Archive of Our Own

It was as clear a winter’s morning as could be. December! There was no doubt about it. The shopkeepers were decorating with holly, frost shined the cobbled streets, and in the market square a fellow was setting up a stall selling fresh hot cocoa. Why! - he already had company. Three young lads, their faces quite ruddy from the cold, were begging for a taste. They were persistent in their pleadings, but so was the man in his curt rejections which he shouted for all to hear. It mattered not to the boys - when chased away, their laughter echoed in the small streets of town and made all who heard them rather jolly.

Nay, almost all, for when they passed the grocers, their smiles turned to puckered lips on their faces, and they dared not speak another word. For there stood a woman. Not just any woman, for few have such cool effect on children’s merriment as this one did. It was not in what she said to them, for that was naught, but in the way she glanced through the open shutters upon the street as they passed. When they met her gaze, one by one they quieted, and like good lads walking into church they took off their caps and did a polite nod toward her as they spoke: “Good morning, Miss Targaryen!” Then, they scurried off as fast as their little legs could bear, and it was a while before they carried on laughing.

Now, it wasn’t that Daenerys Targaryen was a frightening woman to look upon, rather the opposite. She was not an imposing person; short she was, and her hands were soft as silk, and her face just the same. She was akin a pebble smoothed by waves of water, and her expression just so - it gave nothing away, her eyes even less, and all who spoke with her knew not what she thought, only what she said.

Yet she carried with her a coldness that festered so deep that people said her heart must be frozen. Who else could walk past carolling folks and not gain a spring to their step? Who else could smell spicy mulled wine and not feel their mouth water? Who else could look upon a tree, so finely decorated with glass baubles and paper-hearts and figures of drums and angels and say: “By Heavens! The colours hurt my eyes!” Who but she? Indeed, she had been compared to the breeze itself; you sense it is there, and you cannot question its existence nor barter with it, but you can feel it! - cold against your skin, and all you can do is wait for it to pass.

All this Daenerys knew, still if she cared she made no fuss to show. Alas, as the grocers’ wife chuckled at the boys’ meek greetings, she barely acknowledged them at all but just paid her dues.

“They mean no harm,” she spoke, “they only wish to be merry.”

“Don’t all at Christmas?” Daenerys asked.

“Why! I am surprised to hear you say so. Christmas! To think you know the season at all,” the wife spoke.

“How could I not?” Daenerys replied. “If I wanted to forget, someone would soon remind me. Many a fool has nothing to say but well-wishes these days.”

“You speak as if it offends you.”

“What are words if the heart is not in it? I say we speak too much, and think too little. I shall do my part and quiet myself now. Good day to you.”

Off Daenerys went; her wagon was outside, and there was no one to drive it but she, for she lived alone, and in this solitude she revelled. Indeed, as her old horse trudged out of town and started uphill, and the small streets became great plains of snow, Daenerys finally felt as if she could breathe. Oh! how she had nothing but dislike for the crummy village. It was too busy, yet it was far too small, for all knew one another, and they loved to talk - and if there was something Daenerys detested more than chatter, it was gossip.

Nay, it was at home that she found peace. Her house was a small building atop a hill. To reach it, one had to travel a mile through woodlands, and in the dark forest naught was to be found but one's own imagination and worries. Luckily for Daenerys, she had little of either, for she preferred facts to fantasy, and to fret was the duty of the simpleminded. So she was quite calm by the time she reached the iron fence that marked the boundaries of her property, and in no haste to unharness her horse.

Instead of riding to the stable, she got off the wagon and waded through the thick snow, her hand leading her horse on. Her face grew redder by the second - it was ever so frosty, and the wind nipped at her cheeks - and her bare hands shivered in the low temperature that settled across her fickle frame like a sickness. But she carried on, her heart fluttering in her chest once she finally laid eyes on the brick-building, for she knew what awaited her within.

Yes, Daenerys was unmarried, this was true. She sometimes had suitors, but the match was oft broken off, and always by her, for she knew in her heart that no man could offer her what she truly craved for in her aching soul. Even if her heart was slow at speaking, their actions soon showed her their truth, for once satisfied with their catch, the men became complacent. She had come to realise that love was but a game of chess for them, and once the king reigned, they had no interest in the other pieces that caused her much amusement. Selfishness and greed! How it bored her.

All the more reason she dragged her feet and did not approach her front door until all outside business was settled; her horse had to be fed and watered, wood for the fireplace carried close to the house, and her shopping double-checked though it was far too late to return to the grocers to complain about any lack of tins. Only then did she step inside the house, and no sooner had she passed the threshold than her eyes sought the letter on her kitchen table.

It was from him. She knew, for she had read the envelope so many times she worried the ink would fade from her stare. Still, she had not yet dared to open it. Oh, post took ever so long to arrive, especially over the holidays, and if she read his words now, the joy would be over too soon.

“I shall wait,” Daenerys promised herself, “for it is only Saturday, and the week ahead is long.” So she cooked her dinner, and she ate it in quiet, and she even managed to brew herself a cup of tea before her fingers eagerly tore away at the envelope, and her eyes devoured the letter.

Dear love,

- it said, and she smiled, for he always seemed to start things the same way. Dear! What a familiar tone. Love! What a foreign concept. Still, she read on:

Dear love,

I think of you often, moreso as the holiday approaches. All say to me: this is a season to be spent with those nearest and dearest to you. So why am I so far from you? Why can I not hold your hands in mine, and wish you a merry time? My heart has ached for too long, and I feel I must soothe its pain.

Forgive my brashness, but I must ask - can I come for Christmas?

I long to see you! I long to hold you! I shall not be a troublesome lodger, this I promise. I shall endeavour to be only what you need. I beg of you - let us see each other in the light of day, and I shall find peace within myself once more.

Yours always, Jon.

“He wishes to come!” Daenerys spoke, although she was quite alone, for his words surprised her. Why! - it could not come to be. Solitude suited her just fine, and the idea of being a gracious host was as strange to her as snow in summertime. Besides, they had never met; for years, they had exchanged letters, and she knew him not but from his handwriting. Indeed, she could have greeted him in town and not had an inkling, for she had never seen a picture of him.

Yet, she had grown fond of him, this was true; the kindness with which he wrote of his fellow men was admirable, the humbleness he showed when she challenged him, and the warmth that emerged from his every compliment - and he shared those generously! Yes, he made her heart flutter as if she was a young girl once more.

But! Could it be he was nothing like she imagined? Oh, to see him would be to know, and to know could take away the slither of joy that she’d clung onto all this time. The thought alone made Daenerys feel rather out of breath, and she swung open the window shutters and let the cold evening air bash onto her warm cheeks.

“He cannot come,” she spoke to the stars, “I should write him at once.” Still, she knew it was too late. She had kept the letter like a dear gift and left it unopened for weeks. By now, his decision was surely made, and either he was at home, sorely disappointed at her lack of response. Or - and this was worse! - he was travelling in this very moment, his eyes set on her home, his lips eager to wish her happiness.

Happiness! Daenerys wanted to laugh. What could be said that she did not already know? Happiness was to be found in the quiet evening, when nothing but the flames moved in her fireplace, and it was in her cup of tea in the cold morning, when she sat and thought of all she had to do, and it was in the long rides through the woods, the only sounds being her horse’s hooves bashing against the snow. What happiness was not, however, was what she would feel when faced with a strange man; sweaty palms, restless legs bouncing, words stuck in her throat, the painful feeling of having to keep up appearances.

“He cannot come,” she spoke once more, and this time with determination. Now, Daenerys did not believe in the supernatural, for all that she could not see and feel meant naught to her, but if something did stir in the woods, it surely heard her. For the wind blew once more, and with such force that it pushed her away from the window, and before she could grab at the shutters, it pulled away again - and with it dragged the letter.

She rushed to grab it, but it was too late; the wind rushed through the dark tree crowns, and the paper fluttered along until it was quite out of sight. She saw no point in giving chase. “Oh, it is gone,” she spoke with sensibility and closed the shutters, “I suppose it must be so.” 

Yet, as she retreated to her chamber, nothing to hold on to but the torn envelope, she felt a weird pain in her chest. It was like a boulder of ice was resting within her, making her feel weak and uncomfortable, and it did not go away even when she laid in bed to rest.

“Perhaps I am catching a cold,” she wondered, yet something told her it was not so.

Daenerys slept poorly; all night, the wind howled, causing every crack in the house whistle as if alive, and the shutters clapped against the stone, making quite the spectacle. Still, she did not get up, fearing that the cold would claim her if she dared to step out from beneath her duvet. Instead, she wrapped herself up tight and buried her face into her pillow, and she did not lift her head until it was early morning.

At least, she believed it to be morning. Her chamber was clad in darkness - it was so pitch black that she couldn't even see her bedside table. But it smelled like morning! Oh, tea brewed, and there was a scent of freshly baked bread, and it mixed so nicely with the distant crackling of fire. It reminded her of when her mother was still around. How Daenerys missed her! She had been a gentle woman, and always treated her with kindness; every morning, she cooked her breakfast, and they sat together and read, and in the afternoon they helped each other with the chores, and they always said: “It’s just the two of us, and it’s all we need.”

For a moment, Daenerys lingered on the memory. But when she fully awoke, she remembered that her mother was long dead, and that no one was around to lit the fire, much less brew her a cup of tea.

“Which means,” Daenerys whispered, “that someone is in my house.”

As the realisation hit her, she froze at once. How could she not have known? Of course, the wind had blown all night. She would not have heard if anyone entered, even less if they decided to stay. The thought made her shiver - to imagine that someone had been in her house all this time, and she had not the faintest idea! But who could it be?

A burglar! As soon as the thought hit her, she erased it again. Nay, a burglar would not lit a fire, nor brew tea. Perhaps a poor fellow lost in the woods, desperate for a place to heat themselves? Hah! One thought was more ridiculous to her than the next. Lost, in these woods? The cold hand of death would have claimed them long before they reached her property! No, whoever was in her house had their own peculiar reason, and she had no choice but to go and find out.

As quietly as she could, Daenerys wrapped her blanket around her frame and crawled out of bed. Her bare feet tingled with cold as she slipped across the wooden floor, her hands searching in the dark for her candle and matchbox. Once she found both, and a steady flame was flickering, she made her way downstairs, one step at a time, ensuring no wood creaked to reveal her presence, until she stood quietly before the kitchen door.

Her uninvited guest was in there, she knew, for a flicker of light fell from beneath the door, and the smell of food was strong. Daenerys took a breath in, and, with all bravery in her mustered, grabbed at the knob and opened the door.

A bright fire burned in the stove, her tea-kettle was filled, and upon her table was a plate with a fresh loaf of bread, jarred jams, cut cheese and cold meat. “I don’t remember buying any of this!” Daenerys mused, and she was so surprised by this sight alone that it took her a moment to notice the man on the chair. Yet, as her eyes met his, her lips shivered shut, and she stared in awe:

The man looked to be in his mid thirties. He had stark black hair which fell in curls around his face, and just as dark was his thick beard which was neatly trimmed to frame his chin. Why, he looked nothing like a burglar, rather he was dressed handsomely; his shirt was freshly white, his trousers plaid, and his vest of rich, grey wool. Indeed, he was clad as a gentleman, and just as such did he rush to his feet and bowed.

“Miss!” he spoke, “Good morning. Would you care for tea?”

At first, Daenerys knew not what to say, but once she gained her breath, she clutched her blanket to her chest as she spoke: “Who are you!”

The man bowed once more. “Oh, miss, nothing but a well-wisher.”

A cold shiver ran down Daenerys’ back, but she was determined not to let her fear show. What choice did she have? She truly lived in the midst of nowhere, and no one would come to assist should she scream! No, keeping calm was the best way to deal with the oddity before her, she sensed this at once, so she gazed into his grey eyes with confidence. “Is that so!” she said. “Well, I need none of that, and you are a fool if you think otherwise.”

“This is true!” the man spoke delighted, and he did not appear the slightest offended by her choice of words. Instead, he poured them both tea in her best cups (however did he find her fine porcelain, she wondered!) and he sent her a feeble smile. “You said so yourself, did you not?”

“Whatever did I say?”

“That many a fool has nothing to say but well wishes, so being a well-wisher, I suppose I am just that to you - a fool!”

Daenerys felt her heart skip a beat as she recognised her own words. “That I said,” she remembered, “but it wasn’t for your ears to hear. Have you been following me?” A terror rose in her at the mere thought. Followed - stalked! This was how women went missing in London. But to imagine such horrors taking place in her far-flung corner of England?

The man’s smile grew. “Only where you wished me to go!”

“I have never met you before - how could I wish anything of you?”

“We wish the most of those we have never met.”

“What a peculiar statement!”

“Come now,” the man urged, and he gestured at the table. “We should eat before the bread goes cold.”

Daenerys shook her head, and she took a step backwards. “How did you get here?” she asked, and she shook her head once more. “No! Answer not. It does not matter. I want you to take your leave!”

“I got here by your bidding,” the man replied.

“I told you - we have never met!”

“Yet we have met many a time.”

“Enough of this! You say you came at my bidding - then begone at it too!”

“Make it so!” he urged, and he flung out his arms in a hopeless shrug. Still, his eyes sparkled cheerily as he looked upon her.

Daenerys narrowed her own eyes and frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I told you,” he said, “I am here at your bidding. Wish me away, and I am gone.”

“I just told you to go.”

“Yet I am here,” he replied bluntly.

Daenerys made a face at his words, and she impatiently tapped her fingers to her candle, wax dripping in the heat from the stove that seemed to embrace her and urge her closer. Still, she stayed in the hallway, her frame shivering. “Am I meant to use violence?” she asked, “for I do not wish to.”

“You are meant to use your heart,” he replied.

“All that should matter is what I speak, and I ask you to leave.”

“Perhaps your heart wants differently.”

“Do not talk to me of my own heart!” Daenerys scoffed, and she reached for the front door. She grabbed at the handle as she swung it open and cried: “Leave the way you came!” It was only then that she looked outside and realised why her house was clad in such darkness.

The day before, it had been frosty. Yes, snow had decked the ground, and her travel had been slowed. But now? Why, the snow reached up so high that she was certain if she was to step outside, she could drown within it! The wood she had carried to her front door was long gone, hidden somewhere in the hills of frost, and a fog laid so thickly in the air that she could not even see her stable on her right. It was as if she lived in the clouds.

“How can it be?” she whispered with awe as she glanced about. The wind! It howled all night, and it seemed it worked too - every ounce of snow in England had been carried all the way to her house, she felt it must be so, and now she was stuck with a stranger at her side.

Still, the moment she realised this, another thought dawned on her; he could not have travelled. No person could overcome such weather which meant that what resided in her kitchen was no normal man. Perhaps, not a man at all?

Slowly, Daenerys closed the door, and she turned back to face the man. He was now sat at the table, a cup of tea in his hand, and he smiled ever so gently as she stared at him.

“Eat with me, or do not,” he said, “it is all the same, is it not?”

“I suppose it is,” she agreed, though her voice was meek. She blew out her candle and placed it in the hall before she joined him on the opposite side of the table. Yet she was not at ease; she squirmed in her seat, and his every move made her freeze, anticipating everything and nothing all at once.

Still, naught happened. Nay, all she got was a cup of tea, a slice of bread, and a buttered knife. In truth, she got more too, for she got the heat from the stove, and it warmed her shivering body until it shivered no more. A sip of the tea killed the last bit of cold, and despite being in just her gown and blanket, she was comfortable in temperature.

Yet, she could not calm her beating heart, and she kept her eyes on the man as he ate and drank as any other person. “What are you?” she finally asked, breaking the silence between them that had grown to bother her. Why! - it had been a long time since silence caused her any discomfort. But faced with this stranger, however odd, it seemed peculiar not to speak, so speak she did: “Why did you come?”

The man lowered his cup and smacked his lips. How plump they looked, just like his rosy red cheeks. He was like a painting, she thought - the perfect gentleman, youth still in his face, nothing about him haggered by time. “As I spoke, I am a well-wisher.”

“That means naught to me,” she said.

“I suppose it is so.”

“Do you not have a name I can call you by?”

“Whatever name would you like?” he asked. Perhaps he sensed she was at a loss, for he spoke: “You can call me Jon.”

Daenerys’ heart skipped yet a beat. “Jon!” she spoke and lowered her cup with such haste that it made quite the noise on the table. She swiftly checked the porcelain to ensure it had no cracks before turning her eyes back to him.

“Yes!” he spoke, “or do you detest that name?”

“It is only that I know a Jon already.”

“Curious! Does he look like me?”

Daenerys blinked and found herself at a loss for words. What could she say? She could pretend it was her husband, and that he would be home any minute, and so perhaps keep the strange man at bay. But would he believe her? Nay, if he already knew of her conduct in town, he surely knew that she had returned alone, and eaten alone, and slept alone. It was of no use - the truth was what would bear her through the morning. “I do not know,” she admitted after a pause, but on the man’s face she saw no flicker of emotion. He just nodded and waited for her to continue, so she felt obliged to. She spoke: “I have never seen him, only his name.”

“To most women, this would be cause for hesitation,” the man - Jon, presumably - spoke.

“To most,” Daenerys admitted, “but I do not choose my friends for their appearance, or I should find myself rather unappealing.” She had another sip of her tea as she mulled over her own words, and perhaps also tried to figure out whatever she could say to the person in front of her.

But before she could speak, Jon took the lead. He rested his hands in his lap as he said: “You asked me who I was, and I said that I am a well-wisher. Now, I am sure this is not enough to keep your peace, so allow me to explain; I am akin a spirit, only less of the supernatural and more of the present.”

“I thank you for your honesty,” Daenerys said, “and hope you will not be offended by mine.”

“Have at it,” Jon urged.

“I think you are mad.”

Instead of anger, Jon’s face broke out in a laugh. “Hah!” he chuckled, “Naturally, you should think so.”

“You present yourself to me as a ghost,” Daenerys said, “what else am I to think?” She wanted to keep her voice steady, but something in her was amused. Here she sat arguing the supernatural with a stranger who called himself Jon! “Perhaps, I am the one who has gone mad,” she realised.

Jon shook his head. “The matter lies not in your head, though I am of your making. I am here because you need me.”

His words caused Daenerys to laugh herself, though hers was less hearty than the man’s. “A woman needs a man!” she spoke and rolled her eyes with vigour. “I think you shall soon find that it’s a man who needs a woman. Most men can barely boil water, yet they see themselves as hunters of the past. Hunters! Most hunt the streets at night in search of another bottle, and to them I say - good riddance!”

Jon smiled at her outburst. “Very well,” he said, “I believe you to be right, but it is all the same - I am here at your wish. My form is of your own making. You chose for me to appear in this way.”

“I did?” Daenerys spoke humoured, and she took in his looks once more. Now, if this was true, she found that perhaps she was more shallow than she thought, for how else could she have come up with such a strapping man? It was almost shameful to imagine! Had her face not been as if carved of stone, she could have blushed. Instead, she had a bite of her bread and she chewed with pleasure, for it truly was freshly baked, and it reminded her of her childhood.

“So what does a well-wisher do?” she asked, but added: “Please, do not say that you wish well upon people, or I shall find myself rather unamused by your choice of words.”

“As you say,” Jon spoke, and he leaned back in his chair as if he was settling in for a story. “I am here to lighten your heart. You have burdened it much over the years, for you have found yourself isolating it, and hearts are not meant to be desolate. As you know, it is the very centre of the body, for without it we should surely die, and the more walls you build around it, the weaker you become.”

Daenerys was taken aback by his words, and she found herself staring at him puzzled. Could it be? Nay, he was truly a mad man! To speak of her heart as if he knew it at all. Isolated! Why, her whole body was isolated in this lonesome house in these lonesome parts of the county. It suited her just fine!

“We shall see!” she merely said, for she felt she had to reply, but she had little to speak. Instead, she asked: “When will you leave?”

“When I can,” Jon admitted and looked out the window, and Daenerys followed his gaze to the snowy outside.

“Aha!” she spoke and smiled, her eyes slipping across the foggy, frosty garden before her, “So you did travel here on foot?” She turned to watch his reaction, but found herself quite alone at the table. Indeed, the cup of steaming tea was there, and his plate, half finished, the bread on it torn from bites but not yet fully devoured. But Jon - the man, the well-wisher - was nowhere to be seen.

“A ghost!” Daenerys whispered, and she stared at the empty space. Then, she shook her head at herself, and she groaned at her own stupidity. For a ghost was not of this world, and she only believed what was before her - and clearly it had been naught! No, she was tired. The wind had kept her up all night, and it was only now, as she had her tea and warmth from the stove, that she had come to her senses.

“I am such a fool,” she spoke. Still, as she finished her brew, she found that the ache she had felt the night before was not as painful, and the ice within her chest had thawed a little, leaving room for a slight breath of air.

As Daenerys went about her day, she found that peculiar things were still rooted in her home. First, she checked on her horse, for she could not stand the thought of it shivering in the cold all alone. Still, once she had braved the outside and made her way through the fog, she found that the old animal was quite content. In fact, fresh hay had been laid down, water and food prepared, and the horse barely bothered to look her way when she approached to ensure all was well.

“Why, I must have done this yesterday,” she said, “and just forgotten!” It did not matter, she had else to do - the wet wood outside was no good, so she would have to fetch more from the back of her house. At least so she thought; alas, she had only just left the stable when her eyes fell upon the basket of cut firewood by her front door. She would not believe it, not even when she walked right up and touched it and found the bark to be without a dusting of frost.

“It’s been here all night!” she told herself. “Somehow, it did not get wet! Must be the wind blew the other way.” Still, she knew that she had looked outside that very morning and found all to be covered in snow, and the oddity of it all made her shiver more than the cold.

Then came her evening dinner. She could have sworn that all she put on the stove was a bit of meat, for she thought it wise to ration her food during such severe weather - who knew when she would be able to return to town! Yet, she had only bowed down to check the fire for a second, but when she straightened up once more, her pan was overflowing with sizzling steak, and turnip and carrots were already roasted and served on the table. Once more, Daenerys thought to rationalise with the events, and she told herself: “I am so forgetful - I must have prepared a feast but thought of yesterday’s meal!” Still, she felt rather odd as she sat digging into the tender meat, for she knew in her heart that she had not bought any steak for weeks.

But, perhaps most peculiar of all, was that when she awoke the next morning, she once more smelled her childhood home lingering in the darkness, and she found herself lying quite still and quiet as she listened for any sounds.

There was the scent of coffee, and oh! - she knew the smell of egg and bacon well. How she hungered as she kept quiet, but luckily it was not for naught; after a while, she finally heard the sound of someone moving about, the light clink of pots and pans clashing and she knew at once that her guest had returned.

“It is my imagination,” she told herself as she got dressed. “It is all in my head,” she assured, walking down the stairs, her hand grasping for the banister in the darkness. “I am still half asleep,” she promised as she opened the kitchen door and laid eyes on Jon once more.

Still, he looked as alive as any other person in town, moreso when he turned and greeted her with a big smile. “Good morning, miss!” he said and placed an impressive plate of breakfast on the table at her seat. “I hope you are hungry.”

“Jon,” she spoke in awe, “you have returned.”

“I never really left,” he said.

Daenerys thought back on all the peculiar events of yesterday afternoon, and she agreed: “I suppose you did not.” She sat down, today with less hesitation than yesterday, for she knew now not to fear the man before her, however odd he appeared.

“Have you thought on what we spoke about yesterday?” Jon asked as he poured her a cup of coffee.

Daenerys poked at her egg, just to be sure that it was all real, before she replied: “About my heart? Oh, forget it! I do not wish to speak of such things, even less with strangers.”

“Is anyone but a stranger in your life?” Jon asked, and Daenerys felt rather struck at his words.

“Why yes!” she spoke at once, “the grocers’ wife.”

“What is her name?” he asked.

Daenerys looked at him with silence. Then she continued: “I have also dined with Mrs Tyrell.”

“When was this?”

“Recent,” Daenerys assured him. “Must have been in the summer.”

“This year?”

She meekly replied: “Perhaps last year.” With nothing further to add, she returned to the plate and started eating, the warm food pleasant on her tongue. Oh! - it had been a while since she ate so well. It wasn’t that she did not have the coin, for her mother had left her a small fortune. Surely not enough to lavish in luxurious dresses and hold grand balls like the rich, but enough for her to enjoy life. Yet, she liked to remain prudent, wary that even good fortunes can turn, but feeling the fatty bacon on her lips and drinking the fresh coffee, she wondered if perhaps she ought to treat herself more often than not.

Even Jon seemed to enjoy watching her eat, and so she slowed down, ensuring she remained appropriate though she wanted nothing more than to lick her plate clean. “I enjoy solitude,” she admitted. “I find it comforting.”

“Because you need not put up appearances,” Jon spoke, and Daenerys was rather stunned, for he hit the nail on the head with his statement.

“That is true,” she said, but felt rather strange about it, and something in her urged her to justify this. So she added: “Though I also find my own company to be the most pleasant one.”

“Of course!” Jon spoke, and he sipped his own coffee with a nod. “It is easier, is it not?”

“Much easier.”

“It requires nothing of you.”

“Nothing at all,” she agreed.

“Why risk anything for more when you can live with less?”

Once more, Daenerys was about to agree, until she thought on his words. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, her brows furrowed.

Jon smiled a sad smile as he lowered his cup. “Miss, I am of your own creation,” he reminded her, “so I know all that you do. You closed yourself off to the world long ago, did you not?” As she did not reply at once, he continued: “It is true - it is easier not to make relations, for you can never trust another like you can yourself. People are unpredictable.”

“I find that if you are truly a creation of mine,” Daenerys said, her voice strained, for she did not like the turn their conversation had taken, “then my company with myself is more complicated than I thought. This is not at all pleasant.”

“Why, perhaps it is the setting,” Jon spoke and stood up at once. He gestured about. “Where is the cheer? Not a single decoration.”

“I need not to decorate to know the month,” Daenerys protested, and she watched as Jon donned a frock coat and a hat. Why, both seemed to appear out of thin air, but when he reached out and offered her his hand, it was very warm when she took it. Nay, he was real, she decided. Whatever he was, imaginary or not, he was in that moment as real to her as anything.

“Let us go,” Jon said and led her to her feet.

“Whereto?” Daenerys asked, making sure to scrape the last bit of bacon into her mouth before he led her to the hall. With a gentle hand, he helped her into her thick winter coat.

“A walk! The morning air is crisp, and it will clear your mind. Come now - the woods are not far away.”

So they walked; the air was indeed nice and fresh, and the snow thick beneath her boots, but somehow she did not shiver. Instead, she felt only joy as her cheeks reddened, and she took pleasure in seeing her grounds so beautiful and white under the dunes of snow.

On they walked to the edge of the woods, and then in between the trees, their crowns all dusted white. Whenever they touched a branch, flakes fell through the air as if it was still snowing in that very moment.

“I know you are just a figment of my imagination,” Daenerys spoke, watching her breath slipper from her lips as a mist, “yet I am pleased you have brought me here. The landscape is very beautiful.”

“You trust only your eyes and ears,” Jon spoke, “there lies your misery. Alas! I have not brought you here, for you have been before. Do you not remember?” He reached up, touching a branch as they walked, and in the falling snow, a memory came to Daenerys.

Yes! She did remember. She was a child, no older than eight, and she was ever so merry as she chased the fat birds through the woodlands. Oh! That was long before she cared to only ride her horse on the roads. No, back then she enjoyed the adventure, and she liked to go wherever the wind would take her.

“It was Christmas-time then,” Daenerys spoke, glancing about as they walked. The sun was rising somewhere far above them, and though she could not feel its warmth, the pale light shone through the trees, and it lit up a path before them which they followed. “Mother asked me to find the most beautiful tree, and I was eager to please.”

“Did you find it?” Jon asked.

Daenerys breathed out and paused, her gaze fixated on a spot before them, as she whispered: “Yes.” There it was. Not the same tree, surely, but it looked it to her; a great fir, its stature short but its branches thick, and perfectly spaced out. The needles were frosty, but still it stood green and lively. The sight alone brought a strange joy to her heart, and she found herself reaching out to squeeze Jon’s hand as she held the other to her chest.

“I have not had a tree since mother died,” she said, and it dawned on her once she said it out loud. She had never decorated a tree since her mother’s passing. It had been too painful to think of. Who could celebrate after such a loss? Why would she deserve such joy when her mother could no longer have it?

As if on cue, Jon’s hand squeezed hers back, and she felt his warmth creep across her skin, calming her heart. She had scarcely noticed how quickly it had started beating but now, as her chest calmed, she could breathe freely once more.

“There is honour in memory,” Jon said.

“And pain,” Daenerys added bitterly.

“It is what makes it a memory,” he replied. “The pain of the bygone.”

“Tell me - is it I that makes you so preposterous, or is that a trait of your own?”

Jon chuckled, and he led her on as they made their way back, slowly walking another part of the woods. “I fear it is all you, miss.”

“At least I know you are not my Jon,” Daenerys said, “for he writes me with more informality than you speak.”

“Forgive me,” Jon spoke,” but did you just say my Jon?”

Daenerys could have flushed, but she did not. Instead, she braved through the snow until she once again laid eyes on her house. By then, the sun had risen high in the blue sky, and the fog had disappeared although the snow was as thick as before. “I think you are mistaken,” she spoke, “I said no such thing.”

“My ears must be playing tricks.”

“You were the one who told me not to just trust my eyes and ears,” Daenerys reminded him.

Jon smiled and paused at her doorstep. “You learn quick,” he said. “I sense your heart is already lighter.”

“I know not what you speak of,” Daenerys said and turned her back on him as she opened the door, because she did not want the smile on her lips to show. Why, it did freeze at once at the sight that greeted her; through her hallway to her living room, the sight was normally plain. There was her fireplace, and her old chair by its front. But today stood instead a great fir. It was not decorated, rather it was as plain as had it just been cut in the woods, and flakes of frost still clung onto the needles.

Daenerys cried in surprise: “Why, it’s the same fir tree!” But when she turned to get Jon to acknowledge her words, she found that he was no longer there. In fact, when she looked across her yard, the only footprints in the snow were her own, and the sight made her shiver ever so terribly.

“I must be mad!” she spoke once more, but whilst it had bothered her much the first day, she was now too occupied with the tree to linger on this thought. Indeed, she hurried to rid herself of her coat and boots, and she all but ran to the living room to admire it.

“Mother would have loved it,” she spoke and touched its branches, and she knew it to be true, but where she would before had felt pain in her heart at the thought, she no longer ached. Instead, she felt joy, and it lingered within her all day whenever she gazed upon the fir.

The third morning that Daenerys woke, it was to the smell of spiced mulled wine, and for once she neither paused nor hesitated, but quickly got dressed before descending the stairs with haste. But! - when the kitchen door swung open, there was no one within. Why, the fire was burning as jolly as ever, and the table was set with a nice breakfast, and the tea was freshly brewed, and all as merry as any other morning. Yet, in the empty chair by the table, Daenerys found something was amiss.

“I have my feast,” she admitted, “but it is not all that I want.”

It was then that she heard it; a rustle from her living room, and she turned on her heels at once as she headed down the hall. There, in front of the blazing fire, sat Jon. The moment their gazes met, a smile took over Daenerys’ lips, and she paused in the doorway as they looked at one another. He was sitting in her chair, a glass of wine in his hand, and he gestured for the spare spot beside him where another glass was waiting.

“This early?” Daenerys said, but it was a protest of politeness only. She walked and took the glass, then settled in the spare chair and, pushing her feet as close to the flickering flames as she could, breathed out with peace.

“Did you eat?” Jon asked.

“Food can wait. Whatever are you doing in here?” Daenerys asked and turned her glass of wine between her fingers. “No, wait, you are of my making, so whatever you do in here is of my heart’s desire too, is it not?”

At her words, Jon nodded gently. “It is,” he merely said.

“Then let me guess,” she asked, and let her eyes roam. It felt as if she was looking around her living room for the first time in years! Yes, she had been there oft, reading her evenings away, but had she really looked at what she kept within? The frame photographs on the mantle suddenly appeared new, as if she had not gazed upon them for a long time, though she knew all within; her brother, the feeble man, whom she had not seen for years since he went on his travels abroad. Her mother, of course, next to her father who was but a stranger to her. The photographs had many tales to tell, yes, but she felt it was not those that brought Jon here. So she kept looking:

Books? Nay. Plants? Unlikely. Boxes of trinkets? Perhaps. As soon as she thought it, she saw it in his hands; a little wooden box, the lock but a formality, and he easily lifted it though he did not open the lid just yet.

“What is within?” he asked.

Daenerys took in a deep breath, and she had to wet her lips with the wine before she could manage to speak. “My whole life,” she admitted, and once he opened it, she knew it to be true.

Letters. Hundreds of them! All were neatly kept in their envelope, but a date had been written on the back by her, making it easier for her to dig out exactly the one she wished to read. She needed not mark the name, for they were all from the same person.

“Jon Snow,” the well-wisher Jon noted as he flickered through the many envelopes. “You have been acquaintances for a while.”

“Years,” Daenerys agreed.

“Yet you have never met?”

She shook her head and looked into her glass of wine. “There has been no need,” she spoke. “I prefer it this way.”

“It is easier,” Jon spoke the words he had the day before.

Daenerys’ fingers closed tight around her glass. “Now, you say that, and it must be so, because you know only what I know,” she said, “but I still find myself in disagreement.”

“Do explain,” Jon said, “for I am not sure I follow.”

Daenerys leaned back in her chair as she sighed. “Whatever is the point of a personified memory if it does not know me!” she said with exasperation, but yet she continued: “It is not about ease. It is about connection. Imagine him one day turning up - why, all we had could disappear like snow in the heat.”

“Even snow does not disappear, it only takes another shape,” Jon reminded her.

“Be as it may, it could be the shape it takes is not one pleasing to either of us. It is a risk.”

“Or a chance.” Jon sipped his wine, whilst Daenerys was content to look at hers for the moment. For her mind was spinning: was she arguing with herself? What truth was she trying to discover? Yet before she could dwell too deep, Jon asked: “How did you two become acquainted?”

“Oh,” Daenerys said, for she was caught a bit off-guard. “He writes for the paper.”

“Locally?”

“Dear, no!” The idea alone put a fright in Daenerys, but it vanished into a laughter soon. “London! He is from the city. My area means naught to him. I got my hands on an article of his, and it was to me the most peculiar bit of writing.”

“How come?” the well-wisher asked.

“Well, he wrote about love.”

He smiled and flipped through the letters, and he took his time to look at each and every envelope. “Doesn’t sound off to me.”

“It wouldn’t now, would it?” Daenerys sighed and flattered a crease in her dress. She glanced at the fireplace and then leaned forward, stretching her hands close to the flames. The heat prickled at her fingertips. When did she last keep a fire in the middle of the day? She preferred to keep by the heat from her stove when alone. It was reasonable, though she often found herself longing to lounge in the living room during those long, cold mornings. Why did she never allow herself the pleasure? Daenerys found that she had no answer for her self-caused misery. “He spoke of love as a thing of beauty.”

“It bothered you.”

“Of course. I was twenty,” Daenerys said, and it dawned on her - twenty! Why, had she really written Jon for almost ten years? Wherever did time go? “I already had my share of broken dreams. Men treat women like pawns in a game of chess - they are good for tactics, but not worth a fight to keep.”

“You liken love to a game,” Jon spoke.

“What of it?”

He shrugged and glanced at her from the corners of his eyes, his lips deepened in a smile. “Just an observation,” he replied.

Daenerys smacked her lips and folded her hands over her knees as she shook her head. “I know what you think - well, I should hope so, if you are just a part of me! You think that I am foolish. To love is to be vulnerable, and when vulnerable you might get hurt. Well! I should not like to feel more pain.”

“Your mother was your first love,” Jon spoke, “like Jon’s father was his.”

“I suppose,” Daenerys said, though she cared not to speak the words. How gruelling, how tiresome it was to speak to oneself. Had she not already had these conversations in front of her mirror? How she had cried, and she had shouted, and she had thrown things in anger. Once her mother was gone, there had been nothing left, for no one loves you like family - and sometimes even family carries little kindness. As she thought this, she eyed the photograph of her brother, and Jon followed her gaze.

“Ah, yes,” he spoke and closed the lid on the box. “You never got along the way siblings should. So it seems, neither did Jon with his.”

“We wrote much about that, as we learned to know each other,” Daenerys nodded, her voice soft and her eyes still lingering on the image of Viserys. Wherever was he now? However did he feel? Happiness, misery?

“First you argued love,” Jon reminded her, for he knew already - for all that she knew, he did too. “He was a strong defender.”

“Was? Is!” she sighed. “If he could, he would marry me in writing, I am sure of it.”

“What would you say to such a proposal?”

“Whatever can I say? I told you many times - I revel in solitude.”

“Perhaps I should then take my leave.”

At his words, Daenerys’ lips snapped shut, and she paused. Leave? She supposed he had to at some point. But whilst she had been impatient on the first night, she was no longer so sure. Did she wish for this strange man to take his leave? As she pondered, she glanced toward him. The way he sat, perfectly suited and booted, sipping mulled wine, making conversation - well, he was almost pleasant. Nay, more than that; he was a comfort. His presence made her feel eager to leave bed, it gave her an excuse to revel in pleasantries like a burning fire - and it forced her to think, to consider, to speak. To perhaps do things she else would not. As she smelled the fir tree, the richness of the needles settling in the room, mixing ever so nicely with the wine and smoke from the fire - the smells made her drunk with joy.

“No,” she finally said, though her voice was rather quiet. “You should not.”

Jon smiled, as had he expected this all along, and he held out the box for her to see. “Miss,” he said, “you may not hold a great deal of kindness for yourself, but it does not mean that you are not worthy of love.” As he opened the box, Daenerys eyes grew wide, for all the letters had disappeared, and only one remained.

“It cannot be!” she spoke. For the letter had been taken by the wind, she knew this for certain! She had seen it dragged out of the window, and watched as it disappeared into the trees. No bother! - that is what she thought at the time. It does not matter! But oh, how it mattered, and she felt it now as the ice within her melted more, creating a puddle in her stomach which shivered with longing. For she had wanted to read the letter again, and again, and again, as she always did, and she never thought that she would.

So now it was with gentle hands that she picked it out of the box, opened it, and looked across Jon’s writing once more. “Yours always,” she read the end, and she held the paper to her chest as she breathed in deeply. “How did you get it?” She awaited a reply, but got none, and when she looked to her right, the seat next to her was empty. Her well-wisher had once more disappeared into thin air, and she was left alone with tears in her eyes.

“What a morning,” she whispered, but it was with joy when she looked on the letter, and she hugged it once more as she smiled: “What a gift!”

A gift indeed, and what cheer it brought her! She could hardly get through her daily duties, for an urge was growing within her. Whereas before, she had felt the season to be a bother - another task to be finished, no different from the chore of doing laundry - she was now filled with a keen need to act for herself. Yes! She wanted to dress the tree, because she wanted to see it in all its beauty. So she cut fine figures out of paper and hung them on the branches and, when she decided it was not enough, she fetched some hay from the barn and spent hours braiding the straws into intricate designs. Once she looked upon her creation, she thought: this is truly as beautiful as any tree in town - if not in all of England - and she knew it to be true.

Next came her house. Her well-wisher was correct; there was little cheer to be found, and now she was brimming with joy, and she wanted her surroundings to reflect it. But she did not own any of the things that were sold in the village - she had no glass baubles, and no great wreaths, and she certainly had not bought any holly, because whatever would have been the use?

No, she had to make do with what she could scavenge, and so she improvised: ribbons she owned plenty of, and a red silk bow had never looked more cheery on her porcelain figures, her pillows, and her throw. Next she grabbed her rolls of yarn, and she strung the thread around broken sticks until she could create colourful stars. Those she hung in every window, and she thought: they are rather wonky, and they may be home-made, but they are just as good as what coin can buy, for my heart is in them.

Once she was done, she asked herself: “Now, what else can I do?” It came to her at once; a great breakfast! Indeed, the last few mornings it was Jon who served her, but now she wished to return the favour. She went to her kitchen, and she looked in her pantry, and she pulled out all the best things she owned; fat sausages, and large eggs, and some apples and pears, and she did also keep some vegetables, and raisins and nuts, and even some blood pudding. But she felt it was not enough; she needed to bake. Nay, she wanted to bake - bread, and rolls, and cakes, and biscuits. Whatever she could get done in a night, she would.

Never before had she kept so busy, and never before had she stayed awake so late into the night. She worked so hard that she tired, and she tired so much that the candlelight around her started to become smudged pinpricks on her vision, and then it became dark, for she was so exhausted that she fell asleep atop her own kitchen table.

It was there she awoke the next morning to the most pleasant of scents. At first, as she raised her head and glanced about the small kitchen, she wondered whatever she had cooked that smelled so delicious. But when she blinked again and really looked, she gasped in awe.

For all around her was the most luxurious displays of food; turkey, and goose, and hare, all served on grand plates, and surrounding them were plump tomatoes, and juicy oranges, and fat wreaths of sausages - many more than she had ever owned! - and piles of mince pies and towers of biscuits surrounding the sink, so aplenty that they also took up space in the windowsill.

This was surely not of her making, for her cooking had been rather poor - not even enough to fill one of these grand silver plates. Nay, this had to be the work of a certain well-wisher, she was sure. What more - he seemed to have had the same ideas as her. For when she glanced upwards, she realised that her shabby decorations had turned delicate; no more were there broken sticks on displays, but beautifully painted paper stars hung from her ceiling, and all along her walls hung holly with berries bursting with juice. She followed their trail to the hallway and there, as she turned to face her living room, she gasped in surprise: “By Heavens!”

No one had ever seen a more beautiful tree than what was before her; candles aflame on every branch, and every branch heavy with paper drums and beautiful ribbons and glass figures of angels, and further in, beneath the thick branches, so many gifts that she doubted she could open them all in a day. Her hopeless paper decorations would have looked poor in comparison, and she sensed at once that she should be pleased that they were no longer there, or else they should cause her much embarrassment.

“Merry Christmas!” someone spoke behind her, and she turned to look at Jon.

There he stood, gallant as ever, his suit a perfect grey, and he bowed, hat in hand, as he greeted her. “Merry Christmas, miss,” he repeated, “for it is Christmas Day.”

“It is?” she spoke, for time had truly passed at its own pace these past few days, and she had not even realised. “Why, I suppose all of this is a gift to me?”

“It is!” Jon agreed, and he walked over to her side to stand and admire their surroundings together. “Do you like it?”

“It is very beautiful,” Daenerys admitted, but she could not make herself say else, not even when Jon urged her once more:

“Do you like it?”

Why, it was nice. Yes, indeed, it was very nice. But she had loved her own work. She had liked her paper figures, however frail, and her straw creations, however poor, and she had taken pride in the meal that she made, however small. So she knew that she should be grateful, and she knew that she should speak words of praise, but she found that her heart ached for all that she had done herself.

“You are conflicted,” Jon noted.

“Oh, it is all very nice,” she finally spoke and turned to look at him. She feared she would find resentment in his eyes, but he only looked on her with kindness. “It is just-”

“Just what?” he pressed.

Daenerys sighed. “You must think me mad, but - I liked it better before!” She took in a deep breath, and she wanted to say no more, yet she felt she owed him more of an explanation. “I mean, this is lovely, and I am sure many people would be pleased to wake up to such a display. But I took time and care to create my own cheer, and I find I was rather fond of it.”

“Is that so?” he spoke.

Daenerys pressed her hands to her chest, and she wanted to apologise, but Jon stopped her with a smile:

“Why, I think it is time I leave.”

“Please!” she called as he turned towards the door. “Do not take offence!”

“I do not!” he assured her, as he put on her hat and swung around to greet her, a frock coat suddenly on his frame. He spoke the truth, he had to, for the smile on his lips was ever so genuine, and she felt her heart skip a beat from the kind look in his eyes. “This is all for naught - decorations are just things, and food is to be eaten, for if the heart is not in it, it all means nothing. But if you open yourself up and let yourself free, you find that even the most fickle of paper-cuts can bring joy, a potato becomes a feast, and a well wishing turns to a love story.”

Daenerys clenched her hands to her chest, for it hurt so much to hear him speak those words, though she knew them all to be true. Alas! - before she knew of it, his hand was on the handle, and he opened the door to the snowy yard.

“Goodbye, miss,” he spoke, “it has truly been a pleasure to know you.”

“Please!” Daenerys called once more, and she stepped toward the door as he walked outside, “my heart tells me you should stay. I cannot bear to be alone! Not on Christmas Day!”

At this, Jon turned on his heels one last time, and he reached out for her. Daenerys, happy to see him pause, hurried to take his hand, and she was feeling so overwhelmed that she scarcely noticed what happened next:

He pulled her close, and over the threshold he gave her a kiss. It was sweet like sugar, and warm like the fireplace, and her eyes shut as her heart filled with more happiness than she had ever felt before. But then, as always, when she opened her eyes once more, he was gone, and she was faced with just the empty yard ahead of her.

“No,” she whispered, and she stepped out into the snow, her bare feet sinking into the cold, frosty flakes, “no, it cannot be!” Still, he was nowhere. No footsteps. No trace. Not even a single sound did he leave behind. There was just the wind, and oh! - how it blew. It bashed against her face, and she felt her cheeks go wet. “There must be rain in the air,” she spoke, but even when she walked back inside and closed the door behind her, her cheeks dripped still, and when she reached to touch her eyes, she realised they were filled with tears.

Solitude! How she detested it at once. She looked upon the grand feast in the kitchen, and the decorated tree, and she thought - what is the point of all of this, what is the point of all this joy, if I cannot share it with anyone, even less my love?

How she could have wailed in anger had it not been for a knock on the door. At first, she barely heard it, and she supposed it must be the breeze, for it was strong, and perhaps it was playing with her shutters again. But no - there it was once more, a knock, and this time stronger than before.

Daenerys felt her heart skip a beat, and all emotions fluttered in her chest as she turned, grabbed at the handle, and swung the door open, crying: “Jon!” A surprised pair of grey eyes stared back at her, and Daenerys knew at once that yes, she was looking upon Jon, but something was amiss.

For this Jon was dressed in dark blue, and his coat was covered in frost, and behind him he had left a trail so deep that Daenerys had no doubt that he was real. Yes, the man before her was real - not a supernatural well-wisher, but a real man who had walked with his real feet through the snow, leaving a real trail.

As it all dawned on her, her face grew quite white, for at once she realised that she was no longer dealing with her imagination, but the real love of her life.

“Miss!” Jon spoke, and he fumbled to take off his hat with haste. In fact, he was in such a hurry that he lost hold of the brim, and it dropped to the snow, and he had to fumble to pick it back up. When he glanced back at her, his cheeks were rather red from embarrassment, and he shyly spoke: “Miss Targaryen, I presume?”

Daenerys swallowed, and she held her hand to her chest as she nodded, unable to speak.

Luckily, her silence did not quiet Jon, for he straightened up and cleared his throat. “I am so pleased to finally meet you. I am Jon,” he said, and he bowed so deeply as if he was meeting with the Queen herself.

It caused Daenerys to smile, and she whispered the words that she knew well from his letter: “Yours always.”

It caused a deeper blush to fall on Jon’s face, and he slowly put his hat back on as he cleared his throat once more. “Well, yes,” he mumbled, “I suppose I did say that.”

How shy he looked! Daenerys could hardly believe it. In his letters, he had been ever so bold, but now he looked at her with such gentle eyes, and his smile was ever so soft, and his attitude so humble. So, so humble! Indeed, he was all she had hoped. And why, he looked just like she had imagined - black, curly hair, black beard, and a face bathed with kindness. Still it made her wonder - was she anything like he had imagined?

Her answer came soon enough, for Jon said: “Forgive me, miss, for I know this is most peculiar, but I feel like we have met before.”

And Daenerys thought back on the last few days - on how they had spoken, and how she had opened up her heart, and how she now longed to let him in - and she nodded as she said: “Nothing to forgive, sir, for I feel the same way.”

“Miss, please call me Jon, for I do not wish to remain strangers.”

“If you will call me Daenerys, for I feel we are quite acquainted.”

“You are quite right,” Jon said, and then, after a pause, he smiled, “Daenerys.”

Her name on his lips! Why, it had never sounded better, she thought. She was so in awe by it all that she just stood and enjoyed the feeling of joy, and it was not until she noticed him shivering that she gasped: “My manners! I am so sorry. Please come inside.” She stepped aside to allow Jon in, and he gratefully stepped over the threshold to the warmth of her house.

She stood watching him as he rid himself of his scarf and gloves, and she hung them aside, her movements slow, for she was feeling rather shy being around him, and barely knew what to do next. Less so when she saw him gaze into the living room and proclaim: “What a beautiful tree!”

Of course he would think so! Decorated so nicely. He would not speak those words if he had seen her poor attempt. But Daenerys bit her teeth together and merely agreed: “Indeed it is,” before she even cared to look. What a shock she got when she did! For the fine glass figures were no more, and back on the branches were her paper cutouts and straw creations.

Daenerys blinked, for it could not be - did Jon truly praise her own tree? But more was to come - next, he glanced into the kitchen, and he said: “You are too kind! You prepared all this for my coming?”

Once more, she was shivering with dread, for how could she explain such a grand feast just for the two of them? She would look rather desperate! But nay, she was shocked again, for when she followed him into the small kitchen, all the wondrous things were gone. There was no turkey and no goose, and gone were the mince pies and biscuit towers. Left were only her own burnt cake, her smaller sausages, and poorer display of vegetables.

Still, it seemed to mean naught to Jon, for he put his hand to his heart as he turned to look at her to say: “I was ever so worried travelling here, for I feared I should not be welcome, and had you wished me gone, I would have turned and walked all the way back to London at once. But now I see that you have prepared to welcome me to your home, and there is no better feeling, so allow me to be the first on this day to wish you a Merry Christmas - for I feel mine shall be very merry indeed as long as you are by my side.”

Daenerys went quite red at his words, but a smile broke out on her lips all the same. Indeed, she felt no ache, and any shiver of awkwardness melted away at once, and she felt her soul completely thawed, no ice lingering within. Instead, a fire had started burning, and it was filling her with such boldness that she did not hesitate to grab at Jon’s collar, pull him close, and place a kiss right on his lips.

For after years of hesitation, Daenerys had embraced herself, and with her acceptance came her understanding of her own wants; and she wanted Jon, more than she had wanted anything else for Christmas, and she would no longer deny herself happiness.

As Jon’s arms slipped around her frame to hold her close, and his lips pushed back to meet hers, she felt at peace. Not in solitude, but in love.