~Dany~

It is both cowardice and kindness; I think. To leave the truth here for him in my hand but not spoken in my voice. To not force him to look into my eyes as I tell him that which he has always longed to know. To give him that which will make him whole, but which will destroy us.

Lyanna Stark.

His mother's name.

Jon, I told you that when I first saw you it felt to me like coming home. That the little girl who was chased from her home all those years ago, who'd felt lost and alone her entire life, felt finally found when she looked at you. Perhaps I should also tell you that as I sat atop the throne so many fought sand died for, I did not feel a fraction of the comfort or peace I feel as I lie in your arms. You offered me a home, my love. A home nestled from this world within your reborn heart.

I understood better than most why Ned Stark had kept the truth from the world. Not only had he made a promise to his dying sister, but he understood the wrath of the Baratheon usurper.How could I keep such a thing from him? Such a powerful and beautiful thing as that which he had always longed for? He, who had never known a true home; not with the Starks who saw him as his father's and not with the Nightswatch who had executed him a traitor. 

I would not do it to him, would not keep this him from his home now, not when he had given me mine. 

  What I offer you now is your home. That which you have yearned and searched for, that which you have fought and died for, and that which I will admit it brings little joy to my heart to give to you now. For I know what it means for us - not the throne which it is now your right to sit upon, or the name they will cry aloud as you do, but for how it changes what we are to the other. But here it is, my love, the truth. Whispered to me in a dream. A dream of snow and fear, of blood and death, of fire and ice.

Where I go now, I go for answers not truth.  For I have accepted the truth, I know it in my blood that he is as I am; a dragon. It is why we fit so well to the other, why we have always felt alone without the other, why it shall break me now to give him cause to leave me again.

I know too that this truth is tied somehow to this cold-blooded king who waits for us beyond the wall.  That it is tied also to the dream I have dreamed so many nights; the dark eyes of the man wielding a sword of fire - a man known to my blood and my soul - the chill of the winter as it spun in a pale dance around me, the frozen fire that woke me as it plunged deep into my heart.

Your father was not Eddard Stark, it was Rhaegar Targaryen, my brother. Your mother was Lyanna Stark. They loved each other, and they loved you, Aegon Targaryen, heir of the seven kingdoms.

I know this to be true even though I have heard no other speak it. Where I go now, I go to hear it spoken.

From Howland Reed we will go then to the Wall, where Grey Worm shall meet me with enough soldiers to face this army of dead men. Where I shall meet the face of death that awaits me.

The distance falls away from us as we race through the sky. The wind is behind us and nips like needles against my cheeks and blows the hood of my fur cloak below my eyes. The chill forces its way through the leather gloves, which clutch tight to Drogon's back. Viserion flies close by, a nudge behind us to the east, and as I turn my head toward him the hood lifts, allowing me a glance across the sky to see the first burst of sunlight spills like honey over the horizon.  Jorah holds tight to the harness, pressed close against me, and I am grateful for the warmth of him then. The security of him. Though my heart aches for Jon. It will always ache for him now, I suppose, like the emptiness my son left behind in my womb.

Had he awoken yet? How many times would he read my words before he took to his horse? Or would he command a ship? How long would the harbour men hold out against his will? Long enough.

I go now to find the answer of how to save this kingdom, our kingdom, from that which threatens it. If I fail, rule this kingdom as I know you can, as you were born to do.

Daario and the Bloodriders would keep him in Dragonstone long enough to allow the ships to leave for the Wall without him.  

Forgive those I have instructed to defy you, for when the time comes they will kneel to you and serve you as faithfully as they have served me.

And lastly, I beg you, forgive me. For I am a coward, it seems. A coward who could not bear to look in your eyes as I lost you to this truth.

I will love you, always,

Daenerys.

'Up there where the coast widens, turn him northwest,' Jorah says, his voice fighting against the pull of the wind.  'There's a stretch of marshland. Greywater is to the east of the Green Fork headwater.'  With a thought, Drogon keels west at my instruction, then straightens to fly toward a dark patch of swamp where fog rests low upon the headwater.  Viserion turns east to fly out over the coast away from us, and Rhaegal I had not heard nor seen since we crossed the vale of Arryn just before dawn. He would find us again, could sense me and his brothers wherever we went. And it is almost always better if I do not fly north with three dragons.

'They say it moves,' Jorah explains when we are low enough that Drogon's feet skim the tops of the moist-looking trees. 'Many have tried to conquer this place, but none have managed it.'

'I'm not here to conquer it, Jorah. I just want to find it.' I have not yet seen sight of any structure. Drogon does not like the thick air; he groans and snorts, his majestic head whipping back and forth irritably. Just when it feels as though we have flown in circles, a sharp beam of rising sun cuts through the boggy forest, lightening it - revealing it. 

'There!' Jorah stretches a hand past me, pointing. Greywater Watch stretches out from the swamp like a rotten hand, reaching to pull the living into its soupy depths.  Its structure is built entirely atop planks, it seems, driven straight into the depths of the muddy swamp. But as we draw closer, I see that the main keep sits upon a small rise of land. Only the towers spread around, linked by a wooden bridge, have their foundations underwater. They say it moves. Does the small island castle pull the towers with it, or is it the opposite?

I bring Drogon in upon the soft bank of the swamp, the thick air is salty and wet, already soaking my hair and my skin, the mud kicking up all around us as the dragon's great weight settles upon the muddy grassland. Jorah slides from Drogon's back into the thick mud, uncaring, while I look around for a patch of more solid ground to disembark.

Turning my body fully, I stand and traverse the roughened, scaly armour of his spine to climb down instead from his tail, which curls out further into the deeper gloom of the forest. As I step off, he moves forward into the swamp, his weight causing the ground to weaken and sink beneath him. A rumble of annoyance comes from him as he steps back, then tries to turn his vast body through the copse of the trees. Jorah pulls me out of the way as the sound of branches whipping and tearing sound behind me. In time he makes a large enough clearing to push his body up into the air, higher and higher until he slips out of sight into the unending fog.  I

I turn then to Jorah. 'You know of a way in, I presume?' I glance past him toward the castle.

'There's a hidden bridge on the other side.' His gaze sobers.  'I ask you again, Khaleesi, do you really need to know this truth?'

'I already know it. What I do now, I do for my brother, for his child - Jon. For this realm.'

Something unspeakably sad moves over Jorah's eyes. Then he nods once.

It is no wonder this place has remained unconquered. Has never been taken by any enemy before. It is almost unseen. A living, sentient thing which changes colour with each ripple of the sunlight, with each movement of the trees, each whisper of the fog.

We'd landed on the eastern side of the crannog and as Jorah's cleverly hidden walkway is on the opposite side, we must traverse the slippy grasp in which it rests. We clump heavily through the softened boggy marshland until my coat and gown are muddied, and my feet squelch with swamp water. What sort of Lord lives in such a place as this? A lord who held no dances, welcomed no guests, told no tales. 

Every now and again Jorah peers over his shoulder at me, or stretches out his hand to help me over a fallen tree hidden in the mire, a boulder laded with salty mud. No words passing between us. Only glances. As though he does not recognise the woman behind him now, or perhaps it is that he only now sees me as I have always been. As Jon has always seen me.

Finally, we come upon a small, antiquated and poorly kept dock. The structure is built into the muddy edge of the Greywater and reaches out into the mist, ghostly in the morning light. It is only when I take a step onto it do I notice a small rowing boat at the furthest end of it.

In it, a man waits.

Jorah puts his hand out, defensive, to stop me moving any closer, and walks alone toward him with his hand moving to sit on his sword. Though Jorah moves toward him, the man's eyes do not leave me. I cannot see him clearly in this misty gloom and at this distance, but I can see he is aged with a thick beard, and wears a dark and heavy cloak upon his shoulders.

'Queen Daenerys Targaryen wishes an audience with the Lord of Greywater,' Jorah tells him.

'Wishes?' The man says.  'The last queen who wished an audience with me sent a group of riders to take me to her in chains. They rode into the Neck but never rode out. Drowned in the bog under the weight of their steel.'

'I have brought no steel or horses,' I call out.

'Nay, just a dragon.'

'Then you're Howland Reed?' I ask, taking a few steps toward him along the small dock.

'I am.'

I narrow my eyes. 'How are we to know your Lord has not sent you out here to stall us? Prevent us entering this place.' I gesture with my head toward the castle.

'You don't. But two nights ago he told me you'd come. That before the sun was high on this day you'd bring your black beast down from the sky and I'd speak a truth not spoken aloud to another soul in almost twenty years. And here you are...'

I take another step toward him. I am beside Jorah now, who watches Howland Reed closely. 'He told you. You mean the messenger?'

'You know him as the Messenger,' he sighs.  'I know him as something else. He has many names.'

A shiver ripples down my spine. 'Did he also tell you this in a dream?' The thought of it makes me feel less alone.

A smile then. Warm, unexpected. 'No, your grace.'

'Then tell me where you saw him,' I command. 'Then you will tell me the truth I seek.'

'He told me right here.  He's inside, waiting for you,' says Howland Reed. 'Like I said, he knew you'd come.' He motions for us to get inside the small boat and without a thought I move to do so. Jorah, again, stops me. When I turn to look up at him, his eyes are fraught with concern.

'Khaleesi, I cannot protect you out there,' he looks out at the swamp with disquiet, and then at Howland Reed. 'If he means to harm you...'

'I mean no harm to the queen, Mormont,' comes the voice from the boat. Jorah turns to glare at him, shoulders pulled tight.

'Jorah, this is why I am here,' I say, settling a hand upon his arm. 'I must do this.'

I feel him relax. And with a gruff, reluctant nod, he moves toward the small boat. The ladder from the dock is slick and moss-covered, like everything else in this place, and my wet boots and gloves struggle to gain a good hold. Jorah though is there to steady me, then takes hold of my waist to lift me into the boat.

Up close, Howland Reed is not as old as my mind had imagined him to be from afar. He is a few years younger than Jorah, perhaps, but leaner and shorter with a face of sharp angles and dark features. A handsome man in his youth, I decide.  He looks me over with a keen curiosity, an amiable look on his face that seems entirely without malice. He takes up the oars and pushes the boat off from the dock.

'You were exiled from these lands, Mormont. Takes gall to show your face this far north again...' Howland Reed spoke quietly, gently, as though he was afraid to disturb the beasts that lurked beneath the waxy waters they slid through. The sun was higher now, but it did not breach the glowering surface of the water. 'If you do not mind me saying, for a queen who fights slavery as mightily as you do, it is a strange company you keep.'

'I do, mind. Ser Jorah has paid for his crimes tenfold and you will show him respect in my presence, Lord Reed.'

Howland bows his head, gaze steely and unbending. And we row the rest of the way in silence.

The dock at the base of the castle is as makeshift and timeworn as that of the shore. Its master reaches for a loop of well-sued rope slung across it and hooks it about the keel of the small boat and invites Jorah to disembark first. Jorah climbs onto the dock and reaches down to help me take land. Howland Reed climbs out and leads us up a set of rickety stairs toward the main keep of Greywater Watch. It is small, of a size akin to Winterfell, but its aspect seems far more imposing. A hidden, forgotten place. A cocoon amongst the marshland. Vegetation climbs across its walls, around its windows, along its pathways. It is almost beautiful. A place trapped beneath the world, inside of a dream. The other side of sleep.

Inside, the castle is warm and homely; the scent of firewood, kindling and bread baking fill the air. Howland shrugs off his cloak and offers to take mine and Jorah's. He hangs them up near a small brazier to dry.

'Your boots will dry best here too,' he tells us as he sits to pull off his own.

'Take me to him,' I command, a measure of impatience in my voice.

Howland stands, nods, and walks through the large antechamber entrance toward a door on the furthest eastern corner. Jorah flashes me a look, a question I think. Do I want him to follow?  Yes, for now. I'd like him by my side as I set eyes upon this spectre for the first time.

I move on tentative feet towards the door Howland Reed now waits without.  Inside, the room is a warmly lit library; dark wood-panelled walls, soft carpets, and books line the height of the tall space. By a grand stone fireplace, two figures sit. The first, a girl who looks up at me with enormous eyes the colour of a crow's wing, soft curls around her pale face, a book opened in her lap. She stands, then lowers her tallish body into a clumsy curtsey. There's no surprise in her face. She has been expecting me.

'Meera, my daughter,' Lord Reed tells me.

The second figure by the fire does not stand. He does not even turn in fact to address me, but I do not need him to. I know it is him. The one I seek. The messenger.

'You will stand to receive your queen,' Jorah says, gruffly.

'Ser Jorah Mormont,' the figure says after some moments. 'A scarred, exiled knight in love with a queen who shall never love him in return.' My breath starts in my throat at the bareness of the statement. He does not say it unkindly, or with any pity, only matter-of-factly.

I take a step toward the figure, feeling the burn of Jorah's shock behind me.

'You know why I am here.'

'You want to know if it is true,' he says.

'Is it?' I ask, a whisper. My body trembles.

'It is true,' Howland says. I turn to look at him. 'Lyanna gave birth to the boy they call Jon Snow. Begged Ned to keep him safe from Robert. From any who might harm him. Ned did his duty.' Howland Reed looks older, I think. Older than he did only moments ago, as though having spoken the words aloud, something which has kept him alive all these years, has left him.

I look back at the figure, then move to sit in the seat vacated by the girl.  Gods, he is a boy. No more, no less. But the power that seeps from him is staggering. Oppressive, almost. 'Do you know how to defeat the king beyond the wall? Rhysgrom.'

He turns to me then, eyes unblinking, frighteningly empty, eerily calm. 'Yes. I know what it is he seeks.'

'And you will tell me.'

'I will. I will tell you both.'

I look at Jorah. 'Both? Tell us now.'

'Soon,' says the boy. 'Leave us,' he does not turn his head, but it is undoubtedly a command.  Howland and the girl Meera move immediately toward the door.  Jorah remains still. It's only when I give him a nod does he turn to exit the library, not before another sad look crosses his weathered features. The doors close behind them, leaving me and the boy alone.

'You have many questions you'd like to ask me,' he says.

I did. Many and more. About what magic took him inside other people's dreams, how it allowed him to move with them through time with only a thought. What gift of the gods did he possess that he could see all that would happen and all that had happened.

'Yes.. I do.'

'We have time.'

Tears well up behind my eyes, unexpected, unbidden. 'Did my child suffer?' I whisper.

'There is always suffering,' he says, gentle. 'There has always been and will always be suffering. It is only the matter of how much, and who shall suffer greatest.  The suffering of many, or the suffering of a few. You have always had the power to decide this, Daenerys Targaryen. As you will decide now.'

'I don't understand.'

A small nod. And then his head turns a fraction, as though he hears something in the room beyond, or perhaps he has heard it in a time long past.

'This is the greatest war you have fought, shall fight. After this, it will be peace. This is certain.'

'With Jon as king?'

'With Jon as king.'

'Then we can win?  We have dragonglass, twenty thousand soldiers, a wall of ice. I command three dragons...'

A soft shake of his head. 'It is not enough.'

'Then tell me what is!' I sit forward in my seat. 'Tell me how to defeat him! Do not make me risk the lives of my citizens if you know another way. Do not make me risk the safety of this realm and those I love if there is another way to save it! If it must be I, then it will be I! Tell me now or so help me, I shall burn this place to the ground with you inside it!'

He turns his head back to fix me with that same focussed yet distanced stare. 'You know how to defeat him. You have always known - inside you. You have only come because you did not believe in what I gifted you in sleep.'

'It was not a gift!' I cry. 'You think it is a gift to know that the man I love shall never look at me the same again?! Shall never love me the same again! That the very nature of his existence destroys everything that I thought I was? It is not a gift you gave me... it was a curse.'  

'You do not see yet, you are clouded by love. But you have it within you, what is within you is what will defeat him. The dragon has three heads,' he intones.

'We are dead. All but Jon and I are dead.' And soon there will be one. A Targaryen alone in the world. I feel weary now. As though I have not slept in many nights, bones of stone and blood of sand.

'There is one who shall come. He who was promised.' 

I lift my head, glowering at him. 'You speak in riddles, as you did while I slept. Who has been promised?'

'He who shall be the last to cry. The last given. The last taken. The Prince who was promised will bring the dawn, a prince brought forth by a song of ice and fire.'

A shiver of horror peels over me. The Prince who was promised. I'd heard those words before. From a red woman. A prince... the son of a king...  Or the son of an heir.  'Jon...' I gasp. Panic floods me at the very idea of Jon being in danger. I stand and glower at him.  'You will tell me everything now. I have had enough of your riddles and games! Tell me how I shall defeat him!'

In the next moment, the library doors are thrown open. I whip round to see Jon standing there, cheeks flushed and eyes a black fire. How is it possible? He could have ridden this far, this quickly. He could only have gotten here had he....

Rhaegal. Rhaegal brought him here. Rhaegal, named for my brother, for Jon's father, brought him to me. A surge of something so powerful rushes through me then. Animal in its ferocity. Blindless lust, need, union. He is me as I am him.

'Hello brother,' the messenger says. 'I have been waiting for you.'

All manner of emotion flits across Jon's face as he looks from me to.... his brother? Fury, confusion, relief and then finally a glimmer of joy.

I blink in shock, looking between them both.

'Bran?' Jon whispers, stunned, his voice scratched raw.

'You are in time, your grace' Bran says. 'We are about to speak of your son. Sit with us.'