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She’d been the one to find it. As far as she was concerned, that alone should settle any debate about ownership.
A massive Burmese ruby, blood red, buried just beneath the grass she’d walked over each day since childhood. It was known as the Dragonstone, a 49.59-carat gem that had been missing for generations.
An appraiser had told her it could fetch close to $40 million, a veritable fortune. He’d babbled words and phrases that meant nothing to her: “bigger than the Sunrise Ruby,” “the finest tone and purity,” something about some poet named Rumi.
But Daenerys was a small-town girl; she didn’t care about no poets.
Forty million, on the other hand — that, she could do with.
If there was any creature that truly deserved credit for the find, it was her meanest cat, Drogon. He’d gone out to the property line each day for months, sitting at the same spot and staring; his behavior had started to disquiet her.
Eventually he’d grown tired of her not catching on and had led her, meowing something fierce the whole way, to the shovel by her shed. Once she’d grabbed it, he’d trotted right on back to the same place.
She was pretty sure cats weren’t supposed to be discovering buried treasure, but she wasn’t pressed to look a gift horse in the mouth, given what maintaining her land cost.
She’d dug the spot up; and there, just feet beneath them, the massive red stone laid.
It hadn’t been long before all sorts swarmed her place. Once word had gotten out that the Dragonstone had been discovered — returned to the world at last — every historian, reporter and swindler within a thousand miles had descended upon her front yard.
That’s where everything began to go bottoms up.
As long as she’d been alive, her backyard had been fenceless. She could still hear her late mother’s voice, telling her time and time again: “It’s Targaryen land until the Spanish moss tree, Dany. After that, it’s the Starks’.”
She’d never known, not once in her life, that the Starks thought otherwise. Not until she’d been served a notice by some sweaty, balding man informing her that her neighbors were suing for custody of the ruby, as it had been found on their property.
***
“It’s Stark land up til the dogwood tree,” he said mulishly. “I’ve known that my whole life, and best I can tell, that tree is closer to your house than the rock you found is.”
Jon Snow wasn’t even a Stark, technically — he was a half-sibling to the late heir Robb Stark.
But a tragedy had hit the family, and nearly all of the Starks had been killed a few years prior. The lone surviving Stark, Arya, was young. Too young to manage all that land alone, anyway.
Snow had some well-to-do barrister friend, and with Arya’s endorsement, they’d managed to make him the legitimate owner of the property.
Now, Daenerys was sympathetic — being that she’d been orphaned herself — but no amount of tragedy in Jon Snow’s dopey-eyed life made up for the fact that his property facts were plain wrong.
“Best I can tell,” she said waspishly, “you’re a greedy liar trying to take what I found. I’ve been tending that Spanish moss since I was a little girl, and no Stark has ever come to ask me why I’m on their land.”
“We got plenty of land, Dany,” he shot back. “I don’t spend everyday staring at the border of it and counting how many steps over the line my neighbor is. But I’ve got a sister to take care of, so if that rock came off my property, I’ll be needing some of that money.”
She loathed him. His stupid hair, his stupid voice and his stupid, dopey eyes.
***
The county clerk had been flushed and sweaty when he finally rejoined them. He mopped at his wet forehead with a cloth, and Dany grew suspicious.
“It seems the original filings for your properties were never updated,” he said nervously.
Well, that explained nothing.
He spoke up first — “Meaning what?” — his voice was gruff.
“A long while back, both your lands were owned by the same family. It seems when the property was split in half and sold, the records keeper never filed new plans,” the clerk continued. “So the county doesn’t actually know which of you owns the disputed land between the dogwood and Spanish moss trees.”
“You mean to tell me,” she began, voice cold and furious, “that there’s no way to prove I own that land?”
Jon Snow piped up from her side.
“Of course there ain’t, considering that land belongs to the Starks.”
She turned to him and swore ungracefully. He seemed more impressed than anything.
“This isn’t over yet, Snow,” she said — then she turned on her heel and exited the clerk’s office before her heart began thumping any harder.
***
He’d taken to coming by the edge of the property more often. The first time he’d waded out to the Spanish moss, he’d had a wry grin on his face.
His sleeves were rolled up and she could see the definition of his arm muscles and bronzed skin in the sunlight.
“Trespassing again, Dany?” he asked.
She’d hunkered down with a book, flipping the pages idly while her cats played around her.
“Can’t trespass on your own property, Snow,” she replied flippantly. “And everything south of the Spanish moss is mine.”
He moved beside her into the shade and dropped down, straightening his legs in the grass.
“Now see, that don’t make sense to me, because everything north of the dogwood tree is mine.”
He was smiling at her again, like she was something amusing.
It did things to her stomach that she didn’t like to think about.
“You’ve been out here much more lately,” she said to him, closing the book on her lap. “Waiting for me to do the work of finding more lost treasures for you to try and steal?”
His grin got a little bit wider — sneakier, too.
“If you want to, be my guest,” he said. “But I can read, too, you know.” He gestured to her lap, where her primer on adverse possession lay. “You realize for you to take ownership of the land, it would’ve had to have been mine to begin with, right?”
She flushed, embarrassed, until a thought came to her unbidden.
“No one reads about adverse possession for fun, Jon Snow. If you know what it is, that’s because you’ve been researching it ‘cause you think the land is mine.”
She was getting more familiar with that look on his face; he was impressed again.
***
Their preliminary court hearing had been a bit of a disaster, as far as she was concerned.
She’d gone in prepared, but the judge had taken one look at her (representing herself) and had literally sneered.
He’d been so condescending that even Jon Snow’s attorney had objected out of impulse, before withdrawing it, embarrassed.
Then, upon learning the county had no documentation for the property, the judge had caustically suggested they split the money in half before he ordered them back for a final hearing a few weeks later.
It had taken all her willpower not to burst into tears when she exited the building. Her best dress was wrinkled from where she’d clutched the fabric to avoid snapping at the judge — that could only make things worse for her.
Jon fell into step beside her. She’d left quickly; he must’ve jogged to catch her.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
“Fine,” she said, as steady a voice as she could manage. She kept her shoulders back and her chin straight. “He ain’t the first man to talk down to me. Won’t be the last, neither.”
“Wasn’t right at all, the way he spoke,” he replied. “You’re a lady, and he was treating you like some bandit.”
She stopped walking abruptly and looked at him, contemplating. Jon was dressed in his finest — a proper jacket. Nothing like those work clothes he usually traipsed around in.
Daenerys was a big enough woman to admit that he looked good.
“You trying to butter me up?” she asked skeptically.
“No, I meant it,” he said, and he seemed somewhat offended that she’d asked at all. “But I do think it might be worth thinking about what he said, splitting the money.”
“What?” she asked sharply.
“It’s still a fortune, Dany,” he said simply. “I wanna take care of Arya, and you wanna take care of yourself. If this thing sells what they say it might, we can do both those things with our shares.”
Her head told her to argue with him — that he was trying to fool her because he knew she could win.
But her heart knew otherwise. She couldn’t afford some fancy attorney to come in and plead her case, and that judge wouldn’t give her an inch.
If anything, Jon was giving up millions for nothing, when he could just wait two weeks and take it all then.
It didn’t make sense to her at all.
“I’ll think about it,” she said shortly, and then she walked away — leaving him staring after.
As she left his side and her mind began to clear, she wondered when she’d started thinking of him as just Jon.
***
She’d never gone to his home before. She’d never actually crossed the border between their properties before (because he might be a better man than most, but he was dead wrong about how far south his property extended).
To make a point, she’d gone the long way — out her own front door and north, north, north, all the way around his property, till she reached the house.
It was Arya Stark who opened the door.
Young. Dark-haired. Contemplative.
She looked just like her brother.
“You’ve never come by here before” was her greeting.
Dany nodded, allowing it.
“I haven’t. I’m Dany Targaryen. Your brother home?”
“He’s out back,” she said. Arya stepped back and let the door swing open.
The moment Daenerys stepped across the threshold, she was nearly bowled down by two enormous dogs.
“Nymeria! Ghost! Down,” Arya said sharply.
The hounds listened at once, dropping to their feet, tongues lolling out.
“Sorry ‘bout them. We don’t get too many visitors but for Sam Tarly and his wife. But Ghost and Nymeria like people.”
She followed Arya out to the back door of the house. It was small but clean, well-maintained.
“It’s no problem,” she said. “I’ve got three cats: Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal. You might be thinking what can a cat do, but Drogon’s one mean little spitfire when he wants to be.” She felt a grin on her face, thinking on his behavior whenever men came to call on her.
Dany was a woman who’d manage to hold on to a sizable property. She was still quite young. She was unmarried. And if her callers were to be believed, she wasn’t hard on the eyes.
She’d turned them all away with a roll of her eyes, everyone from the too-old (Jorah), to the too-caddish (Daario), to the too-vicious (Euron — hells take him).
She pointedly ignored the part of her brain that reminded her Jon Snow wasn’t married either.
***
Since her first visit, they’d been taking turns. Jon had come to her home the next day with a book about judicial malpractice.
She’d been surprisingly touched by the gesture.
The following, she went to his with a platter of food.
“If you’re serious about taking care of Arya, you should probably feed her a bit better. She’s a slip of a thing.”
He’d given her the softest look she’d seen on him yet.
The next morning, she woke to a loud noise out back. When she came out in her robe, a shotgun in her shaking hands, she’d seen him standing there, repairing her damaged window.
“If you’re serious about the upkeep on this place, you should probably repair this before a real storm comes and knocks it apart entirely.”
She’d laughed out loud, delighted against her will.
“Alright, Jon. I won’t shoot you this time,” she said, turning to head inside and put some breakfast together.
She’d gone to his home next when she knew he’d be out — had conspired with Arya who, while young, was funnier than she could’ve imagined.
Dany and Arya had waited for him to return, hands covered in white powder and frosting, grinning like loons.
On the table, the fruit of their labor: a small birthday cake.
Nine days later, Jon tucked a dogwood flower behind her ear and kissed her in the shade of the Spanish moss.
***
They’d had Jon’s barrister — the Sam Tarly that Arya had mentioned to her — file paperwork with the court to dismiss their case.
Married couples shared their wealth, whether found on the north or south side of their property.