Chapter Text
All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash
--Hozier, Arsonist's Lullaby
The day Daenerys decided to burn, it rained in Hay-on-Wye.
There were starlings in the car park, gathered together in an ever-shifting mass underneath the craggy ash tree that grew up from broken asphalt. Rain came down heavily, saturating everything in its path. Behind the car park lot, behind the ash tree and the rain, was the convent.
Daenerys sat in her Vauxhall Astra in the lot, letting the rain slide down the windshield. It was a recent acquisition, the Astra—a gift from a well meaning nun who, likely pitying her position, had pressed the keys in her hand one day, away from the other sisters.
“So you don’t feel so cooped up, love.” As though she could feel anything but cooped up, even with the freedom the Astra brought. The sister, another red-haired disciple of The Red God, had smiled kindly, vanishing into the convent before someone could see. Likely everyone knew who had gifted the Astra, but it was the principle of the thing. The Sisters loved secrecy.
The engine thrummed happily, unaffected by the weather. Daenerys closed her eyes, soaking in a few more moments of solitude before returning to the convent. Some soft, sweet music played on the radio. Tom Sevenstrings, she thought. The lyrics were bawdy, but the sweet staccato of the harp was pleasing.
With a sigh, she pulled the keys out of the ignition. The music and the engine ceased, filling the cab with silence. She pushed her door open, pulling the sack of groceries in the passenger seat with her as she climbed out of the car. The red doors to the convent loomed over her as she climbed the steps, bag in hand. Red doors, like the red flames within.
Ever since she could remember, Daenerys had lived at The Garden of the Red God Convent in Hay-on-Wye, Wales. The Sisters liked to tell her of the night she was left on their doorstep, a dark and stormy night, the sea churning down by the coast and the sky black as pitch.
“It was a miracle you were alive,” one of the sisters always said. “Such a small thing as you were, but what a cry you had! It seemed as though you had sucked in all the air in the world into your little lungs, and blew it out with a wail and a shriek.”
That night had earned her the nickname ‘Stormborn’ in the convent, and it was used just as much, if not more, than her birth name.
The sisters had never hidden any part of her past from her. In fact, they adored extolling the virtues of her mysterious existence to her almost daily. She had been left on the doorstep twenty years ago swaddled in ship’s tarpaulin, with a note pinned to her breast and a silver ring clutched in one fist. Daenerys Targaryen, only daughter of Mad King Aerys, a drunk and a direct descendant of the royal family, who’d lived out his final years waging war against empty castles and crumbling battlements. Her mother, Rhaella, his sister, who’d been locked up and abused by the madman. She had been found dead with her brother in Swansea, a news story still whispered about in all of Wales. No one knew for sure who’d left her at the convent, but Daenerys liked to think it had been Rhaella, making one last effort to save herself and her only daughter.
She had two brothers as well, she knew. Rhaegar, a harpist of some acclaim, had died at the hands of a man outraged at his father’s crimes. One of the sisters had managed to find his harp and it sat in Daenerys’ room now, though she privately thought she’d never be as good as the recording of her brother.
Viserys had visited her a few times at the convent. Each time was more disastrous than the last, as he attempted to wring money from her or the sisters. Someone had told Daenerys that he was a drug addict, and it didn’t take much to imagine that as the truth. He would appear in the middle of the night raging and delirious. Some nights he would just sit with her, telling her stories of Rhaegar and their mother. Other nights he was less kind.
Jorah, the old guard and gatekeeper of the convent, had thrown him out the first time he had seen Viserys strike her. It hadn’t been the first time. Viserys never visited again after that, though he would send a letter once in a blue moon, half apology, half vitriol.
Daenerys called out to Jorah now, asking him to open the great doors. They swung open, and she went inside to his little guard post.
“Afternoon, princess.”
Jorah nodded to her, smiling kindly. He always called her princess, a nod to her royal ancestry. It made Daenerys giggle as a girl, but now as a young woman the thought of being related to tyrants and monsters made her weary.
“Afternoon, Jorah.”
She hefted the grocery sack up for him to peruse. “If you want anything from my trip, better take it now before Kinvara has her pick of sweets.”
The Astra had also been a gift of practicality. The Sisters were rarely allowed to leave the convent, as reading the flames was their calling and they took it very seriously. Daenerys had the pleasure of being the one to go on the weekly trip to the shops, buying whatever necessities were needed. And that had recently included buying sweets and cigarettes for Kinvara and Jorah.
Jorah rifled through the contents of the grocery bag a moment before withdrawing his pack of cigarettes and a Mars Bar. He saluted her as she entered the courtyard to the convent, and she cracked a small smile, managing to wave before the heavy doors swung shut again behind her.
She didn’t have the heart to tell him today was the day. She’d had some doubts still, before she went to bed the night before, but when she woke to the sound of the downpour and the starlings gathered in the car park, she’d known.
Today, she was going to burn.
Daenerys distributed groceries in the kitchen, various sisters in their red habits and long robes bustling about. The convent’s main mission was the reading of the flames, of course, but over the centuries they had cultivated a small candle making business on the side to support themselves. Now the convent was well known for their candles which curiously never seemed to burn out.
Today the kitchen was a buzz of activity. In a few days the annual Hay-on-Wye book fair would begin, and tourists from all over would descend upon the small town, devouring the secondhand and rare books from vendors staffed by the aging population. The Sisters always had a booth set up to sell candles, as well as to offer fortune telling to gullible passersby. Daenerys had her doubts about the Red God, R’hllor, but she’d yet to see a tourist who was unimpressed by the theatrics of the flames. Especially when Melisandre was the one doing the flame readings. The woman was the most fanatical of the sisters, and her zeal for the flames was apparent in the way she read fortunes and told prophecies to anyone who would listen.
Even Daenerys had been the subject of her prophecies, more than once.
“You are destined to be the light bringer!” Melisandre has said to her one day. Daenerys had been not yet even twelve when the woman had told her this, her long fingers clutching painfully at her thin shoulders. Daenerys had wriggled away, but the words had stuck with her.
Now Melisandre was in the kitchen, giving orders to new initiates as they made candles for the fair.
“Let the light of R’hllor guide your hands though the wax!” She cheered. “Red wax for R’hllor, white wax for the light he brings!”
Daenerys set the last of the groceries on the long counter, taking care to avoid the tall pots of simmering wax. Melisandre paused in her speech, fixing her with a stare.
Daenerys squirmed under the woman’s gaze. Melisandre had an uncanny ability to know exactly when Daenerys had done something the sisters wouldn’t approve of. She never tattled, but just knowing that she knew was unsettling enough to make Daenerys repent.
“Your heart is heavy, Stormborn.”
Melisandre’s slim white hands grasped Daenerys’ tightly. “Pray to R’hllor, that he might ease your suffering.”
Daenerys smiled weakly. “For the night is dark and full of terrors,” she said, hoping the other woman would let go and leave her be.
Melisandre just looked at her.
“I know you do not follow our ways, but you have never been alone here,” she said softly. “The Red God guided you to us, and we regard you as one of our own.”
Daenerys swallowed hard. How could she tell her? Keeping secrets was a heavy burden in the convent.
She just nodded, hoping nothing in her expression would give her away. Melisandre let her go.
The red woman turned back to the candle making, but spoke to Daenerys quietly.
“This is the path you seek, though it will not be the path you have chosen. To go forward, you must go back. To be reborn, you must burn in the light of R’hllor.”
Daenerys hurried out of the kitchen, doors swinging behind her.
Once safely in her room, she bolted the door. She threw open the closet door, and took out her stash. For weeks, she’d been carefully storing kerosene and tallow from the flame rooms, pouring a little at a time into bottles stashed in her sleeves until she could hide them away in her room. Kindling, pieces of wood cleared from the ash tree and clipping from candle wicks, she kept in a paper bag.
The last piece of her macabre collection was a little match box, no bigger than a deck of cards. She sobbed slightly as she held it, cradling it in her small hands.
She’d never told any of the sisters about Drogo. The first week after her twentieth birthday when she’d been given the Astra, Daenerys had taken to sneaking out and driving inland, to the grassy hills. Anywhere she could go that would take her far from the coast, far from ancient castles and the heavy history of her family. Sometimes, she would spend an afternoon in a bustling city, pretend to be someone else. That’s how she met Drogo.
He’d been the spark to her flame, a wild bad boy embroiled in street gangs and illicit activities. It thrilled her, to experience something so foreign. The son of purebred horse trainers, Drogo had money, and liked to spend it on Daenerys. She’d run out of places to hide the jewelry he’d given her, and wore it like a queen of antiquity when she was out with him. He loved her odd beauty, praised her instead of made fun. He called her the moon of his life, and loved to braid her long white hair with bells and gold cuffs in the style of the show horses he rode.
After a few months, Daenerys finally figured out he saw her as little more than that. A show horse, a prize to show off to his friends and colleagues. They’d argued, and he’d hit her. The shock of it reminded her of Viserys. After, she’d run out into the street crying, screaming. It was midday, the sun hot in the summer sky. She’d always remember the warmth of the sun on her back as she watched the bus hurtle toward her.
In the end, it had been Drogo who paid the price, not her. Three days in a coma. He passed quietly in the night, though his vitals had been normal. Nobody knew how it had happened that his life support became unplugged during the night shift. The attending nurse, Mirri, was fired, despite pleading that she hadn’t touched him. Nobody questioned who his strange girlfriend was, where she was from. Nobody asked. Nobody came.
She’d lost the baby a week later. No bigger than a pearl, tiny. Just a few weeks along. She and Drogo had only been together three months, but they’d never used protection. She’d never even thought of it.
She kept the scrap of cloth stained by her blood. The rest she’d already burned weeks ago, hiding any trace of what had happened to her. It wasn’t a sin to have children in the convent, but it was rare, and children were given up for adoption after.
Daenerys had lingered for weeks over the trauma before deciding she was going to burn. Though her memories were foggy through the tears and the blood, she vaguely knew it was all her fault. She remembered the hospital, and then the blood, and then the flames in her hands as she burned her child, flames so hot she felt them as ice in her palms.
In the present, she gathered up her supplies and headed out to the only truly secluded place in the convent.
The old garden was a decrepit wasteland of a place, hidden way in the back by tall grass and sand bags. Once upon a time there was talk of turning it into a glass house, but now it lay still and dead, a barren plot of land with a shed and a fence.
Daenerys built her pyre there, sheltered by the shade of an ash tree. The ground was hard, despite the rain, and her kindling was plentiful. She built around herself, creating a ring of wick and twig, dousing it in kerosene and tallow.
It was nearly dusk now, and her hands were stuck all over and raw from building the pyre. Daenerys sat back, pushing her long hair out of her eyes.
The match lit on the first try, and Daenerys was almost afraid. Fire cannot burn a dragon, her brother had always said to her, but here she was, trying to burn. Would it hurt? She wondered, but chastised herself for asking such a silly question. Of course it would.
The flames grew steadily, drowning the air around her.
What would Jorah think?
The kindling made a hissing sound, a soft fricative that sent shivers down Daenerys’ spine.
Would the sisters mourn her?
A loud snap made Daenerys jump, and she closed her eyes against the brightness of the fire.
Strange, that she’d expected it to be hotter.
Daenerys breathed in through her nose, regretting it instantly as smoke and kerosene filled her senses. The gases started to make her feel sleepy.
This is almost pleasant, she thought mildly. Who knew dying could be so peaceful…
Fire is cleansing, she thought to herself as she drifted off. I shall be the cleanest person in the world after all this is over…
Around her the flames lept and danced and licked at her body. Smoke flew up over the rooftop of the convent. Beyond the garden walls, sirens wailed.
________________________________________________________________________________
Vaguely, Jon supposed he knew they’d be going on a road trip. He’d not, however, been prepared for exactly what that meant.
When Sam had mentioned the book fair in Hay-on-Wye, Jon had agreed to go conditionally. He wanted a few weeks away from work, from family, from being cooped up in the station or in his attic room in Winter Town. Unfortunately for him, Jon had a younger sister who would be more aptly described as a ninja in terms of stealth and parrot in terms of keeping secrets. Within a day, the whole family knew about his planned trip and was packing the station wagon to come along.
It wasn’t all bad. Eleven hours on the road meant plenty of time to plan for the coming months at the Night’s Watch. Being the only fire department north of Thurso meant a lot of work for Jon and the rest of the station, and they more often than not had less than nothing to work with. So he was used to being thrifty, negotiating with local politicians for more resources where needed.
Jon shared his car with Sam and Arya, with his malamute Ghost taking up more than half of the backseat. His white fur nearly engulfed his tiny sister, but the giant dog seemed to not even notice as she continuously pushed him over to have more space.
The part Jon was dreading was having to share his precious time off with his step-mother present. After his father’s death a year prior, her behavior towards him had veered sharply bitchward. He wasn’t proud of being pushed around by a middle aged woman at twenty-three years of age, but Catelyn was fierce. The last year had seen her relegating Jon and his belongings to an attic room away from his siblings, “forgetting” to set a place for him at mealtimes, and even locking him out of doors when he went out.
He didn’t mind too much. Arya and Bran still treated him as their brother, and though Robb was off and married, he called weekly. Only Sansa was wary of him, still clinging to her mother’s skirts at times despite being a young lady of sixteen.
“You alright, Jon?”
Sam had been fiddling with the radio for the past few minutes, switching from local station to local station as they passed through counties. Currently he was playing some maudlin harp music, a man’s voice crooning soulfully over the airwaves.
Jon focused on the road ahead, hands gripping the wheel.
“Fine, Sam. Don’t worry about me.” He offered a crooked grin to his friend, who seemed only slightly mollified.
Behind them, Arya piped up. “I swear I didn’t know Catelyn would want to come with you. Apparently there’s some candle place she wants to check out.”
Jon shrugged with one shoulder, eyes still on the road. Ahead, he could finally see the exit sign for Hay-on-Wye.
“I told you it’s fine, Arya. And mind you don’t call her that to her face or you’ll catch hell.”
Arya was newly fourteen and rebellious as could be. She’d taken strongly to Jon as a child, but even more so as a teen, much to her mother’s chagrin. Now she was calling her Catelyn behind her back, something that caused much strife between herself and Sansa.
As they pulled into the town, Jon saw smoke rising from over top of some trees. Dark black smoke, billowing up. He sped up instinctually, fireman training taking over. Sam put a hand on his arm, and he jerked, slowing down.
“Sorry,” he muttered, but kept his eyes trained on the smoke. “That’s a big fire.”
“I’m sure they have a fire department in Hay-on-Wye, Jon,” Arya said from the backseat. Her gameboy beeped cheerfully. Ghost whined.
Behind them, Catelyn’s station wagon honked impatiently. Jon drove to the bed and breakfast they’d reserved. It sat on the outskirts of the town, closer to the neighboring coastal county. Even that far out, the black smoke was clearly visible against the sunset. The brilliant oranges and reds blended with the smoke until it seemed as harmless as a painting.
The group stumbled tiredly into the inn, Ghost in tow. Catelyn had already begun delegating, planning every moment of their trip. She was to share a room with Sansa and Arya, and Jon would room with Sam. Ghost, they were told was too big to stay in the guest rooms.
At that, Catelyn gave Jon a triumphant smirk, as though to say “I told you so.” However, the innkeeper, Missandei, graciously showed Jon out to a well kept kennel in the garden.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. The woman shook her head, curls bouncing.
“This one has always loved dogs,” she said. Her voice was accented, lovely. “My husband will bring him water and dog food.”
Jon smiled, then frowned. “Do you know where that smoke is coming from?”
Missandei nodded slowly, eyes looking over Jon’s shoulder at the plume of smoke still in the sky.
“It comes from the Garden of R’hllor. A bad omen.”
Jon frowned. “There’s a convent of the Red God, here?”
He’d had some run ins with the sisters of the Red God before, and none of them had been pleasant. They had a penchant for starting home fires by accident. One of the local politicians, Stannis Baratheon, had even been caught having an affair with one of the red women, a zealous follower of R’hllor who’d set a house fire by accident and killed his young daughter. Nobody had been able to press charges, as it had only been prayer candles she’d lit, but the whole town was perturbed by the woman’s overly calm reaction to the tragic death of the girl.
After that, he’d never seen her nor Stannis again.
Missandei nodded again, but she seemed a little nervous. “This one has a friend who lives there. I should call and check on her.”
She hurried back into the inn. Jon stood in the garden with Ghost for another long moment, taking in the tall plume of smoke. It seemed endless. Every fibre of his being told him to run to it, put out the fire. Something told him whatever caused the fire had to be serious.
Standing at the garden gate Jon could hear sirens wailing in the distance. The red steeple of the convent glowed in the dying rays of sunlight, a deep burnt orange that reminded him of fire.
Suppressing a shiver, Jon went inside.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
“I’ve got you princess. Daenerys, please open your eyes, please.”
Something was burning. She could smell it, the powdery scent of ash clinging to her nostrils. Her mouth was dry. Something was poking her painfully. She tried to shift away from it, but found she couldn’t move. Something was pinning her down. Panicking, she struggled against it, tried to scream. She felt the sound bubbling up in her throat, but it emerged as a whimper.
She heard voices around her, muffled and distant. Someone was weeping.
Slowly, Daenerys opened her eyes. At first, all she saw was smoke. So much smoke, and ash falling like snow. She whimpered again, trying to find the words she needed.
“Princess?”
There was Jorah, hovering above her. His lined face was tight with concern, and there were tears in his eyes. Daenerys had never seen her old bear cry before. She tried to reach for him, but was bound again, motionless. She looked down at herself. Someone had wrapped her in a fire retardant blanket, heavy and abrasive against her bare skin. Why was she naked?
Jorah had her in his arms. Vision clearing, Daenerys could see the red sisters around them, huddled in a scarlet mass. Kinvara was there, her face drawn tight and eyes red. Beside her stood Melisandre, but she wore a different expression. She looked almost proud, as though some miracle had been performed.
“Why did you do this, Daenerys?”
Jorah’s voice was choked up as he lifted her from the ground.
“You almost died, you could have burned the convent down, you could’ve burned, you were burning—“
He stopped abruptly, taking in a hard breath. Daenerys just watched him, feeling as though she were watching him from a further place.
There were firemen then, taking her from Jorah, asking questions, taking samples. Someone came by and swabbed her skin, clipped some of her hair, felt her forehead. Daenerys was taken to an ambulance where a kind lady examined her. She was given fluids through an IV, poked and prodded by the befuddled paramedics. All the while, the same words repeated: why didn't she burn?
After, she was taken back to the convent, and there were more questions. Why did she do it? What had driven her to self immolation? Kinvara dismissed all of the initiates. Daenerys was taken again, walked to a private chamber. They bathed her, combed her hair, miraculously untouched by the flames.
After, at her insistence, they left her alone. Daenerys knew they were watching through the flames, knew she wasn’t truly alone. But it would do.
She stood before a mirror, looked at herself. Her skin was unmarred, clean and white as ever. There was the scar from falling out of a lemon tree when she was six, and another from Drogo. Her hair fell in damp silver tendrils around her face, and when she looked, violet eyes peered out from behind white lashes.
Nothing had changed. And yet, Daenerys felt a strange wakening in her heart. Something heavy had been lifted from her shoulders, replaced by some greater purpose.
The next day, she went back to the garden.
Most of the debris had been cleared away by the firemen, but there remained a black circle where the pyre had been. The grass was charred clean away, some terrible cleansing of earth.
Daenerys knelt by the remains of her pyre. How strange to think that only yesterday she’d been willing to lose everything to forget.
Something moving caught her eye. In the center of the charred circle was a nest. Some bird must’ve knocked it from the ash tree. Daenerys picked it up and cradled it in her hands. In the nest were three eggs, all a pale blue-green, speckled with black and brown. She picked one up and held it to her ear as though it were a nautilus, and she could hear the ocean through it.
It trembled in her hands. In seconds, the egg burst, and out emerged a trembling black fledgling. It cried out, and as though in answer, the other two eggs burst too, each producing a perfect baby bird. Daenerys held each in her own hands, and wept as they cheeped and cried to her.
In the days that followed, she had not a moment to herself. Everywhere she went, the red sisters watched her. The older sisters watched her with wary eyes, or sad and pitying stares. The younger acolytes followed her, plaguing her with questions. Everyone wanted to know how she survived the fire. Some even regarded her with envy, whispers of “R’hllor’s favorite” echoing in the convent halls.
Jorah was another nuisance. He’d appointed himself her unofficial bodyguard and keeper, checking in at all hours of the day. What used to be a pleasant father-daughter dynamic between them soured quickly. It suffocated her. Finally, she decided she’d had enough.
Daenerys passed as much time as possible away from the convent trying to find a place to stay. Three days after the fire, she’d called Missandei, begging her to let her stay in the bed and breakfast. Missandei had gently let her down, as they were booked solid with a family of five for two weeks.
However, her best friend had put in a good word for her with a couple landlords in the town, and on the fourth day, Daenerys stood in front of the door of her first apartment, keys in hand.
Her crows cawed softly in their cage. They’d grown swiftly, flight feathers grown in in less than a week. As they grew, she was able to tell them apart by the strange colors they reflected. All were black as night, but in the sun they were dazzling. Drogon’s feathers shone deep red in the sun, and his beak was blood red. Viserion was a blue-green hue, his beak lined with a creamy white. Rhaegal shone emerald green, his beak a ruddy brown. At first she’d been afraid they’d fly away as soon as they were able, but they took to her, settling on her shoulders and never straying far.
They seemed to always know where she was, and they relied on her for food and shelter. Daenerys had taken to calling them her children.
The apartment was bare, just clean white walls and wood floors. It had a tiled bathroom and a working shower, and it had blessedly come with a fridge and a stove.
She had already said her goodbyes to the red sisters and Jorah earlier that morning. Jorah, of course, had taken it hard. He’d tried to ask her where she would be staying, but she’d staunchly refused to tell him where her new home was. The town was small enough as it was. Kinvara had been understanding, but she had a few conditions.
“We still need your help with the book fair,” the woman had said, and Daenerys had promised she’d be there. Anything to have her freedom.
Surveying the apartment, she sighed.
“Well, this is it boys.”
The crows cawed, ruffling their feathers. Daenerys let them out of the cage to explore, and they took off. Drogon, ever the reckless one, immediately flew out the open window. Viserion perched on her shoulder and Rhaegal hopped on the ground as Daenerys unpacked the rest of her meager belongings.
Dinner that night was solitary, but rewarding. Grey had dropped off some food from Missandei in the afternoon. They’d invited her to eat with them, but Daenerys didn’t want to disturb the guests.
She ate on the floor, tossing scraps of meat to her birds, who swallowed them whole with jerky, clipped movements.
Stretching out on the hard floor, Daenerys smiled. Drogon nuzzled her hair with his beak, and she reached up to lightly stroke his head.
“It feels evil to say,” she whispered to him. “But I feel so free. For the first time in my life, I feel like my own person. Not Stormborn, not a princess. Daenerys. Me.”
She sat up. “Something happened in that fire. I lost Rhaego, but now I have you.” She sighed. “I feel destined for something greater than this. Something more than this town.”
Drogon pecked at her dinner, and she laughed. “I sound mad. But I’m not.” She straightened, fixing the bird with a hard stare. “If I look back, I’m lost.”
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The first four days in Hay-on-Wye admittedly were boring as hell. Jon had exhausted the number of different routes he could take to walk Ghost every day, and had already managed to piss off his stepmother.
It wasn’t even his fault, that Ghost had slobbered all over her prim dress, leaving a huge trail of spittle down her leg. She’d shrieked and struck Ghost. Jon hadn’t even had to do anything, Missandei’s husband, Grey, moving to stand between the irate woman and his dog. It happened so fast even Catelyn had no words. Grey had stared her down, face carefully blank, until she’d mumbled an apology and retreated. But she’d not spared Jon her ire.
He was not to cross paths with her for the rest of the trip, something Jon was all too ready to agree to.
He and Sam had agreed to meet up at the book fair. Today was the first official day of the fair, and Sam was determined to be there every day it was open.
It was warm for May, and Jon, being unused to warm weather, had been forced to tie his jumper around his waist in a very unfashionable manner in order to keep cool. Ghost was feeling it too, his tongue lolling out of his wide mouth. Jon pitied him.
“Come on boy, let’s find a booth with some water.”
He walked up and down the length of the fair. Sam was no where to be found, but Jon guessed he was buried up to his neck in ancient tomes. There really were books of all kinds at the fair, ranging from shiny new children’s books to crumbling folios of plays written by men Jon had never heard of.
A few booth sold things besides books. There were artisanal baskets, local art, and even a few stalls selling local honey. As Jon progressed down the aisles, he kept an eye out for a food and beverage booth.
Finally, he found one. Ghost picked up a scent, and Jon let himself be dragged by the giant dog until they reached a curry and chip booth. Two women sat fanning themselves at the table, with the food set up behind them. In front of them, an assortment of lemonades, sodas, and bottled waters were arranged enticingly in a cooler.
“Hi, er, how much for two bottles of water?” Jon asked.
The women eyed him up and down before one of them, a slender woman with deep tanned skin, spoke.
“Three pounds fifty. It is known.”
She had a similarly heavy accent to Missandei and Grey. Jon shoved his hand in his jeans pocket and came up with exact change. As he was being handed the water, he noticed the booth next to them.
It was hard to miss, honestly. Blood red, staffed by the unmistakeable sisters of the Red God. A very occult spread of candles and tarot cards was on their booth table, and there was a decent crowd gathered by a woman giving fortune tellings.
That’s not what most caught Jon’s attention though.
Standing somewhat awkwardly apart from the booth was a young girl, about his age. While she was dressed fairly modestly, she didn’t wear the red robes of the convent. Her hair was so white it shone silver in the bright sun, and she had three crows perched on her shoulders.
Suddenly, as though sensing his eyes on her, she turned. Even from a few yards away, Jon could clearly see her eyes. Violet. The color of northern heather.
Ghost whines again and panted against Jon’s leg, interrupting his reverie.
“Sorry boy, let’s find somewhere for you to have a drink.”
Jon turned, looking for somewhere he could safely give a massive dog water without splashing it all over a precious volume of poetry.
A soft voice at his side startled him. “Looking for a place for your dog?”
It was the girl. Up close she was even more stunning, eyes wide and mouth turned up prettily at the corners. Jon coughed slightly.
“Er, yeah. I don’t want to make a mess.”
The girl laughed. It sounded like silver bells, and gods, but Jon was smitten instantly.
She nodded her head at a park bench under a shady tree. “There’s a bench there, if you’d like to sit.”
Jon nodded dumbly as she led them to the bench, unsure of how he’d managed to already sit down alone with her, and not even have had a proper conversation.
They sat, and Jon quickly opened the water to give to Ghost. The girl giggled a bit as she watched him pour it in the dog’s giant maw, his tail wagging appreciatively.
When he’d finished, Ghost turned his attentions to the girl, offering his huge head up for pets. While the crows seemed displeased, taking off to settle in the tree above them, the girl didn’t mind at all, running her small hands through Ghost’s thick fur.
“What a good boy you are,” she cooed. She looked up at Jon, and he felt his heart skip another beat. Fuck.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m being terribly rude. My name is Daenerys.”
Sounded fairly Welsh, Jon thought.
“I’m Jon,” he said. “Jon Snow.”
Daenerys smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jon Snow.”
Her warm southern accent lingered on his last name. It sounded nice, coming from her. Didn’t sound like the curse it was.
“I didn’t mean to pull you away from the fair, but it looked like you needed a quiet spot to sit with your dog.”
Jon chuckled. “It’s no trouble at all, really. I got kicked out of the B&B I was staying at, so I came here.”
Daenerys frowned. “Missy kicked you out?”
Jon shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. It’s just my stepmother. She doesn’t like me being around.”
Daenerys cocked her head to one side, regarding him. “So you came to the fair?”
“Well, I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here. He’s the reason I’m even here. I imagine he’s neck deep in books about magic and dragons and whatnot.”
Daenerys nodded, pensive.
“You’re not from anywhere close by then.”
It was a statement, not a question. Jon nodded.
“Aye. I’m from Winter Town. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it, it’s pretty far up north. Past Thurso.”
Her expression clearly said she had no idea where either of those places where. Jon laughed.
“Don’t worry about it.”
One of the crows, perhaps sensing that the great white beast wasn’t a threat, fluttered back down and settled on Daenerys’ shoulder. It stared at Jon with one beady red eye.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen a crow with red eyes before.”
Beside him, Jon felt Daenerys stiffen. “My birds…are special. I can’t really explain it.”
Jon held his hands up. “Hey, I’m not judging. I have a seventeen stone albino dog.”
He gestured back at the red booth. “So are you with the red sisters?”
Daenerys shook her head. “Not really. I grew up in the convent, but I’m not a follower of the Red God. Though,” she said, biting her lip, “Maybe I should be.”
“So do you know anything about the fire that happened five nights ago? We saw it driving in. The smoke was incredible, but no one has said a word about it since we got here.”
Daenerys was quiet for a moment, and Jon worried he’d misspoken somehow. Then, she spoke.
“Do you believe in magic, Jon Snow?”
A long time ago, Jon would have laughed and said no. He’d have told this stunning girl she had her head in fairy tales like his sister Sansa, that knights and princesses and magic were things of the distant past, impossible dreams.
Now though, the question made Jon’s chest ache.
He rubbed at the place where his scar was under his t-shirt, throat dry.
“Aye, I believe.”
At his words, Daenerys looked so relieved it made his heart ache. Like she’d been waiting for someone to believe her.
However, nothing could prepare him for her next words.
“Five nights ago, I set myself on fire in my garden.”
She said it so calmly, as though she were talking about trimming her hair.
“That’s what the fire was. I poured kerosene from the flame rooms on myself and lit myself on fire. I burned for two hours before anyone found me.”
Jon’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t help it.
“Fuck,” he swore under his breath.
Daenerys nodded. “I blacked out. When I woke up, nothing had changed. At least, not physically. I was unburnt.”
“The red sisters said it was a miracle,” she added.
“I’d have to agree with them.” Jon couldn’t believe it. And yet, he could. Somewhere, the knowledge of his own brush with death teased him, made him aware of powers he couldn’t explain.
He looked at Daenerys, trying to find some proof that she’d really been burned. Nothing seemed strange at all, save her exotic appearance. No scars, no angry red skin. even her hair was glossy and long, ends unsinged. If she’d really burned, she’d faired better than he had.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked finally. It was the only thing he could ask. “Are you okay” seemed too contrite, too bland. Besides, it’s not what he wanted to know.
She picked at her hands. “I was in a really bad place.” She stopped there.
“Was. You’re better now?” Five days later?
She smiled at him, eyes squinting a little. She was so pretty it hurt.
“If I look back I’m lost.”
“Fuck.”
“Sorry.” She looked genuinely concerned now. “I know that’s a lot to put on a stranger.”
Jon shook his head. “You’d be surprised. I’ve actually heard worse.”
She smiled again, and Jon smiled back, lost in the way she seemed to absorb and reflect all the light around her.
“So, what do you do when you’re not surviving impossible fires?”
She shrugged. “Not a lot, honestly. I never really planned for my future. Living in the convent was all I knew until recently.”
“That’s depressing.” The words were out before he could stop them. “I mean, fuck, sorry.”
Jon raked a hand through his hair. “That was rude.”
She shook her head. “You’re right though. I want to do something with my life. I want a purpose.”
Jon snorted. “Well if you ever want to come up north and convince everyone to give a shit about our national park, that’d be great.”
“What, like politics?”
Jon nodded. “Aye. We have thousands of acres of natural wilderness beyond the Wall. It’s kind of a refuge for some of the people who’ve lived there for centuries too, people who don’t want to start living a modern life. But everyone is intent on cutting it down, turning it into a theme park, or some kind of industrial complex.”
He glared, at nothing in particular. “Nobody gives a shit about the environment, or the people who depend on it. We’re all gonna die if we don’t do something,” he said darkly.
Daenerys blinked. “Wow, that’s…intense.”
Jon sighed.
The sun was already sinking low over the trees, and the book fair was packing up for the day. Sam still hadn’t made an appearance, so Jon took out his phone to text him. He has a missed call from Arya, and a text from Sansa warning him not to come back to the B&B that night. Apparently Catelyn was still pissed about what had happened earlier.
“You wouldn’t happen to know of any other place in town I could stay, would you?” he asked Daenerys.
She chewed her lip for a moment, thinking. “Well,” she said slowly. “I just moved in to my apartment today. It’s only one room, but Missy and Grey are bringing some furniture today. You can stay, if you like.”
“You’d let a total stranger stay at your new place?” Jon teased.
Daenerys tossed her hair. “I’ve decided I like you, Jon Snow. Besides, I can take care of myself.”
“Fine, fine. But I have to bring Ghost with me, too. Will that be alright, d’you think?”
The smile he received in return was blinding.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
Daenerys liked Jon. Sure, there was that quiet but insistent voice that told her she’d been duped before, but she liked him. He was smart and self aware, and he didn’t make her feel small or unimportant. Jon saw her, in a way she’d never felt seen before. Drogo had seen her, but only as a prize to be won, conquered, and made domestic. Jorah saw her as something to be protected and hidden away. Jon was none of those things.
And he was good looking, she thought as she watched him prowl around her apartment. He’d already complained about the creaky doors, the leaky faucet and the locks on her windows.
“I’ll fix it for you,” he kept saying as he unearthed new flaws in her home. He seemed incapable of standing still, restlessly moving from place to place even in the small studio. So different from Daenerys, who was accustomed to sitting still for hours on end, waiting patiently.
“This outlet is a fire hazard,” he said, toeing a loose socket with one booted foot. “I’ll—“
“—Fix it tomorrow?” Daenerys smiled. “You don’t have to, you know.”
Jon smiled weakly at her, raking one hand through his dark hair. “I know. But it’s only fair. You’re giving me your floor after all.”
They’d argued a bit about that. Missandei and Grey had dropped off a futon and some chairs, along with a few provisions. Daenerys had offered Jon the futon, and as she’d expected, he’d refused. She tried to push it, feeling bad about him sleeping on the cold floor, but he’s brushed it off with a “I’ve slept on worse,” and that had been it.
Daenerys wanted to ask him about his past. It seemed Jon had been though a lot “worse” in his life, though he was reluctant to talk about it. It was curious that he had so readily believed her about the fire.
She’d caught a glimpse of scars on his upper arms, faint silver lines that criss crossed across his tan skin. She figured that whatever it was that haunted him, it was at least as heavy as what haunted her.
They ate in relative silence, feasting on leftovers from Missy and Grey. Her crows perched in the exposed ceiling beams, observing their guest with watchful eyes.
After dinner, Jon helped her set up her wifi, and with the ancient laptop she’d pilfered from the convent’s accounting offices, she connected to the internet for the first time.
Jon disappeared into the bathroom, having given the flimsy excuse of “wanting to test the water pressure, in case it needed fixing.” She knew he just wanted to get the dog hair off of him, and she couldn’t blame him. Ghost had settles down for the night in the coolest corner of the apartment, and already there was a ring of dog hair settling around him in the dust. She’d be cleaning the place for weeks after, she knew.
While her guest was occupied, Daenerys did some research. She found out that Winter Town was the largest town that far north, with only small fishing towns extending up near the Wall. She found pages and pages of results for activists in the north, protests and counter movements against the southern reign of industry.
The national park, too, she found online. Photos of a vast wilderness, snowy banks and tall trees engulfing the horizon and stretching out forever. It was beautiful.
She also found pages upon pages of news stories relating to traffickers using northern ports to smuggle children. One link led to another, and Daenerys felt tears sting her eyes as she discovered the horrors of child trafficking. She devoured articles and blog entries, wanting to learn as much as she could.
Missandei, she knew, had been a victim of trafficking. Her oldest friend never spoke of it, but it was hinted at in her conversation with Grey, in certain triggers and behaviors. Daenerys never knew the extent of it.
Hands trembling, Daenerys searched for ways to stop it. A few key words piqued her interest. Advocate, lawyer, ambassador. Politician.
Her web of interest led her to university programs. She found one halfway between Winter Town and Hay-on-Wye, a private university called Dragonstone. It was pricy, but they offered a degree program in political science, as well as a law school.
Viserys had named her his heir, and as such, she was entitled to a trust fund created by her brother Rhaegar. She wasn’t even sure if it still existed, as her family solicitor had not been in contact since Viserys’ last visit. But it was worth a chance.
Now that she was free, Daenerys could go anywhere. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, Daenerys wanted to make something of herself.
Jon emerged with a cloud of sandalwood scented steam. Clearly, he’d forgotten there was no where to go but the one room, and so stood there for a moment, slightly dazed, as Daenerys stared at him.
Or rather, at the scar.
“Sorry,” he muttered, quickly moving to cover his chest with his discarded shirt. Daenerys closed her mouth, shocked.
“How did you survive that,” she said, her voice so low even she could barely hear it.
Jon grimaced. “I didn’t.”
He didn’t say anything more, his faced closed off and brooding, so Daenerys dropped it. Instead, she went to her satchel, where she withdrew a bottle of wine, also stolen from the convent.
She popped the cork out and took a deep draught. Jon watched her, eyes dark. Daenerys blushed. She couldn’t yet tell what it was, the tense feeling between them. Was it just the knowledge of each other’s scars? Or was it something more?
She swallowed. Held the bottle out to Jon. “Want some?”
He took the bottle from her, eyes never leaving hers. He drank deeply, a bead of wine escaping the seal between his lips and the bottle, sliding down to meet his jaw, his neck.
Daenerys wanted.
She’d not felt a want like this since Drogo. Even then, her desire had been a rebellion, a form of self harm she’d not recognized until that moment when he’d finally broken her.
He held the bottle out to her and she took it, raised it to her lips. Kinvara used to tell her that this is how people wed in the olden days. Sharing a cup, sharing a drink. A bond.
She drank, and felt the dry taste of the wine, like pears and rubbing alcohol, in her mouth. She winced as she swallowed, and Jon laughed low in his throat.
“Never liked church wine,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
Daenerys shook her finger at him. “Convent wine,” she corrected.
He laughed and took the bottle back. Daenerys felt the effects of the wine, felt her body become warm and her pulse quicken. He was too distracting.
He sat down on the floor, arranging the few blankets and pillows into some semblance of comfort. Overhead the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. It was a little sad, the picture of her barebones home, and this man who’d come into it, who’d done nothing but be kind to her. Daenerys wanted to make it more inviting somehow.
“I know what we need,” she said, jumping up. She swayed a little on her feet, and Jon laughed at her again. She liked his laugh. It was low and rumbly, his northern accent coloring even the lightest sound.
She rummaged through her belonging, taking out some candles and a box of matches. Jon watched warily as she lit candles, setting them in their little glass cups around the room.
“Candles,” he said. “Fire hazard.”
“Does it help to know that I’m fireproof?” she asked.
Jon considered this, then said, “We don’t know if you’re fireproof all the time. Could be a one time thing. Like me.”
Daenerys filed away the ‘like me’ bit for another time. “You’re right. Only one way to find out.”
She passed her hand through the open flame of the candle in her hand. In an instant, Jon was on his feet, yanking her hand away from the flame.
“Are you crazy?!”
He was standing so close now. They were both breathing roughly; Jon because of his panic and sudden movement, and Daenerys, because she’d been right.
“Jon, look.”
She moved the candle under her hand again. The flame passed through her fingers, and she didn’t flinch. Jon pulled her hand back again, but more gently this time, turning it over in his hand to check for damage.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, breathing out through his nose. “Fuck. You’re unburnt.”
Daenerys smiled.
The candle sputtered out in her hand, moved by some gust of wind. Daenerys shivered.
Her other hand was still in Jon’s grasp.
“Jon.”
She turned her hand, moving so she was holding his hand instead of being held.
“Sorry,” he murmured. He was so close, she could see the violet of her own eyes reflected in his grey ones.
Daenerys stepped closer, pulled in by his dark gaze.
“Tell me it’s not just me,” Jon said. “Tell me you feel it too.”
Daenerys reached up to stroke a silvering scar over his brow. He was so pretty it hurt, she thought.
“Kiss me,” she said, deciding everything in an instant. Only if for a night, she thought. I want to feel this connection.
“Kiss me.”
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Jon knew there was magic in the world.
Maybe not magic, per se, but something. Something strong, powerful.
It was the force that saved him when he nearly died in the forest behind Winterfell. He’d been a boy then, not yet ten years old, and circled by wolves. Suddenly, he’d felt a tug at the edge of his mind, a faint pull that beckoned to him. He’d refused to cry, no matter how terrified, staring the wolves down with fear in his heart until he felt that pull. The faintest of suggestions. He’d screamed “leave me alone!” And the the wolves had run, leaving him behind in the snow.
Later, that same tug had led him to Ghost and his siblings. No one believed him when he’d said that he was led to the pups by a vision, not even Robb.
He still dreamed of being in Ghost’s mind, visions of muddy paws and faraway snow banks filling his dreams. Once, he woke to the taste of blood in his mouth. Ghost had killed a rabbit, his white face stained red with its blood.
Ygritte had called him a warg, an old word for a skinchanger. She swore, up to her dying breath, that he was magic. “Crow magic,” the wildlings called it.
He’d brushed it off for most of his life, until the Night’s Watch. When he’d become a fireman, more strange things happened to him. He never tired, his body taking twice the beating of his brothers. He’d run back to back shifts on the truck without blinking, when most men would beg for a day off.
When three of his brothers, jealous and angry, had jumped him after work one day, even he’d thought it would be over for him.
But not even a blade to the heart could stop him. Those who were there still talk about it, how his body lay cold in the ambulance for the whole hour it took to drive to the hospital. How he’d sat bold upright in the emergency room, before a doctor had even touched him. Three days later, with no serious injuries to keep him, he’d been discharged, much to the confusion of the doctors. Some magic had done that, he knew now.
Now he watched as the same magic worked on most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, who burned herself in front of his very eyes, her pale skin unchanged by the white hot flame.
And then she’d asked him to kiss her.
The first meeting of their lips felt like static shock. She was warm and pliable beneath him, her body drawing nearer, seeking out his warmth. Drawn in by the taste of the wine on her lips and the tug of her hand sin his hair, Jon kissed her harder.
He’d wondered if she would feel breakable in his arms. She certainly looked it, the way she was all pale moonlight and lilac eyes, with her long skirts and easy smile.
But she was like fire in his arms, unrelenting and hot. The heat of her surprised him.
She bit his lip, and he had to keep himself from growling, desire threatening to choke him as it bubbled up from the pit of his stomach into his throat.
He licked into her mouth, kissing her and angling her ever closer. Nothing was close enough, though, both of them forgetting to breathe through their lust.
She nipped at his throat, and Jon reflexively clenched his fist in her hair, relished in her little cries.
“More,” she cried.
How could he refuse?
He lay her gently down on the futon. Around them, candles flickered and sputtered. He’d complained at first, noting the fire hazard, but he was quickly learning that everything about Daenerys was a fire hazard. Not just to the apartment, but to him.
She trailed a hand down his chest, tugged at his shirt to pull him down on top of her.
Their lips met again, slanting together. Jon tasted blood in his mouth. Wondered if it was his or hers.
“Take it off, off,” Daenerys was saying. Vaguely, Jon realized she was talking about her blouse and skirt. He fumbled with the buttons for a second, then ripped the filmy material down the center, exposing her white bra and soft skin. She gasped.
“Sorry,” he mumbled against her skin, already pressing wet kisses against her breast. Her hands were in his hair, pulling and urging him on.
“Shut up,” she said. “I love it.”
Her bra was ripped with just as little care, joining the shredded blouse on the floor. Jon pressed feather light kisses into her ribs, her breasts, chasing each shiver with a kiss until she was writhing beneath him. Something about this felt like worship, felt like a beginning. Jon shook such thoughts from his mind, and bit the tender skin of Daenerys’ hip.
Her skirt joined the rest of her clothes on the floor, and then she was surging up, legs wrapped around his hips, hands pulling him closer, closer, while her sweet mouth made him wild with kisses.
“Off, off,” she was saying, pulling at his shirt, his belt. Jon hesitated only slightly before ripping away his shirt, letting her see all of him.
Her eyes were dark as she took him in, her lips forming an ‘o’ as she ran her hand over his scar. He winced, pulling her hand away, wanting to kiss her, to distract her, so she wouldn’t run…
Daenerys replaced her hand with her lips, tracing the scar with her tongue. Jon shivered.
“Dany,” he said, voice thick. He felt her smile against his skin, lips moving lower.
He flipped them so she was on top, settling her down on his chest. He worked his jeans off, then his briefs.
Wordlessly, she leaned back, eyes on him as she stroked his length, then sheathed herself on it. He groaned, taking in the sensation.
“Gods, Dany…”
Her eyes glittered, cheeks flushed red and mouth open as she rode him.
“Fuck, Jon, I—“
She came, trembling over him, eyes closed tight. It was exquisite. Jon pulled her down for a kiss, helped her through it, moved his hips against her as she ground down on him. Her silvery hair formed a curtain around them, the candles making her glow.
Holding her close, Jon moved them again, laying her down on the futon. Her arms came around his neck, and he moved inside her, slowly at first, then harder, chasing his own release.
He came hard, Daenerys pressing him even closer to her, pulling him deeper inside. He felt her nails rake down his back, felt her sharp inhale as she came for the second time with him.
“Fuck.”
Jon rolled to side to avoid crushing her, totally spent. Daenerys curled up around him immediately, still pressing soft kisses to his neck.
“Sorry. Should have been more careful.”
Jon looked over at her, trying to catch her eye. She smiled wanly, looking down.
“I don’t think it matters. I miscarried a month ago. I haven’t bled since.”
Oh. “Shit, sorry. Is that why you…?”
She tucked her head in his shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah.”
Jon lay back, mind still foggy from the post-sex haze. He felt Daenerys trace small circles on his chest. He wanted to make her laugh again, take away the tense mood.
“Well. At least my ploy worked.”
She perked up. “What ploy?”
He grinned. “The ploy to get you to share the bed, of course.”
She laughed, and he felt the tension go out of his body again.
“I would have shared anyway. I know this is strange, but the moment I saw you, I felt that I had to know you. Something magnetic, you know?”
Privately, Jon agreed. He’d known Daenerys a scant eight hours, and he was already scared of how much he felt for her. How deep their connection ran. He’d been so sure he was the only magic in the world, so sure no one would believe him, and here she was, the living proof he wasn’t alone.
Out loud, he said, “Shower?”
In the shower together, it was harder to mask the scars. Daenerys saw them, she touched them with her fingertips, but she didn’t ask. She poured water over him, washed his back with the same sandalwood scented soap he'd used earlier. She caressed the scars, eyes flicking up to gauge his reaction, but she didn't ask. Still, Jon knew he’d have to tell her sooner or later.
“I was stabbed. Several times, in the heart. It was some men from the fire department up north, the Night’s Watch. We handle fires in the national park, strange fires, stuff other firemen can't handle. We were supposed to be like brothers. They betrayed me.”
She took in the words silently, letting him talk, just listening. The water had made her hair and lashes a dark silver, and her expression was somber as she stood under the water, waiting for him to continue.
“I went there because my stepmother didn’t want me. My father, he had an affair with a woman from Morocco. She never forgave me for it, especially after he died. People send their bastards to the Wall all the time. It's a way of kindly forgetting they exist. Most of them don't get murdered in cold blood, though.”
“But you came back,” Daenerys whispered. Jon nodded. Daenerys stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, her lips wet and warm. She fit their bodies together so he could stand with her under the warm water, and it was so tender, for a moment, Jon wondered if this was the reason he'd come back.
He nodded again, chin tucked over her head, arms wrapped around her small frame.
“I came back.”
Dany smiled against his chest. “Like me. You’re magic, too.”
And in that moment, standing with her under the water, Jon had to agree.
It was magic.