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The wind bit at her exposed skin, cheeks pinking without any aide of blush or tint. It whipped over her silver curls and braids, already pulled back taut from her face. It would have chilled anyone’s bones, except hers. Her bones were heated from the heavy thud of her heart against her breastbone, the rush of blood in her veins, and the fire raging inside her soul. The fire which rose to sparkle in her lavender eyes, redden her plump and pursed lips, and thirsted for revenge.
In the dark winter in the North, far beyond the everlasting lights and skyscrapers of King’s Landing, the craggy peaks of the Vale, and the marshy flats of the Riverlands, no one walking by on the quaint lantern-lit light posted street with its cozy restaurants, pubs, boutique hotels, and little shops devoted to preserving the heritage of the Realm’s largest, sparsest, and remotest kingdom.
The woman standing against one of these lightposts, her hands in the pockets of her designer black trenchcoat, hardly paying attention to the bustle of people. There were locals intermixed with tourists—it was the Dawn Festival soon—going from building to building, stopping to take photos in front of silly little cardboard cutouts of ice zombies and Northmen.
Only a few stopped in their tracks to glance at her, for she stood out among the darkness and the cold snow, her silver hair a moonlit beacon, her entire demeanor that of someone who should not be trifled with nor confronted. One glance of her purple eyes and they were on their way, bewitched almost to forget she was even there to begin with.
She lifted her left wrist up to peer at the heavy silver men’s wristwatch, ticking softly under the wail of the wind. Daenerys Targaryen tsked under her breath. “He’s late,” she murmured. She supposed it was silly to think he would actually honor her summons. He would not be coming then.
Well I suppose I will have to go looking for him.
Her heavy black combat boots crunched under the fresh snows, hands returning to her pockets, walking slowly down the sidewalk. The last time she was here had not been pleasant. The Northern History Museum had been far more difficult to crack than she’d originally planned. She had barely made it out of there with the silver wolf circlet she’d broken in to steal. Retrieve, she preferred, even if the authorities had different views on the matter.
The silver wolf circlet allegedly belonged to a Northern queen, who rebelled against the kingdoms and ultimately died of starvation when all her allies abandoned her. It was exceptionally expensive and the funds of which now had been siphoned into a series of orphanages the Northern government had been sorely neglecting.
Her walk took her from the local streets a bit farther off the beaten track, the lamps extinguished or nonexistent, the people fewer and fewer, until she was the only one on a darkened street.
Dany paused in front of a pub, glancing down at her phone. A message from her hacker—Missandei—informed her his cell phone had been pinging from that location an hour ago. She glanced up, smirked at the worn sign– The Wildling – hanging on one hinge. It was not for charm, but because the owner no doubt didn’t care about it. Perfect.
She entered the pub, which suddenly went quiet. Everyone stared at her. Dany reached up to pull at one of the buttons on her coat, her smile amused, gaze sweeping from one end to the other of the less than desirable establishment. She was not a local, she should not be there, but she did not care, purposefully striding towards the ancient bar, where a gigantic man with thick red beard and wild eyebrows surveyed her with bright blue eyes.
“Ale please,” she ordered, sweet.
The man chuckled. “You’re not from around here.”
“Nope.”
“You lost?”
Dany smiled, taking another look over her shoulder at the clientele, all of whom were still staring at her. She met the man’s gaze again, shaking her head. “Nope.”
They looked at each other, unblinking, for what seemed like several minutes, but was only a couple. A boom of laughter finally broke their silent pissing contest, the man slapping his dustbin lid sized hand on the bar, pointing at her, grinning darkly. “I like you.” He reached under the bar for a pint. “Attitude like that, first one’s on me.”
“I was hoping you could pass something along for me to one of your regulars.”
“Can’t say anyone you know would be in my pub,” the man said. He set her pint glass full of darkened ale. He grinned again. “But try me.”
Dany slipped her fingers into one of the inner pockets of her coat, removing a slim black box. She set it down on the bar, pushing it with one red manicured finger towards him. Another enigmatic smile did the trick. “This is for Jon Snow.”
The entire pub might as well have gone on mute.
The jovial bartender immediately hardened, those twinkling blue eyes now chips of ice. He was gruff. “Don’t know a Jon Snow.”
“I think you do Tormund Giantsbane.” Dany climbed off her stool, took a long pull from the ale glass, and wiped the foam from her upper lip. The gruffness of the bartender dropped like a mask at her sudden use of his full name. She liked to stun them. It was fun that way. She turned, calling over her shoulder. “Put it on his tab.”
The heavy oak door swung closed behind her with a deafening thud. Dany liked the taste of that ale, making a note she would have to return if she was ever in the mood for it again. She tugged her phone out, now a message from her ghost, warning her that this was a bad idea and they should try some other way.
Barristan had said the same thing. So had Daario. Grey and Gendry might have also agreed, if Missy and Arya hadn’t been as forceful as they had with their displeasure. Sometimes it was bothersome to have members of a team fucking, but Dany accepted the two couples because they worked well together and did not usually let their personal issues bleed into the world.
Plus they all had reason for this job. Well, not Daario, but he would do anything she asked because he was in love with her.
They all tried to convince her to get someone else. There were plenty who would kill to be a part of her team. To join them in this endeavor. No one else would do, she told them, calm and quiet.
It had to be him.
She returned to her car, parked in a community lot near the main square, and paid the exorbitant parking fee, even if it probably would have been easier to just use one of Missandei’s contraptions to hack her way out of the 15 stags. She drove off, humming along to a silly pop song playing from whatever radio station had been on when she picked up the car at the Winterfell International Airport.
Ah Winterfell, so many memories. The castle loomed large over the city that bore its name. It was a museum now, even if the Stark family still retained some ownership of it. Somewhere on the other side in more modest accommodations a few of the Stark family still lived.
The Starks weren’t as big as they once were. They were desperate for cash. All they had were their titles, such as they were. Dany thought about Arya Stark, her ghost, who technically bore the honorific Lady, but if you thought of calling her that you would get a knife in the gut. It was part of her reason for taking this job.
They all had reasons and now she just needed the final player in the game.
In lieu of a hotel, as much as she would like someone to pull back her linens and prepare a fire for her when she turned in for the evening, she rented out a luxury cabin several miles away. It afforded her privacy, stunning views, and a large sunken tub. Dany liked a sunken tub.
She parked, walked up to the front door, and smiled to herself at the threshold. So obvious. She slipped in the key and entered, turning to plug in the code for the alarm panel. When she turned back, she slipped off her coat, and walked into the large stone paneled living room, with its great fireplace—already crackling—and mountain filled wall of windows.
“Hello Jon.”
The chair before the fire turned, revealing its occupant, who sat rather bored, legs crossed and fingers tapped against his temple. He looked the same as ever, she thought, if not better. Dark raven curls, wild around his face, which had been chiseled from marble. Dark beard dusting over his jaw and upper lip, his gray eyes black in the shadow of the fire. All black ensemble, which she knew hid a body that was as chiseled as his face. Smooth planes and sharp edges, he was a masterpiece.
And he was deadly.
The gray eyes glinted, just a hint of red. Could have been from the fire, or it could have been something else.
Her smile peeled over her teeth. “My white wolf,” she purred.
Jon Snow smiled in return, although it did not meet his eyes, rather cold, as cold as the storm that began outside, the faintest hints of howling wind sounding. “Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, in his rumbling Northern burr. He kept smiling, until he wasn’t.
And then he was at her throat, his fingers digging into the slim column, tilting up her jaw, his breath mingling with hers, warm and raspy. Her eyes threatened to roll back into her head and her body ignited, fire consuming her. He barely touched his mouth to hers, barely breathing. “I thought I said I would kill you the next time I saw you.”
Now it was her turn to smile. She lifted her hand, his eyes rolling down to it. The cold steel of her dragonhead knife was against his jugular. Even if his thumb was pressing down on her carotid, threatening to cut off her oxygen, she knew he wouldn’t. Just like he knew she wouldn’t kill him. Draw blood maybe, but she could never kill him. “Darling, I think you forgot, it was I who said that.”
“Hmm.” He drew in her scent, nostrils flaring, and eyes going red again. The wolf, she noted, her skin prickling, and her body straining towards him. Not to break free, but to join him. There would be time for that later. His thumb dragged over her bottom lip and she darted her tongue out to touch it. He groaned, his nose pushing to hers, laugh deep in his chest. “You came looking for me.”
“I will always come looking for you.”
“I don’t want it.” His dark brows arched, the feral wolf flickering over his features again, hiding his obvious desire for her. She bucked her hips against him, reminding him. He laughed. “Peace offering, huh?” He immediately let her go and flicked the box towards her. He growled. “You stole that from me.”
“And I’m giving it back.” She opened the box, revealing the white wolf head pommel from the ancient Valyrian sword he kept in one of his many safehouses. She sighed. “I realized that it really belongs with you.”
“No, you realized no one would buy it.”
She shrugged, flicking the box towards him and he caught it one-handed, setting it down on a table behind him. “Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toh.”
“I’m not joining you again.”
Ire flared, her eyes darkening to indigo. “I am no longer asking you nicely.”
“Funny was that what it was when you tried to kill me?”
Of course he would bring that up. She waved her hand dismissively. “It was an accident.”
Jon dragged the collar of his shirt down, pointing at a knife scar on his collarbone. “That is not an accident!”
“Oh yeah, well you stole from me!”
Now it was his turn to shrug it off. “That money needed to go to the Night’s Watch,” he mumbled, arms crossing over his chest.
They squared off against each other. This was not how she planned it to go, but nevertheless. She narrowed her eyes on him, staring. He stared back. No one blinked. Until they were at each other, grappling, tugging, and tearing at each other, mouths a frenzied clash of tongues and teeth. She drew his tongue in between her lips to slide along hers, moaning into his mouth when his large hands slipped from her shoulders to cup the sides of her breasts, straining in their cashmere sweater cage. She lifted herself against him, remembering every feel of him, every dent and ridge of muscle, every nervous quiver, and every bump and drag of scars.
He tore from her first, a hand tangled in her immaculate braids, fingers digging into the ridge of her skull, and another on her hip, holding her to him. “The answer is still no,” he whispered.
Dany shook her head, whispering. “You haven’t heard my proposition.”
“I’m out.”
“Even when I tell you the mark?”
He shook his head again, although she knew him. She’d known him since they were teenagers, misfits and unwanted, trying to scrap by on their wits and wiles. They had bled together, fought together, fucked and almost died together. They’d gone to jail together. She nibbled his lower lip again and he flinched, barely, but she felt it. He still wants to know. “No,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want it.”
She cocked her head, her fingers smoothing over his cheek, dropping to cover his heart with her palm. Eyes steady, breath even, she smiled again. “I need my second Jon. I need my partner.”
They all wanted her to bring in someone else. Even someone she might have worked with in the past, none of them matched to the trust she had with Jon Snow. He was her equal, the one she could trust above all else, the one who knew her deepest and darkest fears and desires. Jon Snow came from nothing like she had and built himself up. He was the only one she would ever feel comfortable doing this job with.
There was also the fact that she was still in love with him.
Trivial thing really, she lied to herself.
Whatever they said about him, she didn’t believe it. He was out, he was done, he’d gone straight…all lies. He was just like her. They were wild, they could not be tamed, and he could never settle for a boring law-abiding life.
The irony of Jon Snow was he was the most honorable criminal she had ever met.
“No.”
Now it was time for the final play. Her other hand cupped his head and fingers twirled with his hair at the base of his neck. “Even if I tell you that we’re going for the Targaryen crown and dragons?”
His dark eyes lifted to hers, his breath stilled. He said nothing.
Her tongue dabbed her upper lip, her pupils dilating wide, smile curving again. “The crown and the eggs will all be in a single location, for the Conquering Day Celebration, and Tywin Lannister himself will be there, to give a speech, to commemorate the day. Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and that little fucker Tyrion will all be in attendance.” She brushed her nose over his, whispering. “Can’t you feel it Jon? That wolf inside your heart? The one howling? What does he want?”
She knew what it wanted, just like he did. All she needed was for him to say it.
Jon closed his eyes, shivering, and his arms tightened around her. “Revenge,” he murmured. He didn’t need to say it but draining the Lannisters of their stolen riches would also be a bonus.
“Exactly.”
He gazed down at her, lips dropping to hers again, and she knew it. She knew before he even whispered the words to her, before he kissed her and before they decided to start talking terms.
“When do we begin?”
fin.