➰Jon➰

It comes into view like the wings of a great stone dragon rising from the sea. A monstrous structure the colour of wet searock. Davos had spoken to me of it, having once known it well. Inhabited then by the king he talks so little of now and the princess whose name he can barely utter.

Above it, Daenerys' beasts swoop around its peak like crows circling their carrion.

It was said that the Valyrians built this place with dark skill and darker magic and as we draw closer to it I feel something slip under my cloak and prickle over my skin. Warm and oddly comforting. 

'I was born here,' she says, her voice soft as she comes to stand by my side. Her eyes gaze almost lovingly up at the ominous fortress. 'My mother died as I came screaming into the world and a summer storm screamed outside.'

Silver strands whip around her head like fine threads of ribbon, the wind forcing them into a restless dance. Her cheeks are wind-kissed and her mouth tempting, and the urge to kiss her is strong. It's only the keen eyes of her men which stop me. The walls of the ship were less forgiving than the walls of Winterfell, and no doubt we'd already given them enough entertainment these last nights.

'I never knew my mother...' I offer.

If I'd thought to comfort her by telling her this, I realise its folly immediately.  She turns to me, a sad smile on her face. 

'I'm certain she would have been proud of the man you've become,' says Daenerys. 'Your father too.'

A twist of guilt turns in my gut. Would he be proud of me? Proud that I'd left my sister and my people alone to go south?  When I knew what was coming? What waited for them even now beyond the wall. Would he understand the reasons why I'd done it?

'Davos's description of it did not prepare me for its... size.' I say, changing the subject.  Just then, a high-built tower pushes through a low bank of fog. Like much of the structure, it too is shaped for the creature from which the island takes its name; the stone of the pillar carved to look like scales, the turret peak formed like the head of a dragon as it screams, defiant, at the sky.

'The Windwyrm,' she tells me, that soft note of sadness not quite gone from her voice. She raises her hand to point at a lower tower, closest to the sea. 'That one is The Sea Dragon. It long housed the Maesters of Dragonstone.'

I nod. 'And have you a Maester in your employ yet?'

'I have a list of candidates from which to choose from.' As she says this something bright sparks in her eyes, widening them. 'Did not you say your friend had gone to the Citadel to become a maester? Would he want to serve us do you think?'

Sam and Gilly here. The notion warmed me certainly. 'He has not yet earned his maester's chain,' I point out, 'but I'm certain he would be honoured to serve his Queen.'

'And king,' she smiles. 'Then I'll send for him. I'll also ask they send with him an Archmaester so he might continue his teachings here.' She nods decisively, clearly pleased by the idea.

She's watching for my reaction, eager and hopeful. She thinks a friend here would please me. A friend to replace all that I had left behind.

She had not attempted to speak to me of what I had left behind and I was glad of it.

We had not spoken of how Sansa had watched from the wall as we departed Winterfell. We had not spoken either of the cloaked expressions of the northerners we had passed on our way to White Harbour.

I was alone here but for Davos. Though I'd initially desired he remain to counsel Sansa, he had followed me dutifully in the end. His place was by my side, he'd argued, and if that led him back to Dragonstone then so be it. He would not allow me to go south alone. He did not mistrust the queen, but he felt a King should have at least one man by his side completely loyal to him.

And, as he'd pointed out, he did not really belong in the north. He was a southern sea lord with a fleabottom accent who had little place amongst northerners.

I could not argue with his logic, and as we had finally sailed away from White Harbour I found that I was grateful he'd remained by my side. 

When I turn to Dany I find her watching me, expectant, a searching look in her bright violet eyes. 

'It would be nice to see Sam and Gilly again,' I nod. 'If his learning could be done here then aye, it would be good to have him.'

'Then I shall send a raven as soon as we arrive.' She looks almost otherworldly today. Wearing a white fur coat which sits richly against her pale skin, skin which looks illuminated from within. Her lips, cheeks, and the tip of her nose is stung bright pink from the wind and cold.

Not caring suddenly about who watches us, I slide my arm around her slight waist and pull her close to me. She gasps softly, her breath quickening.

'I should very much like you to be happy here, Jon,'she whispers.

I smile, nodding as I turn to gaze back out at the huge ancient castle she called home.

Though that strange sense of ancient power had subsided somewhat, I still feel a distinct hum running through my blood. Like anticipation, an aknowledgement coming from the great rock itself.

A small, darkly-clad, contingent await us on the beach as the small boat jostles and rocks towards the shore. After helping Dany into the small boat with Tyrion and her guard, I'd agreed to ride with Davos in the second skiff.

My eyes narrow as I watch a fair-haired, lean but slightly hunched-over, figure wade into the water to help Dany out of the small boat and onto the sand. They exchange a few words before the male turns his head in my direction, his shoulders dropping a little as he does. He helps Tyrion out of the boat and then moves to stand with his men close by Dany, hands clasped in front, watching my approach.

The realisation is both slow dawning and immediate. So changed is he from when I saw him last; gone is the entitled smirk he used to offer me so freely. Gone is the air of privilege which sat upon his shoulders by virtue of his birthright. Gone too is the bright blue colour of his eyes. Replaced now by a dull grey, his mottled skin the colour of bone beneath an overcast sky.

The boat hasn't come to a stop when I vault over the side of it into the shallow depths and charge toward him. He doesn't move but his men do. Not to protect him, of course not, for when had Theon Greyjoy ever inspired loyalty in men — in any man but Robb. Futile and misplaced as it was. They take a few steps back as behind me I hear Davos shout my name.

There's a glimmer of fear in Theon's eyes before he glances down, unable to look me in the eye. It's this cowardice which causes the growl to loosen from my throat and my arm to swing back and toward him. My fist catches him hard across the jaw knocking him to back onto the sand. I move to stand over him, crouching down to grab the front of his tunic in one hand. With my other fist I rear back to strike him again.

It was Theon, Jon. Theon saved me. I know what he did but I owe him my life. Without him I would surely be dead. If not by Ramsay's hand then by my own...

My hand hovers in the air, my fist clenching and unclenching with the need to hit him again, to beat his face to a pulp as I'd done for Ramsay before him. Blood pours from his nose, bright against his grey pallor, his breathing fast and wet. Still he can't look at me, still he keeps his eyes averted from mine. Yet I notice then that they're glittering with unshed tears.

As I let go he falls back onto the wet sand. Perhaps I might never earn Sansa's forgiveness, but killing Theon would assure it.

He had saved her. When I could not.

When I did not.

'Sansa is the only reason you still live,' I spit.

There's a look of sad acceptance in Theon's haunted eyes. Then he nods.

***

Davos finds me in the small castle Garden. I'd told Daenerys I needed some time alone after too many days aboard a wooden box with a hundred men.  She'd looked hurt, perhaps a little dubious, but said nothing more.

I'd walked the length of the castle first. Through the great stone keep where the wind whistled and screamed against its thick walls, then across the high roofed bridge and down towards the dungeons, past The Sept where wooden statues representing The Seven watched me warily as I passed. At the base of the tower Dany had called The Sea Dragon, I'd opened a heavy Iron door into a garden in full bloom. A hidden nook of calm verdant green amidst the grim stone.

The air was different here; piney but salty too. But beneath it, was something else. Something I'd noticed in the air on the approach but which was strongest inside the castle itself — smoke and brimstone. The scent of dragons.

'Thought I might find you here,' he comes to sit next to me on the damp grass, his back pressed against the stone wall. 'You know they called this Aegon's garden.'

'Who did? Stannis?' I raise an eyebrow.

'No, not him.' Davos's voice cracks a little. I know why.

'His daughter.' 

He lets out a gentle breath and reaches forward to pluck a fine blade of grass from the ground. 'I wasn't sure how I'd feel being here again, without her,' he says. He's staring straight ahead, seeing but not seeing as he rolls the single blade of grass between his thumb and forefinger. 'But she's still here.' He looks up and around at the overgrown trees, the hanging branches which crawled and tumbled down the stone walls toward the ground. 'They're all still here.'

'I suppose that's why it feels so crowded...' I reply.

In truth, it felt too crowded. The closer I'd gotten to the castle the more crowded it felt. As though the walls themselves were alive with the whispers of the dead.

'Aye, perhaps,' says Davos.'You know I thought brooding was something you only did in the north because there wasn't much else to do up there...'

'I'm not brooding.'

'Then what are you doing?' He turns bodily to face me, 'Because it looks to me like you're brooding. And you will have to get down to the business of helping her rule at some point.' He says it like a question.

'I know that. But since you brought it up, the realm is in need of a Master of Ships—and since you came all this way, it seems to me like you may as well make yourself useful.' He looks momentarily shocked, before he begins to shake his head. Like I expected he would. 'And don't even think about saying no — or I'll have her ask you. And she's even harder to refuse, trust me.'

His eyes widen before he gives me a knowing smile. 'Ah, so that's how you ended up married to her then, is it? You couldn't say no to her?'

I feel the heat rise to my cheeks as I look back at the ground, scuffing my boots into the thick grass. He's joking but that is only because he has no idea how close he's just skirted the truth. Accepting that should lighten the guilt I feel, but it doesn't. I'd sacrificed Sansa to take Daenerys as my wife, and though I could argue with myself that it was for the good of the North and the good of the realm, the truth was, deep down, I saw something I wanted for myself and so I took it.

'She'll forgive you,' says Davos, eerily.

I turn to frown at him. 'You don't know that.'

'I know people. And you're the only family she has left. She'll see that soon enough - and she'll forgive you.'

'I left her alone. After all that's happened and all that I promised her, I left her alone again.'

He makes a tutting sound. 'She's not alone.  And you haven't left her. When she needs you again — when they come — you'll go back to protect her. She knows that. And she'll forgive you for this.'

Gods, I want him to be right. Because the chasm between us now was so great that I couldn't see the other side of it. I hope Davos spoke these words because he could.

***

Dany is dining alone in our chamber when I get there. Sat at a fair-sized table set inside a large alcove sectioned off from the main space, she sips daintily at her wine from a cup of polished carved silver.

A large candelabra in the centre of the dining table casts a warm glow over her, her normally braided hair hanging loosely over her shoulder in a thick silver braid. She's changed her gown and is now wearing one made of fine grey silk which dips low to skim the rise of her breasts. My heart lifts at the sight of her, my cock stirring from its slumber.

Would there ever be a time when I did not desire her? Had there been a moment since I'd set eyes on her when I had not wanted her? If there had been I could not recall it now.

As I come toward her, taking a seat at the table where a place has been set for me, she searches my face for something. A plate covered with a piece of roughened fabric sits in front of me, a jug of ale by it — a cup like her own. When I lift the fabric I find a slab of meat covered in a glistening sauce, peeled and softened potatoes and a large chunk of darkbread.

I use the bread to soak up some of the dark sauce before ripping into it with my teeth. It's pleasant and rich and it sparks the hunger to life as I chew before rinsing it down with the cool ale. It's a sweeter ale than I'm used to but still welcome on my thirsty tongue. When I've polished half the plate I bring my eyes to hers.

Her gaze is warm as she sips her wine quietly. I suppose now we would see if she was ready to share her rule or not.

'I have named Davos, Master of Ships,' I announce.

Her eyes widen a fraction before she smiles, nodding. 'A fine choice.' It's genuine. I nod my agreement and meet her eye directly as I deliver my next words.

'Theon Greyjoy will not remain on this island.'

To her credit, she does not look surprised by the statement. She lowers her cup to the table and takes a deep breath, however before she has a chance to speak, I continue.

'I propose to send him north to serve Sansa — he owes my family more than you know.'

She raises an a pale silver eyebrow. 'You assume I do not know of Theon Greyjoy's crimes against your family?'

I frown. 'Then you knew and thought not to tell me he was here? Sworn to you?'

She glances away, somewhat guiltily. 'I should have told you. In truth, it had slipped my mind...'

'Slipped your mind?'

'Yes,' she says, firm. 'For my mind has been filled with the future of this realm these past days, and it was only when I saw him on the shore that I realised my mistake.'

'Yes, it was a mistake.'

'One that you quickly rectified...'

'...Just as trusting him is a mistake.'

'Theon is much changed from the man you once knew, Jon.'

'I had not taken you for a fool, Daenerys.'

A flare of anger lights her violet eyes. 'I am no fool,' she flares. 'And as I understand it he freed your sister from the clutches of Ramsay Bolton did he not? Risked his own life so she might live?'

'But not before giving her to the bastard to wed first!' I slam my cup down hard on the table causing her to start slightly. 'Not before betraying my family, forcing my brothers from their home and naming himself Prince of Winterfell. Do not ask me to find forgiveness for him because I have none.'

She watches me wordlessly for many moments. 'And what would it take? To earn your forgiveness? For he has suffered unimaginable cruelty, he is broken irrevocably, which you would know if you took but a moment to speak with him.'

'Aye, well, no less than I'd have done myself. I'd call it penance.'

She looks shocked as she gives me a slight shake of her head. 'You are not a cruel man, Jon.'

The flash of a noose, a child's cold grey eyes, his flesh swollen and bloodless.

I level my stare at her as I move to stand.  'You know little about the sort of man I am, Daenerys.'

She simply stares at me, sad, confused, as the guilt begins to ebb through me.

'If you wish to send him north then I shall not prevent it,' she says gently.  'But I ask you this: if you truly think he is beyond forgiveness, if you truly do not trust him, then why would you ever believe he would serve Sansa faithfully?'

***

His quarters are in the lower keep of The Stone Drum. I'd passed a small gathering hall on the way here where his men sat crouched around a brazier drinking ale and talking in their strange islander tongue. They'd stood abruptly as I entered, bowing low but keeping their hard suspicious eyes on me as they did. Whether it was my treatment of Theon on the beach or something else, I didn't know. Ironborn were suspicious by nature. More so of northern bastards who wore crowns and called themselves king.

They'd pointed me in the direction of his chamber before settling themselves back to their conversation, casting dark looks over their shoulders.

By rights, I do not need to knock. By rights, he's beneath me. A servant of the crown. I'm a king. I still raise my hand and knock firmly on the chamber door.

'Come in,' he shouts.

It's clear that I'm the last person he's expecting. He's sat on a wooden chair near the fire with a book in his hand, which he drops clumsily to the floor when I enter. Reaching down to pick it up, he grips the book tight in his hand, his knuckles turning white against the dark green binding. There's some bruising around his left eye and his cheek is swollen — he can barely hold my stare.

'J-Jon. I m-mean, your grace.' He dips his head. When he finally meets my eye his face crumples from guilt as he hangs his head. 'I know. I know what you must th-think of me and you hav—.'

'Do you, Theon?' I ask, taking a step closer. 'Do you know what I think of you? My father treated you like a son when he didn't have to.  My brothers treated you like family. My sisters too.'

Theon nods.

'Do you know how many times I thought about coming face to face with you again? Of looking you in the eye before I ran my sword through you? Of watching you bleed to death at my feet you disloyal piece of ironborn scum?'

He makes a strange noise then, like a mutt in pain, before his whole body begins to tremble.  'Jon, please..'

'Your grace, Please...' I almost growl.

'Your grace, please,' he sobs before falling to his knees.  His hands come up to shield his head from attack as he begins to mutter quietly to himself. It sounds like a prayer.

Shocked, I take a step back while Theon's shoulders continue to wrack, soft desperate noises coming from him which make no sense at all. Noises which do not belong to him, to the proud smirking lord I used to know. When he begins to move across the floor toward me on his knees I can only stare. He wraps his arms around my ankles, his head bowed and his body still shaking violently as the sobs rattle through him.

'I deserve to die, I know it,' he sobs. 'I begged for it, many times. I knew all that was happening was because I deserved it... f-for what I did... to you... to all of you.'

I'm unable to do anything for a moment, so stunned am I.  Then, not sure what else to do, I reach down and grip hold of his shoulders to lift him off the ground. Manoeuvring him back to the chair I then move to pour him a cup of ale and hand it to him with an order to drink. He reaches up to take it, his hands shaking still.

When he's drained it he looks at me expectant, clearly waiting for a further instruction. Instead, I move to sit across from him on the stiff narrow bed, my hands where he can see them upon my thighs. As I run a hand through my hair and over my jaw he watches me, pensive and tense.

'I don't know if I can ever forgive you,' I admit.

Tears streak silent and slow from Theon's eyes. He nods.

'He should have killed me...'

'Who?'

'Ramsay,' he says, breath ragged. 'I'm nothing. I've always been nothing... but now...'

'Aye, well now he's nothing,' I finish.

Theon meets my eye then, a small inching of a smile on one side of his mouth. 'When I heard you'd killed him... When I heard you'd taken back Winterfell... I cried.'

He does not look ashamed to admit this. But then, moments ago he'd told me on his knees of how he'd wished for death. Perhaps he had no shame left in him.

'I didn't kill him,' I say.

Fear. Loud and bright in his eyes.

'Sansa,' I add quickly. I'm certain I hear the relief escape from his body.  'And his dogs... mainly his dogs.'

A look of such serenity seeps into his eyes then that I know what I'm about to do is right. Dany had asked how I could trust he'd keep Sansa safe and I'd had no answer. What I have now is a feeling.

No, more than that: a knowing. Certain as the sun's mighty heat or the waves crashing against the rocks outside. Something had shifted in Theon — it was in the shadows of his eyes and the quiver of his voice. The disloyalty and the arrogance had been cleaved from him. He'd been remade.

Just as I had been when those knives pierced my body and my brothers left me to die there in the snow.

'Sansa needs you, Theon'

He blinks, returning to himself. 'She does?'

'She's warden of the north now. Baelish is circling her, the dead are waiting beyond the wall. I'm here,' I shrug hopelessly. 

He straightens, a light in his eyes now. Hope.

'You need me to go North. Back to Winterfell?'

'Yes, Theon. They might not welcome you either, but I need you to protect Sansa again. To keep her safe and send for me if I'm needed.' Sansa may not be able to reconcile her anger with me and summon me home, but if Theon was by her side then she wouldn't have to.

'There are few places left where I'm welcome, your grace —but I'd happily give my life to do this.'

Standing, I cross the room toward him, cautious and careful not to frighten him again.

Then slowly I reach out my hand to him. He stares at it a moment, before very carefully placing his own in mine.

'Thank you, Theon,' I say. 'You have my gratitude.'

He tries a small sad smile. 'And perhaps one day I'll have your forgiveness.'