~Dany~

Missandei's slow-moving strokes over my hair and down my back make my eyes feel heavy. Heavier. Even though they tell me I was asleep for three days, I am tired. As though I dream still.

My heart aches from the weight of it. From the knowing of it. How often had truths come to me in dreams? Too often.

'The water is growing cool, Khaleesi,' Missandei says gently. I barely hear her but move to stand from the basin anyway. She wraps a thick swathe of fabric about my shoulders then holds out her hand to help me out.

She too looks tired and pale and for the first time, I wonder if she is happy here. By my side. In this cold place with cold white suns and unfriendly faces.

'Do you ever dream of going home?' I ask her.

'My home is here beside you, Khaleesi.'

The fire is warm against my back but the chill is settled so deep within me that it does not touch it.

'I want happiness for you,' I tell her. 'Wherever that may be, with whomever you want beside you.'

She looks at me then, concern in her warm brown gaze. 'I am happy.'

'And what of Grey Worm? What of his desires?'

Shocked by my directness, never spoken between us before as such, a blush creeps to the apples of her cheeks. I continue, awoken, fired by something I cannot identify. 'You have discussed this I am certain, for what couple in love would not talk of their future and what it held for them? If and how they might be free of their duty and happy together?'

She lowers her eyes, guilty.  Then they had spoke of such things.

Reaching out, I lay my hand on her cheek causing her to lift her eyes to mine. 'You have served me faithfully and well and I shall never find a friend as loyal to me as you. But I would see you happy, and free.'

She places her hand over mine and smiles. 'To me, happiness is freedom, and you have already given me that.'

I match her warm smile. 'You will tell me if your mind ever changes? If you ever need more, something differ--.' She hushes me with a soft squeeze of her hand.

'I will. But for now, I have all that I need, here.'

We go through the motions of her dressing me, oiling my hair, braiding the lengths as only she can. All the while my mind roams over the dream and its message; images, sounds and smells as vivid as if I had been there not just in sleep.

'Where is Jon?' I ask her. His name sounds strange on my tongue. Like a lie.

His name... is Aegon Targaryen.

'He went with the new Maester to inspect the mining while you slept. He hoped to return before you woke.'

Thoughts topple upon each other. The mining. Dragonglass. The Night King.

Rhysgrom.

Had Jon ever heard the name spoken aloud? Did he know of it? He does not even know his own true name. Did I? How could I simply accept a message given to me in a fever dream? Was such a thing not madness?  And had I not said once that madness and wisdom were not so far?

Something peels down my spine. Something like hope, only cooler. If what the messenger told me was true, then the truth must exist somewhere on this side of sleep. I must find it. He must have meant for me to find it here.

And I could not even consider telling Jon until then. I would not tear apart this bud of love or something like it until I was certain. Would Jon look at me the same if he knew? Could he ever love me if he knew?

I think of Sansa then; of her words to him in the crypt. His denial of her. Perhaps he would run into her arms; free to love her as he had not been before.

The thought is a needle through my heart. Pain. Horror. Fear.

Together they could take the throne from me.

Together they would join north and south as I had wanted to do. As I had failed to do. For this made his claim on this throne greater than mine. And I had made her warden of the north.  Also true was that Jon was my brother's son... a male heir whom the Lords would support. After all, a male ruler was always preferable to a weak-hearted woman. Or a mad queen as Cersei had been.

The bile curdles in the pit of my stomach and crawls hot and bitter up my throat. Breaking away from Missandei I rush for the bedpan and heave. Then again. Then a third. What swims in it is my reflection. Tired. Weak.

No, I would not allow it. Would not allow them to take this from me. I had come too far, had fought too hard.

I must find the truth and then... Then I would bury it. I had no other choice. My allies I would arrange and keep close.

Straightening, I wipe a hand over my mouth and take the cup of wine she offers me to wash away the taste. The taste of doubt and fear.

'I will see Ser Jorah in the Chamber of the Painted Table. And ensure Daario Naharis does not leave Dragonstone.'

oOo

I take the private stairwell up to the chamber with renewed energy, surprised to find a small figure stood by the painted table. One hand is settled over a point towards the top of it, fingers moving slowly and with a degree of tenderness. They do not hear me enter, so entranced are they. The sound of the waves crashing far below mask my slippers as they move over the polished stone. As I move closer, I recognise him.

'You are Tyrion's steward? Elias?'

He starts slightly and retracts his hand, moving his other which holds a cloth to the spot and polishes hurriedly.

'Yes, your Grace.' He turns to face me fully and bows, though it is odd. It is almost a curtsey. 'I am glad to see you recovered, your majesty.'

'Why are you here?' I ask. 'Lord Tyrion sent you to me?' Something about this boy has always made me uneasy. He moves too quietly, speaks too softly, looks at me too directly. Tyrion I think sees something of an orphan in him, something of himself perhaps.  Alone in the world but for the Kingslayer now.

The boy swallows nervously and casts a look at the table. 'I come here sometimes when I am not at my duties,' he admits. 'I like to imagine my home and what my life was before...'

'Where is.. home?'

The boy blinks, shrugging slightly. 'I do not know... That is... I do not remember.'

I cross the chamber to stand across the table from him at the table. My eyes land on Dragonstone first as they always do, though this time they fly north to the Wall, my gaze fixing atop it where the messenger had first told me of all the babes who had cried and of how mine would be the last. Then swooping down past Winterfell and the Neck, The Riverlands and The Crownlands, I land on those ridges and flats North of Dorne.

Lyanna had been found here on her deathbed by her brother, Eddard. Where my brother had taken her, where he had stolen her innocence and raped her young body. Now it was possible this had all been a lie. How great the desire is to clear Rhaegar's name. To find the truth and scream from the rooftops that he was a noble prince who died fighting for love.

Had Robert Baratheon known the truth? Had it been vengeance and jealousy which started the war that ended my family?

Gods, and Jon was not a bastard. He was the son of a prince. He was a Targaryen, as I was.

He was a Dragon.

The dragon has three heads.

Myself, Viserys, and Jon.

What power might we have yielded had we grown together? If Viserys had someone to keep his arrogance reined close and his bitterness curtailed. I imagine us then, returning on dragonback to take back what was rightfully ours. Would I have loved Jon as I do now? We would be Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys come again.

How could I keep such a truth from him? What right had I to keep him from knowing who he was? From knowing where his home truly was?  From knowing his name?

The boy is watching me closely as the knock on the chamber door comes.

'I have found that home is not a place,' I tell him. 'But a feeling. A knowing. A truth.'

The boy nods once, thoughtful, appearing to agree.

'You may let Ser Jorah in.' 

And now this. This man who had betrayed me. Who had loved me. Who had returned to me as I had commanded him to.

When Missandei told me of his return I felt some weight return to my heart, some strength. Now I find I need him more than ever. Jorah had loved me without my crown. Would he love me without my claim?

His stride is heavy and smooth and my body begins to tremble slightly at the nearness of him. My back is to him as I gaze into the flames. He stops, waiting.

A moment later the rich honeyed gravel of his voice breaks the silence.

'Khaleesi.'

I smile. My breath a stomping herd of horses in my chest. When I turn to face him my legs weaken slightly, the rush of feeling indescribable. Love. Relief. Comfort. Home.

His mouth softens into a smile as he takes a step forward and drops to his knee before me. I am pulled toward him, warmth at my back, at my front, all around me. When he lifts his head to look at me, tears shine in his eyes.

'You are... healed? And well?' He asks.

I cannot help but laugh, so like him to ask of me when he has faced far worse. Smiling through the breathless joy which has wrapped me inside it, I say: 'Yes. Are you?'

He nods. 'I made a vow did I not?' He wears gloves and a rough grey scarf around his throat but his face appears unscarred. It is the same face I had once loved. That I love still.

'You did,' I nod. 'Now I would have you get up off the floor. Your knees are no longer those of a young man.'

He smiles at the chastisement. 'My knees have not been those of a younger man for many years, your grace.'

'Then do as I tell you and rise.'

He complies and I indicate the chair for him to sit upon. I sit opposite and take a few moments simply to stare at him. To drink in the sight of him after so long.

'They tell me you came from Oldtown, with the Maester.'

'I did. He was the one who cured me.'  He appears shy. Nervous. His gloved hands clutching each other.

'Then I am already deep in his debt.'

Jon had spoken so highly of him that I could not fail to have liked the rotund son of Ser Randyll Tarly. Whose death - in our two short meetings at my bedside - had not hung over us as I feared it might. Now I had all the more reason to like him.

'You claimed your throne...' Jorah says quietly, with undisguised awe. 'I am only sorry I was not by your side to witness it.'

'You are here now.'

Another of his slow nods. 'And you married a Northman.' Relaxing now. His tone is easy, unburdened.

'You have met him?'

'Briefly. He hates me I am certain.'

I smile. 'Only because he knows how close you are to my heart.'

'Or perhaps because he knows how I betrayed it.'

My smile fades a little. 'Perhaps that too...'

A few moments of weighty silence.

'Then he is a man of honour who cares deeply for you.' Approval lights his tone. Approval and something else, of course.

'You have spoken with Tyrion?' I ask. Jorah nods, warmth filling his eyes. 'He would have been pleased to see you.'

'He is as he has ever been, though I could see worry for you has aged him a little. It is as well he has no need of kneeling.'

I smile at the jest but then I remember. 'He worries for his brother more than I, I am sure. He told you that Daario brought the Kingslayer to me?'

'In fact, Daario told me. But Tyrion's mind is filled with it too, yes.'

'He asked you to speak for him too no doubt?'

Jorah shakes his head. 'He did not. I would not.'

I look at him. Trying to gauge my old councillors thoughts. What time have I to ponder the fate of the Kingslayer now? What want have I of this burden now? Concern etches across Jorah's brow.

'You have thoughts, speak them,' I command.

He shifts on his chair, settling further into it. He had been perched on its edge as though ready to fall to his knees again should the need arise. He says nothing for some moments, then lets out a soft exhale.

'Tyrion has begged you to spare him?'

I shake my head and press my fingers to my temple as a dull throbbing pain begins to thud there. 'Tyrion and I have not spoken of it. Jon has petitioned me, though he swears Tyrion had not asked it of him.'

'And what is the King consort of a mind to do?'

'He begs I send him to the Wall. That if he takes the black he will be grateful to me, for my mercy. That if I execute him I will lose Tyrion's heart.'

Jorah nods, agreeing. 'And you do not wish to send him north as you have already sent too many Lannister men the the wall and fear a snowy rebellion?'

'And because he is the reason my family were taken from me. That my home was taken from me.' My voice has hardened. Jorah's softens.

'Many and more would say that was Rhaegar's doing...'

'It was not Rhaegar's doing,' I say quietly.  'It was the Usurper's.'

'But not the Kingslayer's.' Jorah points out.

I'm struck then. By something which should have been obvious before. Was this why he had been returned to me now? When I needed him most?

Jorah.

Jorah had been exiled from Westeros but he had fought in Robert's Rebellion. Had been present at the Battle of the Trident. Owed his Knighthood to the usurper. He would not know all that happened at the tower—there was no one living who had been there—but perhaps he would know enough.

'You must deal with the Kingslayer according to what is in your heart, Khaleesi. It will be right. You have always done what is right.' His words pull me back to myself. Had I? Always done what was right?

'Ser Jorah do you believe that there can be truth in what we see in dreams?'

'Of course...' he's looking at me curiously. Searchingly.

'Do you believe that messages come to us in dreams?'

This, he is less certain of.  'It is possible that the mind gains some clarity in rest, certainly.'

I hold his gaze a moment and then stand, crossing to the fire to warm my cool hands at its face. When I turn back to him he is watching me still. Careful and curious.

'You dreamt of the Kingslayer?' He asks, confused.

'No, of something else.' How to approach it. In what way? With what words? Then I decide that it matters little in which order the words come. 'Eddard Stark was the one to find his sister where my brother had hidden her was he not?'

Jorah looks surprised by the change of course. 'Yes. In the Red Mountains of Dorne.'

'Inside a Tower of some kind?'

Jorah nods but looks uncomfortable. 'Prince Rhaegar called it The Tower of Joy.'

The Tower of Joy. The name offered part of the truth on its own.

'And was my brother a cruel man? You did not know him well, but you knew him as many knew him. Why would he call it that? This place he imprisoned a screaming, frightened young girl he had stolen from her home?'

It is clear that Jorah has never given the matter much thought. That thinking of it now troubles him.

'I... don't know, your grace,' he frowns.  'You dreamt of the Tower of Joy?'

'I did.'

'And this you believe was a message?'

I look at him. I had always trusted Jorah. Until he betrayed me. Could I trust him now? Now when I most needed someone whose loyalty to me was not tested? If he were to betray me again now then surely it would be with no more than the loose detail of a fever dream?

Resolved, I begin to speak, each thread of the dream unspooling from my tongue and pulling together to reveal a single, devastating possibility.

After, the fire crackles gently in the hearth as Jorah considers all I have said. The truth looming large and obstinate between us for many moments; its mute presence louder than the angry sea below.

'Do you believe this to be true?' He asks.  Had his way of looking at me changed or was it merely my imaginings?

'It feels true does it not? As though it could quite easily be true. That my gentle and beloved brother Rhaegar did not rape Lyanna Stark; that he loved her. That she loved him. That they may have married in secret, and that they may too... have conceived a child.'

'It would make him...'

'...the heir to the Iron Throne.' Saying it aloud does not frighten me as much as I feared it might. I am not, in fact, frightened by it at all. I am strengthened by it. By the voicing of it. By the facing of it. That I still stand in the face of this fear emboldens me. The hot rush of accomplishment and pride. 'I suppose we shall never know the truth of it. For those who bore witness are few, dead, and lost and the messenger resides only within a dream.' Then, sadness. I need and desire to know the truth. 'The truth shall never be known to those who would know it.'

Jorah's head hangs low on his shoulders. His gaze cast now to the floor. Suddenly he lifts it, a tense look on his face

'They are not all dead or lost,' he says. I shake my head, not understanding. 'You spoke of a man. One who came to the chamber after the babe was born. One who held Ned Stark's hand.

'You know of who I speak?'

Jorah drags his hand over his mouth and nods. 'It can only be one man. There was only one man who survived The Tower of Joy beside Ned Stark. It was said he saved his life.'

'And he lives?'

'I'm certain he does,' Jorah nods. 'He is a Lord and the deaths of Lords are heralded at Oldtown. Sam will know if he lives.'

My breath has thinned again. My heart beating fierce and loud in my chest: a dragon's wings in flight.

'What is this Lord's name?'

'Howland Reed,' says Jorah. 'Lord of Greywater Watch; head of the Crannogmen of the Neck.'

I exhale a breath. Howland Reed.

I recall his soft words and softer eyes as he comforted his friend.  In his eyes or words I would find the truth, or part of it at least.  This was right. It had to be: I had to know. And when I did, then I would decide what must be done with it.

'Then I must go North,' I nod. 'We will speak with the Maester and then I will go to The Neck. I must speak with this Howland Reed.'

Jorah looks at me, gravely. 'Must you?' He stands and crosses toward me and takes hold of my hands. 'Khaleesi, if it is the truth then it is clear Howland Reed has no plan to speak of it. What good would it do to chase down truths that may best remain buried?'

Like mist, the words drift gentle into my mind. ' "To go forward, you must go back, and to touch the light, you must pass beneath the shadow."

"Quaithe...?' He whispers.

'Perhaps this is the shadow she spoke of?'

Or perhaps... if I look back, I truly am lost.  I am frightened. For without this, without this, who am I?

'Then I will go with you,' says Jorah with a nod. 'We will both go north.'