Chapter Text
“It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed.”
-Thomas Moore
DANY.
The first and most far-reaching fallout of the attack on Viserys was that Daenerys could no longer exit her chambers without being encased in a three-man-deep circle of guards.
The near-constant presence of so many others around her was cloying. It felt claustrophobic… and that was before taking into consideration her recent, increased interest in finding time for privacy with Jon.
It had been more than a week since their night together — it seemed unbelievable that she had gone from such a glowing high to such a catastrophic low in the course of just several days.
And yet, overnight, their time in her chambers had taken on a substantial, secondary importance. It had become the closest thing to a retreat that she had.
A necessary retreat at that, because the new system wasn’t just cloying… it was unsustainable. The palace guards had been stretched thin under their old regimen, and that was when increased protection for Daenerys served as their only extra responsibility.
But the attempt on her brother’s life had thrown into sharp relief that whoever was behind the attacks was not completely agnostic about other targets. That changed everything. With that knowledge in hand, Rhaegar had been forced to effectively create what she felt were closer to small armies for each family member than traditional guards.
Still, she could hardly fault her brother for his caution — the image of a bloodied Viserys unconscious while the maester pored over him was still seared into her mind’s eye.
Never before had she seen one of her brothers in danger; Rhaegar had taken the throne when she was just an infant. Her childhood had been filled with books and lessons and safety.
Warm summer winds and lemon cakes.
She had not been prepared. At last, she could understand what must have been the king’s perspective all along. The attempts on her had been frightening — terrorizing. But there was something unspeakable about seeing others be attacked. Something that made her feel powerless.
The blood in her veins felt as if it had frozen solid when Varys had alerted them to Viserys’s condition. It slogged through her, thick as mud, until she arrived at his chambers.
Daenerys had told Jon in that moment that it had gone too far, and she meant it.
The dragon inside of her yearned for vengeance. For justice.
It hadn’t come yet. Instead, her movements were stymied by more guards than she knew what to do with. How long were they expected to live like this, under a shroud of fear?
Even the newly recruited guards brought in after Ser Kevan’s death had been roped into the retinues. She wondered how long it would be before one of them made a critical mistake. With such limited time to train, she wasn’t sure she could blame them if they did.
These were the thoughts that consumed her in the days following her brother’s attack. They kept her up late into the evening — until Jon could steal into her chambers and distract her, fill her with the calm ease she no longer knew outside her walls.
Even he had been as on edge lately as she’d ever seen him. At night, warm in bed together, he was more calm. Loving.
But the rest of the time, his behavior reminded her of the day they’d gone into Flea Bottom, when Ser Kevan had been killed: strict and attentive. She wondered what went on inside his mind in such moments.
His lessons had changed. Jon had asked her to start keeping a knife on her person, determined that she drill with it — that she have access to a weapon if a sword was taken from her.
He had run her ragged the last few sessions, though admittedly to good effect. Dany had taken very well to the sleight-of-hand tricks he’d been demonstrating for her — how to access that knife in tight situations.
(In her opinion, she was getting rather good at it.)
Still, the intensity with which he trained her did sometimes put her ill at ease. Back in Flea Bottom, she’d considered his stoicism to be overdramatic. In retrospect, his feelings had been far more in tune with the threats against her.
Jon’s heightened caution now made her wonder if it was an error on her part that she not be equally as fervent.
That sense of unease had followed her through her day’s actions: her training, her meals, her visit to see Viserys. Her brother was still resting more often than not, though some of the worst of his bruising had begun to fade to a sickly yellow-green.
The sight of it still alarmed her, but the maester had insisted such a thing was normal.
But even knowing that her brother’s recovery was proceeding well wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until the evenings, when she could return to the peaceful sanctuary of her chambers, that she felt able to exhale.
That stillness would have to wait longer than usual this evening, however, because Daenerys had a guest: Tyrion had come calling, asking if she had time for a visit. Most unusually, he’d knocked on the door that joined her chambers with Jon’s.
“Anything for the Lord Hand,” she said as she stepped aside to allow him in. Privately, she felt relieved she hadn’t answered the door in something more revealing.
Jon followed Tyrion into the room, dressed in his day’s gear still.
“Evening, princess,” he said in that low brogue of his. She felt an invisible shudder down her spine.
Tyrion, meanwhile, had already settled into one of her chairs and filled a glass. Daenerys took the seat across from him, while Jon remained standing beside them.
“This is a surprise,” she said to the dwarf. “Guests don’t often come calling through the adjoining chamber door.” She arched an eyebrow for good measure, willing herself not to wink in Jon’s direction.
Tyrion tilted his head, eyes planted firmly on her own.
“When one faces an unpredictable enemy, one should never allow them to develop an understanding of your routines,” he said, unabashed.
“And you believe that entering my rooms through the side door is an action befitting of protocol?” she asked with an affected, haughty air. Her lips twitched as she fought down a grin.
“I believe protocol demands you have a guard present at all times when you are alone with someone,” he bantered back. “That includes me. As I find Ser Jon to be rather more tolerable than my other options, I thought I’d bring him along and save us the hassle.”
She could hear a small slip of breath from Jon’s mouth — a half snort. Tyrion had a knack for amusing — even able to crack through her knight’s stoicism.
“What shall we drink to, then?” Daenerys asked. “Your ingenuity against our enemies or Jon Snow’s tolerability?”
And now she had succeeded in wringing a grin from the man’s lips.
“As the king’s Hand,” he said solemnly, “it is my counsel that — for the sake of diplomacy — we must drink to both.”
***
They’d made short work of their first glasses. Now, Daenerys was nearing the end of her second and pacing herself. Tyrion, on the other hand, was nearly finished with his third.
It had been a long while since they’d spent time with each other. Dany was struck by the recognition that she had been sorely remiss in maintaining her relationship with him, but Tyrion did not seem half as bothered as she was.
He was grinning madly. For the last half hour, he had been cracking jokes so bawdy that the likes of them had almost certainly never been heard inside the Red Keep’s walls.
Daenerys could feel the weight of Jon’s gaze. His eyes followed every slight and subtle moment she made, from the press of the glass against her lips to the motion of her throat as she swallowed the Dornish red he’d poured from her carafe.
It was unsettling to have him so close but still be forced to keep a distance. In the light of day, surrounded by everyone, it was easier. But here, in her rooms, where she was so used to their intimacy, it felt stranger.
Especially while she was drinking… while she was having fun. It had been so long since someone had called on her for anything frivolous that Daenerys had almost forgotten the feeling.
She remembered it now. She tossed back the last dregs of her second glass and grabbed the carafe, turning to Jon.
“Are you sure you don’t want any, Ser?” she asked.
“Aye, princess,” he replied. “Not just yet.”
‘Spoilsport,’ she thought warmly. Though perhaps it was best to avoid both of them lowering their inhibitions when someone else was present.
Not that Tyrion seemed to care.
“You know,” he said, beginning a new tale, “I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel…”
But what mayhem had unfolded at the brothel would have to wait. At that precise moment, there was a quick rap on the door. She barely had time to look toward the source of the sound when she saw Jon move in her periphery.
She marveled once more at the speed with which he acted — his hand was at his sword and he had rearranged his legs into a stance he’d made her practice a thousand times. A fighting stance.
She was torn from her reverie as the door abruptly opened, revealing a dark-haired guard who Daenerys recognized as one of the new recruits.
The man looked from her to Tyrion to Jon, cheeks reddening. He froze suddenly, seeming embarrassed, or perhaps just lost for words.
“Yes?” she asked, brow raised.
“Princess, I apologize,” the guard said. “We heard voices but did not realize you had company.”
Beside her, Jon bristled, hand still on the pommel of his sword.
“And so you entered the princess’s chamber without so much as asking for permission?” he barked.
The guard hesitated as he turned toward Jon, his blue eyes fixing on her Northern man with the wariness of one who knew he was treading on dangerous ground.
In fairness to the guard, Jon looked rather ready to murder.
“We feared someone had broken in,” he said, gesturing toward the other guard who was standing beside him. “I apologize again, your highness. We just thought, after what happened to Prince Viserys…” he trailed off, averting his gaze toward the wall. The man was red-faced.
Daenerys held her hand up, waving off the rest of his words. Had she not thought just that very morning that there were bound to be mistakes?
“It’s fine. After all, it is better to be safe. I thank you both for your concern, but I need to continue my meeting with the Lord Hand,” she said. Her tone was polite, but cool. It left no room for confusion.
The hapless guard nodded jerkily again and mumbled a final “sorry” as he backed out of the room, the wood snapping into its frame behind him.
When the door finally closed, Jon — without a second of delay — strode across the room and bolted it. He was still glowering at the doorway when he returned to her side.
Tyrion, atypically, had abandoned his wine on the table before him. He, too, was boring a hole into the wood where the guard had exited, brow furrowed.
Daenerys stared at the men, bothered by their response. Jon, she supposed, she could understand. If she so much as sneezed, he would be beside her in an instant. It was Tyrion’s reaction that unnerved her.
“You seem unsettled, my lord,” she said tightly. “Do poor manners among the guards distress you so?”
Tyrion shook his head slowly. After a beat, he spoke: “Not their manners, no…” he said. “but Ser Jon is right. You have been the focus of the majority of these incidents. Having such amateurs outside your door is a mistake, even in shifts. They should not be able to walk in whenever they please. I shudder to think how much of a fool a man must be if he cannot tell the difference between a discussion and an attack.”
Unbidden, an image of Viserys laying injured in his bed came to her. Tyrion’s point was fair, but it did not feel to her like a stretch to imagine the immense pressure the guards must be under to let nothing else slide.
“They are new recruits, Lord Hand,” she said, keeping her tone even. “I’m sure they will learn swiftly how things are done here in the castle. And if all else should fail, Ser Jon is never far from my side. I’m sure he will be happy to instruct them.”
It took all her willpower not to glance at the man as she said it. Even still, she could imagine the faint flush that came to his cheeks whenever she spoke about him in public.
But Tyrion just nodded agreeably.
“It is not often I say this, but I admit I was wrong,” he said, turning toward Jon. “When Jaime told me he had suggested the king send for you, I must admit —”
Whatever he felt necessary to admit would have to wait. Daenerys’s eyes had widened at Tyrion’s words, but her reaction was nothing to her lover’s.
“Jaime Lannister suggested me?” he interrupted loudly. “Why would he do that?”
She chanced a look toward him; Jon’s gaze was fixed on the dwarf.
Tyrion looked at him appraisingly. “The reason he gave me was that he felt that any man who squired for Arthur Dayne should be an obvious choice.”
“The reason he gave you?” Daenerys asked. “An interesting way to phrase it, my lord.”
Tyrion’s gaze returned to her.
“I’ll admit, I found it bizarre. Sure, Jon Snow is a knight. But Jaime has never struck me as particularly eager to updraft the careers of bastards — even if they are Arthur Dayne’s nephew.”
She bristled at his use of the word ‘bastard,’ but Jon spoke before she could interject.
“Then why do you think he suggested me, my lord?”
Tyrion picked up his goblet and swirled the liquid inside it once, staring down into the cup.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll bet whoever is behind all this is mightily unhappy that he did.”
Daenerys took a hearty sip of her own wine, draining the remainder of her glass in one go.
“No talk of that tonight,” she said. “I’d like to enjoy an evening, for a change. But I do need to see my brother tomorrow, anyway. I’ll pass your thoughts about the guards on to him.”
***
As it turned out, Rhaegar also wanted to see her.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of a fist rapping smartly against the door. Jena’s voice called out to her.
Dany’s eyes shot open, sliding over first to the empty spot beside her where Jon had been. He always left the room silently, determined not to disturb her. It was touching in its own way, but it always made her sigh in disappointment.
How long had she now been in lessons with him? And still she had developed none of his stealth. For all of her progress, Daenerys was still a dragon. Bold. Present. Obvious.
There were few times in her life she had gone unseen. Absently, she noted that there would be fewer still going forward. None, when she became queen.
She pushed away the thought. Once she’d verified that he was gone — and there was nothing left behind to give him away, sans the slightest of indentations on the pillow where he’d lain — she called back to allow the handmaiden in.
Jena bustled in promptly, her brown hair tucked behind her ears as always.
“Good morning, princess,” she said with a small smile.
Daenerys felt a pang in her chest; she had been so consumed with Jon’s proximity that she’d spared little thought to how the upheaval may have impacted the girl in front of her.
She settled into her chair as Jena began to brush through her hair. Not so many moments later, she felt compelled to speak.
“How are you, Jena?” she asked. “I should have asked sooner. These moons must have been trying for you.”
The girl’s hand stilled. In the reflection, Daenerys could see her face tighten — a sharp nod.
“They have not been the kindest, your highness,” she said. “Ser Kevan was a friend, and I worry that others I know may be injured… And I, well, I worry for you.”
Her heart felt like it had been squeezed. There was a hard lump in her throat. This was worse than Tyrion’s wariness in her chambers — far worse, because the Lannister man was at least used to hardship. Her handmaiden was a gentle girl; she wasn’t.
Daenerys reached up over her own shoulder and cupped the girl’s hand. She turned, meeting her eyes directly.
“I’m sorry I have not been here for you in recent weeks,” she said.
“No—” Jena interrupted, but Daenerys did not want her absolution. She could never be this careless when she took the throne; she could never forget the needs of those around her.
“Please, Jena,” she cut back, “do not make excuses for me. Your fear is warranted, and my absence was not. I have been wrapped up in my own affairs, but I’m not the only one impacted. If there is anything I can do for you, tell me.”
There was silence for a moment, and then the girl’s face softened.
“Thank you, princess,” she said quietly. “Your concern is touching.” The silence that followed was more comfortable. Jena did not speak again until she was done.
“Your brother is asking to see you after you break your fast,” she said as she exited. The woman’s shoulders were less tense, but her brow was still lined with worry.
As she made her way to the door and out toward her brother’s — the requisite guards flanking her — Daenerys wondered if she had done what she meant to.
It would be impossible to say for now.
She made her way through the castle, lost in her own thoughts. It was a rare morning off for Jon before their lesson that afternoon, and she was flanked by six soldiers — four of whom she knew. What an odd change this was from her norms. Until recently, Dany had never spent so much time in the company of strangers.
Objectively, she understood why, but it was an odd feeling. She found herself relieved when she rounded the corner and saw the familiar doors of her brother’s chambers come into view.
She nodded at the Kingsguard as she passed, entering to the increasingly familiar sight of her brother mulling the flames in his fireplace.
A stray thought entered her mind: she wondered if Rhaegar had ever tried to touch the flames. Wondered if his skin would stay smooth and soft like her own, or if it would warp and welt like Viserys’s had.
“I’ve become a man of simple tastes,” he said in greeting. “I take joy now from something as simple as seeing you well and whole.”
She crossed the room and hugged him. Daenerys felt like she was a small girl again.
“How are you, brother?” she asked.
“I’ve been better before than I am today,” he said. “The attack on your brother has been weighing on me.”
“How did they even get to him?” Her voice was full of frustration.
Rhaegar shook his head.
“I got complacent,” he said. “I thought it was targeted at you specifically.”
Daenerys swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to move away from this subject.
“Can I ask you something?” she said quietly.
“Of course,” he replied.
“Do you ever regret it?” she asked, and her voice was so small that it was almost a whisper. “Choosing Westeros instead of Lyanna?”
Rhaegar turned sharply toward her. He stared so hard that his eyes seemed to burn through her. But he was silent.
Pondering.
“The Seven Kingdoms needed a ruler, and there was no other option,” he finally said. “I would do the same again, but yes. I regret it.”
Daenerys had not expected him to answer; and even if he had, she had not expected that response.
“How can you regret something if you’d do it again?” she asked, curious.
Her brother sighed. “What one wants and what one must do are not always the same. I led the soldiers against our father. I was heir to the throne. It was my duty to become king after his death. But duty doesn’t bring me joy. Nor love.”
Jon’s face swam in her mind — but still, she wondered: What was it that made it so impossible to have both? Lyanna Stark had never wanted a crown. She didn’t really know if Lyanna’s nephew had different feelings on this matter.
“Anyway,” he said, “I asked for you for a reason related to this. I want to discuss again with you the prospect of my abdication. To see if you have thought on what I said at all.”
Daenerys bit her lip in a most unladylike manner.
“I have thought about what you offered me,” she said finally. “I’ve thought about it a great deal. I don’t want to disappoint you, Rhaegar,” she said. Her voice was soft. “But I do believe I could make a good queen.”
A small smile filled his face; his shoulders relaxed a fraction. Emboldened, she continued.
“And you said it, too,” she added, “you said that you believe I would make a good queen.”
He stared at her openly. “I do believe that. I would never have asked you to take the throne if I felt otherwise.”
Daenerys pushed ahead: “Then why do you keep lying to me? How can I be a good queen if I am not even trusted with the truth?”
Her brother’s face crinkled into something offended. It was rare to see plain frustration on his face — at least directed at her.
“When have I lied to you, sister?”
She crossed her arms, squaring toward him. “The cat? The worst of the threatening letters? If you didn’t lie, then you’ve certainly omitted.”
Rhaegar’s lips pursed, but his cheeks reddened the slightest bit.
“I see not every man in this castle heeds his king’s commands,” he said tightly. “Who was it?”
Now it was Daenerys’s turn to narrow her eyes.
“You cannot be angry at Ser Jon over this,” she bit back. “He’s charged with my security, and yet had no idea I had not been informed about additional threats. He only thought to ask if I was well, ‘considering,’ and I had to play as if I knew what he meant. I looked like a foolish maiden.”
Rhaegar still wore his irritation. He huffed again, but at last his posture relaxed and he tilted his head to the side. “I do believe in you,” he said finally. “And if you are to be queen, then I suppose suppressing the urge to conceal the worst of things is an adjustment I’ll have to get used to.”
Rhaegar was quiet for a beat before adding, “You must remember that you’re still my little sister, Dany. I want to protect you.”
She softened.
“You can’t protect me by keeping me in the dark,” she said quietly. “All that does is make me more vulnerable. I’ll be more likely to make the wrong choices if I don’t know what I’m up against.”
He conceded the point and gestured her over to a small table, where he had laid out a series of books and scrolls. He pointed out one with a jagged, unpracticed scrawl on it.
“Some of Varys’s little birds have been helping us gather information. Right now, the more reliable information seems to suggest that whoever orchestrated these attempts on our family used an Essosi sellsword group called the Second Sons.”
Something about it didn’t quite sit right with her. “From Essos?” she asked. “But who has enough clout with an Essosi sellsword group to merit such a dangerous deal?”
Rhaegar nodded toward her sharply.
“Exactly. Sellswords are… they’re brash, but they’re not foolish. The price for an attack on a member of our family would be substantial, because the risk is high, you see?”
Despite the sobering nature of their conversation, Daenerys could not stop herself from preening a bit under her brother’s approval. Rhaegar had always treated her like she was intelligent — not like a bartering chip. Hearing him do it again now thawed some of the frustration she had at having been left in the dark earlier.
“Why not the Golden Company?” she asked. “Surely if someone was going to such lengths, they would seek out the most prominent?”
“Why not, indeed? But they are also the most expensive, and there are not many in Westeros who could afford their services for such a contract. The suspect list would be rather short. The Second Sons, on the other hand, are cheaper and therefore harder to estimate how many have the resources.”
It was sensible. Unfortunately, it narrowed down very little. There was no way to know if they’d hired the Second Sons because they were less costly or because they wanted to mask their own identity. Her lips pursed.
“Could whoever hired them have borrowed from the Iron Bank?” she asked.
Rhaegar’s stare could pierce armor; not for the first time, she wondered what toll this was taking on her brother.
“They have denied it, but it’s possible,” he conceded.
Dany looked at him appraisingly. “You’re bothered by something, though?” she asked. “I can see it on your face.”
Rhaegar nodded. “I am,” he said. He continued: “I think that it is safe to say whoever hired the Second Sons must have more than funds — they must have credibility. They’re called sellswords for a reason, but most aren’t foolish enough to take a job like this without some guarantee…”
Her brother was right; she was certain of it.
To take a contract against a member of the royal family — to kidnap the last Targaryen woman — it was a mighty gamble.
The Seven Kingdoms, after all, were united. No would-be usurper could claim to match the manpower at their disposal. One sellsword group would be useless against so many others.
No. Whoever was backing this had convinced them that they had power.
They spoke for a bit longer before time caught up to them. He could not shut himself away all afternoon, of course. But as she stood, Rhaegar spoke again.
“I would like to make an announcement soon to the Small Council about my plans,” he said. “I have no plans to leave until this plot is uncovered, but I imagine this turn of events will take some… getting used to for some of them.”
Daenerys felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. How quickly this had become so real.
“But what of Viserys?” she asked, gaping. “He’s still recovering.”
“What of him?” Rhaegar asked, his harsh words at odds with his tone. Her brother seemed almost resigned, as if he’d had this conversation many times. She supposed it was possible — probable, even — that he had talked through this very thing with himself.
“Won’t he be furious when he learns?” she pressed anyway. “He’s… well, he’s only barely leaving his bed. I worry about setting him back.”
The king looked at her appraisingly.
“I’m certain he will be furious,” Rhaegar said. “But Viserys has made too many mistakes. I see no other path forward. How could I hand the Seven Kingdoms to someone with his temperament? Besides… he will hardly be a pauper. Dragonstone will be his.”
She grimaced. They both knew her brother would not be satisfied with a keep when he’d dreamed his whole life of kingdoms.
Still, she nodded. Until her ascension, this was her brother’s decision to make. She would need to warn Jon… and then she started, realizing she had almost forgotten why she came.
“By the way,” she said, “Lord Tyrion and Ser Jon have some concerns about the newer guards stationed near my chambers.”
Rhaegar stiffened, his face turning back toward her sharply.
“Has something happened?” he asked. A pulse clicked through his jaw. Occasionally, she could see the dragon in her brother’s gaze. Times like now.
Daenerys gestured lazily, hoping to calm his ire. Rhaegar already had more than enough on his plate without adding pointless personnel matters.
“Nothing dreadful. There was a miscommunication, and they were not informed that I was expecting Tyrion for a visit. When they heard noises inside my rooms, they thought it was another attack and barged in. I’m fine, brother. Truly. I rather think that Ser Jon simply dislikes when others lack professionalism.”
That was a stretch, she knew. But her brother didn’t seem phased by her flimsy explanation. His frown remained in place — unsatisfied. That was no true surprise. Rhaegar looked like that most of the time these days.
“He’s right to,” her brother replied. “And would that I could go back to the days where the men we had were enough to suffice. But the guard was already stretched thin.” He sighed again. “We will make do with them for the time being, but I will see to it that they receive some additional training.”
She nodded and made her way toward the exit.
“Dany,” he called out as she reached the door. She stilled.
“Yes?” she asked lightly.
“Are you satisfied with Ser Jon? I should’ve asked you sooner — before I ordered you to be in such close proximity with him, but I’m afraid I’ve been brash recently.”
She did her best not to flush at the words. “Yes, of course. He’s a great man,” she said. “I… I’m lucky to have him here. As my instructor.”
Instantly, she wanted to pull the words back, certain that they were far too obvious. But her brother’s face relaxed, relieved.
“Good. At least I’ve done one thing to protect you the proper way.”
It was the youngest she’d seen his face look in what felt like one thousand years.
She finally departed, pushing down the awkward feeling that had risen in her, the reflexive blush when her brother had asked if Jon satisfied her.
Gods, did he.
But it was more than just the physical element. She felt the impact Jon had on her emotions viscerally. Daenerys didn’t like to dwell on what it had been like before him; the part of her life without his presence felt cold in all her memories of it. It felt lonely.
When had she had another to trust as she did him? Someone who was not part of her family? She couldn’t recall a time like that. Daenerys had been raised on the heels of a rebellion — had become the last Targaryen woman when she was mere minutes old.
She had told Jon the truth that night she’d brought wine to his room. She was selfish. She coveted what she loved, and now he was part of that list.
As she made her way back through the castle, she found herself wandering listlessly in the direction of her other brother’s rooms.
Daenerys rather wanted to speak with him again before the news broke of Rhaegar’s decision — she was quite sure Viserys would be furious with her for some time afterward.
But when she arrived, she saw the door was ajar. She glanced at her brother’s guards curiously, but one of them tilted his head quietly toward the inside.
Peering through the doorway, she could see that Viserys had company.
It was Sansa, bustling back toward his bed with a freshly damp cloth. The redhead took the seat beside Viserys, leaning over to tend to his face.
With an audible wince and groan, her brother lifted his hand to brush Sansa’s hair back.
It felt like an intensely private moment, a sort of intimacy that made her feel guilty to witness.
Quietly, she backed out of the doorway. She could come back to see Viserys later, but interrupting them now felt gauche.
On the whole, Daenerys was still uncertain what her feelings were toward the Stark girl. In many ways, Sansa posed an existential threat to her. They had never really been close — not like two women of their age should. And then there was Viserys.
When Dany first learned that her brother wanted to wed the girl, she’d been surprised. The North was said to be harder and more wild. No prim Southern girls there to marry the crown prince. But Sansa had proved uniquely capable of calming her more volatile sibling.
Even Daenerys, after a whole lifetime together, had never mastered the art of calming her brother’s ire.
Now, seeing them together, she could not stop her stomach from twisting unpleasantly. It was obvious that the girl truly loved Viserys, and yet… their match would complicate so much.
Rhaegar had already set aside Elia. Grudgingly, she could see the king’s point on this matter. The Dornish would almost certainly take offense if the crown prince selected a Northern bride — Arianne Martell was young and unwed.
It was an argument that someone would likely make against her own choice — but for the saving grace that her lover wasn’t just a Northerner.
Jon, at least, was half Dornish. The only son of one of their late, beloved noblewomen. The nephew of their greatest swordsman. And Dorne did not hold the same view of bastards that most of the Seven Kingdoms did.
She repeated those thoughts in her mind like a mantra as she went about her day. Those words filled her with a fragile calm.
It wasn’t the same thing as Sansa and Viserys. It wasn’t.
***
It was later than usual when she was finally able to retire to her chambers. Her lesson that day had not been too taxing. Jon had spent their time focusing on close-range self-defense, and she’d relished the day off from lifting a sword. (Though she had undoubtedly grown stronger over time, she knew enough now to accept that she was not the ideal build for combat.)
But she had paid dearly for the easier lesson; Pycelle had chosen that afternoon to talk her to death once more. The grand maester had been regularly — and increasingly unsubtly — attempting to impress upon her how untoward her sleeping arrangements were now that Jon’s chamber connected with her own.
Daenerys flatly refused to do what she knew he hoped she would: agree with him, giving him ammunition to approach her brother once more. But her feigned ignorance in each of these conversations meant he was getting more and more unbearable about the whole matter.
She sighed as she crossed her room, doing a double-take as she realized the box where she stored her notes was not where she thought she’d left it.
There was a sudden drop in her stomach as she opened it, rifling through her papers anxiously. She only exhaled when she confirmed for the second time that everything that was supposed to be in the box was.
Paranoid. She was getting far too paranoid.
But still… she pulled out the notes where she’d jotted her list of suspects.
It felt like it had been a lifetime since she’d first written it. The names started to blur in front of her as she glanced down.
She felt futility in earnest at that moment — at how little new information had come to light since she first wrote her suspects’ names. She seemed no closer today to unraveling their identities than ever before.
The new details from Rhaegar, which she’d been so eager to hear, had done little to narrow the suspects.
Frustrated, she crumpled the note in her hand, shoving it back into the box.
It wasn’t until Jon knocked to steal inside for their nightly ritual that she picked herself up from the floor.
She tossed her clothing to the side and dropped herself onto her bed, gesturing beside her.
“Lay with me?” she asked, exhausted by her own emotions. He obliged, climbing in beside her and pulling her into his chest.
For a few minutes, they laid in silence. The only sounds in the room were the crackling logs and the soft exhales of their own breath. It should’ve been peaceful, but tonight, she felt on edge over everything that had happened. It occurred to her that she had not shared much lately with him in the way of her theories.
“Jon?” she asked, breaking the silence. “How hard do you think it would be to contact a sellsword company discreetly?”
He stiffened behind her. “Sellswords?” he asked. “I’m not sure. Depends which one, I suppose. I imagine if you’ve got a fair bit of coin, they’ll make themselves available. But sellswords aren’t the answer, Dany,” he said. “Most of them follow through once they’re contracted, but in the end, men like that are only loyal to their own interests. There’s no honor there. It’s not worth hiring men like that.”
He had misunderstood — not that she could blame him. Daenerys could see how he’d taken her curiosity as a potential plan. But she had no interest in lining the halls of the Red Keep with even more strangers.
There were already enough. She shoved down the pang she felt as she thought of Ser Kevan.
“I don’t want to hire them myself,” she clarified. “I’m just trying to figure out if it can be done — how hard it would be.”
“Why do you ask?” he replied.
She looked toward the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames. “My brother says they think it’s the Second Sons involved — not the Golden Company. But they’re a smaller group… I feel like I’m missing something. Why would they take a contract against the Iron Throne? Rhaegar is not a weak king, and they had to realize there was at least a chance we would discover their involvement. It just seems… I don’t know,” she trailed off.
Jon’s face was contemplative. For a beat or two, he remained silent. Finally, he gave his own theory: “Maybe that’s why,” he said, “because they’re smaller. It might raise their profile. If they succeeded.” His voice was tight by the end of the sentence.
“Rhaegar thinks the contract would have needed to come from someone powerful, to give them an assurance that the risk is not too great,” she said as she turned to face him.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Aye, I suppose that makes sense. It’s not as if they would side with some farmer over the king of Westeros.”
Jon’s brow furrowed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothin’,” he said. “I was just thinking whoever hired them must know their way around Essos.”
She blinked, confused. “You think the person behind this is Essosi?”
“No,” he clarified. “But whoever is must’ve hired someone over there to serve as an emissary to the sellswords. It’s not the type of plan you’d want to write down, is it?”
It was not.
And Jon’s words made sense — particularly in light of Rhaegar’s warnings about the risk. This emissary would need to be discreet. It was not as if the Second Sons would take a contract against the man who sits on the Iron Throne because of the words of some dockhand hired for the day.
“But who?” she asked aloud to herself.
He was frowning, but remained silent.
Slowly, her eyes grew heavy. Having Jon’s weight settled in next to her was comforting. His presence was as warm and soft as a thousand furs or featherbeds.
His chest was firm, with naught but hard muscle against her back.
As she curled back into him, she wondered for the thousandth time how she had ever lived a day without him by her side.
“I love you, Dany,” he muttered against her ear. It was a balm, and she realized she’d been squeezing his hand far too tightly.
“I love you,” she said simply in return. She pulled his arm around her chest.
Daenerys tried not to think of the fact that he would be gone before she woke — focusing instead on the comforting reminder that once she was queen, no one would ever again dare to tear him from her side.