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“Do you have any idea what kind of position you put me in, having to explain to your men—the ones who chose you as their king—that you had bent the knee to another?”
As Jon had expected, Sansa had launched into a tirade almost as soon as he and the queen had arrived to Winterfell. He certainly hadn’t missed this while he’d been away the past few months.
His sister continued to lecture him, heedless of their small audience, and he ground his back teeth together against the inclination to engage in petty sibling squabbling with her. He'd have no teeth left if she kept this up.
“Not just that you bent the knee—that you bent it without consulting them. Without consulting me!”
Jon could hold his tongue no longer. “Is that what this is really about? That I made a decision without your advice?”
Her Tully-blue eyes blazed with indignation, and just for a moment he was reminded of the loathing looks Lady Catelyn used to level him with all those years ago. But Sansa pinched her lips together and folded her hands on the table. Miraculously, her face softened. “I thought we’d agreed to trust each other. To listen to each other more. I trusted you to protect Winterfell. To protect our home.”
He opened his mouth, but another beat him to it. “And he has done just that, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said, speaking evenly. “He came to me for an ally, and he has one. I have not come as an enemy. I’m here to protect your home and your people against the Night King. You have my word.”
Sansa stared at Daenerys silently, and Jon glanced at the others gathered around the room. Davos, Arya, Bran, Sam, as well as Tyrion, Jorah, Varys and Missandei. The rest of the queen’s cavalcade Jon had sent away soon after his siblings had welcomed them inside the castle walls when he saw trouble brewing, namely among Sansa and the agitated Northern lords. He'd barely had a moment to speak with Arya and Bran, whom he hadn't seen since they were children.
After a moment, Sansa replied with practiced composure, “And we appreciate your help, your grace. But considering the history between our families, you’ll have to forgive me my hesitation. After everything, how can we be expected to simply trust your word?”
Jon felt his hackles rise. “She’s seen what I’ve seen, Sansa—she’s suffered at the hands of the Night King, more than any of us in this room. You have no idea—”
Daenerys looked at him, and he bit off the rest of his impassioned retort. She turned back to Sansa. “I understand your concerns. Jon had them as well. Through his stay at Dragonstone, we came to a better understanding of each other and were able to reach a mutual place of trust. But you and I don’t know each other yet. Your hesitation is natural, of course. In an ideal world, we would have the same opportunity Jon and I had to become better acquainted. But, unfortunately, there is no time for that.” A quick look at him at that, and Jon had to suppress a smile, hearing his own obstinate words from the queen’s lips now.
Daenerys continued, softer. “So, please, Lady Sansa, tell me what I can do to assure you that my word is true. That I’m not my father’s daughter.”
Once again, Jon had to battle the urge to speak on her behalf, to defend his queen. The woman he admired. The woman he loved. While he could see it so clearly now, it wasn’t that long ago he stood where Sansa stood, facing off with the Dragon Queen, wondering how to work with her without compromising the trust of his people—and their very survival. He knew Daenerys was quite capable of handling even the stubbornest of Northern lords and ladies on her own.
Silence fell across the room as the two women took stock of each other, Sansa assessing and calculating, weighing her words and options carefully, Daenerys holding her chin proudly but not defiantly.
Carefully, Sansa spoke. “I believe you want to help us, your grace. And, after seeing the enormity of your men and resources, I believe you can. I’m grateful for your sworn protection against the Others.”
She paused briefly, letting her words settle for dramatic effect before she went on. “But my worries are for the North after the battle with the Army of the Dead is won, if we should be so fortunate. I worry about what our allegiance with House Targaryen means for House Stark, for Winterfell, for all the houses of the north. Once we turn to Cersei—and if we should dethrone her and you take your place as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms—what happens then?”
Daenerys frowned. “I swore my forces to the King in the North’s cause with no expectations or promises from him.”
“And yet he still bent the knee,” Sansa countered, and Jon knew the chilliness in her voice was reserved for him, not Daenerys.
“I owe her my life,” Jon interjected. “As will many others when this is done. She did not ask it of me, but I swore we would help her in dethroning Cersei Lannister, and we will. I know you want that too, Sansa.”
Sansa conceded his point with a dip of her chin. “More than anything, yes, I would love to take Cersei down. But there’s still the matter of what that will look like for us once that goal has been achieved.”
Though she didn’t let it show, Jon could tell Daenerys was growing impatient with the needless back and forth and his sister’s uncanny ability to talk in circles. “What would you like that to look like, Lady Sansa?”
Sansa clasped her hands before her. “It’s one thing to swear an oath, your grace. But words are wind. However, there have been more effective ways to ensure allegiances between houses.”
Daenerys stared at Sansa, as if she suddenly realized where this conversation was going. Jon felt the slick slide of awareness down his own back. Sansa smiled faintly. “It’s my understanding you are unwed, your grace. Perhaps you will be in want of a husband soon, once you have the throne. I don’t believe you’ll find a more befitting suitor than my brother. After all, he was a king in his own right.”
The effect of her words across the room was subtle, but the shift was felt, regardless. Sam choked on his tongue, both Tyrion and Davos sucked in a breath, and Jorah widened his stance, arms folding across his brawny chest. Jon felt winded, as if Sansa’s proposal had socked him in the gut.
“Sansa,” he said sharply, face running hot that his own sister would dare dangle him as a bargaining tool, that she would ask him for Daenerys’ hand before he even had a bloody chance to do it.
But Tyrion stepped in then, moving closer. “Lady Sansa, while I admire your foresight, I think the issue of marriage for our queen should be handled after the war. She might like some time to consider her options—”
“No,” Daenerys said coolly. Tyrion looked to her, confused.
“No, you don’t wish to wait?”
“No, I reject Lady Sansa’s proposal.”
Jon’s stomach dropped. Even Sansa appeared stunned by Daenerys’ staunch rejection, but she rallied. “Your grace, it was made with the best interests of both our houses in mind—”
“I thank you, but no. I will not be married off for an alliance or bartered as if I were mere chattel. Not again,” she swore, holding Sansa’s gaze. “Not to the highest bidder or the most befitting suitor. That is not a cage in which I wish to find myself imprisoned ever again, my lady. I imagine you can understand my hesitation.”
His sister seemed to wilt then, barely, but she nodded once. “Of course, your grace. I understand very well.”
Jon felt numb, a chill overtaking him that had little to do with the cold in the room. He stared at Daenerys, but she refused to look his way. Of course, he should have known she wouldn’t wish to marry him, a bastard; he hadn’t expected she’d readily agree to tie her life to his, even though he’d hoped, however futilely—and still, her no had cut him deeper than he thought possible.
He could feel their pity, too, bleeding off them. The poor bastard looks from Tyrion and Davos, the simmering defensive anger of Arya on his behalf, Sansa’s palpable disappointment.
Jon’s temper flared, and he was barking out commands before he could think better of it. “Everyone, out.”
They all looked to him in surprise. All but Daenerys, who had turned her head to the hearth. Jon swallowed thickly and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. “Out. I would like a word with her grace in private,” he ground out, feeling the pulse of blood in his ears and cheeks.
One by one, everyone filed out of the room. Sam lingered, edging closer to him. “Jon, Bran and I, we really must speak with you, it’s rather, um, urgent—”
“Later, Sam,” Jon said through gritted teeth. Resigned, Sam grabbed the handles of Bran’s wheelchair and pushed him out of the room, the last to leave. Jon stomped over to slam the door shut, his cloak flapping at his heels. Once he and Daenerys were alone, Jon pivoted back to her, his heart climbing into his throat as he stared at her delicate profile, the nose and lips he’d traced countless times in the comfort of her cabin. Her gaze remained fixed on the crackling fire in the hearth. She didn’t acknowledge him, so Jon pushed out an agitated breath.
“Daenerys,” he started, and stopped, his voice gruff with emotion. The sting of her rejection was sharp, pulsating like a fresh, open wound. It made him want to lash out like an injured animal. “I did not know the prospect of marrying me would be so abhorrent to you.”
At the wounded accusation in his voice, she winced, but she did not turn to him. She kept her eyes turned to the flames, and when she spoke her voice was soft. “I don’t find it abhorrent, Jon. Quite the opposite, actually.”
He stared at her dumbly, a small flicker of hope sparking in his chest. He swallowed, drawing closer. “No? Then...why did you dismiss Sansa’s proposal out of hand?”
She fiddled with her jewelry, the ring on her left hand she never took off, not even in all the times they’d made love on the voyage to White Harbor. Her mother’s ring, she’d told him in a whisper one night after they’d both spent themselves thoroughly, her cheek on his chest as he’d gently played with her fingers and touched on the silver ring. The only thing I have left of her, she’d confessed.
After a fraught moment, Daenerys replied, “When I set sail for Westeros, I knew I’d likely have to marry to secure an alliance. I’m not a fool. I’d even broken a man’s heart before I left Meereen, knowing a marriage to some lord was inevitable. Necessary, even.”
Her answer only deepened his confusion. “So...is it as Tyrion said, then? You want to keep your options open?” he asked, unable to keep the bite of bitterness from his voice.
When she finally looked at him, there was a sheen to her eyes that stopped him cold. “No, Jon. There is no other for me but you. I would marry you if you asked.” His heart thumped, raging to life beneath the cage of his ribs. But she looked so sad as she said, “Only I never thought it would be your sister asking for my hand instead of you. I never thought what was between us would be sullied by the same ugly machinations of politics and old family grudges.”
The melancholy in her voice broke his heart. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Seven hells. I didn’t know Sansa would do that. She had no right to speak for me. She doesn’t speak for me.”
Daenerys turned away again. “Of course. After all, you have not asked me to marry you.”
Others take him. He had to be the densest bastard alive. He went to her then, gently taking her arm in hand to swivel her back to him. She didn’t lift her eyes above his chin, however, and he seized both her arms to pull her close. “Dany. I’m a fool. I would have asked, but Sansa didn’t even give me a chance.” He shook his head, exasperated. “No, that’s not true. I had plenty of chances, between Dragonstone and here, so many missed opportunities. I woke up so many mornings with the question on my tongue. But...I was afraid.”
At that, she brought her eyes to his, beseeching. “Afraid of what?”
His mouth was dry, his throat closing. “I’m a bastard, Dany. Not a man made for love or to be loved. And you...you’re everything.” Already he felt his tongue growing thick and clumsy with his words, and he wanted to curse himself for his poor elocution, now, when it mattered the most, more than anything. Dany’s lips parted in protest, but he rushed ahead before she could interrupt, “You’re a queen. A Targaryen. The scion of a bloody dynasty. You—you’ve done impossible things, magical things, wondrous things. How could I hope to stand beside you and be worthy?”
Her brows knitted in that familiar scowl of hers, the one that conveyed her disbelief and compassion and even her frustration. Reflexively, he reached out to smooth it away with his thumb, as he had done so many times before. “Jon, that’s absurd—“ she began, but he didn’t let her finish.
“Maybe, or maybe I have the right of it. But despite that, I know I would try, if you’d let me. Try to be worth it. Try to claw my way up to stand beside you, to deserve that honor. I’d try to make sure you never regret marrying me.” He swallowed. “Or loving me.”
She pressed her fingers to his lips, and he obediently fell silent, his heart in his throat. There were tears in her eyes, clumping her lashes together into little stars. “Are you asking me to marry you, Jon? I never heard a question.”
His mouth twitched in a faint smile. “Aye,” he rasped out, the word husky and thick with emotion. “I’m asking. Will you? Not because you need me or I need you or because my sister can’t keep her bloody mouth shut.” She flashed a quick, watery smile at that. “But because I love you. And I don’t want anyone else in this shit life, however long it might last.”
She finally laughed. “You were doing so well up until the end.”
His smile broke free. “You already know you wouldn’t be marrying a bleeding poet.”
Daenerys stroked her fingers over his beard, his jaw. “No. I would be marrying a great man. Someone kind, someone clever. Someone honest. Someone who makes me feel safe and heard. Someone who would risk everything to do what’s right.” She dropped her hand to his chest and pressed her palm to his heart. “Someone who would give his life for those he cares for. Someone who already has. Someone who is worth more than he knows. Who deserves everything.”
His own vision blurred at her words, and his throat convulsed with spasms. “Are you saying yes? I didn’t hear an answer.”
She laughed again, a faint blush coloring her cheeks and nose. She grabbed his face and stood on her toes to kiss him, almost shyly, a soft, lingering brush of her lips and tongue to his. Almost as if it were the first time all over again. When she pulled away, she was smiling.
“Yes, Jon. I want to be with you, as long as this shit life will allow.”