead, gutted and left to rot in the streets and atop the walls. There was never a choice – other than you live, or she does.”

Steeling herself, Daenerys nodded.

“I thank you, my lord Tyrell.” He bowed again, and she rose from her dragonglass seat. “I would name you my Master of Laws.”

“I gladly accept. May I know who others in the Small Council are?”

“Torgo Nudho, commander of the Unsullied, is my Master of War,” she told him easily. “Tyrion Lannister committed treason and should be executed as we speak, and I am yet to give thought to his successor. The Coin shall remain under mine own purview. I am going to meet queen Yara Greyjoy and see if she would insist on retaining the title or exchange it for the place of Mistress of Ships – will we have a problem with such arrangement?”

He blinked, slowly, and tilted his head.

“I do not believe so. The last Greyjoy Rebellion hadn't bothered the Reach much, and since allying with you, Yara has remained steadfast in fighting the Lannisters. For the other kingdoms, you must forgive me for saying that, though unfair, they would accept her over an Essossi in a heartbeat.” They shared a look of understanding. While she had learned a bitter way how Westerosi treated anyone different; Willas was a scholar and he traveled far and wide on his family's business. He was thus an open-minded man, refreshingly lacking the usual bigotry. It was a trait he shared with Olenna, and Daenerys noted for herself to watch him for the cunning and ruthlessness she had possessed. “What of your nephew, my lady?”

She turned so sharply that her heels scraped against the stone flooring.

“I beg your pardon, lord Tyrell.”

“It is an open secret, my Queen,” he said not unkindly. “There were talks ever since some of us saw him riding a dragon. But then there were letters from Varys. Traitor or not, truth he had written or not; anyone with eyes can see how alike you two are.” At her confusion, because while they were equal in many aspects, Jon was not like her at all, Willas smiled. “Your frowns, for one. The shape of your, ah, lips, as well as the structure of brow ridges. The curl to your hair. Little things like these betray lineage to those who know what to look for.”

“While it is nice to know my lips are so admired,” she said archly, and he had the decency to blush. “What is it you are saying, specifically?”

“Lord Snow is the best candidate for the Hand of the Queen. If you confirm publicly his parentage, as your family he is also eligible as your heir, at least until you have a child of your own. Unless, of course,” his eyes glittered merrily, “you bear a child of his seed, which would be most advisable.”

“I won't,” she said flatly. “I won't wed him, nor appoint him my Hand, or my heir, and I won't carry his child.” A part of her wished. Oh, how her entire being wished. “If he deigns to sire an heir on a woman of his choosing, we'll see.” Willas gave her a fairly surprised look, and she considered giving him an explanation, one that wouldn't paint her mad with paranoia and fear. In the end, she gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Later, you and I shall work out a decree legitimizing Jon as Targaryen. Keep in mind until then that he is not a trueborn child; any claims to the opposite are based on Rhaegar usurping the Crown's power to approve divorce and grant legitimization alike. I couldn't care less, but we must uphold the law.”

“Very true,” Willas nodded. “Well then, Your Grace, if this is work for the later, then what do you have in mind for the now?”

With a sigh, she sat back on her throne.

“We must summon all of the lords and ladies of the Realm to pledge their fealty to their queen, least they stand in rebellion against me and mine. And we shall prepare for the possibility of the North declaring war on us for executing Arya Stark without a trial.”

His expression, she thought amusedly, was worth the headache.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon when she called the meeting off. Lord Tyrell, looking far more haggard and wide-eyed, and a lot less assured, left with the collection of drafts they had created and a frown of newfound awareness. She was pleased. It was one thing to let allies underestimate her, but it was different to have them thinking she was naive and easily tricked. Varys and Tyrion thought so, and she lost Missandei. There wasn't many she had left, and she was going to fight to keep them.

She ordered the kitchens to serve the supper in Aegon's Garden and sent for Jon after getting there herself. The garden was in its dying stages, the bushes of vaguely familiar plants brown and half-naked, the flowers dry and rustling desolately in the breeze. She was sitting on a cushioned stone bench, watching the grass quiver and sway, waiting for the kitchen maid to finish tasting the meals; when he walked up the passage.

He dispensed with the cloak, electing for a lighter riding attire, and kept his hair loose. She noticed with dismay its shortened length, even if it added some spring to his curls. She liked his hair long, she had thought about teaching him a few braids.

“Something wrong?” he asked, pausing.

“No. The Dothraki might start mocking you, though.”

“Just tell them I lost a fight.” He leaned and kissed her on the cheek, lightly and without his usual hesitation, and sat beside her, idly watching the purple sky. “You look better.”

“You don't.”

“I haven't slept,” he admitted. “Warged into Ghost for a little while, though. There is that.”

“I am glad you still have him. I know losing Rhaegal hurt you, and I am sorry for blaming you for his loss – I was the one to send you away from us.” He didn't stiffen, but from the way he tilted his head, hiding his expression, she understood he forced himself not to. “Jon? Do you want to bring Ghost here?”

“I didn't know you blamed me,” he said tonelessly. She sighed.

“I had – I still do, I think. I trusted you.”

“And I failed you.” He reached for her hand, wrapped his fingers around hers. “I hated you. When I told you about mother. All you could see then was the Iron Throne. I wanted someone to see me.” Her breathing hitched and he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I thought my sisters would understand; they had known how important it was to me. The problem is, I was right. They did understand.”

When she pulled at him to turn, he didn't resist, and let her look at him properly. He seemed still tired, bone-deep weary, and the colors were yet to return to his skin; as if the fires of King's Landing had bleached it permanently. But his face was calm; there was no resentment, no fear, no nervousness, no admiration. She didn't see the want he could never quell when gazing at her. She didn't see the darkness she wrought that night in the crypt.

She could see nothing but acceptance.

“You are giving up,” she realised with a gasp. He shrugged.

“What else can I do? I think I tried everything. I believed in you. I betrayed you to my people and family. I killed my sisters for you.” He smiled faintly; his eyes did not. “Now it is all in your hands, Daenerys.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She was, of course, present when he had her own dragon incinerate Arya right in the courtyard of the Red Keep, she had seen the look of utter dread overtaking the girl's features. But even Drogon couldn't have reached Winterfell and returned within a night. “Why do you say sisters?”

He blinked. “I told you, I warged into Ghost.”

The implications sank in slower than she was liking, yet there was nothing more for a moment she wanted than to delay understanding his words. Suddenly, she was away from him, standing and heaving for breath, her head dizzy and heart, horrified.

The supper was served; they were alone. She snatched a chalice off the table and downed it in a few large swallows. Silently, Jon refilled it for her and took a chalice himself. He didn't drink, however.

“Did you order Ghost to kill her?” she asked, not knowing why. “Or did you – did you?..”

“We dragged her out into the godswood,” he answered. His eyes were nearly black. Wide and black. “She screamed. Begged for help and pleaded with me – she knew, you see, she knew it was me. But the North is the North, they didn't dare harm a direwolf when all he was doing was dragging her to the sacred weirwood.” The way he recounted his deed made her want to recoil, as if he was a prowling beast himself. “And then Bran told them why. They weren't going to save her from her own doing.”

“I don't understand,” Dany whispered. She was no stranger to violence. She committed terrible crimes. She used her dragons and she knew that for some she was as inhuman and monstrous as her children appeared. But never once there was acceptance of her actions in the way Jon was talking about. Even Jorah and Missandei, she knew, would have condemned her for King's Landing.

She couldn't imagine people of Winterfell to stand by and watch while Sansa Stark was mauled and feasted upon.

“She broke an oath given before that tree,” Jon explained quietly. “There is no worse crime there. I don't know to what I could compare her actions that you would feel it. Before Alysanne, she would have been stripped bare and sent through the Black Gate of the Nightfort for the Others to judge her.” He scrunched his nose at Daenerys' expression. “Aye, we all know what judgment that would have been. But it may give you the idea.”

“You are right,” she conceded. “I have no comparison in mind.” She had seen blood magic performed, children crucified by scores, men fighting to death for entertainment; she learned a man must tear a babe from its mother's arms and kill it while the mother looks, before he is Unsullied. She murdered thousands yesterday and sacrificed thousands more for her goal. The fires going out in the night, each flicker of light signifying a Dothraki rider's death, will haunt her forever. Still, if death was necessary, it shouldn't be made into show. “It's wrong. Don't you see it's wrong?”

“I don't care.” His words drew her short. After all of it, something was back in his eyes. Sadness, she was surprised to see. “She was just like Arya, not going to stop until she got her wish. Like Cersei. Like people of King's Landing. You were right, there should be put an end to their atrocities, even if a terrible end.”

“Don't lay it on me,” she snapped. How dare he? There was enough blood on her hands, how dare he say this was on her as well? She wasn't going to kill Sansa. They were enemies, yes, but Sansa was his sister. “It was your choice. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Truly,” he said, low in his throat. “Truly!” This time he laughed. “I shouldn't have expected you to understand.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

They stood close now, and she didn't need to squint to see the fire in his eyes, the snarl on his lips.

“You kept pushing me,” he accused. “You kept asking me to act. Now, you are unhappy?”

“I stopped asking you for anything a long time ago! You never did what I asked of you, and I have begged you once, and was brushed off – I! Why, shall I expect you would suddenly fall back in love with me, now that you seem to change your mind about everything? Shall I expect once more your lips on mine, your hands on my body, your cock inside me?” she mocked, incensed. “Shall I expect you to stand between me and my killers, to come check on me after a battle, to keep my secrets safe and to obey my command? Or shall I expect of you but to simply take until I have nothing left to give to you – will you be happy then, Jon?”

His hand, the one marred with burn scar, rose to her neck, and for a moment she believed, fearless, furious, and glad, that he would snap it. But he pulled her closer, just like Viserys had done hundreds of times, and kissed her forehead.

And then, he was gone.

Chapter Text

He was distant since then. They still shared her chambers; even her bed when she demanded that he abandon his chair and come rest. He slept lightly, waking up from her smallest moves and too loud a whisper, and lay as far as he could. Once, he allowed her to hold him and run her fingers through his too-short curls, but soon she couldn't tolerate how stiff he was and how his breath was shallow and controlled. He rolled away with a sigh of relief.

Lord Tyrell kept glancing at her with a question she didn't want answered.

Ravens from every end of the Realm had been flying in, slowly at first, then in flocks. Only one came from Sunspear, demanding renegotiation of the kingdom's standing in the alliance. The Prince and the Princess were understandably upset; well, Daenerys Targaryen was not upset – she was offended. They had all the time in the word to come to her. They could have come with Yara and Theon; they could have sent a messenger once they learned she was back and negotiating with Ellaria. They could have joined her after Ellaria was killed or before the armies besieged the capital.

If she thought privately that with a greater presence of allied forces at Dragonstone there would have been a lesser chance of ambush, a lesser chance of Rhaegal and Missandei dying, well. She would not be blamed for a thought that was reasonable.

She had enough of unreasonable ones, after all.

When it was the majority of her subjects agreeing to come pledge to her, she sent Willas ahead and prepared to leave the island herself. She wasn't going to stay in the city for long, but it was her responsibility to check whether King's Landing was in a state good enough for her ascension.

It was stable, Torgo Nudho had been reporting. The last cashes of wildfire had been dug out and safely destroyed out in the bay, burning away the worst of shipwreck Drogon left in his wake. The corpses had been buried in the Kingswood. The rubble was cleared with quality stones and bricks laid along the breached walls, ready to be used for repair once the weather cleared. The Red Keep, badly damaged and burned, was under construction – a work for another few generations. At that point it would have been easier to bring it down and rebuild entirely, but the part of Daenerys that was homesick little girl, couldn't stomach the thought. Let it be generations, she said. In the meantime, she ordered a new castle to be erected atop the Hill of Rhaenys. It could be said she was inviting gods' ire, and was said so indeed, but she was beyond such notions. She had come too far to beware gods now.

No, the integrity of the ground and the smell of the rot didn't bother her. It was the water supply and the amounts of food, and ensuring the survivors in the city were going to be fed and kept busy during the festivities. Any potential uprising would be done by her guests, she swore, because she would kill them and she wished for no more blood of the smallfolk. They paid enough.

She never told Jon he was to stay behind while she visited King's Landing; still, he seemed to know when he came to see her off.

They hadn't spoken since their fight in the garden, and the first thing he said to her was, “Am I a prisoner here?” He looked and spoke as if holding on by a tread, and it was the only reason she didn't lash out in answer.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “I have no need of you in King's Landing, not yet.”

“Right.” He turned away, staring at the brightly gleaming sea. “Your Grace, I would be very grateful to be allowed back in my own quarters.”

She imagined her bedchamber without him; the nights spent without listening to his breathing; the smell of him wearing off of the pillows. Not feeling the heat of his body in those rare moments he allowed her close. Not seeing him right away when visions of fire and translucent spears awoke her at the witching hour.

“I thought you were going to say back North,” she quietly confessed. He didn't answer, and she sighed. “Very well. For the duration of my absence, you may stay there.” She nodded at Lhaqharro, who waited for her to fly off safely, and told him quickly the new instructions. When she looked at Jon again, it was hard to miss the slump in his posture. She wasn't sure if he felt happy or defeated. “All settled, my lord. I shall see you in a few days' time.”

“I will be here, my Queen,” he said with subdued humor, and she smiled at him encouragingly.

When he offered her his arm, as if she needed help to get atop Drogon's back, she gladly accepted, and before they parted, she couldn't resist anymore and leaned to lay a hand over his heart.

“I love you,” she said, soft and stubborn. There won't be mistaking her words. “I love you, Jon.”

His face frozen, he nodded and stepped away. She knew that he couldn't say it back to her, not yet; if he did, she wouldn't have believed him. She preferred honesty, painful as it was.

Chapter Text

It was not a long time that she’d spent with Jon on Dragonstone, yet it managed to blunt her memories of carnage and ruin left of King’s Landing, and her dedication to the future of the city added to the haze.

To see it all again was a shock, and the sight of pale faces, of figures frozen in fear and resignation, watching Drogon descend from the sky, broke her heart anew. They were terrified; they were hateful; they expected her to unleash destruction once more; and yet, they didn’t try to run. Those who survived the Burning, they knew how futile the effort to hide would be.

It was on her.

No, she told herself firmly; no, it was on Cersei Lannister. It was the Mad Queen’s doing.

In her memories, hazy, splintered with pain and denial, Missandei’s voice rang low and damning. Dracarys, she said, right before the sword took her head off. Watching as the city’s remnants rose from the thick gray fog, streets half-way cleared, no charred body in sight, nor a single piece of red and gold; watching those pale faces come in her view as Drogon flew in lazy circles, searching for a place to land comfortably; drawing in air that smelt not of rot and piss, but of thick, sour smog; Dany couldn’t help but think again that Missandei would have been unforgiving.

Dracarys, she said, and maybe she meant it true; or maybe she had been condemning only Cersei and her entourage, standing there in the open, smirking from the high wall. Protected by the right of parley. Daenerys chose to respect that protection.

She was a fool to do so.

What right had Cersei had to claim it? She betrayed them in the Long Night, for that alone she was oathbreaker and deserved death. She called for parley after the attack on Dragonstone, but there was no parlaying, only demands and execution. Daenerys would have agreed to terms of exchange; she would have delivered Jaime Lannister, by then already in custody of her men; she would have allowed Cersei to leave the rest of her life confined in safety and lavish comforts of the Casterly Rock.

Cersei chose death. Daenerys should have given it to her there and then.

This ruin was, she understood after all, her fault.

Alright, she thought. Let it be on me, then. Let my promise to Jon be true.

She looked upon quiet, fearful little flocks of survivors, and smiled.

Chapter Text

She rode intentionally slowly, ignoring carefully blank expression Willas Tyrell wore. For all his talks of vengeance and rightful fury, he remained a kind man at heart. A scholar first, not a warrior; and the sight repulsed him, she could feel.

She needed him to see the burned city close. Tyrion, once upon a time, was full of the same fiery rage, and look how he turned in the end; his heart soft and stomach weak, he turned on Daenerys since the first time she brought justice and fire. Were Willas to follow in his step, she needed it to be over and done with quickly. Already she had ears listening if he would whisper, eyes watching if he would flinch.

“I must question your decision, Your Grace,” he spoke as they neared the foothill of her future residence. “I speak of the Coin. Forgive me, but the restoration of King’s Landing alone would require an Archmaester knowledgeable in economics and figures; to simultaneously command the royal treasure…” He shook his head with a dour look in his eyes. “I dread the state of the coffers as it is, but you would have the task of mending every kingdom’s affairs…”

“I agree,” she said calmly. “If I were interested in running things the way of my predecessors, I would have neither time nor energy for the gold.”

Willas gave her an exasperated smile, but there was something in the way he glanced at her that she thought almost mischievous. “Daenerys the Reformer,” he intoned. “Ambitious, you are, my Queen.”

Daenerys the Queen of the Ashes I will be called until the end of the days, she thought. Outwardly, she laughed, feigning pleasure at his underhanded compliment.

She left him to wait for her return in the alley leading to the former Dragonpit. It was once a green place; tall trees and fragrant bushes lined the road, she remembered, providing shadow from pale sun; all of it burned in the inferno Drogon unleashed. Beyond the entrance to the Pit, though, everything stayed the same, and the only changes were brought by clearing the place of wooden dais and reinforcing the wall Drogon crushed in his landing.

“It looks so empty,” she remarked. “And yet, I cannot help it but be reminded of the Great Pit of Meereen.”

“Meereen is Ghiscari city, Daenerys,” Torgo Nudho said.

“Yes, it was once. Ghiscari civilization faded before the Valyrian Freehold did.” It was something she heard years ago, perhaps when she first beholden a golden Harpy. It had been only in the library on Dragonstone that she learned more. “Before they conquered the last Ghiscari, my ancestors were no slavers. There weren’t Pits in our cities. This,” she spread her arms, taking the ruin surrounding them in, “was wrong. This was a cage, a place for dragons to be kept chained in between fights and debauchery.” She stared with hatred at the walls, old, crumbling, still adorned with iron rings. She stared at the sand swept to the corners, the fine sand that was once dragon bone and flesh. She remembered Viserion and Rhaegal, abandoned in a dark dungeon; she imagined men with spears coming at them, the stone walls and ceiling crushing them. They had grown smaller and weaker than Drogon. They were dead now.

She had a hand in their fate.

“You should not chain yourself here in their place,” Torgo Nudho said, softly and warningly. “You freed yourself. You freed the Unsullied.” His dark eyes stared at her intently. “You freed Missandei of Naath. All of us followed you gladly.” He, too, looked around them. “This is no cage, Daenerys; this is graveyard.”

“This whole place is a graveyard,” she said, turning away, “and I shall rule upon it. I want this to be a reminder – one day, all chains will be broken.”

“Yes, Mhysa,” he said.

Mhysa. It was another part of Ghiscari legacy that she hated.