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Dany felt like she was being tortured.

Cold, it is so cold. Will it ever be warm again? She burrowed deeper into her furs, tucking herself into a ball to hold onto whatever fleeting warmth she could find. But it was no good, the white winds hurtled overhead, inconceivably more brutal up here in the Frostfangs than back in Winterfell. Up here, it was so freezing that it burned. Every inhale brought air as sharp as ice daggers up her nose and set her throat afire.

This is no place for a dragon, she thought, wracking out a dry cough. Her children had not been faring much better, she had sensed much of their strength waning since they had first begun the journey beyond the Wall, the three dragons and their three riders. Not beyond the Wall, she reminded herself even as she shivered uncontrollably, beyond Castle Black. The Wall was no more, Euron Greyjoy had seen to that. Even his death had not undone all the ill he’d wrought. Sequestered back in Winterfell, Dany’s allies and the Starks were now the last remaining line of defense, the only stronghold standing between the living and the dead.

Even they could not keep the ice demons at bay forever. The Others were nigh impossible to kill, except with dragonsteel or obsidian, and worse still, every living thing that fell against them rose to join their ranks. An army such as that… it would keep swelling until it could swallow humanity whole. No, defense alone would never have sufficed, so they had all decided to launch an offence and strike at the Heart of Winter. The one which Bran had dreamt of. And who better to make this journey than the three dragonriders? So here they were- Dany, Jon, and Tyrion with her three dragons; carrying upon their shoulders the fates of all things with a beating heart. This was the only way, Dany knew, the only hope… and yet she could not help but worry incessantly for those she had left behind. Her people were back there, fighting without her and her dragons to protect them. My people…

We cannot do anything more than we are doing right now, she oft reminded herself, this is the best I can do. For everyone. The only hope. Still, even knowing that, it was difficult to swallow the helplessness of being so far from all those she cared for during a time such as this. Would that I could be in two places at once.

Most days, Dany did not dare ask Jon about what was occurring back at Winterfell, for fear of what she would hear. Through Ghost, Jon was connected to the rest of his pack. Often, he need only close his eyes and share Ghost’s mind, and he could speak of things which were happening around Summer or Shaggydog or Nymeria. It was both a boon and a curse, Dany knew, for it must be an agony to know while being unable to help… The worst had been when one morning as they were breaking their fast, Jon had gone stiff as a board and pale as a ghost. Eyes locked on something faraway, he’d cried out and stumbled sluggishly to his feet, lacking his usual grace. Ghost had immediately raced to his master, licking at his face and spinning around him in mute agitation. When Tyrion had finally shaken Jon out of his trance and demanded what he’d seen, Jon could only choke out ‘Arya’. And then- ‘stabbed’. 

The following hours had been excruciating. Dany and Tyrion were both fond of young Lady Arya, the lively, inquisitive, fierce girl who’d seemed half a force of nature. And Jon… Daenerys knew that he loved none so well and dearly as his little sister. While he’d remained mostly silent for the remainder of the day, Ghost’s restlessness and Rhaegal’s aggression had given his worry away. They had only ended up covering quarter the distance they were meant to cover that day, for even as they’d flown, Jon had remained half in the mind of his wolf. By the grace of the gods, no Others nor even wights plagued them that day, else she did not know how well they would have fared, distracted as they were. It was not until they’d bedded down for that night that Jon had finally loosened up, his relieved gaze drifted back into focus as he gave them the glad news that Arya would pull through alive. Bundled under his heavy winter furs, Tyrion had waddled over grinning and slapped Jon hard on the back, while Dany had thrown her arms around his neck. In turn, Jon had taken both their hands and thanked them solemnly. The campfire had cast the three of their shadows tall as giants upon the mountains.

Later however, when she and Tyrion had turned to face each other instead, Dany had been startled to find the twist of envy marring his face, and even more startled to realize that she shared that emotion as well. After all, Jon had a pack, he had a family, what did they have- she and Tyrion? Who did they have waiting for them? Praying for their safe return? Where was their home?

Another cough gripped Dany in its cloven hooves and raked her throat raw. Her lungs labored futilely to draw in breath, but it was no good, her nose was entirely stuffed. Instead, she gasped in a desperate breath through her mouth, and regretted it immediately as the freezing cold stabbed down her throat. Her muscles ached, her head pounded, and every movement was agony. What is happening to me? She could not remember having ever felt this way before. Viserys had always told her that Targaryens did not take sick like common men for they were the blood of the dragon. She could not remember having ever taken sick so she had believed him, only to now be strongly disabused of the notion. He lied about that as with everything else, she realized, dragons get sick and they die. Just like all other things. The Great Spring Sickness had claimed so many of her ancestors. Would Dany perish like them? She felt that she might. It was so cold, so lonely…

It must now be the hour of the owl, Jon and Tyrion must be deep in sleep, worn out from the day of relentless riding and fighting. They were only a few feet away, Dany knew, but up here, even that distance was insurmountable. The hovering, cold, white mist was thick and impenetrable, making it impossible for her to see the end of her own arm should she stretch it out, and the white winds blew too loudly for her voice to carry even this distance. Even if she mustered up the strength to arise from her furs, the cruel snowstorm outside would surely steal whatever warmth was left within her flesh before she could take but a step. Death lurked at every footstep up here, watching and waiting to spring upon its unsuspecting prey. The dragons were even farther away, spread around the length of their camp like a ring of fire thwarting the agents of the cold. They were fast asleep too, she sensed, and they needed their strength more than any of the humans.

Just the night, Dany told herself, I need not awaken them; I just need to get through this night. But another part of her asked, But when will this night ever end? When will the dawn ever come? Days had passed with not a string of sunlight lancing through the clouds, fires burned low and fizzled out in half a heartbeat, and ice stole away any and all warmth it could find. More and more, Daenerys struggled to see an end to it all. We are only humans after all, what can we do? How can we fight the very cold? The very night?

She sucked in a strangled breath and shook her head slightly. Sleep, I need sleep. Once again, she resolved to fall asleep, forcing her body to still, and attempted to conjure up a beautiful daydream to lull herself to sleep. At first, she tried to imagine the inviting, lazy heat of a sunny day, but try as she might, the vision melted away beyond her reach. The easy warmth of the sun was a distant memory now, something from another life. I am in a cave beside the sea, she told herself instead, sternly, what I hear is not a snowstorm, it is only the sound of waves. The darkness is not the unending night, it is only the innards of a cave and outside, the night sky would be shining with countless stars. Thoughts whizzed woozily around her mind like lazy flies. Like jittery stars. She let herself float among them, weightless and delirious, spinning around and around and around. Winged shadows flew past her, racing gleefully in a red sky and filling her ears with their laughter. “Mother…,” Dany whimpered under her breath, pathetically. She wanted her mother, who she’d never met. She wanted Viserys, the brother he had been before selling their mother’s crown. She wanted home. The house with the red door and its lemon tree.

She told herself that she was not alone in the icy Frostfangs with no hope and no home, instead- I am in a cave by the sea and around me sleep all of my beloved. The other was only a nightmare, this was the truth. I need only reach out my hand to touch Rhaegar and Mother and my sun-and-stars and Rhaego and Jon and Missandei and Tyrion and Ser Barristan. I need only reach out and I shall be warm. Warm and safe. Her head thudded painfully, locking her somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Safe… What does that feel like?

“Safe” mocked Viserys. “I kept you safe. For years, I kept you fed and watered and sheltered. And what did you give me in return, sweet sister?” His cruel fingers grabbed her neck and squeezed, hard. Dany gasped and choked out “You didn’t-” but molten gold filled her mouth and spilled down her shoulders, scorching her with white-hot pain. Her back throbbed. The droplets of molten gold danced in front of her, coalescing into a familiar pair of eyes in a round, too-wise little face. Missandei’s golden eyes were accusing, “You left me. You swore to protect me, to keep me safe, then you abandoned me to the dead.”

“No,” Dany tried to grab her hands, to reassure her, but she had no hands. “I did not, my sweet. I would never abandon you. You must know that. I am fighting to protect you. I promised you, didn’t I-” Tears spilled from Dany’s eyes and froze on her cheeks. “No one had ever kept me safe… But I told you, didn’t I, that I will keep you safe. I will never leave you, my sweet, my-”. Too late, Dany noticed the unnatural blue flecks dancing in Missandei’s eyes, and in a blink, her sweet gold was usurped by a cold blue. The eyes of death. No no no no, it cannot be, it cannot, I have to rescue, I must I must I must. “Mother of Dragons,” the darkness mocked her, “daughter of death.”

 Now, it was Rhaegar standing before her, her splendid brother with rubies dripping red on his chest. As she watched, his beautiful hair turned brittle and white as straw and his flesh sloughed away rotten as crows gathered to his shoulders for a feast. Dany screamed as his corpse advanced on her. “Dany” he hissed loudly.

“No no no…” she whimpered and backed away. In the next moment, she was lying down, the night sky had been torn out from above her and there was now only the white white white of unforgiving sleets of ice. Rhaegar loomed over her.

“DANY” he screamed again, except. He wasn’t quite rotten anymore and his silver hair was now dark. She blinked again, her sluggish brain slow to realize that it was Jon that she was seeing, Jon standing over her, silhouetted against the falling snow. The world spun in a nauseating vortex, but his sharp grey eyes remained still at the center of it all, the eye of the storm which slowly grounded her.

Beneath the layers of cloth covering his face, Jon seemed to say something again but the wind swallowed his voice. His gloved fingers tentatively caressed her cheek. She shivered violently at the ice on them, and instinctively attempted to burrow herself back under the furs.

He frowned for a moment, and then stepped away. No, Dany tried to call out, don’t go. Don’t leave me. But it was no good, he was gone before her throat could work. She pulled the furs back over her head, trying in vain to escape the cold. She felt worse now than ever, her throat spasmed at every swallow and it was nigh-impossible to breathe forcing her to gasp awkwardly through her mouth. Yet, being awake was still better than the nauseating delirium which sleep had brought upon her. No, there would be no sweet escape of sleep for her tonight.

Something heavy settled over her as the furs were pulled down from her head once more. Again, it was Jon. He stood over her, shielding her face from the snowy onslaught, and held a small rabbit-skin at her lips. Her own water had long been exhausted, so she took a grateful sip and was surprised to taste a diluted tinge of milk of the poppy. They rarely made use of it, for they had such scarce little of it left. Yet, she could not bring herself to regret wasting it as her pain began to yield at every sip. It was a struggle to allow Jon to pull it away from her lips, but it had to be done. This is more than I had hoped for, she reminded herself. When Dany looked down, she also saw now that a new layer of furs had been laid over her, Jon’s own furs. A tingle of warmth bloomed in her chest, so sweet and unanticipated that she clung to it with greed, unwilling to let it pass.

Jon knelt beside her, still careful to shield her from the falling snow, and laid his bare palm flat against her forehead. His frown was discernable even through all the layers wrapped over his long face. When he made to pull away, doubtless for some other task to help her, Dany instead grabbed his wrist and gave him a searching look. Then, her hand gave his an insistent tug, a wordless order to join her.

Something flickered in those grey eyes, but his face was as unreadable as always, surveying her closely and solemnly for a moment. She did not know what he saw, did not know what she would do now if he decided to refuse and leave her. If he’d given her a taste of warmth just to take it away. But there was no need to wonder, for he lifted the furs off her and slid under them in one decisive motion before she could even gasp at the sudden gust of cold wind. Then, it was dark again, but no longer cold.

The feel of his body assailed all her senses, almost oppressive in its presence. Dany’s hands fluttered without surety, not knowing where to rest. But he was a step ahead of her: easily lifting her head and sliding his arm under her neck, pressing his warm feet against her own cold ones, and pulling her shaking form tight against his own, so close that every line of their bodies were now flush against eachother. They both gasped, and his breath fanned her face, warming her nose. The relief was otherworldly, stringing her flesh like a harp. It felt so good, so impossibly good, that she just knew she wouldn’t be the first to let go.

Dany and Jon were no strangers to each other, having lain together before in more carnal ways than this. Yet, there was something inexplicably new and intimate in this. In his easy embrace with no hint of lust.

“How long have you been ill?” Jon murmured against her ear, sending licks of fire flicking against her skin. Dany shivered and coughed. “Why did you not tell me?”

She cleared her throat and whispered back in a voice that sounded far too hoarse and nasal at the same time, “I did not know... My muscles have been aching for a day or two, and my throat as well… but I had believed it to be merely the weariness and fatigue.” Looking back, it felt a little foolish that she had missed all the signs.

His arms tightened around her. “Two days? You mean to say that you had a fever last night as well? And you did not think to tell me- us?”

Was it a fever? The ache in her muscles, the fire in her throat, the manner in which the cold cut into her... Was this how a fever felt?

“I think so,” she confessed, remembering how she had shivered and writhed in pain all of last night as well. “Though I did not know it at the time.”

Disbelief hung in the air. “You didn’t know?”

“I have never fallen ill before.”

“Never?” Jon asked, sounding stunned. “Not once?”

“You have?”

“Yes, of course. Well, not when I was little myself, but when Arya had been littler, she had once fallen sick. I was not permitted into her room to see her. But at night, I snuck in anyway and smuggled her some treats, and in thanks, she hugged me, kissed me, and sneezed directly into my mouth. That changed things.” He said wryly. Dany pictured the scene easily and giggled... and then immediately slapped a hand over her own mouth in horror, “Wait… Then you must not be so close to me. I will not let you fall sick as well.” Having never been sick before, Dany had forgotten the threat she now posed to the health of those around her. She made to back away, already dreading the loss of his warmth.

It was no good, however, Jon’s arms were akin to tight steel bands locked around her, preventing any movement. “Jon,” she coughed out, struggling weakly while keeping the shield of her palm intact over her mouth and nose. “Dany,” he answered in an iron tone, one arm locked tight around her while another crept up and gently but firmly pulled her hand off her nose. Fingers encircling her wrist, his warm nose brushed against her own, gently, before his full lips covered hers.

Heat rushed through her, surging from her lips to the very ends of her body. It was a chaste kiss and lasted but a moment, yet by the time he pulled away her mouth was tingling pleasantly all the same. She had not noticed when he’d let go of her hand. Seeming to have sensed the loss of her resistance, his arms loosened to a firm hold instead of a constricting one. Wordlessly, he tucked her head under his chin, and she buried her snotty nose in the sliver of his bare throat, cherishing his slight shiver evoked in response. His hand came up to lightly cradle the back of her head, thumbing the shell of her ear. Now, it was her turn to shiver.

“Your hair feels like a bird has been nesting in it,” he sounded amused.

“You truly know how to charm a lady,” Dany rasped, even as she became uncomfortably aware of her dripping nose and tangled hair.

“I fear I cannot lay claim to such a skill. Sansa had once attempted to teach me that art but even she had to finally give me up for a lost cause,” he agreed easily. “Do not mistake me though, I like it.”

“You… like my bird’s nest hair?”

“Very. I find it endearing.” He mussed up her hair slightly, gently. The sensation was soothing. “If it bothers you though, my lady, I can braid it for you.”

“You can do that?”

“Oh yes, I had to learn if I was to save Arya from her Septa Mordane.”

Dany had to smile. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me the tale of how you came to learn the art of fixing up a girl’s hair. I would hear it.” Closing her eyes, she listened to the low rumble of his chest as he spoke. The pounding of her head had faded to a dim thrum.

“Well, it began when Arya was five or six, or near enough to make no matter. At that age, her lady mother and the Septa were still keen to make a lady of her. To imbibe in her all the refinements as befits a lady of her station. They had an easy time of it with Sansa you see, she had taken to it like a fish to water. Arya however…” There was a sweet grin in his voice, always there when he spoke of his little sister. “They had not accounted for Arya, you see. She had been wild even as a child, swinging her toys like morning-stars when menaced by vegetables, but they had taken her wildness for the misdemeanors of a child, easily corrected.” He laughed. “She quickly disabused them of that notion.”

Dany chuckled too, “What happened then?” She asked eagerly.  

“War. A war was waged everyday in the halls of Winterfell as the Septa endeavored to make a lady out of her. When she tried to teach her needlework, Arya stabbed the needle into her own doll and made up a grumpkin to chase around other children. When she tried to teach her courtly dances and to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, Arya would ask ‘why’ instead, and make up her own little dances. Lady Stark had her maids dress Arya in sparkling little gowns and they spent hours brushing her hair down. Only for her to resurface in an hour or two in a muddied dress and hair akin to a bird’s nest. This went on until finally, even Father grew wroth with her and forbade her from the stables or the castle grounds until she learned to behave like a Stark.”

“Arya was heartbroken. She tried to obey for a few days, she really did, but it chafed at her, I could see it. They did not understand her, not truly. So one day, I woke her at sunrise and snuck her to the godswood, and that morning, we played and laughed to our heart’s content. I taught her to climb a strong elm tree. She fashioned a whistle out of stray leaves. When we snuck back to her room, she feared the maids tattling to her mother if they had to clean her up. So I asked her to clean herself up whilst I waited, and then had her explain to me how the maids usually went about doing her hair. It was not so good the first time I brushed and braided her hair, Arya had to lie to her maids that she had tossed too much in her sleep and they had to redo it. But slowly, I became better at it. At odd hours of the day, Arya would sneak out with me to the stables or the godswood or the moat. And after, we would clean her up and I would make her hair to what it was before. Soon, I was good enough that even her Septa could not catch the difference. And so, Arya eventually regained the freedom of the castle while retaining her freedom to be herself.”

The tale was so sweet that tears speckled her lashes even as something twisted in her chest. “That is so wonderful.”

“I am not much of a storyteller but Arya’s childhood antics are always fun to hear, to be sure.”

“Oh yes, that is clearly what I find wonderful, and not you. Not the kind brother who loved his sister so dearly he painstakingly learnt a woman’s art to keep her happy.”

“Must I be worried of you naming me unmanly? Have you not been too long among the Dothraki to call braiding a woman’s art?” He still sounded amused and light, easily brushing off her praise. That rubbed her wrong.

“I know not of unmanly, but I name you the most unusual of men- thoughtful, selfless, and caring. Do not brush it off so lightly, my lord, not every little girl is fortunate enough to boast of such a brother.”

There was a moment of silence. In the quiet, Dany realized that she had been too sharp, sounded too jealous. That was ridiculous though, why should she be jealous? Was she so horrendous a person that she would begrudge Jon and Arya their pure and uncomplicated love? “I am sorry, my only meaning was that-”

“My lady is entirely too kind. You must forgive my poor jest Dany, know that I did not mean to make light of your words.” He brushed a light kiss to the top of her head, so gentle that she almost cried. This is wrong, why are you apologizing to me? This was strange, this was all so strange and unfamiliar, everything felt too big inside her. She sniffled pathetically but it came out as a queer snort. Jon did not laugh though, instead he said, “But I do believe that I am owed a tale now. Tell me of your own childhood, of something that had made you happy.”

Happy. Immediately, the Braavosi house with the red door flashed in her head. That was the one place where she had been truly happy, as far as she could recall. There were disjointed glimpses of Ser Williem Darry’s fatherly smile and hot summer days spent climbing the lemon tree with Viserys. Yet what was there to say of it? There was not so much to describe, and when she thought of the Starks with their well-built armory of joyful childhood tales to recall with delight, her own poor patchwork of memories seemed to pale in comparison. “Well... We lived in Braavos for a brief while in a lovely little house with a red door and a lemon tree. Ser Williem Darry would sometimes sit me on his shoulders... And Viserys would oft tell tales of our family...” Until his mood blackened upon remembering that their family was long gone and destroyed by the Usurper. “My mother, it was only back then that he’d spoken of her, I cherished those stories but…” Those tales were always dangerous, for Viserys’ eyes would unpredictably flash with contempt and he would pinch her harshly, blaming her for killing their mother. “Anyway, we were there till Ser Williem died, that is the only home that I have ever known.”

 “How old were you?”

“I do not recall exactly, but I could not have been more than six.”

Absentmindedly, he twirled the baby hairs behind her ear around and around his finger, almost lulling her to sleep. “And since then?”

“Since then? After Ser Darry died, the servants stole all our money and pushed us out the house. Then… we were on the run, one step ahead of the Usurper’s hired knives. We flitted from city to city, the Beggar King, they called my brother. So we begged and scraped and bargained, we even sold our mother’s crown. Viserys had never been the same after that.” She cast around her past, trying to recall something pleasant through those cascading days before they’d reached Illyrio’s manse. Watching the mummeries in Braavos, tasting a dragonfruit in Lys, riding the hathays along the coast of Volantis… “Some of the best memories I have afterward were on a ship. I’ve always loved sailing the sea: the salty air, the dolphins and the flying fish which swam alongside us. And there are no words to describe the sunsets, the shades the sun casts upon the sea when there is naught else to interfere, it is a most pleasing sight to behold. And I enjoyed the work as well, once we were on a ship upon which there was a wizened old sailor who must have been five-and-seventy at the least. He looked so mean it made little children tremble and cry, but he was soft at heart. He taught me to cast nets, and gave me odd jobs around the ship. Soon, he had me rigging the lines and raising the sails for which he traded me songs and stories in return.”

“He had by far the better end of the bargain, to be sure,” Jon sounded fond. “I have seen how quickly you pick up a skill. He would likely have never known a worthier cabin-boy. He must have wept to see you go.”

“He did not, I did though,” The old man was a hard, sour-faced man, it was not in him to weep. But on the day of her departure, he had pressed a crude wooden ship into her hands, which he’d himself shaped for her. Dany had wept at the gift and thrown her arms around his waist. “I was little and foolish, I had begun to nurse dreams of how fine it would be to become a sailor, braving the storms of the narrow sea.”

“What is so foolish about that? I am certain you would have been as brave and able as any sailor, and proved worthy on any adventure.”

“Viserys did not agree. When I told him, he’d twisted my hair until I’d cried. ‘You are blood of the dragon, not some smelly fish’ he’d screamed at me.”

The thumb stroking her ear stilled. “He did that?”

“Yes… I told you, he had never been quite the same after selling our mother’s crown.” Another spasm of pain seized her throat, and she coughed.

“Even so… Did he do that a lot? Pull your hair so hard you cried?”

“Sometimes… Other times…” Other times, he’d pinched her nipple or slapped her or even left it at horrific threats. “He had not always been like that. When we were little, he would even allow me to climb into his bed when I had nightmares. The world had been hard on him.” And he was the only one I had. The only one.

“And on you as well. Yet here you are.”

“I too have wrought much ill, as you know well.” King’s Landing flashed in her mind’s eye, glowing green with wildfire. She forced it out of her head, swallowing back the nausea that rose up her throat. If I look back, I am lost. Her spirits were rapidly plummeting; she did not understand Jon’s purpose in asking all this. “Besides, all this is moot now. Viserys is dead and buried.”

“He is. But you are still here, alive. I wish to know of your life… the good and the bad as well. Tell me, how did you come to be wedded to a Khal?” There was a hint of iron in his voice.

Dany drew back and squinted up to find his eyes in the darkness, but it was impossible. His body was now a long tense line against her, stiff where it had earlier been pliable. She rasped, “Why do you wish to know?”

“There was something you had said a long time ago… That you knew what it was to be sold. I had not desired to pry back then, but now… Dany, who sold you? Was it… was it your brother?” Anger, she realized upon hearing him, he is angry.

Somehow, she felt defensive. Jon was no stranger to the trials of the world, she knew, yet his childhood had been sheltered, nurtured in a warm home with loving siblings. What did he know of what it took to scrape by just to survive? To spend a childhood relying on strangers’ mercies and their own wits, with no home to speak of. “You do not understand,” she snapped. “He did wrong by me, I never denied that. And he paid for it dearly. Yet he too had been just a child, for so many years it had been only the two of us, he had to keep us both alive. Wrong and foolish, he might have been but not evil. He gave me to Khal Drogo, yes, but there are much worse men in the world I could have ended up with rather than my sun-and-stars.”

“I am right then, aren’t I? He sold you for an army, for the Dothraki.” Tightly controlled fury was rolling off him, dark as a fog, unreasonably incensing Dany in turn. “His own sister... The Dothraki have never been known to be a haven for women, and he just gave you away to them. That is damnably cruel, by all rights, he should have been protecting you. Keeping you safe. Not selling you, not hurting you. If I had even thought anyone would hurt my sister-”

“You would have thrown caution to the wind and defended her to your last breath, I know!” Does he think I do not know that? Daenerys was well aware what Jon would do for Arya, for any of his siblings. She knew that he’d sacrificed the honor and duty he’d held so dear, all in an attempt to rescue Arya when he’d gotten wind of her marriage to Ramsay Bolton. She’d seen men pester Jon about marrying his sisters off, only to receive a chilling look in return and a cold reply that ‘my sisters would marry when they desire it, and not sooner’. “As I said before, not every little girl is so fortunate as to have a brother such as you.”

Had Rhaegar lived, would I have had such a brother? Her chest heaved for breath. The air was so thin, up here in the mountains. Had Rhaegar lived, wouldn’t I have had Jon himself at my side from the very beginning? Wouldn’t I have known only comfort and safety, and never known the lack of it? The fantasy made her ache with longing. There was no point in wondering, it was what it was. In this life, Viserys had been her only brother, her sun-and-stars had been her first husband, Rhaego the child she could never raise. In this life, she’d survived off of scrounged up, shredded scraps of love and care while the Starks had feasted themselves upon it day and night. Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes.

In the inky blackness, Jon stroked her cheek with his thumb, catching the wetness of a stray tear yet to freeze. “I am angry,” he confessed, slowly. “I am angry that you had a life such as that. I am angry because you deserved so much better than the lot you had. You deserved better, you deserved to not be hit, to not be hurt, to not be sold. You deserved someone to keep you safe.” As he said it, he drew her tightly into his arms again. And she melted.

Safe, the word cut deep. No one had ever kept her safe, not truly. Not until now. All of a sudden, she realized what had felt so strange, so intimate, since the moment Jon had come to her tonight. It was in the way he’d come to her unasked, taken care of her unprompted, and tended to her at her weakest. Had that ever happened to her before? Not as far as she could recall. When she would express weakness or fear, Viserys would hit her, hurt her, and threaten her with rape. Her sun-and-stars had slowly come around to her, but he’d only grown to love her once Dany had shown her strength; he had had little interest in the weak and fearful girl she had been in the early days of their marriage, only desiring her for his nightly pleasures. And Daario had only ever wanted the queen in her, not the girl. The beautiful Dragon Queen, not Dany.

But here, the pad of Jon’s thumb still caught the budding tears from the corners of her eyes, his fingers ran through her sweaty tangled hair, and his warm feet stayed firmly against her freezing ones despite how cold they must be. His arms were so strong and steady they felt a refuge. She attempted to recall the last time she had been held like this, so… unconditionally. No such memory came to her.

No one else’s arms had ever made her feel this safe.

The realization broke something in her and tears welled now for an entirely new reason. She lurched forward to bury her face against his throat once again, and wound her limbs around him as tight as she could manage. He responded in kind, and soon, not a breath of air could pass between them. Outside, it was cold, but not so in here.

In a watery whisper, so low that the winds were like to swallow her words, she finally confessed the full truth, “I had not wished to wed Khal Drogo, I wanted… I’d just wanted to go home, more than anything… I had told Viserys as much. But he said... he said that he’d do anything to get his army, that we had no home unless he bought the Dothraki army with me as the payment.” The horror and terror were old and faded, she had thought, yet she trembled all the same. She thought of the girl she had been, that scared and sweet girl with no childhood to speak of, and could not help but grieve for her. That girl had deserved better, that girl had deserved to have known safety and comfort. “Viserys had told me... that he’d let the Khal’s whole khalasar have me, all forty thousand men and their horses too if that was what it took to gain his army.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, a furious quake, then Jon’s taller form curled and tightened entirely down around her as if a human shield. Dany luxuriated in the feel of it, even as his voice rang black with rage as he said, “That…. That monster. How dare he? What kind of a wretched man threatens his own sister with such? His only sister. He was no true man. Would that I could have slayed him myself.”

Would that I had known you then. “It is in the past.”

“Even so! I cannot- Are… Are you laughing?” Shock colored his tone, and Dany choked out a raspy laugh, shocking even herself.

“You are. Why are you laughing?” He sounded entirely worried that she’d lost her wits. Maybe she had. It was just- she felt so light and unburdened. It wasn’t until now that she realized how starved she had been for this, for exactly this.

“How can I not laugh?” she asked him. “I am relieved. Viserys is my past, but you, you are with me now.” Mother of dragons, a voice whispered inside her, bride of fire.

“What? Dany?” Yes I am, Dany, Dany, Dany. Not Daenerys Stormborn, the dragon queen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass sea, Mother of Dragons, Lady Protector of the realm, the Dread Queen. Here, Dany can live and be found worthy as well. She wanted to laugh more, she wanted to weep more.

“Tonight, I was sick and you came to me. How did you know? Why did you come?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” When she did not answer but with expectant silence, he replied confusedly, “I don’t know, I just had a feeling… Something had seemed off about you since yesterday and… I kept waking up worried about you.”

The Frostfangs was no place for this tender fire to blaze to life inside her. The Lands of Always Winter was no place for her to find her home. It made no sense for a red door to show up in this icy dark world. Yet it did. Dany rested her palm on his warm cheek and kissed him, fiercely. They tasted icemelt and salt and smoke. Her hand fisted in his long brown hair and did not let go until they had to part for air. Once forced apart, she gasped in a mighty lungful and spoke fervently, “Jon… I love you. I love you.”

“Dany,” he sounded strangled. “Daenerys. And I you. Of course. Of course! So much.” His mouth descended on hers again, hard and firm and sweeter than any honey. Behind her closed eyelids, a faint vision emerged: a blue rose, beautiful and precious, growing in a wall of ice and filling the air with sweetness. It is you, it’s you, I know it’s you, I have found you.

I have found you here, at the doorstep of night and death. More phrases from the Undying came to her one to love, one for love, once for love but she brushed them aside and lost herself in their kiss instead. The morrow could be for fears and worries, but tonight was all theirs.

Tonight, she will live.