reflections

[DAENERYS TARGARYEN]

The north had not been particularly welcoming. When Daenerys had arrived, riding behind Jon, through the gates of Winterfell, she could see the suspicion that the Northerners held for her. The contempt, surely, that they would feel for someone who was not only not from Westeros, but the child of the Mad King. It was a legacy that had hung on her shoulders since the day that she was born, seeping through her very pores and infiltrating her blood so that she could not even sweat without the reminder of her father and his grave atrocities. That was what they saw, she knew, her father come back to commit the terrible crimes he had under the guise of their King. Her thoughts had been interrupted by the sudden roar in the distance, the shadows of her dragons sending the Northerners into brief darkness.

She could see it, the fear and uncertainty that came with seeing her dragons for the first time. But also the awe, the wonder of something that was supposed to no longer exist suddenly becoming so very real. It made her lips curl into the slightest of smiles as she and hers completed their journey North. There was little here that did that, she had been received as coldly as the landscape around her, though she had been warned of nothing less. After all, the North had already been through so much, why trust an outsider? It wasn't a reception that she had not seen before, and the woman was more than happy to prove to them exactly why she was their Queen. How many times had she already done so in the past? Beyond that, the choice of whether or not she was welcomed had been made for them by the presence of the Night King.

Anger rolled deep in her gut whenever that name crossed her mind or was brought up in conversations. It had been terrifying to see the army of the dead, but the moment that Viserion had crashed into that icy water and sunk to the bottom Daenerys knew that she no longer feared them. No, she wanted to destroy them. Them and the Night King, for taking her child from her. It was a pain that still stung so deeply, and Daenerys knew that no matter how much time had passed there would always be that pain. Lesser, perhaps, but still always there. Perhaps one day she may be able to finally put that pain to rest, though it was not a day she foresaw to be the near future. If she had learned anything in her many years leading to this moment, it was that nothing was gained without loss.

It had been nearly two weeks since her arrival at Winterfell, two weeks of trying to assert her presence and that of her army within the walls of Winterfell, trying to coordinate two separate armies in the space of one singular keep was not particularly easy. Especially when one of those armies had two full grown dragons. She had been worried, or rather still was particularly worried, after the reports that the dragons were not eating the usual amount. It was cold here, perhaps too cold, and Daenerys was hoping that after a bit of adjusting that the appetites would once more grow. There had been some speculation on her part on how they would fair within the far colder region, but they seemed to be growing more and more used to the temperature. It was, she hoped, simply something to idly worry about. As a mother would worry after her children.

She supposed the thing that worried her most wasn't the appetite of her dragons (she was sure they were resilient), but rather the lack of contact she had with the man who had convinced her so thoroughly to forgo her war against Cersei Lannister and instead travel North with her armies. It was becoming frustrating, maddening even, with the distance that suddenly seemed to exist between the two. He had been busy, or so they said, with the logistics of housing and organizing the army they were building. Yet, Daenerys tended to be particularly adept at getting what she wanted, and what she wanted was Jon to stop ignoring her. She had expected it from everyone, but not from him. Hadn't he told her that he saw the true her? So why was she suddenly feeling so alone in this winter place?

The knock was heavy against the door and it drew her attention from the fire that burned hotly in the fireplace. It kept the room warm, a near constant necessity for any room that was occupied by a person here in the North. She stood from her chair, her lips drawn ever so slightly downwards, and she waited. She had sent for Jon, under the guise of discussing how her armies would integrate with the Northern men. And it was there that she waited, intent on making him start the conversation. Force him to talk to her, because she had many ideas on why he wasn't, and each one was vastly worse than the last.

JON SNOW

MADE BY VEL OF GS + ADOXOGRAPHY 2.0

[JON SNOW]

the true enemy won't wait out the storm,

Jon had always had a somewhat contentious relationship with figures of authority. While he did not mind being a subordinate, he had had more than his fair share of bad commanders - those too cowardly or conceited to be wholly useful in their position, too used to their comfortable positions. He had had to step up in times of trouble, take the lead because everyone else failed to do so. Jon couldn't quite say it had served him well: it may have led to him becoming the Lord Commander, but it had also led to his death. And now again he was in charge, of the Northern Army. Not quite like when he left, when he had been named Jon, King in the North, the White Wolf.

Part of him still wondered if his giving in to Daenerys' demand he bend the knee would net him another knife in the heart by a trusted one - he had so few left of those. He could not see Davos, Tormund or even Sam stoop so low. But then, he'd never seen it coming from Olly, either.

And hadn't Sam already stabbed him in the heart? Not physically, but the knowledge Sam had imparted on him hurt nonetheless. All Jon had ever wanted was to be a Stark. He'd dreamed of it, of Ned acknowledging him formally as one of his, of being told about his mother. He didn't want a title or even an inheritance. He didn't even really want children of his own. But a name? A real name? Being part of a House and a family? He'd always longed for that.

Now that wish had come around to bite him in his lillywhite ass. He wasn't even a real Stark. There may be Stark blood running through his veins (as if anyone with eyes had doubts about that), but it wasn't Ned's. It was Lyanna's. Ned's sister, widely believed to have been kidnapped, raped and killed. The catalyst to a war, to the near extinction of House Targaryen, of ousting them from the Iron Throne and out of Westeros entirely. Except she hadn't been kidnapped, she'd gone willingly, and she hadn't been raped, she'd been married... And she hadn't been killed. Well, she had been. By him. Her son. Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name. Rhaegar's true born son.

Apparently, he was not a wolf at all, but a dragon, and one with a superior claim to the Iron Throne, according to Sam.

Jon had buried himself in work following that conversation. From dawn to dusk he was training children, sparring with Free Folk, making peace between offended parties, trying to talk sense into the stubborn Northern Lords who still despised the Free Folk and Targaryens and Southrons and who did not appreciate him bringing the Queen, her armies, her dragons, and Queen Cersei's ire North. They had a point. They just failed to understand none of it mattered if they could not weather the storm, survive until next summer. They needed her, whether they liked to or not. It had served him well - he was bone tired every night, falling into a restless sleep.

Daenerys has asked for him several times in the past weeks, but he had been able, every time again, to come up with a credible excuse why her valuable link between herself and the North could not attend the meeting in question. While his excuses weren't outright lies, they weren't why he was avoiding her. She was his aunt. He had had sex with his aunt. Maybe Ygritte had been right, after all. But it wasn't just their carnal relation. He had loved her. Maybe, he still did. He didn't want to - laying with close kin was a bad idea. And there was the other matter at hand. Would she be glad with new kin? Would she accuse him of lying? Would she wish him taken away or killed, to preserve her claim on the throne he didn't even want?

Her most recent summons was also the most stringent one yet. It was clear that no excuses would be valid. Whether he was ready or not (he was not), he would have to face her.

With his riotous hair tied back and clad in his customary all black, wolves adorning his breastplate and his sword, and Ghost almost plastered to his side, lending Jon strength,he made quite a stern, fearsome sight. A sight Winterfell's residents had grown mostly accustomed, too.

He paused in front of her door, gloved hands digging into Ghost's ruff for a moment as he took a fortifying breath before entering, swiftly being announced to the Queen. She was as dazzling and gorgeous as she had been since he first laid eyes on her, but even as as he appreciated her curves a part of him shied away.

She was his aunt.

"My queen," he stoically greeted her, maintaining a more formal tone of voice and position as they were not alone.

Yet.

God's, he hoped she wouldn't dismiss the others. He didn't think he could handle it if she kissed him.

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@pyrrhic

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