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“Your Grace…”
Jon closed his eyes, his head bent backwards over the top rung of the hard chair in the Chamber of the Painted Table, which had become something of a Small Council chambers. He had his eyes closed and was seriously contemplating taking a brief nap, because that was obviously what Tyrion wanted to happen as he droned about grain stores and perhaps raising taxes on the Reach.
He wondered where Daenerys was.
A sharp prod at his side had his eyes opening and he sighed, still staring up at the mottled black obsidian ceiling, reflecting the shimmering blue of the Narrow Sea below. He glanced sideways and scowled as Davos leaned back in his seat, setting the quill he’d used to poke him back onto the table. He sighed deeper and sat up, his heels scraping on the slate floor as he slouched over the head of the table. “Let’s discuss this later,” he decided.
That seemed fine with Davos, who gathered his scrolls, as Master of Laws. He glanced over at Tyrion, who was scowling, clearly irritated with being dismissed so soon. “Fine idea Your Grace.”
“But Your Grace…”
He stood, turning away from the table and leaning against the stone columns in the archway behind the table. It was ominous and the floor-to-ceiling opening revealed the expanse of the sea and the beach in the distance, where the ship that brought the various advisors to them sat moored, the sails drawn up but unfurled would proclaim the might of the Targaryen sigil, three red dragons and the new addition of the white wolf running across the bottom.
It was interesting, being King in the North but also ruling over the other kingdoms. He narrowed his eyes on the dragons circling above and glanced over his shoulder at Tyrion, who was still standing by the table with Davos trying to gesture for him to leave. He arched a brow. “Can I help you Lord Hand?”
“We return to King’s Landing in two days and we still haven’t…”
He rolled his eyes, knowing that Tyrion would not be pushed off so easily. So he left the chamber, his hand on the hilt of Longclaw, thinking perhaps he’d go to the yard and spar a bit with some of the Unsullied. Or maybe even the Dothraki, although he wasn’t quite up to tasting dirt—those fuckers did not mess around when it came to fighting.
Where was Daenerys, he wondered, irritated he’d had to deal with Tyrion on these type of economic matters; she knew he was awful when it came to sums and taxes. He decided he’d go find her. Wherever she was hiding; could be anywhere, Dragonstone had as many hiding spaces and secrets as Winterfell, if not more. Bran the Builder might have enjoyed his secret passages and mysterious architecture when it came to his designs, but the Valyrians of old were downright sneaky and used magic in their work. Sometimes Jon thought the dragons carved into the walls and that loomed over the eaves and ramparts were alive and watching.
He tapped on one as he descended a winding staircase to the great hall, speaking aloud. “Where is your mother?”
The stone dragons did not answer.
***
Jon found Ghost napping in the throne room, stretched like a great white carpet in front of the dragonglass altar. He walked up the long staircase, finding this throne far more imposing than the one of twisted steel that used to sit in King’s Landing, but now was nothing more than a molten pile, sent to the bottom of Blackwater Bay. He paused midway up the stairs, remembering fondly the first time he’d seen this throne.
The tiny thing sitting atop it was probably the most imposing creature he’d laid eyes on. All silver braids and soft curves hidden beneath the severe lines of her black coat. He’d been surprised to see she wore riding leathers underneath, not the large voluminous skirts he’d been used to most women wearing. The coolness in her voice, all ice compared to the fire he knew she contained within.
He smiled, approaching the throne and turning to sit; it had been widened into something more of a bench, for two rulers instead of one. They were equals. He sighed and leaned forward, rubbing Ghost’s thick ruff of fur around his neck, one red eye opening to express silent irritation at his nap’s disturbance. “Hey boy,” he greeted.
Ghost took quite well to Dragonstone. They were still in the midst of winter; not as severe as anticipated, and it wouldn’t be anymore, but it was still cold enough the direwolf enjoyed lazing about on the dragonglass floors and the stone terraces or jumping in and around the spray of the sea. The light dusting of snow they’d received had been more than enough for the wolf to get his fill, but Jon knew he was content to spend the rest of his days sleeping away, receiving scratches and head pats and being allowed to sleep at the foot of the bed instead of in a nest on the forest floor.
He sighed again, frowned, and rubbed Ghost’s head. “Where is your mother?”
***
Sometimes when she needed to think she would go to the stables and sit with the horses. She told him it was a way to remind her of her time on the Dothraki Sea, of where she had been reborn of fire and where she’d truly come to life. He also suspected it was where she felt she could almost commune with the memory of her dear old bear, sitting with the horses and grooming them, remembering the sword shield who had ridden with her through the sea and had always been there for her.
He discovered that after Jorah’s death that the loyal friend and advisor to his khaleesi had traded for a gorgeous Essosi stallion, snow-white and with a mane as silver as the Queen’s, strong and fast, and had planned to gift her with the great beast upon her coronation.
The stallion she named Silver, after the horse Khal Drogo gifted her on their wedding day, dead on the sea of thirst and starvation, the last vestige of her former life, she’d told him, when he’d brought her to the horse. She would come and groom Silver, plaiting his mane and brushing his coat until it shined like moonlight. It would calm her, allow her time with her thoughts, the repetitive motions sometimes bringing to light solutions she had not previously thought about or considered.
He moved through the stables, by the giant war horses the Dothraki still rode as they crossed over Dragonstone’s stretch of island, ensuring that no one came upon the island to threaten their khaleesi. He stopped at his black destrier, stroking his muzzle and smiling as the horse bucked his head towards him, probably irritated he’d been kept cooped up for so long. “I’ll take you out soon,” he promised.
At Winterfell the horses had names, but he’d never really been all that attached to them. His first horse was named Ash, for he was as gray as the ash after the fires went out in the morning, but beyond that he hadn’t been particularly attached to a horse. They were tools and modes of transportation, not pets, that’s what Ned had told them, when Arya had mourned for weeks over the death of her pony after it had broken its legs and needed to be put out of its misery.
This one though he hadn’t named; Daenerys named him Bantis. ”It’s Valyrian for ‘night’ and he is as black as the night.”
“I’ll see you in a bit,” he promised Bantis, passing him an apple as a peace offering. He stepped quietly through the stables, not wanting to upset the other horses or startle them, and peered into Silver’s double stall, the horse of the queen garnering great accommodations.
Silver was alone, munching on some hay, barely glancing up from his task. The horse swished his tail, rippling silver. He approached the stallion carefully; Silver was apt to kick anyone he didn’t like. The horse paused and then continued, completely not threatened. He lightly touched Silver’s flank, gazing out the window open on one wall of the stall, watching some of the Dothraki run the young horses through drills, breaking them in to become as fast as they could be.
He sighed, stroking the polished hide. “Where is your mother?”
***
Drogon roared when he approached, but when he’d first met the beast and had been quaking in his boots at the very look of the creature, he simply rolled his eyes, walking over the hill to the dragon’s nest, charred bones crunching beneath his boots. He lightly touched Drogon’s hide, walking around to stand beside his great head, allowing the warmth to seep into his palm.
He was playing with fire, in more ways than one, as Rhaegal descended from where he’d been doing lazy turns in the sky, drawn by the pull their minds shared, but also by the irritation that he dare pay attention to his brother before him. The jade dragon landed with a heavy shake of the earth beneath him, oddly graceful as he clawed his way towards his rider, shaking his great head in a screech at his brother, the spine-like spikes on his frill puffing up with his jealousy. Drogon whipped around, far larger, showing off his size and waving his wings out to warn his brother away, but Rhaegal was not deterred and screeched again, the sound sharp and enough to make your ears bleed if you heard it long enough.
The connection between their minds in his head, Jon sent a calming thought to his mount and Rhaegal softened, lowering back to the grass and ruffling his wings, still irritated but calmer. Golden eyes fixed on him and blinked, like a giant cat in the sunlight, and he purred happily when Jon went to stroke at his face, the scales warm beneath his hand.
Drogon settled back into his nest, blinking sleepily and stretching out, folding his wings under and placing his head atop them, purring and trilling sounds emanating from him in his contentment. He nosed at the charred bones of a goat, but didn’t seem interested and continued to watch, his mace-like tail lifting and smacking the ground idly. They were nothing more than massive cats or dogs, he thought, shaking his head slightly and continuing to pet Rhaegal, giving him scratches behind one of the spines on his neck that always seemed to have the dragon humming happily .
It did the trick and the sound filled him with a flying joy, Rhaegal’s emotions intertwined with his. He knew that Rhaegal was always the more violent and snappish of her three children, but he’d calmed since they’d connected, and while he was still prone to outbursts unlike Drogon, he ultimately turned into a docile pet when he was sated.
There was a prodding in his mind and he felt the feeling of flying and a questioning, but shook his head. “No, not right now,” he said to Rhaegal, the disappointment palpable. They’d go flying later. He glanced at Drogon, now asleep and puffs of sulfur smoke curling from his nostrils. The creature the locals now called the Black Shadow rolled onto his side to sun and lurched with a sound, the sulfur smell much more foul-smelling and pervasive.
Jon made a face. Dragon burps. He shook his head and sighed, glad the creatures were finally able to enjoy their lives rather than fear attack or constantly being used as weapons. Although he knew they did like when they got to go out and play. A term used when they were released onto the world to burn down those who would attempt rebellion or treason.
Rhaegal nosed him, wanting the scratches to be harder, so he did, all the while sighing and wondering. “Where is your mother?”
***
The dragons were of no use to him, too busy sleeping and sunbathing to bother giving up any idea of their mother’s whereabouts. Silver was content to much oats and swat flies than give up her location. Ghost was as helpful as a white carpet. He wandered the grounds, the keeps, and even popped into the caves to see if perhaps she was hiding, although gods knew why she’d be there.
He ended up in his favorite room in the entire castle, smiling at Missandei who was sitting in a chair, reading a book in some language he couldn’t even tell you where they spoke it, let alone understand, and gesturing to the adjoining room. “They in there?”
“Of course Your Grace, they wanted some privacy.”
“You wanted privacy?” he demanded, stepping into the nursery, finding his two children were in the middle of playing ‘Dragons.’ Which merely consisted of them running in circles with their little fur cloaks on their arms, swooping and jumping and making sounds that were more like horse neighs than dragon screeches. He placed his hands on his hips, laughing when they both stopped suddenly, his son standing on a table and his daughter trying to climb onto the armoire. “Is it so you could be naughty?”
“Never!” his son exclaimed, Daeron dropping from the table and letting go of his cloak, rushing forward and chattering in Valyrian. He sighed; Daeron never could understand why he didn’t speak Valyrian and everyone else in the household did. At best he could converse with the Dothraki, but that was it. Mostly because the Dothraki language had very limited vocabulary or grammar structure.
He lifted the five-year old into his arms and knelt to place him back onto the floor, his other arm coming out to wrap around his daughter, Daeron’s twin, Rhaenya. Rhaenya was quiet where Daeron was brash. Daeron was all his mother, fire and flashing purple eyes and silver curls, and Rhaenya was him. Quiet but with a temper that no one wished to ever see unleashed. Her eyes were all her mother, but her inky curls were his and he smiled into them, swaying lightly with the both of them.
His eyes closed, savoring the feeling of their little hearts beating against his larger one. They cuddled into him, smelling of fire and sweets and the lemon soaps their mother insisted on scrubbing them down in each evening. He kissed their heads in turn, before standing carefully, each one on one of his arms, and carried them to the great window with the wide stone bench covered in pillows, built into the wall so it was like you were crawling straight into the sky.
Daeron pressed his hands to the glass and made a face with his mouth on it, laughing when it fogged up. He dragged his finger through the foggy glass and frowned as it faded. So he did it again, laughing each time. Jon savored the laughter; it was quite literally the most beautiful thing he had heard, save perhaps their mother’s laugh. He could hardly believe they were his. Hardly believe he, the Bastard of Winterfell, was not only a king, a dragonrider, a husband, but a father as well.
His sweet daughter tucked her head under his chin. “Papa, can we go riding?” she asked, her voice soft. She plucked her small fingers along his beard, which she always found fascinating.
He snagged her fingers, pressing a kiss to them and tasting the berries they must have had for a snack. “Of course my love, but first I need to finish my quest.”
“A quest?” Daeron demanded, obviously interested. He crawled over and took up a seat on his knee, leaning against him in a mirrored image of his sister. “What kind?”
“I have lost something and must find it.”
“Oh?” his daughter frowned, her lips pursing out. He dropped a kiss to her nose, reversing the frown into another one of her smiles. She looked around the room and shrugged. “What did you lose? I didn’t lose anything.”
Daeron poked him with his toy sword. “We will find it Papa!”
“Very good. I could use both of your help.”
“Yes,” Daeron said. He nodded and scrambled off, his bare feet hitting the floor with a smack and he took off, shouting that they would require dragons for their hunt. Even though he had no idea what they were looking for. So he returned, sheepish. “Um…what’d you lose?”
The twins peered at him with their wide purple eyes and he smiled, leaning forward and gesturing them to him. They both waited, transfixed, mouths open slightly and vibrating with anticipation. He quirked his lip and his eyebrows lifted, voice hushed. “I have lost…your mother.”
Daeron yelped, horrified, and swung his sword around, glaring at an unseen enemy. “I will find her!” He took off into the other room, demanding Missandei join them on the hunt for their mother and how he, Ser Daeron of House Targaryen, would find this person that stole his mother from him.
Without any other information to go off of, Daeron was back in the nursery a few moments later, but shouting still that he would help, he just needed to get his things, so he gathered up his practice sword and the bow that one of the Dothraki had made him. He began to speak in valyrian, perhaps to himself, but Jon did not know. It did not seem to be too important, because Rhaenya simply smiled and leaned forward, conspiratorially.
He leaned in and smiled, waiting for his daughter to speak. “You didn’t lose her Papa,” she whispered.
“Oh? I didn’t?” Then how come he couldn’t find her anywhere?
Rhaenya shook her head, resolute, and she pointed out the window. He followed her finger and spotted one of the towers, a dragon carved around it, and in the tower was a blaze of silver, standing and looking out at the world around the confines of the tower. He felt relief at seeing her and smiled at his daughter, always the observant one. He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her small hands. She giggled and pushed her nose to his in their secret way of saying ‘I love you.’
He pushed back, nuzzling. “I love you,” he whispered. “And thank you. I am glad I found her.”
“She’s always there Papa. Even when she’s lost.”
There were times where he wondered just how his daughter was so wise at such a young age. He gave her another hug and kiss and stood, taking her hand in his. “Come, let’s go to her. She will be so happy that we found her.”
“You found her already?” Daeron demanded. He seemed disappointed he couldn’t wield his weapons, his sword in one hand and his bow in the other. He had tied his cloak haphazardly around his neck and his silver curls were wild about his head, one of his mother’s scarves tied around his forehead and temples, possibly in an attempt to imitate one of the Dothraki riders.
Never one to disappoint his son, he swept down to ruffle his hair and lift him up int his arms, while he took Rhaenya’s hand, leaving the nursery with a wink at Missandei, who smiled behind the top of her book, returning to its pages as her charges were passed over into their father’s care.
He walked them through the corridors and helped them up the stairs to the tower, setting down Daeron once they got to the top. He dropped his sword and his bow almost immediately, the clattering on the stone echoing and startling the woman standing in the open arches of the tower and forcing her to turn to see them, her smile wide and beaming.
“I save you Mama!”
“Oh I am saved,” she laughed, kneeling immediately to hug her children, both of them cuddling against her. She rained kisses on their faces, Valyrian falling from her lips like a lovely waterfall, the poetic words meaning nothing to him, but lighting on the children’s faces. He picked out a couple words he knew, because she said them to him once and awhile. She sighed into their curls, swaying and breathing her beautiful promises. “Issa prūmi, issa jorrāelagon, issa zokla riñar, issa zaldrīzes riñar, avy jorrāelan se jāhor jorrāelagon ao hen bisa tubis se syt ry hen issa tubissa.
He knew the vow she made to them, for she said it to them every chance she could, since the moment he first heard it from her lips when the Dothraki midwives placed their tiny squalling bodies atop her breasts, still slick from birth, and he’d been mesmerized, so in love with them and with her he could hardly focus. He smiled again when she repeated her vow, translating it in his head. My hearts, my love, my wolf children, my dragon children, I love you and will love you from this day and for all of my days.
Daeron chirped, petting at her braids, one of his favorite things to do. “Nyke jiōraton ao muñnykeā.”
"We found you mother," Rhaenya translated for his knowledge. So sweet, his lovely daughter, he thought.
“You found me?” she echoed. She kissed his nose. “I did not know I was lost.”
“Papa lost you,” Rhaenya explained.
She lifted her eyes to his, glittering amethysts in the sunlight streaming through the open arches. She stood and he reached for her, bestowing a gentle kiss on her lips and sighing as her eyelashes fluttered, her soft body curving against his. “You lost me, huh?”
“Couldn’t find you anywhere,” he said. He no longer even cared that she had been up here the entire time and he hadn’t thought to look. It had afforded him the opportunity to wander their home, to visit with their various family members and think about all that had changed from the first time he’d set foot on the island. When he was just the King in the North with nothing but a bastard’s name and melancholic sadness filling his soul.
The children ran to the thick stone walls beneath the tower’s arches, leaning up on them and peering over, pointing at the ship in the distance or the specks of the Dothraki and Unsullied on the cliffs and grounds below. They laughed at Tyrion and Davos, walking down the great winding staircase to the beaches and sighed as they witnessed their brothers taking off into the sky to go hunt. A white shadow slunk into the tower and made his way over to them, jumping back and placing his paws on the wall beside them, licking their faces as they squealed at his presence.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tugging her to his side and dropping a kiss to the crown of her head. “You alright?” He worried when she went off to think alone like this. He feared sometimes she would get so far into her head that he couldn’t bring her out; he imagined she felt the same for him.
“Yes I’m alright, I was just thinking,” she said. She pressed her hand to his chest and he covered it with his, squeezing her fingers lightly. Her head tilted back and he marveled at how someone so tiny could be so strong. She beamed up at him before resting her gaze on the twins and Ghost, all three watching the dragons as they wheeled about in the sky. “I was thinking about how our family is growing.”
Their family was quite large, he thought, but he was no stranger to large families. He rested his cheek against her temple and she squeezed him. He ran his hand over her shoulder, the thick wool coat she wore soft as a lamb. He dropped it to her waist and her hand moved over, lifting his palm and placing it between the folds of her coat to the smooth underdress she wore over her riding leathers. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of the sea breeze, the cool wind floating around them, and he wondered if perhaps snow was on the horizon; he could sense it, maybe because of his Northern roots.
They could take their supper in their rooms, he thought, the twins loved when they ate in bed and threw a party, just the four of them and Ghost, and sometimes they would demand that they could take a goat or a sheep to the dragons to feed them, so they would be included in the family gatherings. He closed his eyes and sighed, barely noticing it when her hand began to move his over her belly, long and slow, her skin warm through the thin material of her shift.
He opened his eyes slowly, realizing the change. He sought her face for confirmation and she grinned, letting go of his hand to cup his face, kissing gently. “I love you,” she murmured.
His heart swelled in his throat. His hands smoothed back down over her belly and he sighed at the feel of the bump beneath them. “I love you too,” he replied.
Daeron and Rhaenya turned around, waving them over to point out that Rhaegal was blowing fire on the water and Drogon was swooping down to scoop up the charred fish. Dany removed herself from his arms, going to kneel with them and watch, her head turning to gaze over her shoulder, her sly smile spreading over her teeth. “Come on Jon, you were looking for me all day, right?”
He smiled. He’d been looking for her for a lot longer than a day, he thought, walking over to join them.
***
fin.