Work Text:
She was a warrior. He knew.
The moment he’d first seen her, he knew.
She’d sat regally upon the stone throne within the home of her ancestors —and his— face stern, stare penetrating.
She was a warrior like the great Visenya had been, like many she-dragons who’d walked these very halls.
That day, her long and silky hair had shone brightly under the midday sun. He’d never seen hair as such, almost white like the stars, testament of her Valyrian roots and of the legacy she carried upon her shoulders.
Gazing at the dragon heads carved onto the walls during his nightly wandering, he wondered why, if they shared the same ancestry, had the gods fashioned him differently? So gruff, so earthly.
He knew the answer to his inquiry, yet he wondered still.
It had been for the best, he tried to convince himself. The gods had protected him by gifting him dark raven curls and deep brown eyes, however, a pang of jealousy went down his spine, making his fists clench and his jaw tighten.
As a child, forbidden of dreaming of Winterfell, he’d dreamt of dragon lords and moon-kissed hair. He’d dreamt of fire and blood.
Funny, how fate worked.
He was a simple man. No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
He was a bastard.
He wasn’t allowed to carry a name, he wasn’t allowed to desire more than crumbs, he wasn’t allowed to love.
Regardless, he’d met her.
Her.
The Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains. The Targaryen Queen. The only living heir of the once greatest dynasty the world had ever seen.
And she shared his blood.
That astounding, otherworldly woman, that Queen, that warrior was his family.
He was no bastard, no shameful regret, no commoner.
He was a prince as was she.
Perhaps had he not seen everything he had, had he not gone on the path he’d gone, it’d be easier to believe it. To believe he was a part of all those legends he’d heard about, of the history he’d read on ancient books, of Her.
Closing the door to his chambers, he took a moment to stare at his reflection.
No, it couldn’t be. He was no dragon lord, no Valyrian heir; he was a Northman, a wolf.
You’re Aegon Targaryen, Sam’s voice resonated within his mind.
His eyes squinted, trying to fathom the information that had been bestowed upon him, trying to find a glimpse of the parentage he’d been told about.
He craved to see it, to see some resemblance to it, to Her.
He craved for the feeling of being unwanted and less to fade away, for he might be a Northman and a wolf, but he’d never been a Stark.
He thought of Robb, of Bran, of Rickon, of Eddard and his uncle Benjen.
Oh, how he’d envied Robb, how he’d wanted to be him, wanted to have everything he had had. His heart sank deep in his chest at the memory of his auburn curls and sparkling blue eyes, guilt gnawing at him.
He’d wanted something that was never to be his, something that had not belonged to him yet he had somehow attained, and Robb laid dead the gods know where, cold and dry.
If he’d known who he was, he would’ve never wanted what Robb had, he would’ve never wanted to be a Stark beyond what his mother would have taught him to be. He would’ve been a proud dragon, he would’ve enjoyed his mother’s embrace and rejoiced in his father’s lectures. He would’ve heard him sing and play the harp, he would’ve learnt his native tongue.
He would’ve been cherished.
He would’ve met his cousins and loved them dearly, he would’ve learnt about their northern customs, he would’ve visited Winterfell and marvelled at the soft feel of snow between his fingers.
He would’ve grown up beside Her.
She wouldn’t have had to flee her country, she wouldn’t have had to wander the streets, she wouldn’t have had to know hunger.
He would’ve played with her, he would've protected her.
He would’ve learnt to be a prince alongside her.
Whipping his eyes away from the mirror, he walked to the bed and plumped down as resentment and anger flooded his veins.
No, he hadn't known who his parents were, he hadn’t grown up beside her.
He hadn't learnt to be a dragon.
His father had made a mistake and that had cost him the throne. He had loved someone else’s betrothed and that had torn an entire realm apart, destroying a long-lasting dynasty and ripping him off his future —and hers.
They’d become 'the bastard' and 'the exile' and a sea had been placed between them.
So he cursed him. He cursed Rhaegar Targaryen for ruining what hundreds of other Targaryens had built but, above it all, for ruining his life and hers.
Salty wind blew outside, messily messing the waves that crashed against the shore with loud roads. He found it an oddity the calmness it brought him. Back at Winterfell, the sea was miles away and the wind meant snow was coming so he’d never cared for it, let alone the sea. Here at Dragonstone, however, he rejoiced in the feeling of refreshing sea breeze upon his face and the lulling of the warm wind.
Evidently, Dragonstone reminded him of the Targaryens who’d ruled for centuries and thus it reminded him of who he was, and it reminded him of her, of Dany.
Standing up, he took off his breastplate and walked to the window. For a moment, he stared at the growling direwolves engraved on it and wistfully thought again of the Starks of Winterfell.
A smile escaped him as he remembered little Bran chasing after Arya, Rickon stealing pies from Old Nan, Sansa sewing beautiful patterns, Robb sparring with Theon in the courtyard whilst Maester Lewin observed from above. Not even the judicious stare of Lady Catelyn bothered him as much now when he thought of his childhood at the castle.
Who he thought of the most, however, was Eddard; the man he’d always tried to be like, the man he’d always wanted to make proud, the man he’d always believed to be his father.
He wanted to embrace him, to feel his warmth once more.
He wished he could talk to him and ask him about Lyanna. He wished to know his thoughts on Rhaegar and his mistakes.
He wished to know about Robert Baratheon and the doom of House Targaryen.
Grabbing the breastplate strongly, knuckles turning white, he cursed him, too, for dying; for leaving him without answers, and for letting the game outwit him, for being so honourable.
Going south he should have known northern virtues were useless, he should have.
A loud screech pulled him out of his musings, the sound reverberating through the castle, leaving a mournful echo behind it.
He looked up to search for Drogon, finding him flying low, almost touching the sea and then going up and losing himself amongst the grey clouds. What a sight he was, so magnificent and imposing.
But something was missing and his stomach churned at the réalisation that the picture would never be complete again. Drogon would spend the rest of his life alone, without his brothers by his side. The world would never see dragons again, only one.
Tears of sorrow and ire pricked at his eyes, threatening to spill. Remembering the platinum green scales of sweet Rhaegal, he allowed for one to roll down his cheek, the salty drop finally landing over a wooden table. He had lost him before their bond could grow stronger, however, the pain was no less.
If he felt this shattered, he couldn't even begin to imagine how she could be feeling. Two of her children taken away from her in such terrible ways.
The Night King had been dealt with but Euron Greyjoy remained and he would make sure he’d paid for killing Rhaegal and robbing a mother of her child.
Missandei’s face appeared before his eyes then and the pain became more intense as did the anger. He hadn’t known her that well, but he knew Dany adored her and trusted her fully. She had been an innocent woman who had unfairly fallen into the hands of a mad queen.
Tyrion and Varys had informed him of their concern regarding Dany following the same path her father had as soon as he had arrived, but they were wrong. They were fools for even considering it and he’d let them know. The only mad queen here was Cersei Lannister and she’d pay, too.
She’d pay with fire and blood for making Dany hurt and for placing herself before the people, before anyone, he was convinced. As Dany had stated, they’d rip her out root and stem.
The clever plans had cost Dany everything. She had given so much and had lost so much in return. This was war but, despite being convinced the fewer they perished the better, it was naive to think there’d be no casualties, no suffering. Life had taught him that.
Looking back at the breastplate, he realised perhaps his Targaryen heritage was taking over him, seeing as to how Eddard Stark’s stubborn honour seemed almost ridiculous now and his thoughts of vengeance grew bigger within him.
Perhaps, without realising it, his inner dragon had always been there, guiding him along the way side by side with his inner wolf. He thought back at how sometimes the Stark stoic nature had not been the one to make decisions for him, rather an impulse he sometimes thought shameful, so flammable and cunning.
The shame was no longer. He didn’t regret his actions at the Wall and he certainly didn’t regret fighting for Dany. He only felt pain and rage for everything the war had cost her. He wanted to slay every Lannister he came across for her, but also for Robb and Eddard and Arya and Sansa and Rickon. It was the Lannisters who had ruined his family’s lives; it was the Lannisters who had ruined both Starks and Targaryens, and he had had enough of it.
Leaving the breastplate over the table, he left the room, seeking for Dany, tossing aside her command of wanting to be left alone.
When he reached the room with the painted table, he bothered not to knock and entered, threatening with his stare the Unsullied who dared stop him.
He was not prepared to see what he found and he felt the world crumble around him as his limbs failed and his breathing faltered.
His warrior queen was a warrior no longer. He would’ve thought her dead if not by the light movement of her chest and the fact that she stood, leaning over a wall looking out the window.
Her moon-kissed curls did not shine, they fell aimlessly, lifelessly over her back. The power in her stare gone.
In spite of it, he forced his eyes to look beyond the surface. Not all was lost. His warrior was still there, hidden and tormented, but there.
Not even the Lioness of The Rock was powerful enough to bring down a dragon, she couldn’t be. No one was strong enough to bring down a dragon, let alone one that was as strong and fierce as Dany was.
What did people say? Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men.
Approaching her slowly, he took her in, vowing silently to allow no one else to do that to her ever again.
Awe replacing surprise, he thought once more of the improbability of their encounter, of a simple man meeting a dragon queen. He marvelled at her feats, at her courage, at her bravery, at her endurance to thrive until she got what she wanted; to cross the sea and claim her crown back. She was one step apart from finally achieving it all and he wouldn’t let a Lannister deny her of it.
“Dany,” he called gently.
Her eyes barely moved in response and when they found him, it was as if they did not see him at all. He crossed the little distance that kept them apart and pulled her in his embrace, knowing very well whatever he said would be no consolation. He just needed her to know that he was there, that he would always be there.
She smelled of sweat and defeat, the scent crushing his heart as she crumbled and let herself be weak in his arms.
The more he hugged her, the more he could feel what she was as if they somehow shared a deeper connection than he was aware of. Perhaps it had to do with the still incredible fact to him that they shared the same blood.
She was a dragon and so was he, and only a dragon could understand another. For the first time since Sam had told him about his true parentage, he felt happy to share with her this tie that no one else could.
He could understand her, he could join her in her sorrow and in her anger. She brought out in him feelings he didn’t know he had within him, she made him think of things he hadn't thought himself capable of and in return, he did the same for her.
How the world would see his relationship with her, he cared not. Right then, with her between his arms and her tears staining his clothes, he knew they were meant to be together just as they had been if they’d grown together, as if the world had not been so cruel as to tear them apart.
An hour or ten later, he didn’t know, her tears ceased and she lifted her gaze at him, a little simper dancing on her lips. Long gone was the defeat in her eyes, replaced by unwavering determination and resolute tenacity.
He marvelled at this, at her outstanding resilience and unbelievable strength. She had lost one child, one husband, two dragons, two friends and counsellors and yet she stood firm, unbending. Not one man he had come across possessed the courage and decision she did, on the contrary, she possessed the strength of a thousand men within her.
She spoke various languages, she knew politics, she commanded armies that extended beyond what the eyes could see, she mounted a monstrous beast…
She… words were not enough to describe her and he could only hope to ever be half the person she was.
He wasn’t doubtful anymore. He wanted to do anything within his ability to help her and he wanted to embrace who he was, who his family and hers had been, what being a Targaryen meant.
He wanted to be Aegon.
He’d never stop being Jon, a son of the North, but his place was next to her, to this warrior.
He wanted to be who he had been meant to, but fate had stolen away; he wanted to be a warrior.
“We will take what is yours, Dany,” he declared firmly, rubbing off the last tears that stained her comely face with his thumbs.
“What’s ours,” she replied, holding him strongly with no trace of doubt in her words. “What was taken from our family.”
He nodded, getting closer for his lips to touch hers.
Taking in each other’s breath, they stopped to look at each other.
“We will. Together,” they vowed.