Part two! Thank you so much for the reviews on part one; I appreciate it so much :)

I know this is very late, I suck. I've been taking Summer classes, college almost killed me last semester, and I've been getting backon track. I'm a broke ass student who's also working almost every day. To top it all off, I lost several drafts, since I save them on my Google account because I write on multiple computers. For whatever reason, half of my writing gets deleted, even when it says it saved.

I've been working on a slightly AU outline for a future GoT project, it's already several chapters long! As for this little piece, I promise there will be more content this time. I'm hoping I have more luck the second time around, with balancing everything out. Unlike Daenerys's chapter, this takes place sometime during 07x05, after Jorah's return, but before the meeting at the Painted Table and before buddies set off beyond the wall (worst plan ever, I might add). Again, show continuity for the most part, but some original elements of the books are kept in.

I've picked this apart for months now until I was satisfied. Enough excuses, now!

Next up: the White Wolf.

JON

It had been an exhausting few weeks. Jon felt as though he barely saw the sun, for it was just breaking through the clouds as he rose and already setting by the time he finished his duty and dragged himself back to the imposing castle. He ate, bathed, held a small council with Ser Davos and his Northmen, and retreated to his chambers for a few hours of restless sleep. In the few moments between, he wrote letters every day and received few back. Despite delivering them to Maester Henly and the ravens personally, Jon was suspicious that they were not reaching Winterfell. With the sea to the east, both Henly and Maester Pylos insisted that the birds must by flying inland. Jon prayed to the Old Gods that they had not flown south to King's Landing.

With the last of his men retreating from the mines, the young king had been more than eager to surrender his aching body to the comfort of his bed. His Hand had other ideas. Davos was pacing outside the cave when Jon finally called it a night, with his hood drawn up in a feeble attempt to block out the wind. The men exchanged familiar greetings and updates, but it was only when Jon attempted to slip away that Davos reminded him that he had skipped several meals. His rational of having a tray of supper brought to his chambers was cut short when Davos insisted that he did want to find his King's exhausted body collapsed in the dragonglass mine to send back to Winterfell; Sansa would not receive her brother's bones because he simply didn't take care of himself. Jon glared at that. He respected Davos for not being afraid to speak his mind, just not at this particular hour. Ultimately though, it was the combination of Jon's empty stomach and Davos's reminder that the Queen would be in the dining hall that led him to wash himself and change into clean garments.

The Great dining hall was filled that evening. The poor serving girls struggled to politely push their way between tables and crowds to refill drinks. It seemed as if they were seldom needed, however; most of the castles inhabitants were roaming freely. All the shouts and conversations blended into a single noise; Jon's head hurt more than it had all day. To his surprise, the Dothraki had feasted within the castle's walls instead of their tents upon their arrival back to Dragonstone. Famished, they constantly came and went, the thousands that there were, selecting what appeared to be horsemeat, grassy stew, and pies that looked suspiciously bloody. They shoved and crowded to the fire to char their meat black near the kitchens. Children sat beside its walls, close to the head of the great curled dragon. Heat and smoke frequently caused them to cough, but he supposed they preferred it to the chill of the rain and wind. Once they finished their meals and drank a strange, curdled drink, they rose and exited. From his seat, he spotted dozens outside washing themselves in the rain, scrubbing their copper skin with sand from the beach.

They were strange to the young Northerner. He could only imagine the reaction of his people at the immodest race, yet the Queen respected them, trusted them, and spoke to them like she'd known them her whole life. Jon held nothing against the them, he was simply not as impressed as he expected. As a boy, he had admired the stories of the fierce horselords shooting arrows from atop their mounts. Now, they simply looked like everyone else - hungry and exhausted.

A small grin ghosted on the King's pale lips. Dothraki were considered savages in Essos. Daenerys united them behind a cause. The Wildlings were the savages of Westeros. He united them and brought them behind the wall to safety. But only one truly went over well . . . The smile vanished. Jon shook his head to rid himself of his tortured thoughts. He scanned the room as best he could.

Outside of the Dothraki, it seemed there were few. Unsullied took their turns eating and guarding, only jesting among themselves when they were engaged in the former. It seemed that for every one sitting, there were five more standing. Jon was told that the Queen decided against supping in the Chamber of the Painted Table or the Stone Drum tower, and instead seated herself and her council at the table of honor in the Great Hall. Perhaps it coincides with Ser Jorah's return, he pondered.

Tyrion Lannister was seated beside Daenerys. His wine glass was never empty, and Jon could see that he was constantly talking. To the left of him was the suspicious, soft spoken Lord Varys. Missandei sat to her Queen's right, dutiful as ever. Beside her was Jorah, still freshly reunited and reintroduced. There was an ever present smile on his tanned, wrinkled features as he conversed with his monarch. Only three empty seats remained. Jon concluded that they were meant for Elia Sand, Yara Greyjoy, and Olenna Tyrell. Seats for the dead, he mused, bitterly. And we'll all be dead come soon . . . Jon swallowed his bite painfully.

His men had eaten long before him. It was only the ever loyal Davos that waited to feast with his King. The men sat alone at a small table, close to the door - the mouth of the enormous dragon. Jon let his gaze wander again until it landed back to Daenerys and her company. He hoped he might speak with her, alone, but it seemed impossible with thousands surrounding. A familiar tightness formed in his gut. Suddenly it was as if he was a boy again, glowering at the sight of Catelyn Stark at the high table with his family. Only now, there was nothing to relish. He did not need to sneak wine and avoid punishment, or fake those awful formalities that Robb so often complained of. There was no Ghost at his feet, eagerly awaiting scraps. No, he was simply an outsider again, staring at the Lords and Ladies seated high above him.

He winced as he gripped his knife; mining obsidian had caused quite a toll on his already rough hands. Jon led his men deeper and deeper into the mine's depths each day, allowing everyone a break but himself. He had just discovered a particularly large cluster in the underbelly of the cave, and decided he'd return to the spot first thing in the morning. Unless Davos convinces me to break my fast first . . . He sawed away at his meal, a meager portion of fish stew and lamb meat, whilst minding his cuts and sores.

Each minute seemed to drag to an hour. He hated Dragonstone. Between the horrid climate, the grim, dark, twisted castle, and the always present tension, he had never missed the North more. He longed for the comfort of his wolf, the peace of the Godswood, Winterfell's familiar halls, and his family. Instead, he was surrounded by foreign people, he was weaponless, and he was lost. He felt like the mere shadow of a King under the piercing gaze of every morbid statue.

A wolf in the dragon's den.

So he thought. Jon shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and lifted the goblet to his lips as he studied the Queen. She was beautiful of course, quite easily the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Between her pale silver tresses, lightly bronzed skin, petite frame, full lips, and of course those striking violet eyes, Jon couldn't help but hold his gaze a little too long whenever she was near. She was not the traditional beauty that Sansa was, nor had the wild beauty Ygritte possessed. According to Tyrion, she did not match Cersei's fierce, cold beauty either. She was simply ethereal in every sense of the word. Still, there was a toughness to her. He was certain if he saw her without her dress, her boots, her small clothes . . . she would bear scars like the rest of them. Jon blushed.

Her beauty mattered not, he reasoned. She was a Queen, it was her alliance he needed. He had only just managed to crack the shell of the young Targaryen. How he wished for more time with her. He had not spoken to her since Jorah's return. The way they held each other, he was certain they wanted time alone. They must be lovers . . . Jon sliced away a piece of his fish a little too forcefully. She only introduced him as "an old friend" . . . No matter, the next time he managed to catch Daenerys, it would be the same: to try and convince her to join their forces and defeat the greatest threat this country had ever seen, the Army of the Dead.

That's not the entire reason . . .

From the moment he saw her, the way she carried herself, the way she spoke, and the way she dared to dream, he knew that she was proud to be a Queen. She craved that power, but perhaps not to benefit herself as he initially assumed. She wanted strength and influence to better the lives of others. He did not ask for a crown - she is reclaiming hers - nor did he feel he deserved it - she said she was born to be Westeros's ruler - yet his goal was the same; to keep innocent people safe. Never in his life did Jon Snow think he would be in a position where he could rule or protect. He thought that being Lord Commander was as good as it could ever get for the Bastard of Winterfell.

But he died. His Lord father died. His King brother died. Arya and Bran lost across the country if they were even alive at all . . . Rickon before his eyes . . . and Daenerys was no stranger to losing those close to her. The legendary Ser Barristan, her husband and child, and her entire lineage of course. Now that he was the King in the North, it was so nice to have someone to relate to about the burdens. There they were, on the same island, two young, self-made monarch asking those around them to achieve the impossible. They brought history back to the attention of Westeros: the legendary nightmares of Beyond the Wall and Aegon come again as a fierce Dragon Queen mounted on her black beast.

Ice and fire.

Still, every time Daenerys seemed to warm, she so quickly could retreat. She was as stubborn as he was. Every rejection to ally with him and travel north made Jon want to wack away at a tree with Longclaw until splinters remained. He griped his knife tighter as he cut through his meat. Even if she didn't believe him, he would settle for her simply trusting him. Why should she? He could practically hear Tyrion demand. A stranger, she just met? Those mismatched eyes bore into him every time, subtly taunting him that he knew nothing. The northern fool.

Jon's knife slipped. The clatter of the dish cracking echoed throughout the hall. When one head turned, a dozen followed. The Dothraki children pointed to the northern King. The high table's conversation halted. Daenerys was even staring. Jon flushed red.

"Got a bit of an unsteady hand there, ay?" Davos chuckled. His hand, who seemed to have sensed Jon's reluctance to talk all evening, spoke to a serving girl in a rarely formal fashion. "Bring the King a new plate, if you please."

"At once, Ser," she bowed nervously.

Jon held his hand up. "It's alright." He stood.

Davos rose as well. "Your Grace?"

"I should return to my chambers," he muttered. "And check the ravens."

Davos gave a quick bow. "The ravens were tended to before supper, Your Grace. I suppose gettin' some rest would be good but ya hardly ate a thing -"

"I'll break my fast before we mine again," Jon responded automatically. The Unsullied kept a close eye on him, but nonetheless shuffled aside to make way. The sight of the rain fouled his mood even more. He spun on his heel to exit to a different hall when a call stopped him in his tracks.

"Lord Snow, Ser Davos?"

The men turned to find Daenerys standing, angled towards them. She held the attention of the entire room with her mere presence alone, yet her purple eyes did not leave the pair of men below her.

"Leaving so soon?" Tyrion jested.

Daenerys ignored him. "Will you join us a moment?"

Davos shot a questioning glance towards Jon. The Northman smiled politely. He had the feeling this was more of a command than a request. "Of course." He climbed the steps to the high table, his Hand just behind. Each time his boot hit a step, his heart rate increased. Why does she mean to see us, just as we're about to leave? Davos promptly seated himself across from Tyrion, leaving Jon the choice to sit his right, by Varys, or to his left, by Daenerys. All eyes shifted to Jon, but he found himself only staring into one pair.

"How fares the mining, my Lord?" asked the Queen. She'd returned to speaking so formally. Jon reasoned that they were in front of company, and surely she would want to remain diplomatic. The firm and steely tone bothered him nonetheless.

"Well, Your Grace," he replied evenly. "We have made excellent progress in that area."

"Will you be needing more men?"

She raised her brow at him in such a way that made him want to scowl and pout like a child who was being mocked. He'd faced wights and walkers, a beautiful Queen would not frighten him. "While I appreciate the hospitality, Your Grace, I would not want to take up the time of your men, who surely have other tasks to prepare for as you plan your invasion. Though, certainly, there are a number of other ways that would be of great help."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Tyrion studying the two of them they were the most fascinating book he'd picked up.

Daenerys simply raised her other brow. "I was merely offering a few men to take your place, Jon Snow. You're looking a little tired, I fear."

The confidence the northern king had gained fled in an instant. Tyrion cracked a grin, as did Ser Jorah. Missandei smiled politely as she busied her hands in her lap while Varys shook his head sympathetically.

Unwilling to see his brooding king sink down to the floor, Davos immediately spoke up. "His Grace has been leadin' his men day in and day out, sacrificing his own well bein' so that he may inspire them. And while I agree that he should look after himself a little better," he chuckled, "I know that anyone who knows him, knows that he is not the kind o' man to let others work without him. After all, what good is a King who lets his men do all the fightin' without gettin' his hands dirty, too?" Jon rubbed his sore fingers at that. "Jon Snow is not the first King I've followed, I admit that. After His Grace, Stannis Baratheon -" Daenerys's stare darkened. Davos cleared his throat. "He had faith in Jon when he served as Lord Commander. He believed that he could rule Winterfell and defeat the Boltons. We all know that he did in fact do that, without Stannis. I was ready to give up on followin' Kings when this man -" he pointed a stub of a finger to the Northerner "- was able to convince me otherwise through his leadership, his strength, and most o' all, his heart. The gods be damned if they think that overworkin' himself for the good of his people, and the realm, is a sin."

Jon didn't know what to think. He quickly shot Davos an appreciative nod, warmed by the sudden act of defense, but found himself unable to add anything. I had no desire to be King, only to save those who would be destroyed . . .

"Admirable," Daenerys said. "Truly." A chorus of agreements went around the table. Jon pondered how genuine she was - the smirk that she'd held on her delicate features was gone. He seized the moment.

"I would not want to take away your forces, Your Grace," Jon responded firmly. "Unless we were allied, and then our forces were joined."

Daenerys drummed her fingers on the table. "Very well," she replied after a moment. The air remained stiff. Between the people and the fires emerging from the ovens and dragon statues, Jon felt as if he had spent an entire fortnight soaking in Winterfell's hot springs. He was just loosening the shoulder strings of his cloak when a serving girl appeared with a fresh pitcher of wine. She anxiously reached for the Queen's goblet when Daenerys raised her hand to stop her. She shook her head and offered a brief smile to the girl, who bowed and departed just as briskly as she'd arrived. Tyrion swished his cup around. Varys and Missandei had not touched theirs.

Jon himself could enjoy good ale and better than average wine. The Night's Watch was of course notorious for horrendous attempts at brewing anything decent - he had only returned to finer drinks upon taking back Winterfell. However, he decided that he preferred to avoid a cloudy head during important meetings or tasks. An image of a drunken Robert Baratheon conjured in his mind. It was so long ago that Ned Stark's bastard witnessed the blustering, bearded oaf groping serving girls in Winterfell's dining hall. Now he was long dead, and his wife sat the throne. Jon briefly wondered how the dignified Daenerys Targaryen would react to the site of the Stag King making a fool of himself, when he remembered that she would most likely have him roasted alive.

Jorah spoke up, breaking the young King's thoughts. "I heard word of Dorne in the Citadel before I departed, Your Grace."

She shifted towards him immediately. "Tell me."

"Elia Sand is in fact dead, as is her daughter."

"And?" Tyrion pressed.

"It seems a young woman, Arianne Martell has taken power."

"When?"

"That I do not know, I fear."

"Arianne is Doran Martell's eldest daughter," Tyrion recognized. "No doubt the rightful heir after her father's passing, though she has chosen to hide in the shadows until the Sand Snakes were disposed of."

Daenerys did not look pleased. "Could she have conspired with Euron Greyjoy then?"

"Possibly," mused her Hand. "I would think to reach out to her before she forms an army of her own to challenge you."

"A fool she would be to do so," Daenerys scoffed.

"Your Grace, if I may, I would vouch for Princess Arianne," said Varys. "Dorne had never quite made their peace with the Lannisters. If Ellaria Sand, a mere bastard, was able to rally Dorne behind you, I imagine the trueborn Princess would not change allegiances either."

Daenerys raised a thick brow. "Even after her father's murder at the hands of a fellow Dornishwoman?"

"I will send a raven for the Princess Martell if you wish to know where her loyalty lies, Your Grace."

Still, the Queen did not look pleased. Jon was shuffling in his seat when she asked him, "What do you think, Lord Snow?"

Jon was startled to be called out again. As all eyes returned to him, he settled back and swallowed. Gods, how he hated that name, Lord Snow. He would sooner be called "Bastard" every time he was spoken to before picturing Ser Alliser's mockery. Jon touched his stomach. "I do not know much of Dorne. However, history tells that they despise the Lannisters far more than they could a Targaryen. Your brother wed Elia Martell, it was the Lannisters's orders that killed her."

Daenerys studied him. "Do you think I should send a raven to her, then?"

"No." The King in the North sat up straighter. "Call her here, as you did me. Whether or not you'd require her to bend the knee or be autonomous is none of my concern." He swallowed the bitter feeling in the back of his throat. "However, she can easily lie through a handwritten response on a scroll."

"Perhaps Dorne could lay seige to the west of King's Landing?" sugguested Davos. "It would certainly save you the trouble of transportin' more soldiers back to King's Landing yourself. If the city falls, they've proven their loyalty. If they try to seize it for themselves, you have the larger army and three dragons, of course."

"I don't think that would be wise," Jorah disagreed.

"We may think they'd prefer you to them, Your Grace, but there's the risk they could ally with the Lannisters and combine their armies. When you arrive, thinking the battle is won, they might be waiting," added Jon. Davos nodded his understanding. "More people, innocent people, would die. You would sever more alliances. And only a fool would challenge you and your children."

Tyrion stopped mid-drink and set down his goblet at that. Jorah's expression was blank. Varys and Missandei exchanged glances. Davos was just barely smirking.

Daenerys, however, clasped her hands together, impressed with the King in the North. "I shall summon her, then. Lord Varys, I entrust you to deliver this message to Maester Pylos and have it sent by dawn?"

"At once, Your Grace." Varys stood, bowed, and departed in swift silence.

Suddenly, the air lifted. The fires began to die down, and with that, the room chilled ever so slightly. The Spider's departure stirred the room. Dothraki shuffled out of the Great Hall to return to their tents. The Unsullied marched on to change their location, leaving half the numbers in the hall, while the rest split up to guard the outside of the castle and the adjoining halls. Jon turned his head - the rain had finally passed. Serving girls began to gather dishes when Daenerys called to them in Valyrian. One by one, each of them bowed and scurried to the kitchens.

"What did she say?" questioned Davos.

Missandei smiled with pride. "She told them to eat and fill themselves before bothering with any cleanup."

"Oh that's nice," said Davos. "Do they get the leftovers?"

"The leftovers are for the livestock. There is a portion set aside for them every night." The Naathi scribe's golden brown eyes followed each and every young girl who gathered clean plates for themselves. "It's never a hearty portion with supplies so limited, but for most of them, it was far more than they ever got in Slaver's Bay."

Jon had never heard of such hospitality. Even his Lord Father, with all his generosity and fairness, held strict standards for serving girls, maids, stableboys, and such. They were always treated fairly, but they had a duty.

The young King was so fixated on the liberated women that he almost missed Daenerys rising again and announcing she was taking her leave.

Ser Jorah stood immediately. "Allow me to escort you, Your Grace. You must be exhausted."

Daenerys smiled warmly at the knight. "Thank you, Ser. I'm not returning to my chambers quite yet. I'd prefer a stroll through the gardens before then to clear my head."

"Not at this hour, my Queen." The knight was startled at her suggestion. "Surely there is a better time and better weather."

Daenerys shook her head. "Perhaps, but I want to now. The moon is full and the air is cool."

"Allow me to stay with you then. It's still rather dark out."

Jon was amazed that Ser Jorah felt so comfortable around the Targaryen. His forwardness was strange, but he was even more surprised at how amused the silver haired beauty was. "I will be fine, Jorah. Save your worries for larger matters. You are the one who needs rest, my friend." She reached a small hand out to touch the knight's rugged cheek. "I need you strong and healthy, and around for many years."

Jorah grinned softly. "As my Queen commands." He bowed deeply, and descended to floor level. Tyrion's mismatched eyes were hazy from too much wine, yet he somehow remained perfectly composed, or rather as perfectly composed as someone who waddled, as he followed the knight out of the hall. Missandei strode closely behind her Queen. The women exchanged grins and words as one lean Unsullied man stood closely beside the scribe.

Davos nudged Jon's arm with his shoulder. "Still goin' to bed now?" Every muscle in his body screamed for rest. There was much work to be done still. The ravens needed checking again. New weapons needed to be made. More crates to carry the dragon glass . . . Daenerys's slim frame was beginning to disappear as she traveled outside.

"In a moment," he muttered. He did not wait to give an explanation before he hurried in the Targaryen ruler's direction.

The chill of the night air hit him harder than he expected. It could hardly compare to a summer snow in the North, much less the land of Always Winter, but being away from the cramped high table reinvigorated him. His footsteps left loud echoes as he raced down the path. "Daenerys!"

She stopped abruptly with a shocked look on her face and a hint of a smile on her rosy lips. "Jon," she retorted.

He immediately halted, before it dawned on him how ridiculous he must look quite literally chasing after her. "I'd hoped to speak with you."

"You were, rather informally." She crossed her arms.

Jon sighed, "Your Grace."

"Lord Snow."

"Don't." His sharpness cut like a knife, temporarily surprising the young Queen. Her arms dropped to her sides. "Please," he added with a softer tone.

Daenerys slowed her pace, falling into line with the northern King. "You don't like being called Lord Snow?"

"I abhor it," he admitted. "It was used as a jest at my time on the Wall. It served as a reminder that I was highborn, but a bastard nonetheless." And it is clear that I will not be called Your Grace, or a King . . . Jon bit his tongue. He still felt a sting at her refusal to see him as another ruler, yet more often than not he pushed it aside, reminding himself that the Night King was the only King he hoped to persuade her to defeat.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "It was not my intention to slight - " she stopped herself. "Forgive me, my Lord, I did not know."

"I know." A heavy awkwardness enveloped him. "Jon is fine, I'd prefer it to Lord Snow any day." Gods, should I approach her as a friend, a fellow ruler, neither?

"Very well." Daenerys flexed her fingers and twisted the rings around them. "You've done well for a bastard," she noted. Her beautiful violet eyes were boring into him again, stirring his stomach.

"Aye, but not everyone is made for royalty," he said lightly. "The last thing I ever expected was to be where I am now. Few are born into it."

Her warmer gaze was replaced with a stony expression. "I was not always a Queen, you know," she explained, her voice short.

Jon averted his gaze, "I know," he responded simply. "Tyrion told me . . . your life prior was not a desirable one."

"It was complicated," she admitted, "as I'm sure yours was, too, Lord Commander." He opened his mouth to question her, but she silenced him with a smirk. "Tyrion loves to talk."

"I always got that impression," Jon admitted.

"Mmm, the wine helps," she mused.

The royal pair made descended down the arch of the dragon tail, Aegon's garden in their sight. Jon enjoyed the the cool night air along the back of his neck. Between the cramped mines and the stuffy dining hall, it was the freest Jon had felt all day. The tall, dark trees allowed for only rays of moonlight to shine through. Daenerys boldly took his arm and led him along the path.

A pleasant piney scent reached his nose, coaxing him to explore the garden further. Sharply contrasting with the inciting scent were the foreboding hedges adorned in thorns. They towered over the two, making Jon feel like a babe in a mother's arms. Not that I ever had that . . . He sighed to himself. He wanted to focus on how lovely it all truly looked, but it was next to impossible to concentrate on anything but the queen's small, gloved hand resting on his arm. He could feel the heat radiating off of her, like a fire lit inside a hearth that would erupt at any moment.

Jon saw a bush stripped of its fruit, then a second, followed by several more. Daenerys followed his eyes. "Some of the Dothraki enjoy cranberries," she noted. A hint of amusement rang in the tone of her voice. He simply nodded, not quite knowing what to add. Fruit was scarce at the Wall. He felt a strange jealousy that even the Dothraki, a foreign tribe of horse lords descending from the grassy plains of Essos adapted better to Dragonstone than he did. A small sigh diverted Jon's attention back to his companion. "This garden reminds me of home," Daenerys said wistfully. "It's strange, I can only remember flashes and small moments, but the feeling I get here . . . " she trailed off. "I remember fruit, tart fruit, sweet fruit, fruit I have no name for. I remember tall grass. Essos is very different from Dragonstone to be sure, yet this place is almost like childhood."

Jon wished he could relate. He knew he would never truly feel at home again in his life, even if was back in the North. Too much had changed, and too much was gone. Even with every Bolton banner burned, even with his sister at his side, and even with Ghost, Winterfell felt empty. In that moment, Jon knew he wasn't missing his home as he waited on this island. He missed a family, his family.

If the Queen was bothered with his silence, she did not show it. The two rulers remained lost in their thoughts for a few minutes. Daenerys's hand never left his arm. His heart hammered in his chest while his thoughts swam. In his mind's eye, he saw a 14 year old boy, dark of hair and eye, crying in the Godswood, begging the gods to hear his prayers. All my life, I wanted to be Jon Stark. How I would give up a crown to simply be the Bastard of Winterfell again. I'd endure Lady Stark's glares just to spar with Robb in the training yard again. I'd endure sitting alone at feasts to watch Bran climb every tower and never fall. I'd endure the prospect of never marrying or inheriting to play hide and seek with Arya in the crypts.

A cry from one of the dragons startled him. Rhaegal flew above. He spun in a wide circle, yet never dipped or lowered. Daenerys chuckled softly. Viserion soon joined, his creamy-white scales far more visible against the night sky. The brothers observed the King and Queen below for a minute, then arched their heads and shrieked. "Protective, are they?" Jon joked nervously.

"No," she replied certainly, "just curious." Sure enough, the two magnificent creatures did not linger for long. They departed for the sea. The might of their flapping wings rustled the tops of the trees. Birds scattered.

As Daenerys's gaze followed her children, Jon consider the beautiful Queen beside him. She had no siblings, no honorable Lord father, no castle to live in, only a brother who would sell her for a crown. I had everything but the name. She had nothing but hers. In another world, perhaps we could have both. He wondered briefly how she would have liked growing up in Winterfell. Would she want a sword like Arya, or take up needlepoint with Sansa? Surely she would ride horses, and probably swoon over Robb like all the other girls. Her husband had been a mighty warrior after all, and he had heard word of a sellsword sharing her bed . . .

And a wildling woman had shared his. Jon felt ashamed. He hadn't thought of Ygritte in such a long time, but he had loved her once, an eternity ago. She very well might have met the same fate as the free folk at Hardhome had she not marched on the Wall. He swallowed roughly. Ygritte was tough and fearless, but she could never have stopped the army of the dead. A queen with dragons might.

Jon planned to ask about if she had plans to ever go North after her conquest, in a futile attempt to see if she'd ever aid his cause, but the question would not form. "Do, do you - ?" Daenerys dropped her hand and turned to face him. Jon's throat tightened. Her violet eyes shone in the moonlight, hesitant and guarded, yet they held traces of compassion. Hesitantly, he inquired, "Did you always want to return home?"

Daenerys looked to the ground. Her arms crossed over her chest to hug herself. "Yes . . . and no."

"What do you mean?"

Carefully, she studied him, opening and closing her mouth several times. "I didn't always plan on coming to Westeros," she finally answered. "Viserys was old enough to remember . . . to want vengeance." She resumed her pace. Jon followed. "I only knew that we could never quite stay anywhere for long. I always assumed that if we did return, he and I would marry and try and rebuild the dynasty that the Usurper nearly destroyed." Her usual hard delivery was strangely absent. "Viserys had his moments. He was my only teacher. It was only after we lost more and more did he turn so cruel. Only when I became a woman grown did I see him for what he was - a coward."

"Aye," Jon replied simply. I would have thrust a sword through the belly of any man who hurt Arya or Sansa. Gods be good that Viserys was never King. His fists clenched involuntarily. They were not good enough to stop him from hurting Daenerys.

"But," she added, "he was the rightful King after our father. When he was ki - dead, I knew that I was the last chance for my family. I saw so much beyond the Red Waste. A woman with a red mask told me of my destiny, but in ways I did not understand. She reminds me of the Red Priestess here." Daenerys laughed ruefully. "Red, red, red, so many red places and red people, all I want is the Red Keep." Has the Queen in her returned? Her gaze became clouded, distant. "And a house with a red door." No. As she shook her head, Jon saw before his eyes a young woman with her walls steadily lowering.

"Why that house?" he asked.

Daenerys laced her fingers together. "Because that house is to me what Winterfell is to you, Jon Snow. However, you can return to your childhood, and I cannot." The hearth was not a raging fire, it was a candle refusing to die out. The King in the North knew he did not have the power to bring her back to that place. He simultaneously wanted to comfort her and defend himself.

"No," he disagreed. "Stones and walls are not childhood. A house is not either. It's the memories of the people you were with." Daenerys pressed her full lips into a line. Her gaze fell to the ground, watching absolutely nothing. Jon stumbled. I'm still no bleeding poet. "We can never return," he finished solemnly.

She smiled sadly. "Maybe I had no childhood then."

"Everyone had a childhood," he argued. Daenerys shook her head. "There has to be something you remember fondly." He could see it now again, the walls rising, walls tougher than the very Wall itself. "A friend, a place?" He pressed. "Sweet fruit, tall grass —"

"Nothing sweet enough, Jon Snow." As if on cue, the breeze blew. Her silver hair flew in front of her face. Gooseflesh pricked her arms. Jon reached for his cloak. "I never qui- what are you doing?"

"I, uh . . ." Jon stumbled. "You looked cold, Your Grace."

She turned her head sharply. "I'm quite alright, thank you."

Wounded at her rejection, Jon fastened his cloak back to his shoulders. Now what? Daenerys paced ahead. He briefly contemplated retreating to the castle, a wolf with his tail tucked between his legs. It's not as if she's unsafe by herself here, with a horde of Dothraki, thousands of Unsullied, and three very frightening children.

"Why did you join the Watch?" she inquired suddenly.

A lump formed in the back of his throat. "It's a long story, Your Grace," he replied distantly.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes and squared her shoulders. "It's a long walk back to the castle," she quipped. Jon lingered. "I told you of my past. You wish to become allies? Allies must communicate." Surprised, Jon felt pressed to comply. He wasn't expecting a laugh to bubble up and escape. She furrowed her brows. "What?"

"You will never cease to use your status as a Queen to get what you want," he chuckled. For a split second she was alight with indignation, but then smirked at the teasing Northern man.

"No, so I command you to tell me, my Lord, how it came to be that you rose to Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

I will tell her that, Jon conceded. If she asks of why I left, well . . . that is a story for another time. He fell into pace with her again. "I grew up knowing I'd inherit no lands or titles. I had nothing to offer a wife, and my children would not have a future. At the Wall, a wife, children, titles, land, and glory are all left behind. It felt like the right fit."

"That I figured," she admitted. "History tells of the Watch being noble and valiant."

Jon nearly snorted. "Aye, history. It was nothing but a place where the sentences were sent to avoid death. I grew to love it, in a strange way. My Uncle Benjen was a ranger, I traveled with him there," he hurried. His gut clenched instinctively. "I wanted to follow in his footsteps, but the gods saw to make me a steward to Lord Commander Mormont."

"Jorah's father," she recognized.

"Aye. Samwell Tarly, my friend, is far more clever than I am, I'll admit," he admitted with a chuckle. "He recognized that I was being groomed for command . . . what?"

The dragon queen looked horror stricken. "Tarly?"

"Yes, Tarly." A sudden wave of confusion overtook Jon. "He left on my orders to become a Maester at the Citadel. Did you know of him?"

"No," she replied abruptly. "Continue, please."

He involuntarily rubbed at where the pommel of his sword would have been. "I was made a steward, to be groomed to be Lord Commander after Mormont. I was, however, finally allowed to go ranging."

"Ranging after what? Wildlings?" she inquired.

Wildlings, Uncle Benjen, White Walkers . . . "Wildlings and . . . greater threats," he decided to say. "It was Wildlings I found first. I . . ." he swallowed. "I left the Watch for a time, joining the Wildlings." Her eyebrow rose, anticipating his next answer. He sighed. "A woman, Ygritte, was the reason I stayed. She was . . . everything I could never have."

"But you did," Daenerys said. He could not read her face. "You returned to the Wall, though, no?"

"Aye, I did, I could not truly abandon my vows." At least not all of them . . . "The Free Folk marched on the Wall not long after, prepared to break through and slaughter us all, but I helped lead the defense, and we prevailed. I was elected Lord Commander some time after."

Daenerys examined him with practiced ease. "You lead the defense," she stated simply. "They believed in you, even after you turned."

Jon's jaw felt tight. Talking of the Watch did not make him feel better as he thought it might. "It was not an easy transition - " he began.

She laughed. "You are quite humble, are you not?"

"I'm just telling the truth," he stuttered, defensively. Was she mocking him yet again?

"A man without arrogance," Daenerys mused. "A rarity, I've found." Jon savored the sound of her laugh, but it didn't truly reach him. She would not smile if she knew what consequences followed. She chewed her full lower lip. "Where is she now?"

"Hmm?"

"Your woman."

He responded solemnly, "Dead."

Daenerys frowned. "I'm sorry," she said, quietly.

"Thank you." When the King in the North tried to picture her, her freckled face turned smooth, her wild red curls became pale silver strands, and her pale blue eyes deepened to violet. How was it that he was once in love with the sun, and now found himself attracted to the moon?

"What was she like?" she asked gently.

Jon smiled sadly. "Beautiful in her own way, fierce, and Wildling to the bone. She wielded a bow and had an iron will. She was passionate about freedom."

The last thing he wanted to do was share how she died, where, with whom. Thankfully, his answer seemed to satisfy Daenerys. "I think I would have liked her," she said confidently.

The tension clinging to his body lifted. "I think so. You fly the skies, and she climbed the Wall."

She stopped and turned slightly. A large rosebush grew up along a rusted tendril with more than half its flowers wilted and underfoot. A few remained near the top, full and beautiful. Daenerys reached a hand up. Her fingers just grazed the silky petals. She made another attempt to grab it and nearly pricked herself in the process.

"Here," Jon interrupted gently. He plucked the flower off the vine and handed it to her.

She held it between her fingers delicately. "I had a dream once, a vision of some sort, of a winter rose growing in the Wall," she said with a small laugh. "Absurd, isn't it?"

The corner of his lips tugged upwards. "It would have been a lovely sight," he admitted. "There are so few up there."

"One day I'll see it," she replied. Jon felt his heart race with a sudden eagerness. "As Queen, I want to see all of my country," she added, firmly, dampening his hopes some. "Do monarchs frequent the North?"

"Not often, Your Grace. Few Kings and even fewer Queens would see the Wall."

She lifted her chin to accept the challenge. "Then I shall break that tradition. From Dorne to the Wall, I'll see. I'll inspire the Night's Watch to do what they originally intended."

"Aye, you'll inspire them," he chuckled. "You're the loveliest thing any of those men have seen in years. They'll look and . . ." He stopped himself, blushing madly. Gods, now she's going to think these men will only see her beauty. She's more than that, she's strong, she's iron willed and passionate about freedom - His heart stopped.

To his immense surprised, Daenerys was flushed, too. "Lovely you say?"

"I - I only meant," he stammered, "women are considered one of the rare beauties at the Wall." Jon wanted to dash into the shrubs and never return.

"Of course," she said shortly. "The men of the Night's Watch would lust after any woman who passes through the gate, is what you're saying."

"Not all the men," he defended. "But . . . yes, you, a young, unmarried Queen arriving on the back of Balerion the Black Dread come again will be a sight to behold."

She eased her tense posture slightly. "I suppose that they would like to see such a sight."

It all rushed to Jon. How could I have forgotten? Almost immediately, he stuttered, "Aemon."

Daenerys looked curious. "Aemon?"

He smiled. "Maester Aemon. He served at the wall for decades. He was old and frail and blind, but still had one of the sharpest minds I knew. His counsel was valued greatly by all."

"I — I don't understand." Daenerys's eyes were wide with hope. "Aemon—"

"Targaryen," he finished. "The world had long forgotten his blood, but he was still there, at the edge of the world."

The sight of the beautiful Queen in awe in front of him left his knees weak. Jon had never seen something so exquisite as he did in that moment. "Another dragon," she breathed in wonder. Her small, pale hands raised to her mouth.

And then the moment fled. Jon's stomach sank when the light in her eyes faded. "Was?"

"Aye," he responded quietly. "A year or so ago."

She closed her eyes. "How?"

"He was old, over a hundred years old."

Daenerys slowly nodded her acceptance. "I wasn't the last dragon after all, but now I am, again."

Stupid. He had meant to make her feel like she wasn't alone, and here they were, two motherless children with crowns lifting them up, just to weigh them down. We should be together, he dared to think, in some way, any way, not this, what we're doing now. He didn't allow himself another pause. "But he knew of you, Daenerys."

She lifted her eyes slightly at that. "He did? Why did he never try to contact me?"

"He was a man of the Watch," he insisted, "and yet he told me he was tempted to leave more than once. The hardest time was Robert's Rebellion."

She almost smiled at that. "He was like you, then. Tempted, but he always returned to his duty."

"Aye, but he dreamed. He spoke to me and Sam, especially. He wanted to go across the sea to find you, and to be your adviser. Hearing of you and your dragons ignited hope in him."

Daenerys's eyes shone with unshed, stubborn tears.

"Don't you see?" Jon pressed. "He believed in you, and he never met you."

She hesitated a moment, then closed her eyes. Tears streaked her rosy cheeks. "Thank you. Thank you for telling me."

To his annoyance, he blushed. "It's nothing," he mumbled.

Daenerys held her arms as a thin shield against the breeze. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I'll take that cloak after all."

Jon complied immediately.

The journey back was considerably less somber. The pair spoke of simpler things. Jon learned that she loved the taste of lemons and peaches. She spoke 4 languages - her High Valyrian in particular would make any poet cry. She talked fondly of her time at sea. In return, Jon told stories of growing up in Winterfell with his siblings, and went on and on about Ghost.

By the time they returned to the Castle, the Moon was at its highest. The singing of dragons and the crashing of waves faded into one. Jon heard a low roar - Drogon's probably - but did not find himself flinching. And the Dragon Queen was wrapped up in his black cloak with a flushed look on her face from the long ascent. While Daenerys inquired about Jon's first match against Robb with a proper sword, something struck. Could perhaps - ? Jon shook his head. There was no way, she was a Queen, and she had so many other matters she could concern herself with. He tried to stop the thought from forming, but it would not. Could perhaps she be trying to understand me, too?

Jon was not as foolish as Tyrion might believe. He knew quite well that he was not an easy man to understand. He grew up the outcast, used to scrutiny and ridicule. He'd developed a cold exterior and guarded observance over the past twenty-two years. What was it I'd been told by Maester Luwin? Bastards grow up quicker?

He was not the only one, he knew.

Words had died now, comfortably and naturally, like embers barely blazing underneath a pile of charred logs. Daenerys had a serene gaze in her eyes, but they were fixated on the sea, and on her dragons. Before long he found himself watching, too. The pair stood for a time. For the first time in a very long time, he felt content. He was not carefree, he was not without his worry and fear probing the back of his mind, and was not even necessarily happy, but he was tranquil.

He would remember this night. Rule from the North, he pleaded silently. Let your dragons melt the Winter snows, and I'll build you a throne out of the swords of the people who murdered Father. Who murdered Robb. Who tormented Sansa. Who tormented you. Jon bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. Or let me come with you to King's Landing. This time it will be safe for a Stark. You rule, and at the end of the day, you can find me in the Godswood.

But Jon knew in his heart it could never be. The cold winds would rise, and they would follow them all. Dragons, armies, wolves, and swords would not keep them safe forever. And everything must end.

"Thank you for, uh, inviting me." Jon cleared his throat.

"I believe you invited yourself," she retorted, though good naturedly. His dark thoughts subsided some at her light tone. She slipped his cloak off of her shoulders. He reached a hand out to take it, but she folded it up neatly first before giving it back to him. "Get some rest, Jon," she said quietly.

"You as well, Daenerys," he replied, dipping his head.

And then she was gone.

Jon traveled the quickest way he could to reach the hall in which he currently resided. Apart from Unsullied guards ever so often changing their positions, he was alone. It was only when he arrived back to his chambers did it dawn on him that he did not once ask her about the Night King.

Exhausted, he collapsed atop his furs. Jon fell asleep that night quicker than he had in months. The King in the North dreamt of the Godswood. The snow fell, though not as heavily as now. Wolves howled and ran towards the hills. Their paw prints vanished within minutes, covered by soft white flakes. Am I in Ghost? He could not reach his hands out, and he was low to the ground, yet he did not feel the bond that came so quickly when he was dreaming.

Twin roars shook the leaves. No, not the roars. Two dragons flew overhead. Their wide wings brushed the treetops. Wolves arched their heads and howled to the sky. Crows scattered in all directions. The world turned. Jon found himself flat on his back. Figures passed him left and right. His heart raced. Walkers?

He stood frantically. The figures were people, their skin sun browned. Daenerys's freed people. They pointed to the sky. Smiles appeared and cheers erupted.

The world shifted again. Jon was now soaring the skies. His wings were a deep onyx, with gray accents. The wolves below gathered among the people. To his right, a brilliant silver dragon dipped lower. Viserion? It was not. Jon followed his companion. This dragon was even smaller, and held clusters of purple scales.

They raced North together.

Thanks for reading! If you review, be kind, but be honest!

I've considered making this a four parter, with another Dany chapter set after 07x06, and Jon after 07x07, but I think this story is meant to be short and simple and filler.

Thank you for your patience, guys. I'll be back soon, I hope.

Valar Morghulis.