Chapter Text
The best protection any woman can have is courage.
- JON -
There are only a few ways that a bastard can make something of himself in the eyes of the realm. He can join the Night’s Watch, where all men forsake their titles and rise up in the ranks on merit. He can be legitimized by the king (and possibly inherit a title, if he’s a bastard of noble birth). Or he can become a knight, if he’s ambitious and worthy enough.
If he’s lucky enough.
Jon Snow had been ambitious and worthy. He had been lucky.
He was rewarded.
The ‘Ser’ that now came before his name had provided him with some respect — the honor and duty of being a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. And those duties were plentiful.
But while Jon generally met his responsibilities with vigor, his newest assignment was an outlier. There was possibly nothing he wanted to do less than to move to King’s Landing to teach a princess how to wave around a sword.
But what choice did he have? A fool’s only.
A raven had arrived that morning; its message brought to him as he broke his fast at his lady aunt’s home:
Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, requests the presence of Ser Jon Snow at King’s Landing with haste, for the purpose of training the Princess of Dragonstone in the arts of self-defense and combat.
‘Requests his presence.’ As if he could refuse a summons from the king.
It was just a few weeks prior that the Seven Kingdoms had been shaken by news from the capital: Daenerys Targaryen, third-in-line for the Iron Throne, had been abducted from her castle on Dragonstone. The stories of her miraculous escape — shaken but otherwise unharmed, having fled her captors on foot — had grown more and more ridiculous by the day.
Jon had heard the men talk at the local inn, sloshing their ale and beating their chests. Theories ranged from the princess seducing her captors to her hatching a dragon egg and burning them alive.
Every man’s source was “I’ve heard tell.” No one was entirely certain where the rumors were coming from, and the royal family hadn't said a word beyond their announcement that the youngest Targaryen had returned home.
Regardless, it was clear that the incident had prompted a reconsideration of her safety. From an observer’s point of view, Jon thought it made sense. While he’d never met the princess, most accounts suggested she was vivacious, kind and extraordinarily beautiful.
If one believed the ways the bards sang of her, she was otherworldly.
He wasn’t entirely sure about that. Jon had seen his share of beautiful women, but even the most alluring of them had not floored him. Robb and Theon had mocked him for it when they were younger: that no woman was good enough for Jon Snow, the bastard.
His hand twitched reflexively at the old insult.
Beautiful or not, Daenerys Targaryen was one of King Rhaegar’s two remaining family members, and anyone seeking leverage over him would certainly be interested in her.
But that was really where the heart of the problem lay, because while Jon believed wholeheartedly that a woman could become more than capable of combat with proper instruction, Daenerys was no ordinary woman. She was a princess.
It was highly unlikely she’d trained a day in her life. It could take weeks for her to pick up even the simplest of moves, and that was riding on the assumption that she could lift and swing a sword. And beside that, there was nothing he could teach her that would be enough to overcome an organized group of mercenaries if the palace guards weren’t enough to stop them.
It was an assignment Jon knew he could not truly complete, and that rankled him.
But none of it mattered in light of the summons. He had been ordered to the Red Keep, and he would go. A note like this could not be ignored, especially considering its unusual postscript. Unlike the elegant loops of the official order, the bottom was messy — hastily scrawled.
Should the opportunity present itself, please pass on King Rhaegar’s best wishes to the Lady Lyanna Stark.
Rhaegar and Lyanna. A love that might have destroyed the realm, if not for timing.
After Rhaegar crowned Lyanna as his Queen of Love and Beauty at the Tourney of Harrenhal, his aunt’s betrothed had erupted. Furious at the slight, jealous of Lyanna’s affections, Robert Baratheon staged an attack on the dragon prince.
Rhaegar had been injured, but not grievously. Unfortunately, the Mad King didn’t see it that way. He had Robert executed; and for good measure, killed Lyanna’s father and oldest brother — convinced she’d helped plan the attempt on Rhaegar’s life.
The deaths of Brandon and Rickard Stark had been the last straw for many of the lords across the continent. They’d rebelled. But with his people openly opposing him, Aerys’s madness escalated higher than ever before. His own wife fled to Dragonstone in the night, one child in tow and heavily pregnant with the future princess.
Not long after, it became clear that Rhaegar was leading the opposing forces. Aerys’s rage had been so terrible that he had his son’s wife and children executed.
Only then did he order Jaime Lannister to burn King’s Landing to ash and dust.
Kingslayer, people still called him. To break an oath was taboo — antithetical to knighthood… but Jon had wondered more than once what kind of man wouldn’t have done the same in his shoes.
King Rhaegar’s ascension had been tense. At first, the smallfolk feared he would turn out to be his father’s son in both body and mind. That fear was unfounded. Rhaegar did his best to repair the damage his father had done and to rule the Seven Kingdoms fairly.
He walked among the people — personally helped rebuild their homes.
It was said that he spent his free time brooding, tormented by the deaths of his family.
And Lyanna? She lived in Dorne now.
Their love affair had been the final spark that lit the rebellion aflame; but when the battles were won, the two had separated. She’d refused to return to Winterfell after the war, much to the the North’s collective shock.
It was still whispered about, even now. But Jon had long since abandoned his childhood interest in discovering why the two never married.
His father, Ned Stark, was a stern man — but not a cold one. Despite his bastard status, his father had never made him feel like a disappointment. That is, until the night he’d overheard Jon and his brother Robb speculating snidely about Rhaegar and Lyanna’s relationship.
They’d been boys still. Two and ten, at most.
A chuckle. A smirk. A could’ve-been-queen. Ned had come to the yard to check on them and overheard the tail-end of the conversation. Jon still remembered how he had looked back and forth between the two of them furiously, entire face a storm, as though he was trying to pinpoint exactly whose fault it was the discussion had occurred.
The frost in his voice as he reprimanded them had crawled through Jon’s veins for months.
But now Jon was curious once more.
He’d been in Dorne to visit his late mother’s sister, Lady Allyria Dayne. But his paternal aunt lived close enough to take a short detour before making his way to the capital, and something told Jon that any information he could gather would be helpful in the snake pit of King’s Landing.
He rode his stallion hard and managed to arrive at Lyanna’s home less than a full day’s ride later.
Lyanna Stark came before him in soft looking pair of trousers and a fitted jerkin — dark hair long and loose. She had the grey eyes of her forebears, but her skin was tanned from time in the sun, darker than any of her Northern relatives.
She lived by herself, much to her brothers’ consternation, but it seemed to suit her fine. And she'd been delighted to see him, considering he’d not sent word that he was traveling her way. In her warm embrace , he felt the familiar twinge in his heart that always came with seeing her.
His aunt had always been fond of him — much more fond than his father’s lady wife was and much more open with affection than his own father.
When he was very small, after one of her visits to Winterfell, Jon had wondered why she couldn’t take him back to Dorne with her. He’d thought that maybe, just maybe, she would treat him like a real son, having no children of her own to compare him to.
“Aunt Lyanna,” he said as he stepped back. “Sorry I didn’t write ahead — I received a pressing summons and thought I’d stop by before I leave Dorne.”
She was still beaming at him.
“I’m happy for your company even when it comes without a raven, Jon,” she replied. “Come in!”
His aunt cooed over him, how tall and strong he’d become. How proud she still was of him for being knighted.
He felt red in the face — unused to the praise.
But then Lyanna ushered him through her home, and soon they were seated comfortably.
When they were situated and she’d brought out a jug of wine, she finally asked: “What did they call you away for?”
He steeled himself —
“I’ve been summoned by King Rhaegar to teach his sister how to defend herself.”
Lyanna’s entire body visibly shifted as he said Rhaegar’s name, shoulders stiffened, eyes alert. She was silent for a moment, but when she spoke, it sounded careful.
“Has there been more news? I heard the princess had returned safely.”
Jon couldn’t do much more than shrug. He could see her lips press tighter together.
“Not that I’ve been told. The raven was brief. Just said that my presence was requested in King’s Landing to teach Princess Daenerys combat.”
She cocked her head at that, seeming unsurprised. But Jon knew he couldn’t delay Rhaegar’s additional message any longer — especially not to analyze her behavior.
“There was another thing,” he said softly. “The king asked that his best wishes be passed on to you, if there was time.”
Lyanna Stark had always been a bit of an anomaly in the family. She wasn’t reserved, like so many of the Northerners. She wore her emotions plainly.
Jon had expected her to be sad.
He hadn’t expected her soft grin.
“Of course he did, the oaf,” she said gently, and he was struck by the fact that his tougher-than-nails aunt looked a bit like a schoolgirl. “Did he write it himself?” she asked.
He fished the scroll from the folds where he kept it.
“Not sure what his handwriting looks like,” he said, passing it over to her.
She took it gently, looking across the words hungrily. Her fingers traced the postscript.
“He did,” she said finally. “That’s his writing below.”
Jon could feel questions rising in his throat — rude questions, inappropriate ones. He wanted to ask her why she’d left after the war, all the things he’d wondered as a boy. Desperate to suppress that urge, he changed the subject back.
“I’ve never met the princess,” he said suddenly. “I don’t know what he wants me to train her for. She’s not a warrior. If her guards aren’t enough, I doubt my lessons will be.”
“All Targaryens are warriors; it’s in their blood,” she replied. “And Rhaegar has long since learned that a motivated woman can fight off even a group of men.”
She smiled slyly at her own words, and Jon’s traitorous voice spoke without his permission.
“What do you mean?”
She didn’t falter at all.
“Never you mind,” she grinned.
He’d often felt like there was a puzzle piece missing from the stories of the war, but he’d never felt it more than he did in this moment.
He tried to contain the question — to swallow it back down — but he was too curious.
“Why didn’t you return to Winterfell?” he asked. “After the rebellion ended — when you didn't go to King's Landing. No one ever said.”
Lyanna stilled. She seemed surprised, tilting her head at him.
She measured her answer, as though she’d never actually been asked that question before.
“Dorne is… freer,” she told him slowly. “I didn’t want to be a lady. I never have. Here, I can just be myself.”
He considered her words. He’d been told his half-sister Arya took after Lyanna. He'd never truly seen it before, but it was plain now.
Lyanna stood, moving to stare out the open window. She didn’t seem to mind that he hadn’t responded yet.
“People forget that I never wanted to marry Robert,” she continued. He felt his eyebrows raise. “It wasn’t just that I loved Rhaegar. I didn’t want to marry Robert. He was boorish. Vulgar. And my entire family pushed me toward him like a piece of cattle. I begged my father not to betroth me to him. I cried. Begged my brothers to intercede. They all insisted that Robert loved me. But I knew he didn’t, and I didn’t love him. How could I return home after that?"
There was a cold pit in his stomach.
His aunt’s hair blew in the gentle breeze as it wafted into her home. She seemed lost in thought, but Jon just felt lost. He’d viewed the Starks as good and honorable his entire life, viewed himself as his father’s lone blemish.
And yet…
What honor was there in forcing a woman to take a husband she didn’t want?
“I’m sorry,” he said gently, and she turned to face him, surprised. “They shouldn’t have tried to force you to marry him, even if no one could’ve known what would come of it.”
Her face softened; and for a moment, she looked as young as him.
“You’ve grown to be a kind man, Jon,” she said, “but I don’t deserve all of your kindness. Every single day, I wake and think of Rhaegar, and everyday I remember what my actions cost our family. My oldest brother. My father. And I robbed Ned and Benjen of them, too.”
Jon felt something painful lodge in his throat that his aunt still carried the weight of so much guilt.
“They don’t blame you. The Mad King killed them, not you,” he said.
“He did it because of Robert, and Robert attacked Rhaegar because of me.”
In a bizarre way, he saw her logic, but it was just so wrong. Lyanna was fervent though; she seemed to have unleashed some torrent of words that she’d longed to say.
“Once Aerys was dead, Rhaegar begged me to come to King’s Landing and be his queen. But that’s never been me. I’ve never wanted it — I’ve only ever…” she trailed off. “You can’t imagine, Jon, what it’s like to feel so much joy and have it cause so much misery. And he feels it, too. Rhaegar never wanted Elia and the children to die. We just loved each other. And look what we did.”
Her eyes were dry but miserable.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself for what others did. And the king shouldn’t either,” he said.
She was silent for a while, lost-looking. He wondered if she'd prefer a change of topic.
“Can you tell me a bit about them?" he asked softly. "I’ve got no idea what I’m walking into. The only time I’ve met the king was when I was knighted, and I've never even seen the princess.”
Lyanna smiled at him gratefully and returned to her seat.
“I've never met the princess either," she said. "And Viserys was a boy when I last saw him. A bit spoiled, but precocious. He trailed Rhaegar everywhere. And Rhaegar... he's mischievous beneath the exterior. Kind. He loves his family more than anything. If you're there to help them, you will not need to tread too lightly around him.”
Jon had been intimidated on the only occasion that he’d met the king. Exhausted, dirty and winded from felling his opponents. And then he’d been given a gift he’d dreamed of time and time again, and he'd been elated.
He had been in no place to analyze the Last Dragon back then, but he’d seemed rather serious — not at all what his aunt was describing.
Jon swallowed as he finally came to the heart of the matter.
“I’m not sure that I can help the princess," he admitted, "that I can train her enough. I'm a swordsman, aye, but not an instructor. I know how to fight, not teach.”
Her response was firm.
“Try. I’m asking you to try as hard as you can — Daenerys Targaryen cannot die, Jon. Please. ”
He was surprised at how deep her concern for a relative stranger ran.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because,” she replied, a small, miserable smile on her face, “I’m a weaker woman than I want to be.”
Jon stared at her blankly.
“If you fall in love one day, you’ll understand,” she continued. “But I can’t bare the thought of him feeling any more pain than he already has.”
There was a distinct lump in his throat. He felt it expand until it was nearly choking him.
His aunt wasn’t a weak woman at all.
“I’ll do my best to train her well,” he said gruffly. “I’ll make sure she’s safe, for you.”
She embraced him, and Jon noticed for the first time in his life how much smaller his aunt was than him. And just how much warmth that embrace contained.
Soon after, she’d gone to her kitchen to warm some food — insisting he eat before departing.
After finishing his meal, he decided it was finally time to inform the rest of his family of his new assignment.
He copied the message onto several scrolls — to Arya and Robb, to his father, to his Lady Aunt Allyria. To Sansa, who was being fostered near King’s Landing. At least he’d have one sibling nearby, even if it was the one who loved him least.
When the last raven had flown out of sight, he allowed himself one small indulgence: He wondered about Daenerys Targaryen.
Unchained at last, his mind became insatiable. Would she be kind? Would she be a disaster with a sword — or, conversely, would she be prodigious? Was she truly as beautiful as she was proclaimed to be? Would she resent him, a bastard, coming to teach her?
Jon wasn’t certain, but he doubted any human could live up to the standards that people had set for her.
When at last it was time for him to go, his aunt saw him away with a small note of her own, wax-sealed.
“For the king, when you have time,” she said gently, handing it to him.
He nodded to her and kicked off, northbound to King’s Landing.
- DANY -
In her dreams, everything was dark again. She could feel the chafed skin of her wrists, scratched coarse and swollen from straining against the bindings.
All the ties — her blindfold, the gag, her wrists — seemed to be made of some itchy, raw fabric.
Whenever she tried to free her hands, she felt her blistered skin scream in protest.
Daenerys had been left alone for at least five minutes now, possibly more. It was hard to keep track of the amount of footsteps without having any benchmark for what type of room she was in.
Her captors spoke in a language she was unfamiliar with — a difficult task given that she was fluent in several. She thought it might have been Qartheen, but she wasn’t sure.
There was something wrong with the accents.
There had been a loud commotion upstairs, followed by yelling. A furious stamping across the floor above her.
They’d switched back to the unknown language quickly, but she’d caught a couple words in the Common Tongue as the visitor descended into wherever she was before her captors could warn the interloper against speaking.
“Why is she still in this house?”
His voice was low, furious and Westerosi. Southern Westerosi.
He’d led them upstairs — all of them, she was nearly positive.
Regardless, there might not be much more time, and there would certainly be no better opportunity.
She pushed the back of her head against the rough wall behind her, using the pressure of it to dislodge her blindfold.
She blinked as starlight returned to her eyes, straining them. It was dark out, and she was nearly certain she was in a cellar.
Now that she could see, it was clear that they’d made a mistake leaving her alone.
Hubris. They would regret it.
The cellar must’ve belonged to some merchant family — few smallfolk could afford a separate space, but this room was not nearly large or elaborate enough to belong to a wealthy family.
Strewn along the ground were bits of construction material, and there, in the corner, lay her salvation: a broken shard of glass.
Daenerys made her way to it as quietly as she could. With some difficulty, she managed to saw through the fabric binding her hands, pulling her gag down at last.
There was a small window at the top of the wall, through which the room’s only light came. It was too high for her to reach on her own, but her kidnappers had either not intended for her to be here or had not planned well for it.
She could hear men walking above her, their voices shouting, but muffled.
As quietly as she could, she shoved an empty wine barrel to the wall, pausing every few moments to be sure no one was coming.
Daenerys unlatched the window and pushed it open slowly, reaching out to grip the top of it and lift herself toward the small opening.
“If I survive this, I really need to get stronger,” she whispered to herself.
Her elbows were scratching against the wall. There was hardly a joint left on her body that wasn’t rubbed raw.
After too long, she managed to slide part of her body through the gap, crawling into the yard and remaining flat. For one brief moment, she lay there catching her breath.
Above her head, the men were much louder — the main floor’s window directly over.
And they were speaking the Common Tongue again.
“I don’t care how many excuses you give me, you stupid fuck. We’re too exposed here,” came one of the voices, harsh and masculine — the man from the stairs. “She should have been further by now.”
It seemed accented, but only the slightest bit.
She didn’t wait to figure it out, crawling to the corner of the house and peeking around the side.
No one was out front.
The gods were truly with her — in the distance, she could see the outline of a keep she recognized.
Her captors had only made it as far as Rosby.
By the time she made it back to the Red Keep, she’d been missing for days. She had been too afraid to call attention to herself and had hidden in the woods — sleeping beneath the shade of the trees.
After two nights of terror that she would be caught once more, she stole a horse from a small home and rode back.
I’ll send them ten to replace her, she thought guiltily.
She’d been bedraggled and dirty as she made her way into King’s Landing, but her hair was unmistakeable.
Not 15 minutes after she entered the city gates, the Kingsguard had found her, Rhaegar at their lead. The relief in his eyes overwhelmed her as she sank into his arms…
When Daenerys jolted awake, she felt terrified again.
She’d dreamed of her escape nearly every night since she’d made it to the Red Keep a few weeks prior. She always felt she was missing some clue, something that could tell her who was responsible.
Something.
Since her return, everyone had been falling over themselves to comfort her. Their maester. The servants. The Small Council, in particular. Rhaegar had stationed extra guards around the entrances to her room — and four more to patrol the halls leading to her own. It had been Viserys who recommended placing another two outside the castle, on the ground below the window to her chambers.
Her brothers’ concern for her touched her, but she still felt sick each morning when she woke.
Her captors had taken her from her rooms at Dragonstone as she slept — had slit the throats of her guard and one of her handmaidens. Each morning, she woke terrified that she’d see another kidnapper’s hand closing over her mouth.
She would not be returning to her ancestral home any time soon.
Her handmaids helped her dress in silence. This morning, she was not able to handle idle conversation.
She’d been on her way to the hall to break her fast when she was waylaid by the younger of her brothers.
Viserys had taken to mocking her lightly for her jumpiness, even when accompanied by guards.
It was nasty, but then, he’d always dealt with anxiety, frustration or sadness by lashing out.
Today, she was not in the mood for it.
“Don’t,” she said coldly, before he could begin. “I will recover at my own pace.”
Viserys’s eyes narrowed. Her brother did not like being contradicted.
He tugged imperiously to straighten his own tunic, breathing deeply before he answered.
“You will never recover if everyone but me continues to treat you like you are shattered glass,” he finally let out. “There are still active threats to your safety, and everyone else is trying to make you feel comfortable.”
Her eyes widened a touch. That had been more sincere than she’d expected from him.
“What threats?” she asked, too surprised to keep her voice frigid.
“Come now, Dany,” he drawled, his voice condescending again. “You’re no peasant. No arrests of your kidnappers means they’re smart enough not to get caught. It means we’re foolish enough to let them slip by us once more.”
It sounded like a taunt in his tone, but she couldn’t deny that he was right. She’d been allowing herself to be lulled into a sense of safety around her guards.
It was merely the way he said it that chafed.
Viserys had become more biting over the years. As he’d aged, he’d become more self-assured, but that confidence had quickly knocked up against the line of arrogance. He’d begun interjecting more and more in Rhaegar’s council meetings — acting the king, rather than the heir.
Sometimes, it bothered her that he seemed to be so increasingly assertive of his position. But the older Rhaegar got without taking another wife or fathering another child, the more likely it became that Viserys would be king.
She supposed she couldn’t fault him for trying to establish that relationship with the others in the Red Keep, even if his attitude sometimes came off cold or childish.
She grabbed his wrist softly.
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said. Her voice was quiet and delicate.
“Always, sweet sister,” he replied, as he ran the back of his other hand’s fingers over her cheek.
Viserys’s eyes were always fervid and wild — sometimes they frightened her.
Today, they didn’t.
***
Daenerys had pondered Viserys’s words all through her meal.
Bite.
It was an organization.
Chew.
They’d been exceedingly cautious not to let her understand them — cautious enough to learn another language, for she was certain now that it had been poor Qartheen. That demonstrated that they were intelligent.
Swallow.
Whoever hired them knew her well enough to know what languages she spoke. At the very least, they had access to someone at Dragonstone. At the very worst, it was someone she trusted.
Rhaegar had been trying to hide his anxiety from her, but she’d thought it more just part of his personality. It seemed clearer now why he’d been so adamant that she receive self-defense lessons — surprising that it had taken Viserys’s blunt words to drive the risk of another attempt home.
The problem was, she wasn't sure she trusted a stranger to give them.
Daenerys had asked if Ser Barristan could be spared a few hours per week, or even Ser Jaime. But Rhaegar was resolved: His own guards were not available often enough to train her; and with her captors on the loose, no one could rule out attempts on Viserys or himself.
There were simply not enough Kingsguard to spare.
Speak of the devil.
Rhaegar had come to the hall, dressed in his sparring attire. He seemed to be in better spirits than he had been in weeks.
“You don’t seem to be broody enough to be my brother,” she joked as he joined her at the table. “Have you found me an instructor who satisfies your lofty standards?”
“I have, in fact,” he replied.
She was surprised — she’d been jesting. Perhaps he had decided to let Ser Barristan train her.
“Your instructor will be Ser Jon Snow — he’s Ned Stark’s son and a fine knight. He has agreed to come train you; he’s on his way to King’s Landing now.”
Ned Stark’s son? Just how old was her instructor-to-be?
Her mouth must’ve been agape, because the smile on Rhaegar’s face faded a bit.
“What is it, Daenerys?” he asked, and he sounded tired.
“Lord Stark’s children are… not very old,” she said politely, mouth stretched to something between a grimace and a question. “Surely someone more experienced…”
She trailed off, uncertain. Daenerys had never actually met Jon Snow, and he was a knight. Perhaps she was being unfair... but still.
Rhaegar was still looking at her, waiting for her to finish.
“If he’s near my own age, he must not have been a knight very long,” she said at last. “Is there no one more suited to training me? He has no real wartime experience.”
She felt guilty immediately when she saw the look on her brother’s face — as though he’d expected better from her.
“He is the nephew of Ser Arthur Dayne,” he said. “Ser Arthur is the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Jon squired for him, and he’s learned a great deal from him.”
His voice wasn’t terse, but he seemed almost disappointed that he needed to remind her.
And he had needed to remind her — she’d been made to learn the family trees of all of Westeros’s highborn as a child, but she’d forgotten that Jon Snow was a doubly highborn bastard.
Lady Ashara Dayne had died in childbirth, but she’d been a lady through and through.
Still, a thought nagged at her. Daenerys did not share the continent’s distaste for bastards, but to become a knight so young was rare enough. To do so without a powerful last name…
“How did he get knighted?” burst out of her without her consent, her restraint entirely betrayed.
But Rhaegar merely smiled indulgently.
“There was a tourney in the Riverlands several years ago — do you remember?” he asked.
She did, though only vaguely. She hadn’t attended.
Viserys had departed Dragonstone without her.
“Jon Snow was younger and greener than many of the competitors, but he outmatched them all. There could be no doubt watching him that he’s kin to the Sword of the Morning. He fought like 10 men would — and with the skill of men much older than him. I was riveted; I offered him a gift. Anything he wanted, I said.”
Daenerys was surprised. Her oldest brother was a renowned swordsman in his own right and was not easily impressed.
His eyes were brighter than she usually got to see them as he recounted the story — his posture was straighter.
Jon Snow must be extraordinary, she thought.
“He asked to be knighted?”
“No,” and Rhaegar’s grin widened further. “He asked to join the Kingsguard.”
She felt her eyebrow raise again; what bastard wouldn’t ask to be legitimized?
“And you said no?” she asked.
“I told him to wait. The Kingsguard is a lifelong oath, and he was barely a man grown. If he still wants to forswear a wife and family in several more years, he’d make an excellent addition. But I knighted him all the same. He deserved it.”
Daenerys ran a hand through her hair, still unsure but resigned.
“Alright, your grace,” she said softly. “I will accept Ser Snow as an instructor.”
He reached out and touched her cheek gently. His hands were always warm — not like Viserys’s.
He was the last dragon, after all.
“My dear sister, how many times must I remind you to call me Rhaegar? I am your brother before your king.”
She smiled into his palm and reached up to hug him.
“Thank you, Rhaegar,” she muttered into his chest.
She could hear the pain in his reply —
“I’ll always protect you, Dany.”