Chapter Text
"You’re doing what?"
Her brother's voice was infuriatingly calm on the other end of the line, as though this was a reasonable request. "I'm sending Jon to stay with you for a couple of weeks." If it even was a request at all; he sure didn't phrase it as one.
Daenerys pressed her lips together—willing the vein in her temple to remain unpopped—before asking, “And how many weeks is ‘a couple’?”
“Six. Seven at most.” Ignoring her indignant sputter, Rhaegar continued, "He's going to visit a few universities in King's Landing and he needs a place to stay."
She slammed her Summer Isles Iced Tea on the table, even though the cocktail was not to blame for the sour taste in her mouth. "And why, pray tell, did you not mention this sooner?" she asked through gritted teeth. "Or better yet, arrange for another accommodation?"
Rhaegar sighed, a bite of impatience infiltrating his voice. "Jon was supposed to stay at his uncle Benjen's place while he is out of town. But Benjen had to cancel his trip last minute, and his apartment is the size of a shoebox. It cannot accommodate two people."
"I don't have a guest room, either, Rhae," she complained, her voice rising to a desperate volume. By the Seven, she was already losing the fucking battle. "He'd have to sleep on the sofa."
"That's not a problem."
Biting back an oath, Daenerys closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Her brother had made up his mind, and she had always been rubbish at standing up to him.
For fuck's sake.
"Fine.”
"Thank you, Daenerys," Rhaegar said, not sounding at all grateful, but exasperated with her unwillingness to turn her apartment into a B&B. "Jon has your number. He will call you if he has any trouble finding your place on Saturday."
And he hung up.
Daenerys flung her phone onto the coffee table with a groan. "Bloody hells."
"What was that about?" Margaery, who lounged on an armchair across from her clutching a Meereen Mule, arched an eyebrow.
"Rhaegar is sending his son to stay here for the summer." She drained the rest of her cocktail in one gulp and set the glass down with much more force than necessary.
"Right...your nephew. What’s his name again? Aegon?"
"Not Aegon,” Daenerys corrected. ”It’s Rhaegar’s youngest. Jon."
Jon was Rhaegar's son from his second marriage. She didn't know him very well since she didn't venture to Winterfell very often, and Rhaegar avoided travelling south if he could help it. Marrying a northerner had pushed him further away from the rest of his family in more ways than one.
Her friend’s voice penetrated the fog of memories. "Why is he coming here?"
"He’s going to check out some universities in the city." She hopped off the sofa and strode to the kitchen to make another drink. Fucking Rhaegar. She had a busy job and had finally kicked Daario to the curb two months ago after uncovering his cheating scumbag-y ways. A houseguest was the absolute last thing she wanted.
Daenerys flung the cocktail ingredients into the mixer and flipped the switch, tapping her foot on the floor as the device whirred and clinked.
Did Rhaegar expect her to entertain his son? Perhaps, since he didn’t know anyone else in the city. Although, if his prior behaviour was any indication, Jon would be content to be left alone with the screen of his choice.
Fresh drink in hand, she made her way back to the living room and threw herself down on the sofa. She took a vicious gulp from her extra-dirty cocktail, while Marg watched with a raised eyebrow.
“Remind me, why are you estranged from your brother?”
Daenerys scowled. “We’re obviously not estranged, since he’s very comfortable using me for room and board for his son.”
“But you don’t see each other often.”
“I guess not.” Daenerys fingered the rim of her glass, thinking back to her childhood. “My parents sort of…disowned him after the divorce. They adored his ex-wife.”
Daenerys was just a child when Rhaegar announced he was leaving his wife for another woman. Scandalized and enraged, their parents had given him the cold shoulder ever since, which meant she hadn’t seen him often, not for years. Even though she was too young to go against her parents’ wishes, Daenerys had always felt guilty about how they treated Rhaegar. She never stopped missing him, either.
“When I turned eighteen, I got back in touch with Rhae. Jon was ten or eleven or so.” A tangle of dark curls and a pale face. Eyes that carried a constantly troubled—or melancholic—expression. Odd for such a young kid.
Marg hummed, stretching her legs to rest them on the coffee table.
Daenerys took another sip and grimaced. “I visited them sporadically over the years. Rhae and Lyanna came here a few times. Jon was nice enough. Sort of quiet. But then he turned fifteen, and I got the full teenage experience.” The transformation had been jarring, although, she supposed that was normal for a teenager. “Turned bloody obnoxious and impossible to talk to.”
The last she saw her youngest nephew—three, four years ago?—he was a surly and tight-lipped 15-year-old. He had spent the entire family dinner with his eyes glued to his phone, only speaking in monosyllables. And while Jon’s behaviour was not the reason for Daenerys’ strained relationship with her brother, it certainly didn’t endear visits to Winterfell to her.
“Bloody teenagers.” They clinked their glasses together and drained them in unison.
Daenerys pursed her lips and threw her head back against the cushions. "This is a fucking nightmare."
Margaery rolled her eyes. "Don't be so melodramatic," she said. "Even if he’s still as bad as you remember, you're going to be working all day. You'll barely see each other."
The midday sun still hung high in the cloudless sky when Daenerys heard the knock on her door. She dropped the freshly laundered bedsheet she was holding on the sofa and trudged to the foyer.
She couldn’t fucking believe she had given up most of her Saturday to clean the apartment and wash the guest bedsheets, which she hadn’t used for so long that they had developed an off-putting musty smell. Why did she even agree to this? Oh, right, because she'd always been a pushover where Rhaegar was concerned.
Resigned to her fate, Daenerys took a deep breath and flung the door open.
And froze.
Her jaw dropped, and she was on the verge of asking, "May I help you?" because the person standing before her could not possibly be her nephew.
The Jon she remembered was lanky, with a dark curly fringe constantly slipping over his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes. He was dour and rude and rarely made eye contact with anything that wasn't on the screen of his phone; a veritable poster child for some kind of emo teenage rebellion.
In stark contrast to her memories, the young man standing in the doorway wearing ripped jeans and a tight t-shirt, a gigantic duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looked...different.
The formerly messy hair was now tied back, supple stray curls hanging loose around a lean face. A dark scruff of beard covered a previously smooth jaw, framing a full mouth with artfully curved lips.
His frame was also a far cry from the beanstalk she remembered. Broad shoulders stretched the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and—from what Daenerys could glean from a stolen surreptitious downward glance—abs and pecs that would not be out of place on a cover of a fitness magazine.
When the door opened, his lips curled into a smile, as blinding as a sunbeam reflecting off of fresh snow. For some odd reason, the sight struck her dumb, unable to do anything but stand there and gawk until his deep timbre jolted her from her stupor.
"Aunt Daenerys. Hi."
Even his voice was different; deeper and more mature, with a pronounced northern brogue, similar to his mother’s.
To her utter horror, she mumbled a breathless "nngghh" before clamping her mouth shut, choosing to just nod instead. How mortifying.
They stood at the entrance for a few more seconds until Jon cleared his throat, running a hand through his curls. "So, um—may I come in?"
By the grace of the Seven, her brain kicked back into gear. “Of course. Welcome, Jon.” Relieved that she spoke a recognizable language this time, she stepped aside to let him through. “And please, call me Dany.” Aunt Daenerys made her sound like somebody’s spinster maiden aunt.
Nervously toying with an errant silver-blonde lock of hair that wound its way out of her messy ponytail, Daenerys turned and moved away from the entrance. She glanced over her shoulder to see Jon trailing after her, looking around as he walked.
“Nice place,” he said when they entered the small living room.
“Thanks.” She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Situated in one of the most popular and densely populated streets in King’s Landing, the place was tiny, dark and cramped. KL was an expensive city, and she’d had to settle.
“You’ll have to sleep here,” she pointed at the plush slate-grey sofa that dominated the room. “I don’t have a second bedroom, sorry.”
“That’s not a problem,” he said, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack as he surveyed the heap of bedsheets, a blanket and a fluffy pillow she had placed on the sofa. “Thank you for letting me stay here. I truly appreciate it.”
He at least sounded more sincere than Rhaegar did.
Jon dropped his backpack on the floor and kicked it into the corner between the sofa and the wall.
A few awkward seconds passed with them standing there before Daenerys cleared her throat. “Do you—uh—want something to drink?”
A smile broke over his face. “That would be great, thanks.”
Relieved, she turned to the kitchen, motioning him to follow.
“Not much here, I’m afraid,” she said as she perused the sorry contents of her fridge. “Want a beer?” She winced a moment later before he had the chance to reply. “I mean—shit—are you allowed to drink? How old are you?”
What the fuck was she thinking? Rhaegar might not appreciate her getting his teenage son drunk.
“Aye, I drink.” Jon’s eyes twinkled as he propped a hip against the marble countertop, lips curled into a grin. “I’m nineteen. And I’d love a beer.”
Face flaming, she pulled two cans from the fridge and handed one to Jon. She clinked her can with his without looking at him. “Cheers.”
Daenerys sipped her drink in silence for a few moments, savouring the bitterness stinging her tongue, watching him from the corner of her eye.
With his head thrown back, he gulped the brew as though he’d never had one before. A droplet of sweat slid down his neck as he drank, disappearing under his white t-shirt, which clung to his body like a second skin. He must’ve noticed her staring because he lowered the can and raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” she blurted, toying with the metal tab on the can just to have something to occupy her hands with. Gods, this was bloody awkward. How would she survive two months of this?
”It’s boiling out there,” he said sheepishly as he lifted the can to his temple, pressing the cool metal against one bearded cheek.
The statement wrenched a surprised laugh out of her. “Bloody hells,” she said, grinning despite herself. “You are so northern.”
He laughed, the sound low and deep, unexpectedly pleasing. Daenerys gave herself a mental shake when she realized he was speaking to her. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, what gave it away?” He smirked, ash-grey eyes twinkling, the half-empty can in his hand listing to the side.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with an eye roll, unable to wipe the grin off of her face. “Might be the ‘Aye’. Or that you think this—” she jerked her chin at the window, through which the afternoon sun still shone “—is boiling.” She accentuated the word with air quotes.
“It bloody is!” He scowled, but she spotted him biting back a grin.
She laughed. “Just wait until the heat picks up,” she said. “You’re here for almost two months and, trust me, you’re going to be bloody grateful that I have air conditioning.”
He huffed another low chuckle. “That’s good to hear.”
Standing aimlessly in the cramped kitchen felt awkward, so Daenerys gestured towards the living room. “Want to sit down?”
“So what is it you’ll be doing here?” she asked moments later when they sat on the sofa, fresh drinks in hand. “Visiting universities, was it?”
“Mm.” He put down his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I already have a few early admission offers. This trip is for deciding which to attend.”
“What universities?”
“Let’s see.” Jon stretched his legs in front of him, his back resting against the plush cushions. “Here in the city there’s KLU, Old Town and Blackwater Academy, Wintertown back in the north, Harrenhal in the Riverlands and one college in Essos, but that was my safety school.”
Daenerys stared, wide-eyed, when he broke off to chug the rest of his beer. “That’s…wow,” she said finally.
He grinned. “Didn’t expect that, huh?”
Embarrassed, she huffed a small laugh. That was true, she didn’t. She hadn’t pictured Jon as the studious type, which was foolish, because she knew virtually nothing about him. “What are you going to study, anyway?”
A rosy blush crept over his cheeks as he hesitated. “Not sure yet,” he supplied after a few seconds, raking a hand through his dark curls. “I’m supposed to decide that, too, before the school year starts in the fall.”
“I see.” Daenerys chose not to pry, despite sensing there was something he wasn’t saying.
“Dad wants me to consider business or law,” he said with a one-shoulder shrug. “He thinks I have an aptitude for it.”
“Mm-hmm.” Familiar with Rhaegar’s pushy nature, she suppressed a grimace. But there was no point unloading that on Jon, so she bit her tongue against commenting. “Great,” she said instead with what she hoped was a convincing smile.
He leaned back, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa, and levelled his gaze at her. “What did you study?” he asked.
“I have a degree in journalism and mass communication from Dragonstone,” she said. “And another in literature from Old Town.”
“Nice. You’re a journalist, right?” he asked, eyes bright with curiosity.
She nodded. “I work for a small independent paper. We mainly cover issues related to social justice.”
“Ah.” He scratched his scruffy jaw. “Huh.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just—something my father said.”
Knowing precisely what Rhaegar thought of her career choices, Daenerys rolled her eyes. “I used to work as the crime reporter for The Westeros Post,” she said. “Mostly front-page news.”
He gave a low whistle, brows shooting up. “That’s the biggest paper in the country. What happened?”
“I got tired of covering rapes and murders. So I quit and joined The City Watch.”
“That’s pretty awesome,” he said, something resembling admiration shining in his eyes.
Suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze, she dropped her eyes to her hands, cupped around her beer. “The pay is shit,” she said with a shrug, chancing a glance back up as she ran her finger over the rim of the can. “But maybe what I write will help make a difference.”
Jon smiled. “That’s amazing.”
Almost without Daenerys noticing, the awkwardness level had shifted from sky-high to downright acceptable.
Perhaps this summer wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all.
Daenerys blinked one groggy eye open to check the time on her phone, which she had tossed on her bedside table the night before. 9 AM. Normally, she would stay in bed longer on weekends, but ingrained habits compelled her to get up and see whether Jon was awake yet.
It was stupid. She was under no obligation to entertain him. He was a houseguest and her duties ended with offering him a place to stay. Still, it felt rude to leave him to his own devices on his first morning there.
She resolved to offer him breakfast but was absolutely not going to make a habit of it. With a yawn, she climbed out of bed and trudged to her closet. She couldn’t very well parade out of her bedroom in just the flimsy tank top and panties—the woes of having your teenage nephew stay over. Deciding on black tights and a t-shirt from her alma mater, Daenerys pulled them on and swept her fingers through her hair, tying it in a messy bun.
With a last glance in the mirror, she eased the bedroom door open and slipped outside. Just in case Jon was still asleep, she tiptoed down the hallway and into the living room.
To her surprise, however, the living room was empty. The bedsheet and blanket she had given Jon were strewn on the sofa, and his backpack lay open on the carpet. Various items clustered on the coffee table. Curious, she moved closer to examine the piles.
T-shirts, cargo shorts, rolled-up socks, one pair of carefully folded black slacks, and two button-down shirts. She bent down to inspect a black pile perched on the edge of the table, face heating when she discovered they were boxer briefs.
“Hey.”
Daenerys jumped and stumbled when he spoke from behind her. She turned, inwardly cursing her tendency to snoop. Jon stood in the doorway, clutching a coffee mug, dressed in running shorts and a faded blue tee emblazoned with a snarling direwolf logo and bearing the words Winterfell Wolves in a looping script.
“Morning!” she said, cringing at her overly cheerful voice. “Did you sleep well?”
“Aye, it was fine,” he said, voice gruff with remnants of sleep. “You were right, though.”
Daenerys furrowed her brows. “About what?”
“I am bloody grateful for the air conditioning.”
She huffed a laugh. “Told you so.” She tugged at the neck of her ratty t-shirt, poking a finger through a hole in the collar. “Do you want anything to eat? Did you have breakfast yet?”
“Not yet.” He flushed, fingers curling tighter around his coffee cup. “You don’t have to make me anything, though.”
“I was going to make toast. I can make extra for you,” she offered.
His face relaxed, eyes soft. “Aye, sure, that sounds good.”
Minutes later, they sat in the kitchen, sharing a breakfast of toast, butter, and strawberry marmalade. “What are you doing today?” Daenerys asked through a mouthful of buttered toast.
“I’ve got nothing planned for most of the day,” he said with a shrug, scratching his dishevelled head, toying with the detritus of crusts on his plate. “I have a thing in Old Town later this evening. How about you?”
“Just meeting a friend for lunch.” She hesitated. “Do you want to tag along?” she asked, hoping Missy wouldn’t mind. Her best friend was leaving for a new job in Naath in four short weeks, and Daenerys resolved to spend as much time with her as possible before distance and life interfered.
But Jon shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he said with a small smile. “I don’t want to intrude. I was thinking of just walking around the city.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said. “If you like, I can recommend a few must-see spots.”
“That would be great, thank you.”
Two and a half hours later, after getting ready and compiling a mile-long list for Jon with the best tourist spots in King’s Landing, Daenerys was out the door and on her way.
Late that evening, Daenerys opened her front door with a yawn, pushing inside as she tossed her keys back into her bag. The apartment was dark and quiet.
Wondering whether Jon was home and how he had occupied himself in her absence, she made her way to the bathroom. Once she finished wiping off her makeup, she stepped out and ploughed face-first into a solid wall of muscle.
“Shit—sorry.” Flustered, she took a hasty step back, heart lurching in her ribcage.
When they collided, Jon had clamped his hands on her arms to steady her, the rough warmth of his palms on her bare skin sending a shiver up her spine.
From this close, her face level with his chest, his scent flooded her senses. Something woodsy—possibly pine or cedar—mixed with black coffee and a hint of something unknown; the combination was unexpectedly pleasant.
“Fuck.” Jon stepped back, his arms dropping to the side, cheeks pink. “That was my fault.” He moved aside, giving her ample space to allow her to exit the bathroom and scurry to her room.
After stripping down and pulling a nightshirt and shorts on, Daenerys entered the kitchen to find Jon leaning against the counter, holding a can of ale. He pointed at the fridge. “I bought a six-pack. I hope you don’t mind. You can help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Daenerys shot him a grateful smile as she pulled out a can. “If you keep buying me booze, you’ll be free to stick around for as long as you like.” She meant it as a joke, but truthfully, having Jon as a houseguest was much more pleasant than she expected so far.
Jon laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She glanced at his attire as she sipped her drink. A pressed white shirt with its sleeves rolled up and dark slacks, black loafers on his feet.
“Met with the head of law at Old Town,” he said when he noticed her gaze, sheepishly running a hand through his slicked-back hair. “I figured...” he trailed off, pinkening again as he gestured to his attire. “It’s too much, right?”
“No, it’s a good idea.” She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. ”No second chance for a first impression, right?”
He grinned, tension visibly draining from his shoulders. “Aye.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
They sat at the table in her small kitchen, sharing a takeout dinner. Jon had mentioned earlier that he’d been meaning to try the local cuisine, so Daenerys—feeling generous—treated him to a meal from her favourite restaurant.
It seemed that she made a fine choice because he was busy loading his plate for the third time. She gave herself a mental pat on the back when he stuffed another forkful of diced fish and potatoes into his mouth.
Jon swallowed his bite and chased it down with a swig from his soda bottle. “I have no plans tomorrow,” he said, leaning back, clutching his drink. “I was thinking of going to see the Red Keep. Planning to get there early since I heard it’s busy as fuck during the day, especially in the summer.”
“I’m actually going to be at the Red Keep tomorrow for work,” Daenerys said with a grimace. “And I’m afraid I have bad news.”
At his quizzical expression, she elaborated, “They’ve closed the entire palace complex and the grounds to visitors for the entire week,” she said apologetically. “The Sothoryosy prime minister is holding a press conference there and they’ve been finicky about security ever since the letterbomb incident.”
“Fuck.” Jon’s lips twisted into a pout. “And I guess it’ll be extra crowded for the rest of the month.”
“Well—” Daenerys hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to, but…“—I might be able to get you in.”
“Really?” She didn’t miss the hopeful note in his voice and the way his fingers tightened around his fork. “How?”
“I have a press pass,” she said with a shrug, pushing a wilted piece of zucchini to the edge of her plate. “I can get you past the barrier.”
“Fuck, that’s awesome.” He dropped his fork and ran a hand through his hair, sending the curls into endearing disarray. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble?”
She grinned as she pulled another cardboard container towards her and popped it open, suddenly hungry again. “It’s fine, promise.”
“Great.” He smiled. “Thank you, by the way.”
Warmed by his words, she lifted her eyes from her plate and back to his. “I’m happy to help.”
“That, too,” he said, his eyes wide and earnest. “But I meant dinner. It’s great. Better than I hoped for.”
Something Daenerys couldn’t quite decipher flickered over his expression, but it was gone in a blink of an eye and she wasn’t sure whether she saw anything at all.
The temperature in Maegor’s Holdfast hovered just below the boiling point, or so it felt in the height of summer when jam-packed with reporters.
Daenerys wiped a hand over her brow for the thousandth time, swearing under her breath. Sure, it was a historical site, but would it kill them to install fucking AC?
“I fucking hate this place,” her cameraman, Clegane, muttered, pushing his sweaty mop of hair away from his forehead. “Why the fuck did they have the press conference here, anyhow?”
Daenerys shrugged, flipping through her notes. Because the Sothoryosy PM—a man named Zamoyos—had always loved appearances and had clear illusions of grandeur. She never liked the bastard.
A few years back, the man had aimed several racist comments at the people of Essos, which caused a media uproar and jeopardised the tenuous peace between the two countries.
He apologized for it later, but Daenerys could detect insincerity when she saw it—a talent that served her well as an investigative reporter. He was telling people what they wanted to hear. At least now that she was working for The City Watch, she would get to write what she truly thought of him.
Racist prick.
She grimaced and tugged at the strap of her bag, which was digging into her shoulder. “Let’s just get through it,” she said with a sigh. The event was almost over, anyway.
Just then, a member of the staff stepped forward after a covert nod from the Zamoyos, who stood by the podium. “No more questions, please,” he said, in a lightly accented but perfect Common. “I’m afraid we are out of time.” Ringed by a horde of black-clad, grim-looking bodyguards, he led the prime minister off the stage and out the back door.
“Thank fuck.” Clegane wrenched the camera away from his eye and bent down to stow it in its case. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“You go ahead,” Daenerys said as she snapped her notebook shut and stuffed it in her bag. “I have an errand to run.”
He shrugged and hoisted the camera bag onto his shoulder. “Suit yourself.” He turned and stomped out without another word.
Daenerys sighed and rubbed an itch out of her eyes. Clegane was grumpy and obtuse, but damn good at his job. And she didn’t mind his unique brand of blunt—if sometimes downright rude—honesty. They worked well together.
Pushing through the throng, she made her way to the exit, glancing at her watch as she dashed down the stairs. She stepped out of the building and into the sweltering heat outside, squinting at the gate. Right away, she spotted Jon, wearing khaki shorts and a dark tee, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets. “Jon!”
He turned towards her when she called his name, flashing her press pass at the security guard, who stepped aside and let Jon through.
“Hi.” Jon grinned, glancing at the laminated card hanging on a cord around her neck. “I’ve always loved a woman with a lanyard.”
Daenerys laughed. “It comes in handy sometimes.”
Jon looked around, letting out a low whistle as he examined the surrounding buildings. “Fuck, this place is bigger than I imagined. Where should I start?”
Softened by the wonder etched on his face, Daenerys made a decision. “If you want, I can join you,” she offered. “I’m done working for the day. And I’ve been here many times.”
“That would be great.” He grinned at her and she smiled back, still having difficulties reconciling this affable young man with the surly teenager she remembered from her visits to Winterfell.
“Okay, then.” She pointed at The Maidenvault, its timeworn walls stretching high under the brilliant afternoon sun. ”Let’s start there.”
It was unexpectedly enjoyable to play tour guide to Jon. He turned out to be the perfect audience, keenly observant and deeply interested. His vast knowledge of the ancient buildings was far more extensive than she expected, and his familiarity with the history and lore of the area was truly astounding.
After visiting The Maidenvault, The Tower of the Hand, and The Great Hall, Jon had suggested they visit The Great Sept of Baelor. “I’ve always wanted to see it,” he said as they made their way through a crumbling stone pathway.
Daenerys frowned. “It’s a bit of a walk,” she said. “Are you sure you want to do it now?”
“Aye, if you don’t mind?” he asked, then added before she had the chance to respond, “You don’t have to come with me if you’re not in the mood, I can find it on my own.”
She smiled. “I’ll come with you, I don’t mind.” And she truly meant it.
High ceilings and tall windows dominated the vast room, admitting ample sunlight inside, painting the entire room a dazzling gold. Daenerys tried to see it through the eyes of the newcomer. The walls and the gleaming floor—painted with the seven-pointed star—seemed to vibrate with ancient history.
“Damn,” Jon breathed as he inspected the massive statues dominating the space, his hushed voice echoing in the quiet room. “The Seven.”
Daenerys nodded, gesturing to the closest one, which had the crude features of a man holding the scales of justice. “This is the Father. To the left, we have the Smith.” She pointed to the one brandishing a blacksmith’s hammer. “And the Warrior.” Holding twin swords.
“Aye.” Jon smiled, tracing his fingertips over the sweeping figure of a woman posed with her arms wide open before moving to the next statue. “Mother. Maiden. Crone.” He paused by the last statue, which was the only one facing away from the others, its stony gaze fixed on the wall. “Stranger.” A smirk stretched his lips when he turned to face her again, an impish twinkle in his eyes.
Daenerys laughed, cheeks warming under the coppery light and the playfulness of his gaze. “It kind of sounds like—”
“—wedding vows,” he finished with a low chuckle.
“Yeah…” Seconds trickled by as they eyed each other in silence. With a sudden difficulty looking Jon in the eye, Daenerys bit her lip and turned away. “Let’s go see the crypts.”
Antique-style lanterns bathed the interior of the underground catacomb in dim yellowish light, giving the impression of a chamber frozen in time, more so than any of the other rooms in the Red Keep. A musty, earthy smell hung in the air, dragging them deeper into the past.
“I never figured out why they keep it so dark here,” Daenerys said in a near-whisper. It felt wrong to raise her voice in a place that housed the dead.
Standing close by her side, Jon cracked a faint smile. “It’s the stones.” He pointed at the crumbling walls. “These are in a pretty terrible shape. Powerful lights might damage them and cause faster deterioration.”
She furrowed her brows, turning to examine his half-shadowed profile. “Are you sure you’ve never been here before?”
He chuckled. “Positive.” Moving deeper into the room, he stopped by the far wall, which bore a series of etchings.
Daenerys crept closer, squinting at the ancient symbols. Deteriorated and blurred by time, they were difficult to make out in the faint light.
“Who do you think is buried here?” she asked Jon.
He hummed, brushing his fingers over the ancient script in a feather-light touch. “The three children of King Robert Baratheon.” The lights cast shadows over his face as he traced the edge of one etching. “Princess Myrcella here, Prince Joffrey in the middle, and Prince Tommen at the far end.”
“How can you tell?”
“The inscriptions,” Jon said, pointing at the faint marks.
She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. “It’s too dark to make them out.”
“Here.” Daenerys froze when Jon circled his fingers around her wrist and gently tugged on her hand, bringing her palm to rest against the wall.
“There’s a crown here, symbolises royalty. Feel the ridges?” Jon led her fingers over the coarse outline of a crown inscribed into the wall. His fingers were rough and damp, and a sudden warmth enveloped her, trickling from her fingertips all the way to the tips of her toes.
“And here—” Jon dragged her hand down to trace a shape below the crown “—is a stag. The sigil of House Baratheon. The antlers are pretty distinct.”
“Right,” she said, breathless. The touch of his fingers lingered after he stopped talking. She glanced at him, caught him watching her, and—for a fragment of a moment—something stormy flickered in his eyes. A second later, Jon stepped back and dropped her hand, breaking the peculiar spell. The semi-darkness made it difficult to know for sure, but she thought he might have blushed.
“You—uh—you know a lot about history,” she said, trying to break the somewhat awkward silence that had fallen.
Jon blinked and nodded, looking away. “Aye. I find it fascinating. Can we go see The Guildhall of the Alchemists?” he asked, gesturing towards the exit.
“Sure, yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.” Avoiding his eye, Daenerys turned and followed him out of the crypt.
Darkness fell over the city by the time they made it back home, and a balmy evening draft eased the heat of the day.
Suppressing a yawn, Daenerys kicked the car door closed, mentally cataloguing everything she had in the fridge that could qualify as dinner. The list was woefully lacking. If she was lucky, the freezer would yield a frozen pizza. She could offer it to Jon and make do with yoghurt or toast for herself.
However, when she stepped into the apartment and flicked the light switch in the foyer, the room remained bathed in darkness. Jon moved closer, blinking in the dark. “Is the bulb blown?”
She moved into the living room and tried another switch, shaking her head. “Looks like a power out,” she said with a shrug. “It happens sometimes because of overloads, they usually get it back within an hour or so.” Frozen pizza was out of the question, then. With a sigh, she pulled out her phone. “I guess we’re having takeout again.”
“Hold on.” She turned when Jon stopped her with a hand on her forearm, something electric twisting in her chest at the sudden touch.
“I can buy dinner tonight,” he said. “As a thank you for sightseeing and yesterday’s dinner.”
Pulse spiking at his fingers on her wrist, Daenerys was about to tell him it wasn’t necessary but changed her mind when her stomach gave a hopeful rumble at the mention of food. Abashed, she nodded and huffed a small laugh. “Okay, sure. What did you have in mind?”
He removed the hand circling her wrist to rub a hand over his short beard. “How about Meereenese?” he suggested after a moment’s contemplation. “I saw a branch of my favourite place close by.”
“Meereenese?” Daenerys’ eyes widened as she rubbed a tingly spot on her arm, mildly revolted. “Like…dormice and locusts?”
Jon chuckled as he plopped down on the sofa, his face illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the window. “They have other things more fit for human consumption. I can choose for us, if you like.” Sensing her hesitation or noting her wary expression, his lips curled into a faint smirk. “Don’t you trust me?”
Oh, Hells. In case of an emergency, she had the yoghurt to fall back on. “It better be edible.”
Jon grinned and wrested his phone out of the pocket of his shorts. “They’ll be here in thirty minutes,” he announced, once disconnecting the call. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Pushing down her trepidation, Daenerys stepped into the kitchen to dig a couple of candles from a drawer and throw the single window wide-open, admitting a measure of cool night breeze into the dimly-lit room.
Only twenty minutes later, she breathed in the exotic scents drifting from the containers Jon was busy pulling from a large paper bag.
“Smells good,” she said, trying to peek into one of the boxes—some sort of meat—and fervently hoping it wasn’t dormice.
“Trust me, you’ll love it,” he said, a bright smile stretching his lips, shifting her apprehension into anticipation.
Two minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table by flickering candlelight, with heaping plates and a glass of firewine each.
Daenerys dug into the lamb and glazed carrot dish on her plate, savouring the spicy-sweet flavour on her tongue. To her mild shock—and despite what she had heard about Meereenese food—the takeout he’d chosen was delectable. “This is delicious,” she said through a full mouth.
Jon grinned, looking absurdly pleased with himself. “Aye, it’s my favourite Meereenese dish. It’s usually made with raisins, but I asked for one without this time.”
Swallowing another sizable mouthful, she furrowed her brows. “You don’t like raisins?”
“I like them fine,” he said with a faint quirk of his lips, dropping his knife to reach for the firewine. “It was for you.”
Intrigued, she narrowed her eyes. “How do you know I hate raisins?” Rhaegar must have mentioned it, although that would be a strange topic to bring up. She wasn’t even certain Rhaegar remembered this little quirk.
“Uh—” He swallowed, his smile slipped as he became suddenly absorbed in his plate. “The last time you came to Winterfell, we had fruit salad for dessert and you picked out all the raisins.”
Daenerys stared at his shadowed face, eyes wide, her fork dangling from her listless grip. She hadn’t even remembered that until he mentioned it. How did he? “You have an excellent memory,” she said.
Jon hummed something unintelligible, eyes resolutely fixed on his food as though fascinated by it.
She cleared her throat after a few silent seconds. “Where did you even encounter Meereenese food?”
Jon glanced up and smiled as he grabbed his fork and speared a roasted carrot. “I took a gap year after high school,” he said. “Did some travelling.”
That explained what he’d been doing in the year since he finished his studies. Gods, how did she not know this? She wished she had made more of an effort to get to know him better, but at least she had a chance to rectify it now. “To Meereen?”
“Among other places.” He reached around his wineglass for the bowl of sliced flaky bread. “Braavos, Pentos, Naath.”
“But not King’s Landing?” Daenerys teased, mimicking him and picking a slice of bread as well.
“Unfortunately, no.” Jon’s lips twitched, eyes meeting hers over the plates of food. “I wish—” he trailed off.
“—What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, visible even in the meagre light. “Nevermind.”
She scrutinized his bowed shoulders, biting her lip against prying, but ultimately failing to keep her curiosity at bay. ”Can I ask you something?”
Jon’s fingers froze on the butter knife, shooting her a nervous—almost wary—look. “Sure…”
She hesitated, trying to decide how to phrase her question. “At the keep today, you seemed very familiar with the history of the place,” she said eventually. “Do you really not know what you want to study?” Daenerys recognized a passion when she saw one, and this was clearly it.
The blush on his cheeks deepened as he dropped his slice of bread in favour of another sip from his wine. “Aye, you’re right,” he murmured after lowering the glass, eyes reflecting the flickering candle’s flame. “I know what I want.”
The atmosphere hung heavy as she eyed the shadowed angles of his face. “Is it history?” she asked in a quiet murmur.
“Almost.” He rubbed his forehead, returning his gaze to his plate. “Archaeology.”
That explained a lot. His knowledge and enthusiasm about their visit to The Red Keep and also his reluctance to disclose it. She ventured an educated guess. “Your father doesn’t approve, does he?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.” He toyed with one of the many empty takeout containers scattered on the table, tracing a finger over the restaurant logo, printed in bulky red lettering. “I’ve never talked to him about it,” he admitted. “But I know this is way off from what he wants for me.”
Daenerys understood. She’d been on the opposite end of Rheagar’s strong opinions many times before and imagined Jon had a similar experience.
Jon’s hand rested by his plate mere inches from hers, so close she could feel the warmth of his skin, as hot as the candle’s flame. It balled into a tight fist while he was talking, fingernails digging into his palm.
Conflicting emotions warred in her chest, different voices pulling her in opposite directions. But his face was downcast, eyes melancholy, and that—coupled with the daze caused by the firewine and the dreamy quality of the candlelight—tipped the scale. So, her heart racing, she reached across the table and wrapped her hand around his.
Jon expelled a breath, gaze still fixed on his near-empty plate. After a moment, however, he lifted his eyes and flipped his palm over, lacing his fingers with hers.
The next morning—after her alarm had gone off and unlike her usual early bird tendency—Daenerys stayed in bed for several long minutes, staring at the ceiling. Last night after turning in, the memory of Jon’s hand in hers echoed in her mind until her eyes drifted shut.
There was nothing odd about it, right? It was understanding rooted in mutual experiences. Based on his demeanour, Jon didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about it, so why should she?
Reluctant to keep obsessing over something that was clearly meaningless, she tossed the covers off and hopped out of bed. With her hair in a messy bun and hastily tugging a robe over her flimsy nightshirt, she made her way out of her bedroom and into the hallway passing by the living room.
And, for the second time in the last two weeks, Daenerys froze dead in her tracks.
As she had guessed, Jon was still fast asleep. Sprawled on the sofa on his stomach, the blanket she had given him barely covering his shins, he was clad in only a black pair of boxer briefs.
In spite of herself, she let her eyes rove over his slumbering form. His shoulders were as muscled as she imagined they would be when she glanced at them through his thin tees. His back was just as toned, the firm lines tapering into a trim waistline. She swallowed when her errant gaze slipped lower, to what was probably the most excellent arse she had ever seen on a guy.
Jon suddenly issued a light snort and shifted, flipping over to his back, eyes still shut.
Startled and mildly horrified with herself, Daenerys’ face heated, her heart thrumming against her ribs. About to avert her eyes from his sleeping form, she caught something from the corner of her eye and paused. There was something inked on his ribcage, right below his left pectoral. Curiosity winning over better judgement, Daenerys tiptoed closer, eyeing the black mark. With a reptilian body and tail spikes, a tiny serpentine dragon coiled on the pale skin.
Jon shifted again, and she jumped, turning away, but not before she got an eyeful of his pale and fit chest and a washboard stomach with a sprinkling of dark hair forming a trail under his navel. About to turn tail and flee into the kitchen before her eyes strayed further south, she stopped when she heard the rustle of sheets and Jon’s unmistakable yawn.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled when she turned back to face him, attempting to school her expression into a semblance of normalcy. “What time is it?”
“It’s—uh—just after nine.” She toyed with a lock of hair that had escaped her sloppy bun. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” Unaware or uncaring of his state of undress, Jon yawned again and stretched his arms over his head, bringing his remarkable abdominals into sharper definition. “I should probably get up, anyway.” He must’ve finally spotted the look on her face because his cheeks flushed and he winced. “Fuck—sorry—” He tugged at the blanket, pulling it up to his waist.
It did little to curb her embarrassment, but Daenerys waved a hand, affecting a would-be casual tone. “Don’t worry about it. Make yourself at home.”
Jon gave her a small smile, but leaned down and fished his t-shirt and jeans from the floor.
Electing to not make the situation yet more awkward, she turned around. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder while scurrying away. After a pit stop in the bathroom to brush her teeth, Daenerys went into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the coffeemaker.
She drummed her fingers on the counter while the machine whirred, filling the air with the invigorating scent of black coffee. So her nephew was hot. So fucking what? She’d seen her share of attractive men. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.
Regardless of what she’d been telling herself, she still jumped like a spooked animal when his voice rang behind her shoulder. “Can I get some of tha’, too?”
Her back still turned to him, Daenerys shut her eyes briefly to compose herself. Gods. His accent was always more pronounced when he’d just woken up, giving his voice a husky quality that threatened to jelly her knees.
“Of course.” Working out that he meant the coffee, Daenerys grabbed a random mug from the cupboard and shoved it under the nozzle. He was standing close enough that she could sense his body heat, the sleepy warmth that radiated from him like a wave, too hot and too near.
Once the cup had filled, Daenerys seized it and handed it to Jon, who grabbed it with a grateful yawn and a “Thank you.”
A few hasty gulps later, she felt almost normal. Now that her mortification had diminished to reasonable levels, curiosity reared its head again.
“So—” she started, tapping her mug with one fingernail. “You have a tattoo.”
Jon flushed as he swallowed another mouthful. “You caught that, huh?”
She bit back a sheepish grin, her cheeks warm. “If I may ask—why a dragon?”
Jon shrugged, the blush on his cheeks deepening, one hand coming to rest against his chest. “I liked the design, I guess,” he mumbled into his cup.
Daenerys smiled, shaking her head with a small laugh. “I used to have an obsession with dragons when I was younger,” she reminisced. “I found this dragon sigil in an old photo album. Apparently, it was our family’s coat of arms many years ago. Wouldn’t shut up about it for the longest time.” She examined Jon’s averted face. “Is that where you got the idea, too? The sigil?”
His face relaxed. “Aye, something like that.”
She leaned her hip against the dining table. “When did you get it?”
“Right after I turned eighteen.” Jon grinned, moving to mimic her pose. “My parents lost their shit when they saw it.”
“You live dangerously, huh?” She bit back a laugh at the mental image of her brother, jaw agape and a vein popping in his temple when he discovered his son got a tattoo.
“Let’s just say, there was a reason I waited until I didn’t need their consent.”
“It suits you,” Daenerys blurted, her mouth faster than her brain, instantly cringing and wondering if she made it awkward.
But Jon shot her a pleased little smile, his chest expanding at the praise. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to love me,” Marg purred from the other end of the line.
Daenerys typed furiously on her keyboard, holding the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, as her fingers flew over the keys. She had a deadline to meet and little time to talk. Margaery knew how busy her workday usually was, so if she was calling, there must have been a reason. “Why’s that?”
“Remember my friend, Tyene?”
Marg’s old friend from college. She lived in Dorne, but she and Marg kept in touch over the years. “Vaguely.”
Stifling a yawn, she rubbed her eyes and took a distracted sip from her cold coffee, precariously perched among piles of papers, pens and a tangled mess of computer cables. “I’m in the middle of something here. Don’t you have a witness to badger?”
“Already done.” Margaery said in a satisfied tone. “Court is adjourned, and I won.” Daenerys heard the clickety-clack of Marg’s high heels from the other end of the line. “Anyway, Tyene invited us to their beach house in Sunspear for a weekend with her and her siblings.”
“Who’s ‘us’?”
“Well, me, but she said I could bring whoever I want.”
Daenerys pushed away from her desk, swivelling in her chair and stretching her stiff legs, contemplating the intriguing offer. She had visited the Martell beach house once, two summers ago. ‘House’ was a misleading way to describe it; the place was a colossal mansion, complete with two Olympic-size swimming pools and too many guest bedrooms to count. “What’s the plan, exactly?”
“We drive over there on Friday, spend the night, get back Saturday evening. Their parents are hosting some party there on Sunday, so we have to clear out before then.”
Daenerys hesitated, glancing at her incomplete piece and ever-growing to-do list.
“Come on, Dany,” Marg said, as though guessing where her mind was at. “It’s just one day of vacation. Also, need I remind you they have a cook?”
Right. Her mouth near watered at the memories of the Dornish delicacies whipped up by the Martells’ personal chef. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”
“Great!” Marg said. Daenerys could practically hear her grin through the phone. “She said it was an open invitation, so If you know of anyone else who wants to come, ask them.”
She came home to find Jon sprawled on the sofa, absorbed in something on his laptop, which he had perched on his knees. The bluish glare from the screen washed over his face, painting it with a faint azure light.
He raised his eyes and smiled when she entered, lifting his hand in a little wave. “Hey.”
“Hi.” She shrugged off her light jacket and hung it on a hook by the door. “Did you have a good day?”
“Aye, it was alright. Spent most of it reading about undergrad programs in KLU.” He snapped his laptop shut and put it on the coffee table. The hem of his shirt lifted a fraction when he stretched his arms over his head, revealing a sliver of a pale flat stomach. “How about you?”
“Yeah, it was fine.” She cleared her throat, busying herself with untying her hair from the tightly braided updo she had it in, her scalp nearly crying in relief when her unbound hair cascaded down her shoulders. Swallowing down a mystifying nervousness, she said, “Actually, I wanted to tell you—”
Jon raised his eyes to hers, wearing an expectant look.
“A friend of a friend has a beach house in Dorne and she invited a bunch of us for the weekend,” she said. “So I’ll be leaving Friday morning and returning the next day.” She hesitated, thinking about what Marg had said. “Do you—would you like to join us?”
He furrowed his brows, and she hastened to explain.
“They said I can invite whoever, and I thought you might like to tag along.” Daenerys shrugged, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her blouse. “They have an Olympic swimming pool and a private chef and everything.”
“Oh.” Jon’s eyes widened as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I wish I could,” he said. “I have a meeting in KLU on Friday that dad personally arranged for me. He’ll kill me if I miss it.”
“Oh, right.” She nodded with a dry swallow. She hadn’t realized until that very moment how certain she was that he would say yes. Who wouldn’t, really? Someone whose father was hellbent on him attending his alma mater, that’s who. The disappointment that punched her in the gut caught her by stinging surprise.
Her only solace was that Jon looked as crestfallen as she felt. “I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “Thanks for the invite, though, sounds like it’s going to be fucking awesome.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She gave an airy wave. “I figured you’d be busy,” she lied. “Maybe next time, then.”
“Aye,” Jon mumbled, frowning at his laptop as though it was the device’s fault.
She gave him another small smile and fled into the kitchen. She needed a drink.
Daenerys tossed a clean pyjama top and a pair of extra underwear into the bag laying open on her bed. Rummaging in a drawer at the top of the closet, she pulled out her two bathing suits and spread them on the bed to examine them. One was a black one-piece, classy, comfy. Maybe a tad drab. The other one was a red bikini.
Her hand hovered over the red, hesitating. She had no reason to impress anyone, really. Might as well go with the comfortable choice and not risk flashing everyone when she jumped into the pool. She grabbed the black one, rolled it into a minuscule ball, and crammed it into the bag.
She looked up from examining two sundresses when she heard a brief knock on her door. “Come in.”
The door cracked open and Jon poked his head inside. “Hey, are you busy?”
“Nah.” Daenerys tossed a bottle of sunscreen into the bag and straightened. “Just packing for tomorrow. What’s up?”
“Well—” He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “The appointment I had tomorrow got postponed, so—uh—can I still join you?”
“Oh.” Her fingers stilled on the zipper of her bag. “Sure, I mean—yes, of course, you can,” she said, a sudden lightness flooding her chest. “The house has a shit ton of rooms, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thank fuck.” Jon groaned, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “I’d have a fucking boring weekend otherwise.”
Daenerys grinned in response.
“I better go pack then,” he said and bounded out the door, closing it behind him.
Unable to wipe the grin from her face, Daenerys was about to zip her bag shut, but stopped. After a moment’s hesitation and trying to avoid thinking about it too hard, she snatched the red bikini and stuffed it into the bag.