She heard him stirring behind her, and the dark clouds of her thoughts parted for the sound of his voice. "Daenerys?"

"I didn't know it was possible to be so cold." It wouldn't leave her. Even seated on the decking by the brazier, under the shelter of his enormous fur cloak, she felt it still.

"You get used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it." He sat before her, half-dressed in leathers, half-wrapped in woolen blankets. She wanted to get used to that; feared she already was.

"I'd rather you didn't have to. But none of us have the choice now."

"I know."

"Might help if you put some clothes on." There was a light in his eyes that lifted her spirits, knowing she'd struck the spark.

"I don't want to do that, either." She extended one leg out from under the cloak and onto his lap. He lifted it and moved toward her until they were nicely entangled, then lowered his head to kiss her bent knee.

"Stubborn."

"I'm stubborn?"

"Aye, you are," he declared, his hand upon her calf. "Why, d'you think I am?"

"Aye," she repeated, and won a laugh. She reached out and curled her fingers in his hair. "I like your smile, Jon Snow."

He covered her hand with his and turned his face into her palm. "It's yours."

They were two days out of Dragonstone, and the winds were not in their favor. She knew she should be wishing for speed, but selfishly she was grateful for this reprieve before they faced what awaited them at landfall. Men had offered her riches, and cities, and glory; now her heart was turning upside down for a smile.

"What were you thinking about?" His thumb stroked the tender skin of her wrist.

"Viserion." She closed her eyes tight. "I see him falling. I hear how he screamed."

"I'm so sorry."

"I know you are," she assured him gently. "You don't have to say it every time."

"I'm sorry you carry it with you that way, I mean. I know how that is."

"Pain endures," she said.

"It does," he agreed. "But we can't let it be the only thing that does."

She cocked her head at him. "And when did you become a poet?"

"Just yesterday, I think," and she laughed as he kissed her.

Her dark thoughts from earlier crept back, even in the sanctuary of his embrace. "It isn't only the grief. It's what it means for what's to come." She took a deep breath, and confessed, "I'm terrified we'll lose."

"That only means you're smart."

"You don't understand. I don't doubt myself. I can't."

"Doubting the outcome isn't doubting yourself." She started to argue, but he cut her off. "If it helps, I have faith in you. Absolutely. With plenty to spare."

She pressed her lips together and looked upward to refuse a tear, then said in mock annoyance, "That's almost more pressure, actually."

He put on a sober expression. "Beg pardon, Your Grace." She laughed and smoothed the counterfeit furrow from his brow.

"You're happy," she said with wonder.

"I am. Right now, I am." He inched closer to her, and she clasped her hands around his neck. "Mad, isn't it?"

She nodded slowly. "Very."

"Beric Dondarrion told me I'd have little joy in this life, because I belong to the Lord of Light now."

She rolled her eyes. "Hang the Lord of Light. You don't belong to anyone but yourself."

He wove one of her loose braids around his fingers. "I'm not sure that's true."

She captured his mouth, and he grasped her waist and drew her on top of him as he laid back onto the bare planks. They found a little joy in each other, the ship rolling and creaking under their bodies.

The winds turned, and they were to reach White Harbor the next day.

Daenerys paced the forecastle, gloves and cloak and hood, and still her skin stinging. She saw him approaching, every inch a lord, and smiled thinking of what had happened under that very cloak early that morning.

He stood beside her at the rail, and briefly placed his hand atop hers.

"I just spoke to Tyrion. He's in a strange mood."

"Hm."

"D'you think he knows?"

"Oh, I'm certain he does."

He frowned. "Is that a problem?"

"Everything's a problem," she grumbled, which made him smile despite the topic at hand. "I'll talk to him." After a few minutes of easy quiet, she said, "You'll be glad to see Winterfell again."

"I will. It's been too long." He turned to her. "I'll be glad for you to see it, too."

"Not nervous about my reception?"

"A little," he admitted. "But I want to show you my home."

"I'm glad you had that. A home, a family. I never did, not really. There was a house in Pentos, when I was a little girl, that may have been the closest, but I scarcely remember it. Once I hoped Dragonstone would feel like home, but then…"

"Dragonstone's grim," he said.

She laughed. "It is a bit severe, isn't it?"

"Winterfell's not grand," he said. "It's not splendid like they say about the Eyrie or Sunspear. But it's ancient; it's warm and it's strong. We'll have to hope that's enough."

She cast him a sidelong glance. "I'm sure it's very beautiful in its own way."

"The godswood," he nodded, too humble to catch her meaning, "that's beautiful." He turned toward her, put his hand over hers again, and rested it there this time. "Have you ever seen a weirwood tree?"

"No."

"The bark is smooth and pale as bone. The branches twisted. The leaves are blood red all year round." He let out a short laugh. "Sounds horrible, I know. It's not, though. When you stand under it... I don't know if any gods are there. But it's...peaceful."

"I'd like to see that," she said softly.

His gaze was weighted with something she could not name, and it thrilled her. "I'd like to show you."

"In the morning," she said, with a glance to the dimming horizon, "We're back at war."

"We are."

"You told me once that you'd go where you were needed."

"Aye, wherever you sent."

"Then come with me now." She took him by the hand. "The war isn't here tonight."