Chapter Text
Jon opened his eyes in the pitch dark room, having tossed and turned for what felt like hours, ghosts of a past life prodding his mind, pulling at him to join them in the abyss. Too many dead people haunted his days, despite his perpetual loneliness; all but one—the only one he would give anything to see again.
As the moons turned, the less clear her features became. Did he even remember the way her hair smelled? Or the shape of her lips? Or the way her skin felt against his thumb Soon he’d forget her face completely, and be left with mere memories of their shared moments… until he’d inevitably forget those too. Just as it had happened two moons prior, when he had woken up screaming her name, drenched in cold sweat, the air refusing to enter his lungs, dread creeping around his neck and squeezing and squeezing, as he realised that he had forgotten the sound of her voice. He had desperately tried and failed to remember it, hysterically going through their shared moments, phrases she had told him, confessions and soft words spoken on a ship heading North to what was to be the end of them. There was no mercy, and the gods most certainly wouldn’t allow him to remember how his name sounded from his beloved’s lips.
On a rare night he was blessed with flashes of silver hair glistening in the winter sun and violet eyes twinkling with adoration. He would drink it all in, like a man lost in the desert, parched and in desperate need of her love. However, nightmares were his constant companion—as rare and as little as he slept now; Drogon slowly tearing him apart limb for limb; his father admonishing him, calling him ‘kinslayer’ , ‘craven’ and ‘not my son’; his mother—who looked somewhere between her statue in the crypts and an older Arya—with angry tears running down her face, the lower part of her dress soaked with blood, accusing him of having killed her for naught, only so he could then kill another woman who loved him as much as she had.
Other times he would dream of a man who reminded him of her so much, it wasn’t hard to guess who it could be. He never spoke, he played his harp as tears endlessly ran down his face and blood dripped from a gaping hole in his chest, pooling around his feet. When the song would end, he’d look at Jon with such disappointment it burned his soul, Jon had to look away—his own father shaking his head at the shame he had brought upon him. Then he’d fall and choke on his own blood. At first Jon scrambled to his father’s dying form, hold him as he gave his last breath. But as the vision kept repeating, he’d eventually stopped doing anything but watch the scene over and over again as guilt and contrition ran through his entire body.
He deserved it all.
He was ready to die that day, regretting what he’d done as soon as he saw the disappointment reflected in her eyes. He had hoped Drogon would kill him, let him join her in death at least. To his dismay, the dragon spared him and took off with her body—gods know where. For months he had racked his brain for a reason, yet nothing seemed to explain Drogon’s somewhat deliberate choice. It was the question that consumed him during his time in the Red Keep’s dungeons and during the entire voyage to the Wall. The Wall—he was back where he started, isolated, alone, unloved and unwanted.
On the second night after his arrival he woke up screaming, the image of his lover with blood trickling from her nose and mouth still so clear in his mind, staring at him with eyes full of wrath; ‘you’ve destroyed us, Jon Snow’—that’s all she ever said to him now. He stood up from his bed and ran to the lift, the words replaying in his mind on a loop, her voice angrier the closer he got to the top of the Wall. He nearly jumped out of the lift before it reached the top and ran as fast as he could until he got to the collapsed part of it, right where Viserion had blasted a hole through it. The cold wind nipped at his exposed skin, his ears and nose already numb, tears freezing on his cheeks. The void called to him, with promises of joining her in the afterlife; he took a step closer to the edge, the snow already less firm under his boot, crunching as bits broke off and fell down, though he couldn’t hear them hit the ground.
It was foolish how he wanted to let go, let himself fall and join her, and he would have done it much sooner had he not known that there was nothing on the other side, but cold and darkness. He would never see her again; they would never be reunited. It hit him all at once and he finally thought he understood Drogon, for there was no greater punishment for him in the world than his survival, bearing the weight of his choices, living with the guilt of what he had done, being tormented by her for the rest of his days—however many awaited him. Death would have been a kindness—one he most certainly did not deserve. He turned and went back the same way he had come.
That night he made up his mind; he left behind all of his Stark belongings and went beyond the Wall, under the guise of leading the Free Folk back to their lands. He didn’t wander with them too long, for without realising, he was headed for the place that would become his refuge until the end of his days.
It was just him and Ghost now, even if Tormund would periodically drop in under the pretence of bringing him supplies—although Jon knew it was to make sure he was still alive. He did it more often in the beginning, but when Jon assured him that he won't fall on his own sword, the frequency of his visits dwindled. He had made the trek himself to the new Free Folk village a few times for supplies, though he avoided it as much as he could, as he didn’t feel like he was worthy of any company. Besides, he didn’t want to venture too close to the Wall and accidentally bump into someone from the Night’s Watch. None of his old brothers were there anymore, but Tormund had said that new people had started coming in and that the rest of the Free Folk were keeping their distance. Jon knew that his cousin planned on manning it, for the new King intended for it to be a jail for the worst men in the Six Kingdoms, and him—the worst of them all.
Jon sat up now, sure that sleep wouldn’t come at all, his usual restlessness acting up. He dragged his hand over his face, his fingers catching in his beard. He should probably trim it, except there was no point to it, just as there was no point in trimming his hair, now way past his shoulders.
Hard as he tried, he couldn’t deny the reason of his refreshed misery—in a few hours the sunrise would mark a full year since he betrayed the person he had loved the most in his entire life. He rested his head in his hands, ready to give up, but he knew the burden was his and only his to bear.
A screech he had thought long forgotten broke through the night’s deafening silence. Jon’s head shot up from the cradle of his hands, just as Ghost ran towards the cave’s entrance, hackles raised, ears up and alert. It couldn’t —there was no way. A quick flash broke through the dark sky, followed by thunder and a roar as mighty as the one he heard exactly a year ago. He was sure of it this time, so he scrambled to his feet, boots forgotten, no time to take anything with him, not even the cloak he usually wore.
Jon ran out into the chill of what was the last part of the hour of the wolf, when the first rays of the sun would have undoubtedly started to cut through the dark, had it not been for the black clouds enveloping the clearing Jon had claimed as his home. For a brief moment he thought it was his loneliness and regrets conjuring images of the past to help him cope or to further torture him—he did not know which one was the real reason. Light flashed, cutting the sky in two, basking all that could be seen in a harsh ethereal hue. In the distance, a shadow slowly fell to the still dry land. The boom that followed echoed between the mountains and mingled with the dragon’s mighty song.
Jon panted in relief; he broke into a jog towards where it landed, Ghost following closely behind, even if he could very well reach it before him. His heart was pounding in his ears, blood rushing through his sore limbs, the closer he got to the source of the sound. He was cut short in his tracks and almost stumbled when lightning flashed again against the black sky, revealing a small cloaked figure next to Drogon.
This was it—the moment Targaryen madness had finally come to claim him too. A sob broke past his lips in relief. There may be no afterlife, but maybe the curse responsible for his family’s demise would offer him the comfort death could never even begin to provide. The clouds boomed again, louder, closer, prompting Drogon to shake off the cloaked figure that had moved onto his back. It fell to the ground with a thump but got up quickly, approaching the stubborn dragon again. She looked almost real now that Jon was less than twenty feet away from them. He could finally hear her speak, the cloak billowing around her body, her words being carried all the way to his ears.
“Drōgon, kostilus. Skoriot emagon ao maghatan issa? ”
His heart lodged into his throat. Maybe the gods finally took mercy on him. A sob broke the night’s silence—if it was his he could not tell—and her hand froze on the dragon’s snout. Slowly—much too slowly—she turned her head. A myriad of small lightnings flashed across the sky and illuminated her face, revealing her big glossy violet eyes, framed by her furrowed brows.
He could barely see her anymore, the clouds too thick for any type of light but that of the steady beat of the increasing lightning to permeate, but gods—her presence felt so real, he could just sprint and pick her up to crush her body against his and have a taste of her lips. His vision blurred with so many unshed tears, he nearly fell to his knees, his guilt weighing on him more than ever. Neither dared move, frozen in place by the possibilities this unique moment offered.
Another bolt.
The wind knocked off the hood of her cloak and it fell around her shoulders, revealing dark short hair. He took her in, all of her. Why is she different? Why does she feel real? How—his legs moved seemingly out of their own volition, for next he knew he was standing so close to her he could hear her heavy breaths.
What sick trick were the gods playing on him? Jon reached his hand to touch her cheek—but she recoiled from it, taking a step back until she was flush against Drogon’s shoulder—the reality of the situation finally hit him, making it hard to breathe, to speak, to live. Had grief finally consumed him whole? Nonetheless, his sanity was a small price to pay for just one more moment with her.
“You came for me—" he managed, his voice a strangled whisper, his heart desperately pounding out of his chest.
She offered no reply, though Jon could hear a soft whimper—or maybe it was him again.
“I knew it was just a matter of time before madness claimed me too—”
“Madness?” her words cut through him like Valyrian steel. “If only,” she spat at him, and for the first time he doubted this was just a hallucination.
“I-I watched you die,” he shook his head, dread creeping up his spine.
This time he felt the rage in her voice when she spoke, “And now I will watch you .”
He didn’t move.
“Dracarys,” she loudly screamed, despite her voice breaking on the last syllable.
Resigned, Jon closed his eyes.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
She regretted it as soon as she said it, yet all she could see as she looked upon his face were the lies and betrayal as he lodged the blade into her heart. All she could feel was pain.
She held her breath as Drogon roared in his face—yet no flames came out. She breathed out in relief, hating herself for it, for how she couldn’t just be the ruthless murderer he was, for not being able to do what he had so easily done.
With another big roar, her son took to the skies again, disappearing in the dead of the night, leaving her behind.
She thought only hate and rage would come if she were to see him again. Yet her heart betrayed her, for when she realised it was truly him, she remembered all the happiness first. It was the damned smile he had on his face when he saw her; the sheer relief so apparent on his features as he recognised her. Dany bit the inside of her cheek and turned her head away, lest he saw the traitorous tears collecting in her eyes.
I don’t love you I don’t love you I don’t love you —she kept repeating to herself, a poor attempt at focusing on the bad feelings, though the more she said it the less she believed it.
“How—" the inevitable question came after a moment.
“Why—” she asked instead, the rest of the question too painful to continue. Anger was easier, so she chose to concentrate on it, maybe then she could forget she loved him still.
A drop of water clashed with her forehead, broke into droplets and slid over her face. A second, then a third drop hit her cheeks. From under her lashes, she stole a look at him, thankful for the darkness surrounding them. He eventually looked away from his feet and up to the stormy sky—soon the rain would start pouring.
“We should to go inside,” he declared solemnly, without moving.
Multiple lightning strips illuminated the sky, allowing her to see him—all of him; he looked different now, but so did she. He wasn’t her Jon Snow anymore, and neither was she the same Daenerys Targaryen. She looked away from him before he could catch her staring.
“The storm is coming. We can’t stay here.” He paused. “Follow me. Please.”
This was madness. Why should she willingly trap herself somewhere inside with him? Anxiety clawed at her neck, pressing on her chest, all her instincts screaming at her to flee, to not trust him again. She attempted one last time to call Drogon, begging him to come and take her as far away from him as possible. Yet no answer came. The sky boomed above her, her resolve dwindling like a candle flickering in the wind. What other choice did she have?
He had already turned on his heel and was slowly heading to shelter. Ghost stopped and turned to her, waiting for her to follow them. More rain drops hit her face, the air so thick with pressure it weighed on her very soul. Her feet started following them, despite her reluctance. She was just in need of shelter, that didn’t mean she had to trust him, right?
Every few steps Ghost stopped to make sure she was still following, his master walking a few steps ahead, in short calculated strides, fists clenched by his sides, his white tunic billowing in the violent wind.
They finally reached a hidden cave entrance that she would surely have missed it had she not been following him. Dany stopped in the threshold, wary of what he’d do next. She was not as defenceless as she once was, yet she wasn’t foolish to think that she could best him in a fight.
He must have read her thoughts—or maybe she voiced them, she couldn’t tell anymore, the night’s events surreal—for he went to the makeshift bed and collected Longclaw, then he stopped next to what looked like a cupboard and removed a blade hidden behind a plate. Her heart lodged in her throat, expecting the worst. Instead he went to place both blades in the corner farthest away from them.
“Please,” he took a step back and beckoned her inside, his grey eyes reminding her of a past life, in which the roles had been reversed, where he was asking a silent question and she was the one to push the door open in a silent answer. Yet all she could feel now was fear seeping slowly in her bones. She would not survive a second betrayal.
The clouds finally cracked above her and rain started steadily trickling down, the cold wind making her shiver. He kept staring at her with that tormented gaze; she swallowed thickly, wishing she could read his mind like she once felt she could. With a deep sigh, he turned and disappeared further into the cave; he came back with bread and salt and wordlessly put them on the table just by the entrance. Ghost pressed his nuzzle to her hand, giving it what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring lick. With no other choice, she held her breath and stepped over the threshold. It was just one night—a few hours at most.
Dany broke a small chunk of the bread, dipped it in some salt and brought it to her mouth. She pushed it down, her stomach churning as violently as the storm brewing outside.
Neither spoke for a few moments. He had given her space, retreating next to the bed, his gaze trained somewhere on the floor. Had she not dreamed of this moment for the past year? Had she not repeated in her head what she would tell him if they ever crossed paths again? Had she not wished him to suffer as much as she had? Yet any attempt at telling him any of what she felt was snuffed out in her throat like a candle.
“You can take the bed tonight.”
She should have laughed at that invitation for she rarely slept anymore. Dany was about to decline his offer when the rage she had repressed broke free from its bindings. It only took one simple phrase from his mouth.
“I won’t harm you. You have my word.”
Her head snapped in his direction. “As if vows have ever stopped you before.”
He paled even more—if that was possible—hurt clear on his face. Good. He should hurt.
He finally croaked, “My word meant something to you once.”
She could feel the blood boiling in her veins, all she had lost because of him and her buried resentment pushing to the surface. “So I thought.”
“I meant it when I said it. All of it.”
“Yes, and then you still broke your word,” she cut him short.
“Do you think it was easy? I had to live with what I've done," his face contorted in a pained grimace.
“So did I,” she screamed. “Oh but you didn't even think I could come back to haunt you." Venom laced her words now that she wasn’t holding back.
“Please—” he took a step closer.
“Don't,” Dany flinched, her hand instinctively going to the dagger she wore hidden at the back of her britches, its presence a small reassurance to her growing foreboding. “I had to live with what we've both done.”
He dared look taken aback by her words. As if he was the only one allowed to hurt.
“I never meant to h—”
“To murder me—you mean? We both know that's a lie.” She couldn’t stop the words spilling from her broken heart even if she wanted. “You striked to kill, not wound.” Dany sneered, “I wonder when you learned to lie so well. Was it after I had risked my life and my armies for Winterfell? Or was it when you first set foot on Dragonstone?”
He finally snarled at her, “That's unfair and you know it. I've always been truthful to you.”
“Right until the moment you tricked me and stabbed me in the heart.” He dared look hurt by what she said. “It is unlike you to hide behind semantics. Tell me, does it help you sleep better if you tell yourself you didn’t betray or lie to me?”
He didn’t dare refute what she’d come to believe.
She laughed bitterly. “It surely must work for Tyrion. After all, he’s always been the one to twist words as they served him best.”
He stepped closer to the table, looking annoyed with her. “I have betrayed you and not a moment passes that I don’t regret it.” He spoke so low she barely understood him, “I regretted it as soon as I did it.”
She shook her head, refusing to give in to the small voice that still yearned for him. No. He had killed her, the scar she now bore under her breast burning at the memory. “How long did you plan it?”
“It wasn’t—”
“Was it immediately after Sam told you about Rhaegar?”
“What?” he looked at her again.
“Was Sam the one to suggest it, then?”
He dragged his hand over his face.
“Tyrion too mayhaps? Because I am sure Varys had at least suggested it.”
He didn’t dare contradict her. His silence was enough of a confirmation.
“Of course,” she spat. “But you wouldn’t just pay attention to him… tell me, who was it that gave you the final push—Arya or Sansa?”
He turned to the table and looked away from her; she could see his jaw twitching, his hands grabbing firmly the edge of the wooden table.
Something between a sob and laugh broke past her lips. Traitors. All of them.
He finally spoke, his voice even but small, “I am s—”
“No,” she yelled. “You don’t get to apologise. None of you get to apologise.”
Dany felt herself spiralling, grief and hurt taking over what little control she had snapping at his defiance. If she were a dragon, she would have torn him apart limb for limb, as he begged for her forgiveness. Ghost moved between them, hackles raised.
He finally spoke, looking her in the eye, “You were my Queen. I had sworn myself to you and I failed you.”
“That’s all I was—always your queen,” she said with disgust. “Just your queen.”
“I—”
She couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Her eyes scanned the cave again; it almost looked like it had been lived in for quite some time. It finally dawned upon her what was amiss.
“Why aren’t you in King’s Landing? Don’t you have Seven Kingdoms to rule?”
He blinked at her numerous times. “What? Why—I was never made king. I told you I didn’t want it. I meant that.”
Ghost moved closer to her, and she immediately sunk her fingers in his soft fur, a comfort she allowed herself, just this once. Drogon would come back as soon as the storm passed and she would be as far away as possible from her old life. There was only sorrow for her here.
“You destroyed us. I wish our paths had never crossed,” she said full of hatred. She stared down at Ghost’s pristine fur, too craven to look him back in the eye.
The storm raged outside, a stark contrast to the deafening silence inside the cave. The turbulent wind started blowing rain past the threshold. She shivered. From the corner of her eye, she saw him move to the entrance, more shuffling and sounds of wood scraping on stone coming from behind her. The thunder and rain hitting the ground became just a muffled background noise. Neither moved for a long time, and she could still feel him behind her. The night’s events replayed in her head as she clung to every word he had said, trying to decipher some hidden meaning that probably did not exist in the first place. She had been cruel, albeit truthful, yet why did she not feel pleased to see him hurt? Why didn’t his torment relieve her of the guilt and hurt weighing her soul down? How could she feel guiltier today, having seen him broken and tormented? Wasn’t this what she had been telling herself she wanted?
A sharp inhale broke her concentration, her hand frozen over Ghost’s head. She knew that sound all too well; it was a sound that had accompanied her for many nights in the Temple of The Lord of Light. She swallowed thickly, too proud to take back the words that had wounded him so. It was the truth—wasn’t it?
He moved to the bed before she could decide what to say. She watched him as he grabbed some of the furs lining it and spread them out on the floor, as far away from the bed as the cave allowed him.
“You should get some rest,” he said, voice rough and small. He didn’t look at her, but collected more furs from a wooden chest and added them to the pile on the floor.
It was just a few hours, until the storm passed and her son came back for her. She could do this. Ghost went to his master and plopped on the floor next to his improvised bed. Dany took off her cape and draped it over a chair. She pulled each boot off her feet and neatly placed them next to the bed. He blew out the candles as soon as she was under the furs.
The storm seemed to dwindle after some time, Ghost’s soft snores filled the cave, a gentle lullaby; yet sleep did not come to her as easily these days.
“I am sorry,” he rasped.
The dam broke, tears running down her face in endless streams, her heart lodged in her throat, words that she could never utter again came to her mind. Outside the cave, the storm raged on again.