Archive of Our Own

The battle has been won, the Night King defeated – though not by his own hand – and now, sennights later, he feels utterly and completely lost.

Adrift.

Entirely without purpose.

He had railed against his resurrection. He had never wanted to be bought back. However, he had assumed the duty of what he had been certain was the reason for his return. To destroy the Night King. 

Yet he had not even managed that.

So why was he here? Why was he alive? Why him?

He despised Melissandre, but he would still have sought her out and asked her if he could. But he could not. She had disappeared into the darkness on the night of the battle. Her purpose apparently served. What of his purpose? Did he even have one?

Added to the heavy burden of that question was another of equally oppressive importance; Who was he?

He was no fool. He knew that he was the same person he had always been. He also knew that others – his siblings and his best friend most of all – would certainly not see it that way. Not from their perspectives of avaricious power hunger, jealousy, misplaced grudges, unfounded hate, willfully ignorant mistrust, whatever the fuck the old gods had ‘told’ him, or a lawfully unjustified desire for revenge. Yes, he knew what they would try to gain for themselves via his parentage, what they would try to do.

And that was why he had been avoiding Dany.

He could not bear to be around her. He could not bear to look at her. He could not bear it because he loved her so very, very much and she, she was terrified of him.

He had heard it in her voice when he had told her who his parents were. He saw it in her beautiful eyes every time he was not able to stop himself from seeking a glimpse of them since that day.

No, no. That assessment was not accurate, nor was it fair to her. She was not terrified of him. She was terrified of what he might now represent. Miserably though, the result was the same. He terrified the strongest person he had ever known. He terrified the woman that he loved. And his heart simply could not tolerate the agony that accompanied that fact.

But he could not blame her for it.

No.

He could not blame her for being terrified.

It was not envy, nor accusation, nor anger that he saw when he looked at her. No, no, it was only fear. Raw, heartbreaking, unadulterated fear.

And of course she would be afraid. Her entire life, since her very first breath she had been hunted, she had been betrayed, she had had people trying to assassinate her, had people trying to assassinate her unborn child. She had endured constant turmoil and never once known what it was to feel safe because other people saw her as a threat to the ‘rightful’ ruler on the Throne.

But she had fought; wonderful, strong, brave woman that she is. She had fought, she had struggled, she had sacrificed, she had survived. She had worked and worked, had literally walked through fire to build something of her own, to form her own protection, to be able to protect herself so that she may reclaim the seat of her ancestors and restore her family’s legacy. As was her duty, and her right, to do as the sole surviving member of her House.

But now, now based on little more than a vision she could not see, that nobody except Bran could see, gifted by gods she did not believe in, that in truth he did not even believe in any longer, and a few vague lines buried within a rambling journal hidden within the bowels of the Citadel, of a long-dead High Septon – with the only person who testifies to its existence and contents being a man who hates her – her entire life’s struggle was in danger of being declared for naught.

Same as him, she was apparently no longer who she thought she was.

In one callously delivered sentence they both had lost their concept of themselves.

And on the night of the battle, they had both lost their purpose.

He, because he had believed that his had been to defeat the Night King; She, because she had thought that hers was to restore the honour, and place of her House.

Even though he desires nothing more than to be open and honest with her in all things he cannot deny that he wishes that he had never told her. It is a selfish wish, one that he has because he cannot endure being the reason for her fear. It is also selfish because not telling her would leave her unprepared and defenseless should Sam, or Bran speak of it to anyone else. Yes, no matter how much pain it is currently causing him, he knows that telling her was the right thing to do. Not only so that she will, hopefully – surely – implement preventative measures to protect herself, but also because he knows that the pain of betrayal she would feel if he had not told her would likely be more devastating to her than the paralyzing fear that she is feeling now.

Still, the entire situation makes him so unspeakably angry.

That such scant, unproduceable, unverifiable ‘evidence’ could suddenly thrust her back into the same vulnerable position she had been in as a babe… Yes, she had dragons now, and a large and fiercely loyal army but he knew that she was not focusing, could not focus on such tangible things as those at this moment. No, he knew that all she could focus on, all she could feel was that this new information which, if true, and if spread, would relegate her once again to the dangerous position of being a threat to someone else’s (no, not just ‘someone else’s’, but his – gods! that he was the one causing her to suffer so was pure torment) ‘right’ to the Throne – and that this knowledge had yanked her emotionally back in time. Back to when she had been powerless and alone; with all the well-remembered terror associated. Terror she now feels because of him.

And so, unhappily, he avoids her.

Because how can the threat comfort the threatened?

He knows that he should talk to her. He knows that he is making it worse by avoiding her. He can imagine how utterly abandoned she must currently feel. He had bought her here as the Queen; and because of her and her people, the North was saved. But she had not been treated as a Queen, she had not been granted any acknowledgement that her aid had been the only thing that had rescued them all from a fate worse than death.

No.

Instead, since the very first moment that she had arrived she had been gawked at with suspicion and hatred. And not only had he done nothing to change that, now he too had deserted her in this hostile environment.

Why is he acting this way? Nothing has changed. Not for him. Not what he believes in. Not what he feels.

He believes, truly believes that Dany is, and will continue to be a phenomenal Queen. He bent the knee for that very reason. Because he knew that she was a force of good. After all, she had pledged herself to his cause without asking for anything in return. She had seen the very real need and, like a true leader, like a true Queen, she had immediately acted to protect people against it. He had not needed to pledge himself and the North to her. He had wanted to. He had wanted to because he knew that she was what was best for them all. Not just then, when they were on the verge of annihilation, but after, always. The drive to protect, the instinct to care were such integral facets of her being that he knew the North would always be safe and secure in her capable hands. He still believes this. Now more than ever; like his love for her, his admiration for her ability grows stronger every day.

He knows that he needs to tell her these things. Reassure her of these things. Yet it is not quite that simple. He knows what he feels and believes unreservedly; he is loyal to her and she is his love and his Queen. But this is not just about him. It is the reaction of others, many of whom are close to him which are currently unknown- though he speculates about them constantly.

It is difficult to predict how wider Westeros will react to this information. Outside of the North no one believes in the old gods. He cannot envisage many people taking seriously a second-hand accounting of a vision that a crippled boy claims to have had. Especially given that the power, or impetus, or whatever it is behind his visions were bestowed upon him from those very gods they do not believe in. Westeros does not look favourably upon cripples, or heretics. Not to mention that the boy in question who has these visions which nobody else can see is his very own brother. It is extremely possible that the other Houses will sneer at it all as an elaborate act, a mummers farce being used to distract them in order to disguise a House Stark grab for power.

Nor is the journal really proof of much. It claims an annulment which was legally circumspect at the very least, but more likely impossible; and a wedding, with no living witnesses, between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. That is all. It makes no mention of where they then went, or what happened next. It certainly does not testify that he is their son, or that they even had a son. It speaks of one day in their lives; nothing more. One day in their lives, one action they took.

And with that one action they each gravely dishonored their family names. If this truth came out neither House would emerge unscathed from the scrutiny, shame, and scorn which would surely follow. A Targaryen – the Crown Prince - ignoring his family’s wishes, abandoning his wife, and illegitimating his own children. A Stark – daughter of the Warden of the North – ignoring her family’s wishes, breaking a betrothal despite knowing how disastrous the ramifications of doing so would be given who she chose to wed instead.

It makes him, he who has always, always considered duty and honour to be of the utmost importance, ashamed to be their son. How unthinkingly selfish they both were.

A well as all that, this journal had ‘conveniently’ been discovered by his best friend – once again not exactly an unbiased source. That alone would cause doubt. Besides, Sam had spent months in the Citadel. And while he knew Sam would not have done so, the fact is that suspicions and suggestions that the document was forged would emerge and linger – most likely forever – casting a shadowy pall of illegitimacy which would one day, inevitably, lead to another disastrous civil war.  

The thought deeply disturbs him. As does Sam’s opinions of, and behavior towards Daenerys. How ironic it is that the man seems to vehemently hate her, believes that she would be an unsuitable ruler, and wants him to be to that ruler in her stead; and yet, Dany is the sole reason that there is any unquestionable proof that he has Targaryen blood; the fact that he can ride Rhaegal. Had Dany not fearlessly faced fire there would be no dragons and thus, no tangible proof of his blood. But even that, he knows, may not be enough as far as the people of Westeros are concerned. That he can ride Rhaegal only proves that he has Targareyn blood. Just that. Nothing more.

It says nothing about whether it is legitimate Targareyn blood or bastard Targaryen blood. It also says nothing of from whom that blood came. Perhaps it came from Rhaegar. Or perhaps Ned Stark really had been his father and his mother had been a discarded Targaryen bastard of Aerys forced to make her way in whatever way she could. He knows the first is the truth. But he also knows that people will speculate and scheme and believe whatever it is they need to believe to further their own agendas.

He truly doesn’t want to believe the worst of his family, nor of Sam who can been his brother for so long. He truly doesn’t want to believe that they will do the things that he thinks they might do. They are good people, are they not? Would they really seek to destroy the woman who had saved them all from certain annihilation? The woman he, their brother, loves? His instincts tell him the answer, and his head agrees; but his heart tears with the knowledge and so he owes it to them to be as sure as he can be of their intentions.

Currently, only two of them know; and considering that true conversation with Bran is no longer really an option, he makes the decision to talk things over, test his worries out on Sam.

He does not really want to. But he knows that it is necessary. He cannot reassure Dany until he is sure, absolutely sure of what these people may do.

Thus, he searches for Sam, and when he finds him he asks him if they might speak in private. With this single, simple question Sam’s eyes take on a calculating and delighted gleam which disturbs him. With that one gleam he is no longer under any delusions about how this conversation is going to go, nor does he harbor any real hope for it to be productive; but he has to have it all the same. He needs to know all of what Sam is thinking so that he will know how best to prepare and protect Dany.

All goes as badly as it possibly could. Sam huffs and puffs that Dany is a monster, wailing and bemoaning that she murdered his father and his brother, insisting, again, that Jon would never do such a thing.

Now that he is no longer rendered witless - as he quite reasonably had been directly following Sam’s revelation of who his parents had truly been – Jon is able to articulate the flaws in what Sam is saying. He points out, first, that Sam had hated his father, that his father had constantly disparaged him, threatened to murder him, disinherited him, and sent him off to the Wall to die. Sam’s only response to this is an indignant little sniff. Clearly an emotional appeal to reason will not work, so he changes tact and focuses on a logical one;

“You know, when we took back Winterfell, had Harald Karstark and Smalljon Umber not already fallen in battle I would have taken their lives myself.” He says gruffly, and firmly.

Sam nods his head approvingly in response. “Of course you would have, and you would have been right to do so. They betrayed House Stark and you would have responded accordingly. That is why you will make a great King.”

Jon hums as he pretends to think this over, though he does not know why he is even bothering – Sam is clearly entirely set against Daenerys and blind to anything that does not support his assessment of her – “So you think I would have been right to execute them?”

“Naturally,” Sam simpers – at least it sounds a lot like simpering to him – “they were traitors, they committed an act of war against their Liege Lord.”

“Sam!” he snaps, he cannot hold it back, not any longer. “Your father and brother betrayed their Liege Lord. They committed an act of war against them. They were traitors.”

Beside him Sam seems torn between spluttering, sniffling, and attempting to puff himself up into some form of offence at Jon’s proclamations.  

“Daenerys gave them a chance to recant their heinous actions and re-swear fealty to the side their honour and duty demanded. They refused that. Daenerys then gave them the option of exile to the Wall. In their arrogance they refused that as well – how strange that they both thought the Wall a fine and fitting place for you but would never condescend to go there themselves. After that, after both attempts at reconciliation and mercy, she was left with no option but to execute them as the traitors that they were. And she was right to do so. I would have done the same. I just told you I would have done the same and you praised me for it.”

Jon had not counted on Sam’s immovable obstinacy.

“She killed them with dragon fire!” Sam squawks, “She is mad. Mad like all Targaryens. And barbaric - just like those savages she keeps about herself.”

“A quick death, death by dragon fire.” He says in calm, nonchalant, matter of fact manner, “It burns so hot one is dead before they even know something is happening. A much faster and more painless death than any other I have ever heard of. Certainly much faster and more painless than someone inept with a sword, someone such as say, you, could deliver.”

Sam seems to be choking on his own outrage.

“Daenerys delivered the sentence and so she was the one to carry it out. I consider that entirely honourable. Drogon is her weapon. She is tiny and has no experience with a blade. Would you really have preferred her to attempt to cut off their heads? I can assure you it would not have been a pretty sight. Or should she have foisted the weight, the responsibility, and the duty of their executions onto someone else? No doubt you would have complained about that if she had.”

“She should not have killed them at all!” Sam says, his voice an odd sound, like a bleating roar.

“Yes,” Jon states clearly and firmly, “she should have. She is at war. They declared themselves her enemy. They were trying to kill her. They betrayed her allies, they betrayed their Liege Lord. They made it very clear that they would never accept her, nor would they disappear quietly to live out a life of in service to the Realm at the Wall. She did the right, lawful, and honourable thing.”

“She is in a war she has no business being in in the first place,” Sam sniffs haughtily, “you are the rightful heir, not her.”

He is holding on to the last vestiges of his rage tightly, but he knows that if Sam continues to insult Dany, or his family again, that tight hold will snap.

“If you think all Targaryens are mad why would you want me to be King? I am, as you say, a Targaryen too.” He thinks of adding that whether or not he is the ‘rightful’ heir is not as simple as Sam seems to believe it is, but he knows that he will not listen and he would rather spare himself the headache.

“Your mother,” Sam declares pompously, “was a Stark. You are not a product of their vile incestuous ways. The taint of their madness cannot be within you.”

In response Jon barks out a gruff laugh and turns to lecture a startled and affronted Sam.

“I thought you were a learned, well-read type of man, Sam. You of all people should know that there have actually been very few mad Targareyns throughout their 300 year reign. And of those who were considered mad, well, King Baelor’s mother was a Velaryon, Prince Rhaegal’s mother was a Martell, and Prince Aerion’s mother was a Dayne. None of them were the product of their ‘vile incestuous ways’ as you called them. Why should I be any different from them?”

He can see Sam struggling to come up with a response to this, fuming and spluttering to himself in the attempt.

For some reason this makes him incredibly angry – Sam’s deliberate bias and blindness.

“And have you forgotten, Lady Piggy,” he growls contemptuously, “that if it were not for Maester Aemon, a Targareyn, who showed you incredible kindness and unconditional support, you would likely have been nothing more than rotted bones beneath the frozen dirt at the Wall long ago.” He spits out.

Sam blanches, his mouth opening and closing without sound. But his eyes remain defiant and unreasonable.

Disgusted, Jon turns and walks away.

He goes to his chambers and pulls out the tome he had rescued from the mostly decimated Winterfell library after the battle. He had been making a study of it in the weeks since the army of the dead had been defeated.

As a child he had always thought it odd that there was such a detailed history of House Targaryen in the Stark library. He wonders now if his Uncle Ned had kept it there, and kept it updated, for the day he had planned to tell him about his mother.

He re-reads over the passages he had marked. Considers all that he has come to understand throughout his study of the book.

His realisations are so simple. So simple that it is embarrassing to even refer to them as realisations, even though many of them were.

He had read about the good past Targaryens had done. He had read about the bad. From there he had concluded a rather obvious point; it is not a family name which makes a person who or what they are. He knows the Stark family history; he knows that there are as many terrible people in that line as there are in the Targaryen one. Just as there are in the Lannisters, the Martells, the Tyrells, the Baratheons, the Tullys.

A House name is not a guarantee of virtue. Blood ties do not make people analogous.

He knows of his Uncle Brandon’s arrogance. He knows of his Uncle Ned’s goodness. Ned was not Brandon. Dany is not Viserys. Tyrion is not Cersei.

He has heard Tyrion speaking of his sweet niece. Myrcella was not Cersei. Dany is not Aerys. Gendry is not Robert. He hopes he is not Rhaegar, nor Lyanna.

Children are not their parents or their siblings simply because of a family name.

Simple, far too simple to be a revelation and yet somehow, it is.

An indescribably freeing one.

Dany is good. He knows this. He has always known this. If there is one thing he has learnt in his short but hard life it is to always trust his instincts. And his instincts have always told him that Dany is good.

Dany, he knows, will be a wonderful Queen. And he would love nothing more than to be by her side as she takes on that role which she had been born to fulfil.

He feels better for all of his thinking.

Like the military commander he was born to be he had spent these weeks gathering information, weighing its impact, and considering how other people might use it to their advantage.

He had hated to leave Dany in a state of constant fear, but he had needed to be sure of everything, and the motivations and agendas of everyone else, before he could move forward. He had not wanted to fail her by presenting her with partial or faulty information.

But now he feels ready. Now he can move forwards. Forwards towards the future that he hopes they will share together.

Desperately, he wants to go to her now, but he knows that the hour has grown late. As he reluctantly climbs into his lonely bed he smiles a little to himself as he thinks of the other piece of information he had seen in the tome on the history of the Targaryens; the extremely detailed family tree.

His smile widens to a grin.

Tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow will be perfect. Must be perfect. He will make it perfect for her. But first they must talk. He needs to share with her all that he has learned about himself and others. He needs to apologise to her for his avoidance. He needs to make sure that she still feels for him as he does for her. And if she does… Well, then he will ask her the question that he has been wanting to ask her for so very, very long. The most important question he will ever ask; Will she be his? Will she let him be hers?

That night he dreams of a fair haired little girl laughing, running, playing. At first he thinks he is dreaming of Dany as a child. But upon closer inspection he notices some subtle differences. Her hair is slightly curlier, her face a little longer, her chin a little more set, and her eyes - a darker shade than Dany’s - more violet than lilac - her dancing, laughing eyes hold no pain beneath the surface. Not like he knows Dany’s would have even at that age. No, this sweet child’s eyes speak only of love and her confidence in being loved in return. She is running about, giggling wildly and happily in a place he has never seen but only heard of, yet he can recognize it clearly from the descriptions of the stories that he has been told. Dany had never had a chance to run around and play there. In the beginning his dream self feels as though he is not really there at all, but that he is instead a mere observer, watching this glorious child from an indefinable place. A mere observer to this beautiful scene. Until, suddenly, the most magnificent thing happens; the little girl turns and looks directly at him. Her eyes light up, her pink lips break out into a wide smile showing a missing tooth with a mischievous tongue poking through the gap. “Kepa!” she exclaims brightly in a musical voice. The most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

When he awakens, fully rested for the first time since he had been on the boat to White Harbour with Dany, with a smile playing about his own lips, he knows, he just knows, that she was calling to him.

He spends the beginning part of the day in what he thinks is surreptitious scrutinization of Dany. He is looking for two things – one, to see if her people had planned anything special for this day. And two, some sort of confirmation of what his dream of last night had shown him.

But the fearful look in her eyes, the awkwardness whenever she catches him looking at her all tell him that he may have left it too long. She has been alone and ostracized in his home for weeks and it isn’t until he notices just how uncomfortable his gaze is making her feel that he realizes fully just how intensely he has been avoiding her. It isn’t until he smiles reassuringly at her and she startles abruptly in surprise that he realizes how long it has been since he last smiled at her.

But he will not throw away his chance at happiness. He will fix this.

He seeks out Missandei, Grey Worm, and Qhono – not Tyrion, and not Varys – both of them have been acting strangely for reasons he cannot discern at all, and right now he does not trust them. He informs Dany’s most loyal people of what he knows and, as he had been beginning to suspect, they are entirely surprised. This surprise quickly morphs into excitement though and they gladly offer their help to organize a gathering for later that evening in the Dothraki camp, outside the bounds of Winterfell.

Dany, they all agree, should not have to be around anyone she does not love this day of all days.

When he finally manages to get a moment with Dany he asks if he can speak to her privately.

His suspicions are confirmed as she follows him willingly and trustingly but spends the entire walk with her eyes flicking about; cautiously and vigilantly. She is not afraid of him – she is afraid of the reactions of everyone else.

When they are safely, and privately ensconced in his warm and secluded chamber he takes her hands and looks openly into her eyes as his words spill out of him in such a rush he marvels that they are in any way coherent;

“Dany, my love, Dany, please forgive me. I am sorry, please forgive me. I know that I have been avoiding you. You know, you must know that I did not want to. That it was killing me to stay away from you. You know that I love you. But I had to investigate some things. I had to be certain of what we would be facing. And I… I… I… I could not bear to see you looking at me with fear in your eyes. I could not stand being the reason for you feeling fear. I…”

“Jon,” she interrupts him softly, sliding one of her hands free from his painfully tight grasp to gently caress his cheek – gods how he had missed her touch. “I was not afraid of you. Not you. Never of you. I was, I was afraid of…”

“I know, my love,” he replies hoarsely. The relief he feels at speaking to her again at last, at the return of their intimacy, it is overwhelming. “I understand what you feared. And I am so sorry for leaving you alone to face it. I know what it is to feel unwelcome at Winterfell. I never felt as though I belonged as a child. I always assumed that it was because I was a bastard.”

Her eyes are so tender, so filled with love as she looks at him and whispers “I never felt as though I belonged either. I always assumed that it was because I was not in Westeros.”

He coughs to clear his throat slightly before plunging ahead with what he hopes is to be his, their defining moment; the happy beginning of the rest of their lives. “Perhaps… perhaps we both felt that way because we were not with family. Not with,” he swallows hard against the rising tide of his emotions, “Because we were not with our whole family. Our real family.”

Dany gasps and darts her eyes up to his face, staring at him intensely her eyes wide with hope.

Could he possibly be meaning what she thinks he is meaning? That he feels as though he is a Targaryen? That he wants to be a Targaryen?

When he had begun to steadfastly, and determinedly avoid her she had had been distraught. She had thought that he was devastated, ashamed, and angry at the idea of being a Targaryen and that to look upon her was a painful reminder of the fact that he was one. Which is why he had refused to do so. But now his words imply something very different; something so very wonderfully different. That he may actually want to be her family.

Family.

Rhojosor.

Lentor.

That much desired but consistently elusive concept she has craved her entire life. Much like, she knows, Jon has as well.

Her beaming smile makes his heart feel as though it will burst. “You want to be my family? You will be my family?” she asks. Her voice absolutely heartbreaking in its trembling hope and fear of rejection.

“More than anything.” He vows, gathering her petite form into his strong embrace and finally, finally, kissing her again with weeks worth of longing and passion, elated as she responds just as enthusiastically.

When they pull apart she is breathless and flushed with happiness. He is grinning like a fool.

But then a tiny furrow creases her perfect brow and, gently, gathering her to his side and sitting them down with her in his lap, he asks her what is wrong.

It is, of course, as he thought it would be. She fears for her life when the truth of his parentage comes out. There will be factions who will want him to take the Throne. People will want a man, they always want a man she says in a small voice.

He endeavors to explain to her all that he had been considering over these past weeks. He points out how weak the evidence truly is. But he does not hide from her the reaction he had had from Sam, nor the suspicion he has about what his sister might do. If they are to face this they must do it together as partners and equals. They must protect one another.

She counters that in situations such as these that evidence, nor even the truth, really matters, and grimly acknowledges that her own suspicions of his friend and his family’s potential reactions had been the primary basis for her fear.

He musters all of his courage and finally says the one thing that he has been wanting to say for what seems like his entire life. That none of this will matter if they wed. Their claims will be united. They will be together, which is what he wants, which is how and where they belong.

“You, you want to marry me?” she breathes out on a whisper.

“Dany, my Dany, of course I do. I love you. I love you so. Will you marry me, my love? Will you be mine? Will you take me as yours?”

His question is rewarded with a most un-queenly squeal of glee, arms thrown around his neck, and innumerable tiny kisses fluttering all over his face.

“Of course I will. Yes. Oh, Yes. I love you, Jon. I love you. Let us do it today.”

“Today?” he chuckles, thrilled with his good fortune, giddy with relief at her positive response, and overjoyed by her enthusiasm.

“Yes, today. I do not want to wait a moment longer.” Her lovely smile slowly transforms into a moue of anxious concern. “Oh, Jon – I, I do not even know what to say. I’m… I’m so, so happy. But, what of… what of everyone else? What will they think?”

He squeezes her tighter to him. He had left her alone and insecure for far too long. He will not do so for another moment for as long as they both live. “They can think whatever they want. You are the one with dragons.” He teases as he raises his eyebrows cheekily.

Her merry, pealing laugh is exactly the reward he desired. Between giggles she manages to point out that that is not the kind of that Queen she wants to be. Gazing at her fondly and softly he replies that he knows that. And that, amongst innumerable other things is how he knows that she will be a great one, and that he is certain that everyone else will come to see what he sees. What he has seen from almost the very beginning.

Happily, giddily, they begin to excitedly plan their impulsive wedding.

It is then that he remarks to her that this is a very precipitous day for to begin a new phase in her life.

She furrows her brow in adorable confusion and asks him why.

Ah, he’d thought as much.

“Dany, love, today is your name day.”

She looks at him both shocked and tearful. “It is?” she asks quietly.

She tells him that she had never known when it was but had always wondered. Comforting her in a way that feels as natural as breathing he asks how it is possible that she does not know, surely Viserys had told her.

“He was very young when I was born.” she states, trying, trying so hard to sound strong. “It is reasonable that he forgot.” She turns and ducks her head slightly but he just manages to catch her whisper “It is just as possible that he didn’t care”.

“Well,” he announces grandly, “from this day and for the rest of our days I will never let you forget it. This day, and what it represents, the day that you joined this world, will be a cause for great celebration forever more.”

She laughs again at what she thinks is his silliness, entirely unaware that he is completely serious. Dany will never be underappreciated again. He will not allow it.

“When is your name day? I will need to know so that I can organize the appropriate celebrations for you.” She beams at him expectantly.

“I now know that my mother died on the day I was born,” he replies, “I have no wish to celebrate it.”

“As did mine,” she whispers quietly in response. Following that he is silent for a time.

Somehow, somehow he always seems to forget these tragic facts about Dany’s life. The suffering she has endured.

When faced with a woman as powerful as her it is easy to do so.

He can see why others think her invulnerable. But he has no such excuse – he knows her intimately. He is one of the few people she has shared herself with. And suddenly he is ashamed that he forgets those parts of her in the face of the magnificent picture she presents to the world. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than that from him.

He does all he can to bring levity back to the moment; “Ah, but Dany your name day is the day House Targaryen began to rise again.” He proclaims.

“But you were already born.” She states with a confused wiggle of her pert little nose.

“Yes, I was.” He affirms, holding her tighter. “But it is within you, you, not me, that House Targaryen, our House, our family, will continue.”

At that, as he knew she probably would, she stands up and turns from him swiftly.

Her voice is choked as she says “You know I cannot have children.” It is resigned. It is pained. He will not stand for it.

In a sudden and swift move he has her dress undone and puddling at her feet. Ignoring her shocked questioning and suggestively raised eyebrow (later, love, later), he pulls her to stand in front of the looking glass.

Once there he stands behind her and lovingly runs his hand over the tiny, but very clearly visible bump.

“Dany, my love, my soon to be wife – can you not see, do you not know that you are already the mother of our child? Look,” he caresses her belly again, “look.”

Her eyes are shining with tears as her hands join his in an exploration of the little swell.

“I… I thought… but I didn’t dare hope. Oh, Jon, could it be?” Seeing his calm, loving, reassuring smile reflecting back at her in the mirror she relaxes and he can see the joy suffuse her entire being. “We are to be parents.” She whispers in reverent awe. A happier sentence he has never heard.

As he looks at them both in the mirror, love blinding him to all but the three of them he states with absolute certainty, “When she is born every bell in Kings Landing will ring in celebration.”

“She?” Dany ask wonderously.

“I… I dreamt of her last night.” He admits. He doesn’t want Dany to think he is losing it, but he needs her to understand the absolute conviction that the dream had instilled in him. “I don’t know how to explain it. It felt so real. I was so real. I am so sure. I…”

“A dragon dream” Dany interrupts him in a marveled whisper.

“What?”

She shakes her head lovingly and happily. “I will tell you later. Right now I want to bask in this miracle. I just want to enjoy this first moment of the three of us, together, as a family.”

“The future flame of House Targaryen.” He replies reverently his hand protectively splayed around their child.

Once they have had their fill of one another (for now at least), he takes her by the hand and leads her out of the gates and to her surprise name day celebration.

It is, without a doubt, the loudest, most raucous, most joyful event he had ever attended in his life. The Dothraki are effusive in their cheers for their Khaleesi as they dance, and eat, and drink with vigour and enthusiasm. Dany, his beloved Dany, is in her element – she joins them with abandon, her happiness clear, her laughter loud, her eyes and smile bright.

To please the old gods they speak their vows beneath the weirwood tree. Later, to please wider Westeros they will perform the ceremony of the Seven before a Septon. To please the Dothraki they make love all night under the stars. And, to please themselves, they finally, for the first time in either of their lives, allow themselves to feel happy, loved, and secure.

An epilogue of sorts…

On the day that Ozerys Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone (named for the dawn of a new era, but called Ozsa by those who know and love her best) is born the bells in Kings Landing do peal from sun up to sun down in celebration.

The small folk cheer and sing in the streets. Happy with the arrival of their little princess. Happy that the stability and prosperity that they are starting to enjoy feels more secure now that there is an heir to continue on the legacy of Queen Daenerys and King Jon.

The minor Lords and Houses are wary, but respectful. Genuinely heartfelt in their congratulations to their monarchs and their praise of their princess. For them, time transforms that wariness to unwavering loyalty and trust.

The major Houses react predictably. To them, this nascent return of the Targaryen reign is too green. Too untried and untested. Unsure of which way the wind will blow they know not how, or with whom, to align themselves. Within the privacy of their own solars they ponder, scheme, and plot. Should they move in early and make a show of demonstrating their support now to their very new, and very young Queen, King, and Princess - thereby positioning themselves to be the first to receive favour? Or would that be precipitous? What if this reign falls? Who else is positioned to potentially take the Kingdom? Perhaps they should form an alliance with them? Perhaps they should attempt to take the Throne themselves? Which play would best secure their own power and wealth?

True to the game, which all of them play, they vacillate and equivocate. Swearing fealty openly, and aloud but with eyes which silently reveal their self-interest and insincerity. Eyes and twitches that expose their capriciousness – the certain knowledge that they would turn at the first sign of potential unrest. Naturally, Dany and Jon see through all of this. They watch closely, ever vigilant, as only two with such harsh pasts as they are able, and refuse to be swayed by falsities, flatteries, and vagaries. Both have seen the consequences of doing so, and both are far too wise not to have learned not to make that mistake for themselves.

Some of the Lords are embarrassingly transparent in their attempts to ingratiate themselves with the Targareyns; loudly proclaiming that they have been praying for this day since the death of their new Queen’s beloved father, Aerys. Holding in her smirk Dany asks them dryly if they also sewed dragon banners and drank secret toasts to her health. When they respond by nodding vigorously in the affirmative and declaring stoutly that indeed, they did, the young Queen only arches an eyebrow in reply, though her eyes appear to be dancing and her lips seem pursed against a smile. Yet she says nothing further and eventually the stretching silence becomes overwhelming and the Lords back out of the audience chamber congratulating themselves on their success in convincing her of their eternal loyalty, considering all the while how naïve, and inexperienced she is to allow them to see, so plainly, her pleasure at their contrived adulation. They wonder how this might benefit their future plots and plans.

As soon as the heavy doors are closed behind their retreating figures Dany’s barely restrained laughter is released in torrents.

Some of the Lords are shockingly bold in their attempts to ingratiate themselves with the Targareyns. Not even a full two hours after Ozsa’s birth had passed before Jon had been separately approached by three different Lords all seeking to betroth the Princess to their sons. That said son had not even been conceived yet was apparently irrelevant. That said son was already 24 years of age was apparently irrelevant. That said son already had a wife was apparently irrelevant. At each request Jon clenches his hand tightly around Longclaw’s pommel. The implication of the action is clear, most certainly, but it is not necessary. The steely look in the King’s eyes as he glares silently, and unwaveringly at each man speared more sharply than his Valyrian steel blade ever could. Beside him Ghost gnashes his teeth menacingly. This display causes the Lords to very quickly excuse themselves.

Immediately after his final, interminable audience, feeling more than he ever had in his entire life, Jon bursts into his and Dany’s chamber and hungrily drinks in the breathtaking sight of his glorious wife lovingly cradling their most precious, perfect treasure. In two strides he is across the room and seated upon the bed by their side. With tear-glazed eyes, trembling hands, and a sense of extreme urgency he scoops their daughter from Dany’s arms into his own and, clutching her tight, fervently covers her little face in a thousand, thousand kisses while his wife curls around them both and smiles warmly at the expression of pure love. “Ozsa.” he breathes out reverently, “My sweet, perfect, beautiful Ozsa. You will never leave your father will you my little princess?” In response, Ozsa waggles a tiny fist and produces a mighty yawn before burrowing herself further into her father’s arms. “I will take that as your agreement and solemn vow my sweetling,” he replies most seriously. “It is done,” he continues, nodding his head in satisfaction, “now you may never leave your Kepa. You,” he taps her gently on her cute little nose, “have just sworn an oath my wee love.” He showers his daughter with many more kisses still clutching her firmly while Dany laughs indulgently. He absolutely adores his wife’s musical laughter, but this one time he cannot relish in it, because he knows that she will not be laughing for long.

And he is right.

Before he has even finished telling her the story of what had happened with the Lords she had claimed Osza for her own arms, covered her face with her own kisses, and made her own pleas and demands that their daughter never leave her mother. Then, before he can even blink, she is halfway across the room in such a rushful fury that he knows had she not just given birth she might have been outside the Red Keep by now. “Where do you think you are going?” he asks, amused.

His amusement dissipates quickly when, with rage and protectiveness pouring from her body she growls “to Drogon.”

Gently he coaxes her back to bed amidst grumbles from them both about assigning a thousand-man personal guard to their daughter, plans for the construction of an impenetrable tower which can only be entered from the height achieved from the back of a dragon for her to grow to old age in, and the proposition of a new law which would decree that any male who comes within 100 leagues of their princess will be automatically sentenced to death. Eventually, with their little girl nestled proprietorially between them, they manage to calm one another and, grudgingly, decide that they probably cannot let Drogon and Rhaegal deal with every admirer of their daughter, and that their recently suggested plans may be a tiny bit excessive. Despite these concessions however, they both stubbornly hold to the belief that Ozsa had indeed sworn a vow, and, as such, can never, ever leave her parents.

Though when the time eventually comes, despite it being incredibly emotional for both of them, they were happy to release their compassionate, intelligent, beautiful daughter from her vow (“Which I never even made.” “Yes you did, your mother and I witnessed it. But we graciously free you from it now.” “I yawned, Kepa. Hardly a declaration.” “Are you questioning your father on the making of oaths?” “If yawning is assent then father has made more oaths than any one man could ever hope to uphold in the Council chambers.” “How very right you are. Why, today alone I believe he vowed to…” “You ladies are both incredibly fortunate that I love you to distraction or I would not stand for this combined assault.”).

Princess Ozsa fell in deeply requited love with her second cousin and childhood playmate Aryan ‘Arry’ Davos Baratheon who was born only a few short months after she herself was. Their union was celebrated by all throughout Westeros. And even though a few incredibly aged, incredibly infirm Lords pondered on the significance of a Targaryen-Baratheon match (“Of all things?” “Do they not remember?”) and tried to think of a scheme, it did not matter. Because Westeros had changed. Family loyalty remained, of course, but unity, peace, and prosperity had become the new order of things.

Many years later, on the terrible day that she discoveres her beloved parents; wrapped, as always, in one another’s embrace, but never to move again, Ozsa, tears streaming down her cheeks, walks steadily and strongly towards the Dragon Pit from whence can be heard the devastating mourning cries of Drogon and Rhaegal. Her husband finds her there, holds her hand, and the four of them mourn together.

After a time Ozsa squares her shoulders and strides purposefully towards Drogon. If she is scared it does not show. With confidence she climbs onto his back feeling her mother’s presence all around her.

She looked pointedly at her husband and he, with a little more trepidation, but a hope born from the blood of his great-great grandmother, prolonged exposure, and years of observations, anecdotes, advice, and instruction from his wife’s parents, walks over and pulls himself up onto Rhaegal.

Both mighty dragons beat their wings and Ozerys Targaryen, First of Her Name takes to the skies for the very first time. Her beloved husband, her Consort, following close behind her.

Her reign has just begun.