Chapter Text
Winterfell
"It has to be you."
And isn't it always him? Jon wonders, struck down by a weariness that has haunted him since the moment the red witch brought him back to life. He had to be the one to step forward to rescue the wildlings. He had to be the one to stand up to the Night King. He had to fight and take back Winterfell and most recently, he had to be King in the North when Westeros faced certain doom, and in the South, the political quest continued raging.
And now he has to step up and bribe himself forth for an alliance with the Dragon Queen.
Their only choice.
"I know Tyrion better than you and there is only one reason for him to summon you to Dragonstone," Sansa insists. His little sister, the only family he has left, rests a hand on his as she looks at him intently. "The Dragon Queen will take King's Landing in a matter of days. And she will need a consort at her side. Who better than the King in the North? Just think what it could mean for us, for the North's future!"
Jon quietly removed his hand, knowing that this was one of the ways she sought to coax him into biding her will as she had convinced him to retake Winterfell. But while that had made sense given that it was a life and death choice. That Sansa would advocate sending him to Dragonstone for that purpose made his skin crawl.
His sister had played a part in winning the Battle of the Bastards, but before she had to send him to a certain death. Jon was beginning to see through the chinks in her armor the same cruel girl who had dismissed him all his life as her "half-brother" for being the bastard.
He was beginning to believe that Sansa wanted to see him away from her family's ancestral home.
Dead or alive, it didn't matter as long as it was far away.
***
Dragonstone
"It has to be him."
Daenerys groaned annoyed as she paced across the ample hall of Dragonstone without a certain course. Tyrion behind her, trying to follow her pace, kept on mumbling his reasons.
"I know Jon Snow and he's a rough but gentle lad. He won't be cause of great trouble for you or your reign," he persisted, vouching for his candidate.
The matter of a political marriage had been put forth before they sailed from Meereen, and she had reluctantly accepted it as an inevitable outcome in the pursuit of her goal. She did not imagine it would come immediately as they set foot on Dragonstone.
"Furthermore, he is not lacking in looks, I daresay. Your Grace will find him quite easy on the eye—"
"It's not about beauty, my Lord!" Daenerys pivoted and snapped at him. "It is about power and influence. Should I wed this King, I would tacitly endorse the North's bid for independence, and jeopardize the integrity of my kingdom! Jon Snow is a warlord in rebellion; why should I elevate him to the status of consort?"
"Because the North represents half your kingdom, and you have no choice other than to unleash dragons on the entire North — which not even your ancestor the Conqueror has done!" Tyrion exclaimed, pleading with his gaze.
Daenerys raised an eyebrow in consideration and Tyrion's eyes widened.
"You said you would not follow in your father's footsteps..." he reminded her.
The Mad King died betrayed at the foot of his throne. Perhaps three dragons would make Westeros understand the dangers of betraying me, she thought, but she was quick to dismiss those ideas. Alluring as it was raining fire upon her enemies, Daenerys was no more disturbed by the situation in the North than she was by Cersei Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne.
In fact, she would have been fine with knowing nothing of what lay above the Neck if it did not represent a cause for objection to the rest of the kingdoms that made up the Realm.
What troubled her was who this Jon Snow was.
The blood he carried despite his bastardy.
The scion of the Usurper's dog, she thought with Viserys' voice in her mind.
"Is it because Jon is a bastard? You can have him legitimized—"
"I don't care that he is a bastard," Dany cut him off. She watched out the window beyond him and twitched her lips in annoyance at the stinging thought inside her head. "I care that he doesn't draw his blade in the dark and goes for my heart while we sleep."
"Jon is not that kind of man," Tyrion assured her.
"You knew him as a boy, you don't know what kind of man he's grown into," she countered.
Frustrated, she went to stand in front of the windows.
Cautious, Tyrion moved closer.
"You told me you are barren. That you won't be able to have children to succeed you. Have you thought of a contingency plan for that?" he inquired.
The sting of bitterness plunged into her entrails, it has never lessened over the years although she's come to terms with it.
"I don't even have the crown on my head and you are already trying to replace me," she sneered, side-glacing him. "What good is it to me then to look for a husband if I will never be able to give him children?"
She knew the answer and still let Tyrion make his argument.
"For both of you to see the other's interest," he replied, "Jon has not legitimized himself as a Stark, that alone tells me he does not intend to take Winterfell from his sister. He probably intends to pass on every right on Lady Sansa, when the time comes. A marriage to you settles any doubt that an heir to both of you might contend Winterfell."
Her shoulders sagged in defeat, seeing his point.
What about my interests? she would have liked to ask him but he would rebuffed her and said the northern kingdom very obviously. Everything else didn't matter — her heart, her pride, her life.
***
Longbow Hall
A neutral ground was decided upon for this encounter, at Sansa's suggestion. Jon thought the Dragon Queen and her Hand would turn them away — he kind of expected them to — but that didn't happen and when their ship neared the coast of House Hunter seat, three dragons were already soaring the skies above the fortress.
"What makes you think she's not going to burn us as soon as we set foot on dry land?" Jon directed the question to his sister. She as well was shocked, watching in awe at the flying beasts.
"Good faith," Sansa answered shortly.
In what or who really, Jon questioned inwardly. This endeavor would lead them to their early graves. But on the bright side, he thought, the Dead would have killed them anyway.
On the coast, Tyrion and an entourage of notoriously non-Westerosis await them. A very pretty foreign woman, and a group of rough-looking men in rougher clothes — Dothraki warlords.
He and Tyrion throw their respective scornful titles at each other, while with Sansa the exchange is warmer and more inviting. They were married once, though Sansa has shared with Jon that he never imposed himself on her.
Tyrion led them to the Hall of the Hunters where Daenerys Targaryen awaited, and Jon felt a sting of bitterness at the absence of her on the coast to receive them.
"She's no more pleased about this arrangement than you are, Snow," Tyrion, ever perceptive, commented. "She thinks you'll stab her in the heart when you share a bed."
Jon shuddered. Sharing a bed...he won't be spared from that.
"Shouldn't I fear for my life? She is the daughter of the man who tortured and murdered my grandfather and uncle, and the sister of the man who kidnapped and raped my aunt," Jon bluntly replied.
"I think the discussion of the terms of this alliance should be conducted by me," Sansa said, throwing a glare at Jon's way.
The two went the rest of the way talking about these terms, with the rare input from Jon. His mind obfuscated, caught up in circulating thoughts of how to escape this course. They were greeted by members of House Hunter and ushered into the depths of their fortress, Jon's heart growing heavy with each step.
As the grand doors of the Hall swung open, Jon's gaze darted upwards as if avoiding the sight of her. They went everywhere until they fell on a small figure waiting on the seat in the middle of the Hall. A petite woman, unmistakably Targaryen in appearance, sat poised with an air of rigidity and an inscrutable countenance.
Beautiful, was the first thing that crossed his mind.
She hates me, was the second.
***
He was not what Daenerys expected.
Although Tyrion had provided a description of his looks deeming him "comely" and "pleasing", Dany did not trust these words. They were too vague and subjective, and the overall perception of the Northerners for the rest of the world was that they were rugged and unkind. I have already married one of those and the experience had been unpleasant at the beginning and catastrophic at the end, she thought.
Dany had been prepared to receive another of these, determined to face this alliance with the strength she had not embodied the last time. The trepidation creeping beneath her skin tells her she's not truly prepared for what is to come with this Jon Snow.
He was as Tyrion described, very comely. Handsome was the correct word. And as she tried and made small talk with the newcomers she couldn't help her eyes from drifting to him, even when she was addressing his not-short-of-beauty sister.
Standing with regal poise, the Stark girl articulated the North's role in the alliance. Her words were calculated, emphasizing the need for mutual protection and support upon the onset of winter and the upcoming challenges.
The invasion of an army of dead people whose existence Dany struggled to accept.
Tyrion, ever the diplomat, offered their own terms rooted in pragmatism and stability — the North was to remain a kingdom of the Seven, procuring his arguments in economic ties and military cooperation to ensure the North could stand on its two feet again.
Amidst their talking about politics and strategies, her gaze often flickered toward Jon Snow who also caught sight of her.
Dany cleared her throat, suppressing a fluttering smile.
"And what does the King in the North have to say on these matters?" she inquired, her voice elevated yet poignant.
She could tell he was impressed — most men were as simple as they were on matters of beauty. But in that respect, she could have used a man like Daario Naharis, who fawned on her looks and her power and nothing else.
"May I speak freely?" Jon Snow asked.
As Jon Snow's gaze met hers, Daenerys couldn't help but feel a stirring of curiosity beneath the surface of her composure. There was something about him, a steadfastness in his demeanor that intrigued her, despite her reservations.
Daenerys nodded quietly.
She caught the corner of her eye Tyrion and Sansa looking at each other with apprehension.
"I understand the importance of this alliance," Jon began, his tone stern but clear, "But I must also consider the concerns of my people; the North has faced not few hardships, and their loyalty lies with their own survival above all else." He took a bold step forward. "How do you plan to rule, Your Grace? Will you follow in your father's footsteps, ruling with fire and blood?"
Daenerys felt a flicker of unease at the mention of her father — the Mad King. She knew all too well the stories of his cruelty, and the shadow they cast over her own prospects was hard to escape.
"Or will you choose a path of mercy and justice? Because my Father and the North fought to dethrone him. If you are thinking of following the same course—"
"I will not follow in the Mad King's footsteps," she cut him off.
Daenerys finished closing the distance between them with a firm march toward him.
"For the murders of your kinsmen, I ask for forgiveness in the name of House Targaryen," she offered her, and he startled up a bit. "But do not pretend to make me own the blame for a crime committed before I drew my first breath, Your Grace, any more than I should hold you responsible for the living hell that was my life in exile thanks to the ceaseless hunting of the Usurper, who counted with the endorsement of your father," she declared.
He exhaled sharply, surely at the mention of his honorable father.
However, he yielded.
"I understand," he said, staring at her in earnest. "And there's nothing to forgive. Children should not carry their parents' sins."
There was more weight in his words than could be discerned. Maybe they both had found common ground in that their father's deed would forever represent a great burden upon their shoulders. Dany started to see the glimpse of the man Tyrion talked about, but she couldn't afford to fix her mind on that now.
She wanted her Throne and then deal with whatever tale of horror that awaited beyond the wall.
Clasping her hands together, she tightened her grip until her knuckles paled.
"Are you agreeable to this, then? I won't have you sworn to me against your will," she questioned him firmly.
He blinked away and for a moment she thought he would turn on his sister for reassurance, like a child turns to his mother. Instead, he folded his hands behind him in a similar gesture and stood firm.
"It will my honor, Your Grace," he responded.
***
The ceremony was held, at the insistence of both Tyrion and Sansa and then Lord Hunter, at the Godswood of Longbow Hall.
Sansa and the seamstresses made clothes for both of them in record time. And when the Dragon Queen walked toward him with her Hand, Jon felt his heart skip a beat. The color of her bridal gown was ivory, not quite white. He could tell because it matched the silver-gold hue of her hair.
His mouth dried up at the sight, and he twisted his clasped hands behind his back.
When Tyrion presented her and Jon took her bare hand — she had desisted the use of gloves — Jon felt time stand still. As they stood facing each other, Jon felt a sense of awe wash over him. Her otherworldly beauty was breathtaking but there was something else he captured in her eyes he didn't really know what to make of it.
Vows and oaths were exchanged, witnessed by the gods of the Old Gods and the New. The ones he believed in and the ones he assumed she followed. Although why would she, if she already was something closer to them?
The moment came to cover her with his cloak, and Jon draped the grey and dark blue cloak over her shoulders even though she would never really be his. For he was no true Stark to begin with, even if he paraded the name now because of his status as King. And secondly, because she would never cease to be a Targaryen.
But a man can briefly dream, he thinks, as he tentatively cups her face, seeking permission — or perhaps forgiveness? — and gently presses his lips to hers.
***
Her lips burned after he had kissed her, and Daenerys was not pleased with herself for this reaction. As if she were a maiden and not a woman made.
She stirred in her chair, her hands restless as she clutched her chalice of wine. She forced herself to focus her gaze on the bard performing a song for them as they sampled their wedding feast.
Dany stole a glance at her new husband — it would be strange to think of that word associated with him and not with Drogo —, unable to resist the pull of his presence and remembered what Tyrion told her.
"He looks at you longly. I think he's quite taken, Your Grace," he has said in an attempt to smooth over the affair.
So much for a man who rubbed her father's legacy on her face at the very first moment of knowing each other. But she has done the same when first approached with this proposal, she admitted to herself.
Jon turned his eyes on her and it was too late to pretend she wasn't looking at him. She cleared her throat awkwardly, searching for something to say.
"Lady Sansa's skill with the attire is truly commendable," she offered, breaking the silence.
"Aye," Jon replied, inspecting his own garments, clad entirely in black — a color she found suited him well. "She has a talent... for sewing."
What a talk to have with her husband! Surely they would make each other great company in the future, she inwardly scoffed.
Lord Hunter's booming voice announced the time for the bedding ceremony and a shiver creeps on the surface of her skin. She realized she wasn't prepared to endure such an ordeal.
"Not tonight, my Lord," Jon interrupted them as they moved to them, holding up a hand as he rose to his feet. "The hour is late, and the Queen and I are weary from our travels."
Jon offered her his hand.
Daenerys breathed out calmly and took it, following him as they abandoned the hall and marched toward the marital bed.
***
As they entered their allotted quarters for the night, Jon turned to face Dae—his wife.
"I won't demand of you to fulfill your wifely duties tonight," he stated quietly.
Daenerys gave him a confused look.
"You can't demand anything from me," she retorts, crossing her arms.
Jon's brow furrowed at her sharp response.
"I didn't mean it like that," he replied, "I simply meant that I won't expect anything from you tonight, given the circumstances, Your Grace."
She remained steadfastly hostile.
"And what circumstances would those be, Your Grace?" she countered.
Jon felt his own temper rising, "The circumstances of our marriage; We barely know each other, Daenerys. We were thrust into this union by circumstance, not by choice."
She gasped, lips parting in outrage. "I asked you back there if you were willing to enter into this marriage, and you consented. Now you claim you find me insufficiently pleasing?"
He retreated in disbelief. "I never said that! You are putting words in my mouth."
She turned on her heel and stormed into the bedchamber. Jon, against his better judgment, trailed behind her.
What's gotten into her? he wondered. One moment she was aloof and distant, the next she blazed like a wildfire.
"I didn't mean to imply that I find you unpleasant," he found himself compelled to clarify. And if he was to honor the truth, he would admit it was quite the contrary. "Do you expect me to force myself upon you?" Jon demanded.
She frowned. "What? No! But you don't need to act as though this marriage is a burden for you. You had a choice!"
Hardly a choice when it was a matter of life or death, but he refrained from voicing that sentiment.
"Are you more content with our situation than I am?" he retorted, instead.
Her displeasure was palpable, fueling his own indignation.
"There!" he exclaimed, gesturing in exasperation.
Silence fell in the room. Their breaths, slightly hitched, could be heard running through them.
"I just...I don't...never wanted you to feel forced into this situation," she whispered.
Jon hardly could think through the haze in his mind. He didn't know what to say, what to make of her as a whole.
Studying her intently, he dispelled any semblance of demure. Once again, the reality struck him — she was his wife.
Daenerys Targaryen, his wife.
Maester Aemon's great-granddaughter, or something like that.
"I knew someone from your family," he blurted out.
She blinked, confused.
So he continued: "Probably you didn't know about him. He was all but forgotten up there. At the Wall I mean. His name was Aemon Targaryen, brother to King Aegon the unlikely."
Her chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh.
"Is he..." she began, her voice trailing off.
"No, I'm sorry. He has passed," Jon quickly said. "I regret that you never had the chance to know him, but he was interested in you. Reports of your affairs in Essos were regularly sent to the Wall."
"I never knew," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
"He spoke of you with fondness," he continued, pulled in by this open window of vulnerability she now offered. "He believed in you. He would have been proud to see what you've accomplished."
She smiled through unshed tears.
"Thank you...Thank you for telling me," she softly said.
He saw her take a deep breath and close her eyes. When she opened them again, they no longer had that air of vulnerability, but neither did they have the fierce storm of her hostility.
And he stood there, motionless.
She tilted her head.
"Do you fancy boys?" she asked and he snapped out of it.