an ɪɴᴅᴇᴘᴇɴᴅᴇɴᴛ and ʜɪɢʜʟʏ ꜱᴇʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ jon snow of asoiaf & got

as penned by cat // 25+ // est. 2019

please read my rules below until google doc is made !!

heavily affiliated with @stovmborn // @winterreigned

brother cousin I found our family portrait of us and our kids ♥️🥰

 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘  𝐈𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇  𝐎𝐅  𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.  and  it  is  also  the  death  of  happiness.  in  her  short  lifetime,  she  had  not  been  able  to  keep  count  of  the  slaves  that  she  had  freed.  tens  of  thousands  had  been  liberated  from  the  grips  of  masters    –––    beginning  with  the  unsullied  soldiers  of  astapor,  to  the  small  folk  in  meereen.  each  person  she  had  laid  eyes  upon,  their  chains  had  surely  been  struck  off,  granting  them  with  a  freedom  to  make  their  own  choices.  daenerys  stormborn  was  not  a  tyrant,  she  was  a  conqueror.  and  such  works  would  continue  until  the  people  of  essos  and  westeros  were  unbound  from  the  shackles  that  confined  them.  

 whilst  she  might  not  have  known  what  it  was  like  to  be  a  bastard  born  into  a  noble  family,  cast  aside  and  berated  for  things  that  were  beyond  his  control,  the  mother  of  dragons  knew  at  least  a  fraction  of  the  torment  he  suffered.  like  jon  snow,  she  had  never  known  her  mother.  like  the  bastard  of  winterfell,  she  had  never  felt  at  home.  and  like  the  lord  commander,  she  knew  what  such  duty  meant.  breath  is  stolen  from  her  lungs,  as  though  his  words  are  a  sharp  sting  and  thick  brows  knit  themselves  together  as  his  gaze  is  cast  away.  

 digits  lift  through  the  cold  air,  as  though  the  wings  of  her  children  soar  to  the  skies  in  flight  but  instead  of  gliding  through  clouds,  they  lay  siege  upon  his  jaw  and  lift  slate  eyes  back  upward  to  collide  against  the  lilacs  that  glimmer  beneath  torches.  the  wall  is  a  cold  place,  she  thinks  to  herself.  her  own  palms  are  warm      –––    gloveless  but  the  feeling  of  his  skin  kissing  hers  is  enough  to  set  her  aflame.  and  even  if  she  is  the  unburnt,  it  hurts  all  the  same,  knowing  that  it  can  never  be  anything  more  that  just  this.  hues  are  kind,  gentle  and  laced  with  an  understanding  that  nobody  has  ever  looked  at  her  before  with.  it  is  the  way  she  longs  to  be  looked  at  and  she  is  not  even  aware  that  she  possesses  such  a  look.  

 ❝  duty  is  not  for  the  weak  minded,  it  is  only  given  to  those  who  are  prepared  to  lower  themselves  and  pick  it  up.  ❞  spare  palm  raises  now,  defying  the  odds  and  holding  his  features  within  her  own  digits,  as  though  it  is  the  only  way  of  making  him  see  what  she  sees.  urgency  rests  within  amethysts,  flames  akin  to  his  ice  as  they  engulf  the  frostbitten  stature  he  holds  onto  so  tightly.  daenerys  shakes  her  head,  almost  in  disbelief,  that  he  is  unable  to  see  himself  for  what  he  truly  was.  modesty  was  something  given  to  him  by  bastardy,  confidence  failing  him  and  abandoning  him.  it  pained  the  mother  of  dragons,  even  if  they  had  only  known  one  another  for  a  short  while.  ❝  but  such  responsibility  was  not  only  given  to  you  …  it  chose  you.  your  men  chose  you.  not  because  they  look  at  you  and  see  the  son  of  eddard  stark  but  because  they  believe  in  you. they  believe  in  your  strength.  ❞  

 fingertips  continue  to  burn  against  the  wall  that  he  has  built  to  guard  himself,  melting  away  at  the  icy  fortress  protecting  him.  petals  are  parted,  words  drawing  to  a  halt  and  yet,  her  hues  are  distracted  by  his  own  lips    –––    desperate  for  such  affection  that  she  has  been  deprived  of.  he  is  a  man  of  the  nights  watch,  he  has  sworn  a  vow  and  she  cannot  be  the  one  to  break  something  so  sacred  to  him.  palms  escape  the  warmth  of  his  cheek,  the  bittertaste  of  cold  enamouring  her  hands  once  more  as  the  silver  haired  queen  stands  before  him,  breath  failing  her  still  and  heart  beating  so  rapidly  that  she  is  almost  certain  it  can  be  heard  through  the  woodland  beyond  the  wall.  

how  wise  beyond  her  years  she  was ;  her  cheeks  so  flushed  and  full,  her  smile  playful  and  light.  her  amethyst  hues  sparkled  and  shone  brighter  than  any  candle  jon  had  bore  witness  too  before  in  his  short  tenure   ——  but  there  was  a  sadness  behind  them,  a  sort  of  knowing  one  only  got  through  torment.  𝐨𝐡,  𝐡𝐨𝐰  𝐡𝐞  𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝  𝐭𝐨  𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰  𝐡𝐞𝐫.  to  know  all  of  her  —  not  just  the  riddles  she  spoke  or  the  warmth  of  her  fingers  curled  carefully  around  the  frame  of  his  face.  life  was  a  cruel  mistress,  it  always  had  been.  whatever  you  desire  most  in  the  world,  it  would  wave  before  your  eyes  and  just  as  the  tips  of  your  fingers  brush  by,  it  would  RIP  IT  from  your  grasp.

it  was  as  though  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙣.  not  just  as  the  stark  bastard, nor  king  crow  or  even  lord  commander.  she  had  looked  at  him,  and she  had  seen  jon  snow  ——  of  that  he  was  certain.  perhaps  it  was  because  she  understood  what  it  meant  to  live  on  the  backs  of  other’s  prejudice.  they  had  called  her  usurper.  jon  knew;  he  had  heard  his  own  lord  father  call  her  such  names  before.  the  men  on  the  wall  called  it  her  even  now.  of  course,  the  bastard  could  not  blame  them  for  her  father  had  murdered  families  and  laid  siege  to  entire  towns.  they  wished  her  to  leave,  even  mumbled  threats  to  her  life  amongst  themselves,  but  jon  had  declared  she  was  to  stay,  reminding  them  that  men  are  not  their  fathers  nor  their  fathers  crimes;  they  were  to  know  that  better  than  most.

“  you  were  born  a  princess,  i,  a  bastard.  time  and  circumstance  may  have  changed  our  positions,  BUT IN OUR BONES,  we  do  not  forget  who  we  are.  it  pumps  through  our  blood  just  as  the  blood  of  our  ancestors  does. ”  he  sighs,  allowing  himself  one  moment  longer  to  feel  her  touch,  but  no  longer.  toughened,  icy  hand  gently  presses  against  hers,  another  reminder  of  the  contrast  that  had  polarised  them ;  her  hand  so  warm  it  burns  for  a  moment,  tingling.  then  it  fades  until  they  become  .  he  is  jon  snow  for  just  a  second  more,  eyes  of  stark  looking  past  eyes  of  targaryen  into  an  abyss  far  deeper.  then,  he  is  the  lord  commander  once  more. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬; they remained anchored to the ground beneath his feet, trying to focus on the leaves of autumn crumpled on the underneath of his worn shoes. stark had been a childhood dream — he had forever been convinced that the name had held the key to acceptance within his family, within winterfell, perhaps even within himself. he had forced himself to abandon that dream upon taking the black and leaving it all behind; perhaps far from winterfell he would discover his own life, one that was not shrouded in his father’s betrayal and that damned word — 

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃.  

robb had raised the banners, and with it, ripped open the wound that had begun to heal within jon snow. at the wall, he was not the stark bastard, and now, legitimised by the king in the north himself, that had been solidified for the whole of the seven kingdoms to see. and yet it didn’t change ANYTHING. what had it been, but a political ploy crafted in the hands of the king in the north; a blatant way of righting his own wrongs and securing himself an heir until a son had been born? a lifetime of wishing had come true in the most half-hearted way conceivable.  

JON STARK — how could it be true? he was soon to be a husband. it all seemed so false, as though crafted in an concocted in an obscure dream had after one too many ales. in a matter of weeks, his whole world had been turned entirely upside down; jon had been in the belly of winter, shrouded in snow with nothing to stare at but a big wall of ice and no company other than the men who had found themselves ousted from society. he had been set aside at the edge of the world where the dead did walk, and robb had thrown him straight back into the midst of the living with no word of warning.  

as happy as jon was to see his brother once more, part of him couldn’t help but resent the way events had turned out. robb was supposed to be THE KING IN THE NORTH — he had given made a promise to walder frey and he had broken it 

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? 

for lust. of course, there was a price to pay, and that price seemed to be jon snow. how would eddard stark have felt about it? he was certain robb must have wondered the same, both of them reaching the same conclusion. the thought made jon feel guilty; ned had once been in the same situation and if he had made the decision robb did…. 

preparations had already been made to reconcile the hurt caused by robb’s betrayal to the freys — jon snow had been legitimised by the king in the north and given the name of his father before him. he was named heir and promised to roslin frey. a girl he had not yet met. and so he found himself stood by the apple orchard, arms folded behind his back, feet planted firmly on the ground feeling slightly too heavy, as though the weight of his gaze was enough to pin him down. 𝗪𝗔𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚.

nerves had consumed him. the rhythm of his heart had radiated through jon, racing through his veins, wiggling his toes. his breath was sharp and more manual than he would have liked. gods, he wanted this over with. 

a wave relief washed over him when he heard quiet footsteps in the distance, immediately replaced with a sickening blow of dread. one final deep breath, and unsteady feet pull themselves from the ground and toward the source of the stride.

bastard    and    oathbreaker,    𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀,    friendless    and    𝐃  𝐀  𝐌  𝐍  𝐄  𝐃  .

independent + private jon snow of asoiaf as penned by cat

 𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒  𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄  𝐀  𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃  𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒.  more  than  what  the  iron  throne  was  made  of,  each  one  pressing  against  her  chest  as  they  made  themselves  at  home,  claiming  what  was  left  of  her  tainted  heart.  it  had  been  jon  snow  who  had  ripped  the  vital  organ  from  her  ribcage,  leaving  it  to  frost  against  the  snow  that  settled  upon  the  grounds  of  castle  black.  daenerys  stormborn  believed  that  it  had  already  been  shattered    –––    torn  asunder  with  the  cruelties  that  her  brother  had  bestowed  upon  her  as  he  slipped  into  a  madness  only  akin  to  the  tales  of  her  father.  she  might  have  been  the  blood  of  the  dragon,  daughter  to  the  mad  king,  made  of  hardened  scales  to  protect  the  gentility  that  lived  within  her.  only  now,  it  did  not  surface  upon  porcelain  skin  to  show  the  king  in  the  north  that  every  word  ever  uttered  to  him  at  the  top  of  the  wall  was  still  true.  the  unburnt  had  changed  ;  horrors  stirring  inside  of  her  and  yet,  the  girl  he  had  once  met  still  lived  inside  of  her  somewhere.  only,  she  was  buried  beneath  grief.  

 the  way  in  which  her  name  curves  upon  his  tongue,  laced  with  snow  is  the  final  dagger  that  ceases  to  take  her  hostage.  it  is  as  though  life  had  been  stolen  from  her  lungs  then,  carried  away  with  him  as  footfalls  escape  the  throne  room    –––    guided  by  the  bloodriders  who  had  sworn  themselves  to  their  khaleesi.  daenerys  knows  that  he  had  meant  to  mock  her,  to  berate  each  title  that  missandei  had  only  just  uttered  (  or  at  least,  that  was  how  it  had  felt  ).  such  a  reunion  had  dissipated  into  the  cold  air,  whisked  away  with  the  white  wolf  as  he  found  his  chambers.  his  words  were  meant  to  hurt  her,  in  the  way  that  she  had  hurt  him  by  selfishly  closing  her  ears  to  the  fear  that  rested  against  his  northern  tone.  yet,  she  is  haunted  by  the  way  her  name  spills  into  the  air,  like  clouds  of  perspiration  escaping  his  warm  body  and  fleeing  to  winter.  

 amethyst  hues  watch  as  he  walks  away,  doors  to  the  room  now  donned  by  targaryen  banners  closing  behind  him  and  it  only  makes  her  think  of  the  last  time  she  saw  him  …  in  a  situation  very  much  like  this  one,  disappearing  from  her  grasp  as  she  grew  small.  a  lump  finds  itself  within  her  throat  and  yet,  she  cannot  swallow  it  down  as  though  the  taste  of  him  is  everlasting  in  her  mouth.  i  must  have  fire  in  my  eyes,  she  tells  herself  and  yet,  lilacs  glisten  with  crystals  as  though  the  breaker  of  chains  has  no  control  of  her  own  freedom.  meeting  jon  snow  had  placed  her  within  constraints  and  shackles  had  only  tightened  with  his  ship  that  sailed  upon  dragonstone,  a  reminder  that  she  would  forever  be  a  slave  to  the  feelings  that  he  had  stirred  within  her.  all  eyes  flee  to  daenerys  now,  though  before  any  questions  are  asked,  she  finds  herself  raising  from  her  glass  throne  and  relieving  herself  of  the  agonising  questions  which  might  be  asked.  

 footfalls  carve  their  way  through  corridors,  barely  lit  by  torches  and  she  finds  herself  within  her  own  chambers.  though  later  that  evening,  whilst  dragonstone  is  silenced  by  slumber,  they  haunt  the  hallways  once  more.  skirts  do  not  carry  themselves  with  eloquence,  dancing  around  calves  with  a  composure  that  a  queen  should.  more  cups  of  wine  that  she  would  have  cared  to  admit  had  been  consumed  in  a  bid  to  quell  the  sadness  that  struck  at  her  heart,  the  very  daggers  that  he  had  wielded  and  used  against  her.  unable  to  sleep,  restless  like  no  other  night  she  has  known,  daenerys  finds  herself  turning  corners  until  she  is  at  his  door.  perhaps,  she  had  not  meant  to  bring  herself  here  …  perhaps,  she  had  only  went  for  a  walk  to  clear  her  mind  and  yet,  here  she  stands.  delicate  digits  curve  into  a  ball,  raising  to  press  a  dainty  knock  against  the  wood  ( one  he  might  have  recognised  from  his  past  )  but  the  heat  from  flamed  torches  scorch  her  skin    –––    cheeks  turning  blush  in  both  humiliation  and  defeat.  

 palm  hovers  for  a  moment,  lilacs  latching  themselves  to  knuckles  and  just  as  quickly  as  her  hand  had  raised,  it  is  withdrawn.  lungs  deceive  her,  a  quivering  breath  escaping  from  the  queen  as  she  turns  on  her  feet  in  an  attempt  to  leave.  jon  snow  would  not  want  to  talk  to  her,  would  not  even  want  to  see  her.  he  is  made  of  ice,  the  reminder  weighs  heavily  upon  her,  fire  quickly  burning  it  away  in  regret.  though,  she  is  only  a  step  or  two  away  as  door  hinges  cry  into  the  night,  bidding  her  eyes  to  the  ghost  of  the  man  that  had  shown  her  she  was  not  so  loveless  once  upon  a  time.  body  twists,  eyes  meeting  his  in  battle  as  though  their  swords  have  collided.  they  are  in  the  midst  of  a  war,  one  between  two  people  who  shared  enough  history  to  fill  the  seven  kingdoms.  and  under  siege  she  falls,  succumbing  to  the  crusade  that  his  slate  hues  endeavour.  

truth be told, the night had been colder than the depths of winter. from his bed chamber he could hear each crashing waves, thundering in the bowels of his mind, thoughts trembling uncontrollably. the wind that hit the castle walls seemed to whisper to jon, reminding him of 𝘏𝘖𝘞 𝘔𝘜𝘊𝘏 this trip had COST — it had stolen from him precious time ( time of which was already borrowed ) and had caused such uproar from the northern men and his sister alike. they hated the targaryens, daenerys own father had slain much of their family, jon’s own included. but he had told them of the dragon and begged for their trust, and now, 𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔. they had called him king. he had proved them wrong [ just as expected ].

for a while, jon lay with his thoughts and allowed them to devour him. it soon got too much. then, SHE crept back in. not as she was now — decorated, proud and seemingly entitled to no end.  but as she had been at the wall all those years ago. her flushed cheeks so soft, her voice warm, her gaze gentle and soothing. perhaps he was too harsh. 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 more than anything else. gods knew he was not the man he had been, either. but still, jon mourned nonetheless, longing for something he wasn’t sure had ever really existed.

he grew weary after a while. sleep called for him. screamed, almost. yet midnight hues would not close. they stared the ceiling, burning. bare arms unsheathed from the blanket that enveloped him and jon pulled himself up. he reached for the cup of water that had made temporary home by his bed for the evening, but his usual steady gaze was beckoned by something else at the far side of the room. a flaggon of wine, positioned so perfectly in his direct line of sight that it seemed the gods had placed it there just for him. stormy hues stared for a moment, debating whether a glass would calm his thoughts, or inflame them. the answer was not clear. all he hoped is that it would help his eyes to finally shut. 

the cups sank too easily, the wine puring so freely. eyes grew heavier, thoughts grew 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐑. her face seemed to become clearer and clearer, so clear it almost felt as though jon could reach out and touch, allow his toughened hands to run through her silky hair as it shimmered in the pale moonlight. the rest of the world had been spinning for some time now, starting somewhere after the third glass of wine and gaining speed with each subsequent gulp. yet there she stayed, ever-present, unmoving. he thought of the size of the castle and each wall that separated the two of them; closer than she had been in so many years, but the distance had grown considerably. miles were not what was keeping them apart anymore. was she asleep? he did not know the time, but knew it was late enough for him to be the only person in the castle not in slumber. jon thought of her body lay upon her queen’s bed, each curve and crevice as though they had been crafted by the gods especially for him. her lilac eyes shut so tenderly, blushed petals slightly parted, her breath quiet, stomach rising and falling in rhythm. it was as though he could feel her heart beat; it grew louder and louder, until the sound of the waves and the wind and the groans of the old castle were drowned out. gods, HE WANTED TO TOUCH HER. he wanted to trace the features of her face over and over until he had memorised it like a song and plant kisses on every single inch of her porcelain skin until there was nothing NEW to lay his lips upon, 【 and then he would start all over. 】 he wanted his nose to bathe in the smell of her and his ears to dance to the song of her breath. 

AIR. that was what he needed. perhaps a walk along the moon bathed beach would banish her from his mind. he could allow himself a small journey into the mouth of the cave to remind himself why he had travelled so far in the first place. he needed her gone and out and cleansed from wherever it was the mother of dragon’s seemed to occupy within his brain. jon stumbled toward his clothes, shaky hands pulling them on half-heartedly then finding their way to his unruly brown hair, scraping it back into something of a bun. 

here, now, standing face to face with his younger sister, it seemed so easy. although not stark by name, he was stark by blood, and above all else, by LOVE. his father, perhaps not sheltering of the cruel remarks made at the hands of his wife ( and often time, sansa ), had been valiantly protective of jon. his brothers and sisters had seen the bastard as one of the pack. even the years spent at castle black, he had broken his vow and never truly been able to let go of his family. they had tormented him, awake or asleep. for great lengths of time he had been able to cast them from his mind entirely, but they always crept back in the end.

his little sister, so young the last time they were together, had grown wise beyond her years. truth be told, the amethyst gaze possessed by the mother of dragons had captured him, body and soul. he saw the good in her.

TARGARYEN was nothing but a name, and he knew she wanted only what was best for westeros. she wanted to break the wheel.

but perhaps he had bent the knee far too quickly. so preoccupied with the war that lay beyond the wall, marching ever closer, he had not stopped to think so wholly of the hurt her father had caused to the north. aerys had murdered their grandfather and uncle. rhaegar had kidnapped their aunt. but the truth was, daenerys had the manpower they needed. without her they were an army of nothing but the loyal, yet small, families of the north and the men of the night’s watch. they would be defeated within a day. and the way he felt about her... it hadn’t affected his decision in the slightest. had it?

midnight hues search for sansa’s gaze and locks it into place. sure hands find home on her shoulders, and a kind, but uncertain, smile forms itself upon jon snow’s lips. “do not worry, sansa.” he wishes his words more tantalising and less 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐘. perhaps then they would convince him, too. “i understand your frustration, truly, i do. but i am not robb.” 

he paused, letting his hands drop back down to his side. robb’s decision to break his vow had cost him his life, his men’s life, and their mother’s life, too. jon loved his brother so dearly, but only a man blind could deny that robb had been hasty and foolish with his decisions, and had been forced to pay the ultimate price. 

 𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐃  𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃  𝐅𝐎𝐑  𝐇𝐈𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏  𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄.  sailing  to  unfamiliar  lands,  where  snowfall  settled  upon  the  ground  and  little  warmth  was  anywhere  to  be  found.  it  was  as  far  north  as  she  had  ever  been,  it  was  the  most  amount  of  time  that  she  had  spent  in  westeros  (  her  home  ).  everything  had  been  risked    –––    the  potential  of  slavers  bay  slipping  between  dragon  claws  in  her  wake.  if  word  had  reached  the  capital,  she  was  certain  that  lannister  spies  would  find  her,  a  price  still  upon  the  platinum  curls  in  which  robert  baratheon  had  sought  to  take  care  of.  daenerys  had  found  herself  in  a  place  where  dragons  would  shiver,  where  impenetrable  scales  would  turn  to  frost.  she  had  asked  for  his  help  once.  and  he  refused  her.

 perhaps,  he  was  not  the  boy  that  she  had  once  known.  war  had  shaped  him    –––    tainted  him  but  with  victory,  he  had  grown  small.  there  was  something  solemn  about  his  features  when  they  had  stood  atop  of  castle  black,  sharing  small  details  of  their  lives  that  had  not  been  uttered  to  another  soul.  and  it  seemed  that  such  a  look  had  only  darkened  over  the  years,  twisting  and  contorting  until  it  was  beyond  repair.  he  was  not  jon  snow  anymore,  not  the  lord  commander  at  castle  black  who  had  taken  her  under  his  protection  and  treated  her  as  a  guest.  no    –––    he  was  someone  else  now,  a  different  person  made  of  dread.  

 yet  in  the  very  same  instance,  she  was  no  longer  the  girl  who  had  craved  his  touch.  to  say  that  he  had  not  fallen  upon  her  mind  would  be  a  lie  and  as  a  queen,  truth  was  laced  within  her  veins  as  it  fell  out  into  open  air  like  the  smoke  of  her  children.  daenerys  stormborn  had  lived  a  childhood  of  grief  (  unimaginable  and  unspeakable  ),  she  had  grown  into  a  young  woman  used  as  a  bargain  chip  in  exchange  for  an  army.  insulted,  berated  and  humiliated  by  her  brother.  though,  her  years  past  had  not  been  any  kinder  to  her  ;  betrayed,  vilified  and  enslaved.  she  was  the  breaker  of  chains  and  easily  enough,  her  own  wrists  where  shackled.  not  metaphorically  by  the  duty  she  carried  but  by  men  who  desired  to  cause  harm  upon  her.  scars  still  kissed  porcelain,  a  reminder  of  all  that  she  had  endured.  and  although  she  had  changed  since  she  had  last  met  jon  snow,  it  had  made  her  into  a  queen.  

 not  just  any  queen  but  one  with  a  sense  of  justice,  whose  only  desires  rested  with  freeing  those  who  had  been  trapped.  daenerys  had  not  come  to  lay  cities  to  waste  or  to  burn  the  seven  kingdoms  to  ashes  like  the  cruel  and  unforgiving  rumours  that  cersei  had  begun  to  spread.  they  were  soaring  through  westeros  like  the  caches  of  wildfire  buried  beneath  city  streets.  soon,  each  kingdom  from  winterfell  to  dorne  would  believe  the  lies  that  the  mad  king’s  daughter  had  returned  with  three  dragons  and  two  armies  of  savages  at  her  back  to  claim  vengeance  for  all  that  had  been  taken  from  her.  she  would  need  to  act  soon  if  she  were  to  obliterate  hateful  remarks  and  to  prove  that  she  had  come  to  save  the  realm.  

 fury  rests  behind  lilacs,  devouring  the  king  in  the  north  as  though  he  is  all  but  meat.  amethysts  engulf  him,  petals  pressed  into  a  fine  line  as  nostrils  flare  in  distress.  there  is  not  a  single  glimmer  of  the  person  she  once  knew    –––    whatever  they  had  shared  in  the  midst  of  winter  gone,  as  though  flames  had  melted  it  and  the  sun  had  evaporated  the  puddle  left  behind.  footfalls  turn  away  from  him,  having  only  just  vowed  to  not  leave  but  she  is  hurt.  the  dragon  queen  is  left  disappointed,  an  ashen  taste  of  embers  slow  dancing  upon  her  reptilian  tongue.  footfalls  carry  her  to  her  throne  as  though  to  remind  him  of  who  she  is  if  he  could  not  recognise  what  the  both  of  them  once  were.  she  is  the  blood  of  the  dragon,  the  rightful  queen  of  the  seven  kingdoms.  stopping  though,  fiery  gaze  finds  itself  glancing  over  her  shoulder  to  find  him.  ❝  –––    it  seems  to  me  the  king  in  the  north  is  weary  of  travel.  rhakaro,  see  jon  snow  and  ser  davos  to  their  chambers.  baths  will  be  drawn  and  meals  brought  to  you  both.  ❞

back home in winterfell, his knees had kissed the ground of the godswood, head bowed in pray to the old gods that THE MOTHER OF DRAGONS would listen to his plea and choose to see sense. the throne had taken so much from him — it had ripped his father’s head from the neck with a swing of ser ilyn payne’s sword, it had stabbed robb in the heart, it had catapulted an arrow through the torso of rickon just moment’s before jon could pull him to safety. now, it was clear to see it had ripped her from jon too. how could she be so blind? what good was it to be queen, ruling over nothing but barren wastelands and hoards of death? he had once admired her determination, but it seemed that it would be her downfall, and his, and the seven kingdoms.

jon allowed his midnight hues to crash with hers, face narrowing with confusion and bitter disappointment. this had been his last hope. his ravens had been ignored, laughed away, he assumed. his army was made up of nothing but a few loyal northerners and the nights watch. and daenerys? she had the dothraki, the unsullied and 3 FULL SIZED DRAGONS. and she was to waste them on a futile war.

it was hard to recognise her in this light. what had become of her since they had last met? her once soft amethyst hues had turned hard as stone, bearing heavy. each word CUT. what had been a gentle, comfortable warmth had grown into an all-consuming flame. it was just one jon did not want to be burnt by, not as he had before. she was still so breath-takingly beautiful. the titles she carried seemed to have enthralled her, at least that was how it had appeared. he thought of his own titles he had held— the king in the north, the lord commander, the bastard of winterfell. how much he HATED each one, drowning in resentment each time they were said aloud. jon was certain she had fought for each title that crowned her. in a sense, he had too. but glory was never something he desired.

and there she perched atop her throne — so close in proximity, but further than she had ever been, even when they were   ｗｏｒｌｄｓ  ａｐａｒｔ.   face twisted solemn and long as she spoke, realisation of what was happening crashing over jon. she was sending him away. she was not interested in anything but his ALLIANCE and it broke his heart boiled his blood. the time he had spent travelling from winterfell to dragonstone, wasted. it was time he could have spent prepping what little men he had left for the pending war. the time he had spent convinced she would come to his aid. the years he had wasted thinking of her. thinking of that night on the wall. it had come to NOTHING but... a bath and a meal. 

jon turned sharp on his heel, careful not to meet the khaleesi’s eyes. he didn’t want to look at her any longer. he wanted to ride home immediately, but their travels had been lengthy and truth be told, he needed to rest before he could face the tiresome journey north. and above all else, he needed dragon glass. as much as they could carry with them, and more.