Chapter Text
Warmth came naturally to Daenerys; the blood of the dragon kept unforgiving ice and frigid winds at bay. Her blood had never failed her until that fateful day.
Eyes on the vast expanse of nothingness below, she had never felt so overcome by the cold.
Heart numb, her mind recalled everything that had transpired beyond the Wall, obsessed over it all in agonized silence, in denial and disbelief. A jagged knife twisted relentlessly in her chest as she thought, making it harder to breathe let alone wrap her mind around how it had happened at all.
Two dragons overhead screeched and roared, emotions shifting from grief to rage and back again, calling out to their mother, but likewise resisting the comfort and love she so badly tried to convey. The bond that tethered them threatened to split her asunder, their anger and rage and pain and sorrow and everything else magnifying her own swirling emotions.
It had happened.
The encounter had subdued her lust for a birthright denied, reality wrestling it to the ground, forcing it to submit to reason. Its importance had not waned, the lust still burned bright and hot, but after having seen she now understood what Jon Snow had desperately wanted her -all of them- to understand.
That there was a greater and far more pressing war to win. That until the Night King lived, it did not matter who sat the Iron Throne for, divided, the known world would fall and all life would end in death only to live again as dead men risen, enslaved and mindless. The dead would engulf one kingdom after the other, beginning with the North, a storm surge of destruction that would never ebb, only flowing until it had taken every living being in its path.
The sight of an invincible creature, fallen with one masterful stroke of an enchanted spear of ice, had given her pause and made her question her perceived strength. She was still dumbfounded that her dragon, the gentlest of her children, her Viserion had been slain.
The hope that an honorable man might have emerged from the frozen lake in which he’d fallen, and would burst forth from the forest below within the next heartbeat or the next breath from her lungs or the next bat of her eyelids slowly receded from her heart.
She had stood for too long, waited for too long, hoping for too much.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, Jorah beseeched her that the time had come for them to depart.
“A bit longer,” she replied, never taking her eyes away from the forest below.
For all the power she held, she could not command the dead to rise.
Regaining some semblance of composure, Daenerys shook her head. Grief and heartache were luxuries she could not hold on to, emotions she could not let engulf her, but she had to let herself feel, even if for a moment.
Closing her eyes in pain, she wished she had had the opportunity to send them off for their journey into the afterlife, for their souls deserved peace. A pang shot through her heart at the thought of their remains, lost to the depths of the waters that had openly received them, embracing Viserion’s fallen form first before filling Jon Snow’s lungs and drowning him, both lost to her forever.
A shiver snaked along her spine, but she stood straight still, taking the cold for she deserved it, for failing to protect those under her charge. She stood at her post, silently casting her emotions into the wind; it was only a matter of time before she had to leave.
If I look back, I am lost.
She mourned her child, mourned a man made for greater things. She mourned and hoped for at least Jon’s return, for she had seen life leave her son’s eyes, and cursed at the dead men marching their way for reasons unknown. The thought of the blue-eyed harbingers of death and destruction enraged her. It also made her fearful of what was to come.
Eventually, the woman submitted to the Queen, and her heart yielded to duty.
With Drogon, Rhaegal and the army she had amassed from Essos she would avenge the fall of Viserion and the honorable King in the North. With fire and blood, she would rally the country in the fight for Dawn.
Queen fully reclaiming the woman, Daenerys hung the remainder of her blind hope on the ledge of her post, and turned.
For I have seen, now I know. I will fight for our people – yours and mine, Jon Snow. You have my word.
Distracting herself with the trek towards the winch, Daenerys started thinking about their next campaign. In order to aid the North, they—
At the sound of a horn blown, the shout about a rider approaching, and with a sliver of warm hope blooming within the ice that had become her heart, the woman overpowered the Queen and Daenerys approached the edge of the tower she’d just vacated.
Heart hammering, she tried to settle her emotions, but was powerless to stay the maelstrom.
The sight of him, barely alive, stole her breath altogether.
In the next heartbeat, she collected as much of herself as she could and turned on her heel to make her way to the lift. She was running, rather unbecoming for a queen, but she cared not. She had to feel the beat of his pulse beneath her palm before she believed he was real, for the sake of his people if not her sanity.
When she was informed that she had been beaten to the use of the winched lift, she cursed inwardly, blaming Ser Davos blindly. Without thinking, she started to descend the winding staircases of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Jorah dutifully in pursuit and crying out pleas for her to descend carefully- she ignored him completely. It was foolish, she knew, but she could not stand idly and do nothing.
She would not wait for Death to try and claim him again.
In what seemed like moon turns she stopped at a level not too far from where she’d started and was able to get onto the damned contraption.
I command you to live, Jon Snow. Live, and we will see the Night King fall, together.
The need to see him alive tore at her. What if he made it back only to die before her all over again? Her conscience would not be able to survive it. Her heart even more so. He had to live. Her palms were sore from the pressure of her nails digging in, the anxiety and hope within her all-consuming.
The cart landed at the base of the tower with a soft creak and clatter of chains. The moment the doors were pried apart for her, she broke out into a fast walk, taking long strides to get to the King in the North. She’d been told he was taken to the other side of the Wall, Davos and everyone else they’d left assisting him.
If it were possible, her heart beat all the more dangerously as she neared. She scrutinized him as she approached, appraising his state. A part of her balked at the sight of him, nearly frozen over and deathly pale, his body jerking in short bursts as he shivered.
“There are not enough supplies to tend to his needs from here, Khaleesi,” Jorah informed her, answering her forthcoming question as to why they had assembled to take him to the ship.
She nodded her acknowledgement, understanding that the Night’s Watch hadn’t been properly funded in ages. It was another matter, for another time.
“We’ll have a tender for you right away, Your Grace,” Ser Davos told her in pardon, bowing his head in respect as they started to push at the small boat.
“You will make room for me, now, Ser Davos,” the Queen commanded in a calm voice, brokering no argument even as several men, including the Onion Knight, looked at her curiously. Unflinching, she offered no explanation, so they merely nodded and kept their lips sealed.
“Khaleesi-”
“You will get on the next one, Ser Jorah,” she ordered. “I merely want to see to it that he is not denied any immediate comfort and care aboard my own ship,” she added quietly, tilting her head in his direction, but not looking at him.
Her oldest friend knew better than to protest, and so he kept silent. She was grateful for it.
Ser Davos held out a hand to help her aboard the tender and she positioned herself parallel to the object of her thoughts.
Live, Jon. Your Queen commands you.
Fingers clenching, she fought the impulse to reach out and touch him, to feel his pulse beneath her fingers, to give him the warmth he urgently needed.
As the men rowed them towards the ship, she kept her gaze fixed onto his face and her hands to herself. As she marveled and wondered at how he’d made it back, she realized that she was no longer cold. She pursed her lips at the thought, but welcoming the warmth her own blood offered.
“How do you think…” she started to ask Ser Davos, and then trailed off as she glanced at the man lying prostate next to her. Her gaze shifted to the Onion Knight.
Grunting as he rowed, Davos shook his head, at a loss for any possible explanation, but visibly grateful nonetheless. “I don’t know, Your Grace,” he told her in his thick Flea Bottom accent, “But my King’s been through much worse. I’m just glad the lad survived at all.” The older man shuddered at a memory unknown to her, causing her brows to draw together.
“Much worse?” she prodded.
“Aye, but ‘tis not my story to tell, Your Grace. Perhaps when he’s come to, you’ll have time to talk,” he told her gravely, his voice softening towards the end.
“Perhaps,” she mused quietly, returning her gaze to his liege.
A gust of wind passed them and, impulsively, her hand reached out to brush a wayward raven curl from Jon’s face. She stifled a gasp at his temperature, reminding her of the danger he was still in. Fear slithered into her heart yet again.
“Not long now, Your Grace, we’ll warm him up and give him rest,” Davos assured, apparently watching her one-sided interaction with his King.
When they finally made it onto the ship’s deck, Davos barked out orders for what to fetch before he’d even stepped out of the tender.
She followed them in silence as they hurriedly carried Jon’s body to his cabin and dumped him onto the bed.
Standing by the doorway, she watched as Davos and another man pried his frozen clothes off of his body, skin almost coming along, making her cringe as if it were her own they were handling. She ignored the men coming and going from the room, one right after the other, carrying the supplies the Hand of the King had demanded: furs, sheets of cloth, a basin, hot water, candles and whatever else he’d said above deck.
Clothes off and discarded on the wooden planks at their feet, she watched as they eased him onto the bed.
Time itself stood still at her first glimpse of the puckered scars scattered over his chest and torso. The bruises over his body bloomed angrily, coloring him almost black and blue. Her eyes nearly watered as she took in the curved imprint of the blade that must had pierced his heart.
He hadn’t just taken one knife to the heart, as she recalled Davos so passionately revealed when they first met, he had also taken knives to his torso.
She shook her head in disbelief, unable to imagine how he had survived what she was seeing.
“Is this what you meant by ‘much worse,’ Ser Davos?” she breathed, still stunned as she took it all in, including the indisputable truth of what Jon had gone through.
The Onion Knight looked at her, his skin flushed in what could only be embarrassment at having been found out.
A figure of speech. Northron flights of fancy. No. How could he have-
Shaking her head once more, she regulated her breathing. He was alive. He was healing. At that moment, it was all that mattered.
Jon Snow, this world does not deserve you.
Ser Davos was about to respond, but she raised a hand and instead gestured towards the basin he had retrieved from the other corner of the room. The man handed it to her along with a strip of cloth, eyes anxious as she moved wordlessly around the bed to sit by his King’s side.
“Perhaps…” she mumbled uncertainly, looking down at another brave man—perhaps the bravest, she’d almost lost, “Perhaps, he would tell me himself, when he’s recovered.”
“Your Grace,” Ser Davos bowed, expelling a breath of relief.
She was certain that he would have told her, had she prompted, but if and when she came to know of the truth, she would hear it straight from the man who had kept it from her in the first place.
“The water’s boiling hot, Your Grace, maybe—”
“I can take it, Ser Davos,” she waved him off, twisting the cloth with her hands, to squeeze out the excess.
If the man was surprised she didn’t so much as flinch at the heat, he didn’t show it. Instead, he busied himself with lighting candles within the room before taking his leave.
You’re maddening, Jon Snow, but I would not have you any other way.
The thought made her smile and her heart swelled a little bit more. She took a deep breath and did her best to rein in her emotions, good and bad, and just focused on aiding the man before her.
Comely, she thought, appraising his face as she worked, for she had to distract herself with other thoughts lest she fell apart. Being in his presence was comforting albeit heartbreaking, causing her to relive the events of the day all over again.
She ran a cloth on the scar above his left eye, and then tracing the continuance of it just below.
What story does this scar tell, my brave warrior?
It made him look older, more experienced. With his hair tousled, as it was at that moment, his youth showed despite the discomfort lining his features, and she was blown away by the sight.
They were both too young to fight the wars they were fighting, but there they were, two monarchs who only wanted what was best for the people, particularly the downtrodden and those who could not protect themselves.
One day, we will sit down and share our stories, Jon Snow.
At the press of the cloth to his nape, a guttural whimper parted his lips, and she hushed him with a sweet cadence to her voice. He settled almost immediately, pressing his face into her palm, making her internally rejoice at his unwitting reaction to her soothing. Momentarily, she let go of the cloth and allowed herself the small comfort of feeling his pulse, weak but present, making her sigh in relief and utter gratitude that he had survived.
Like a wolf, he unknowingly nudged at her palm and she stroked the side of his face affectionately, causing a tear to finally slide free from one of her lids.
She wished she could simply end the torment he was experiencing. He shivered once more and she watched the taut muscles beneath her fingers contract and release violently, tugging painfully at her chest.
Wake up soon, Jon.
For your people.
For your brother and sisters.
For me.