~ Dany ~

'You look magnificent, my queen,' Missandei says, her nut-brown eyes glittering with approval. 'If this northman refuses you then he is the biggest fool in the seven kingdoms and beyond it.'

I smile faintly. She still does not approve of my seeking out this union, though I'm certain if she knew the quiet desires I now harbour in my heart she would feel differently.

'I did not tell him of the witch's prophecy,' I admit quietly.

It had been my plan. To tell him this marriage would be an alliance only, to unite the realm only. For we would not have heirs and there would be no family borne of the union.

But for some reason, I could not bring myself to say the words to him.

They felt out of place on the pretty walls of Winterfell, and they felt unwelcome in the dim light of the tent while we spoke of dead men.

Saying the words aloud to Missandei now feels like a chain being unshackled. A bond loosened. Miri Maz Duur's words haunted me endlessly. Bitter words lashing against any contentment I found.

She draws close to me, pain hardening her features. 'It makes you no less of a woman, or queen. This is your pain to share or keep inside your heart, Khaleesi.'

Tears prick threateningly at my eyes. 'But what man, what king, would take to wife a woman who could not give him children?'

'Not all men are driven by such things, ' she says, lowering her gaze.

Guilt slams into my chest as I realise what I have done. Reaching out, I take her hands in mine.

'Forgive me,' I beg her. 'I did not mean to cause you pain. It was unthinking of me.'

Missandei lifts her eyes, smiling sadly. 'There is nothing to forgive, your pain is greater than my own.'

I pull her into a soft embrace, inhaling the warm fragrance of her skin. She smells of sun and salted air. Of Essos. It causes a pang of loss to rush at me, nostalgia warming me like it's burning sun.

Over her shoulder, Greyworm slips into the tent. His eyes widen immediately with concern as he looks at his love.

'Jon Snow is here, my queen,' He announces.

I step back from Missandei and squeeze her hand softly in mine. Then, quietly: 'You know if there is anything I can grant you to bring you joy you need only ask it of me.'

She smiles, nodding before gently slipping her hands from mine. Greyworm casts a look of longing at her as she passes him, then lifts his eyes back to me, serious.

'Send him in,' I command. 'I will speak with him alone.' Greyworm spins on his heel and exits the tent.

Alone in the dim dawn light I try to calm my breathing. Anticipation at seeing him again spreading like forest fire through my veins. There is a flutter of panic too - duller and less vivid - at the idea of him refusing me, at the idea of leaving here without him by my side.

I smooth my hands over the layered silk of my gown before bringing them together in front, linking my fingers together in a solid grip, steadying myself.

What is taking him so long? There is not much between the entrance and the appro—.

He enters, swift and with purpose.

The very sight of him causes my heart to leap upward as though on a dragons wing, the world dropping away below me.

The thick lengths of his hair are tied back from his face, the wild curls tamed and smoothed, his beard neatly trimmed around his jaw and throat. He wears a dark fur cloak with two roaring silver direwolves holding it closed across his broad chest. Beneath it the leather of his doublet shines, clean and well-oiled.

As his eyes meet mine they soften a measure, warmth flowing from them as he drinks in the thin crown of silver woven into my hair, then down over the folds of my gown. He bows, low, properly for the first time, holding himself there for a beat and then another.

When he lifts his head and meets my eyes I note there is no white in them, only the soft glimmer of the brazier in the deep black, only the dark hunger of a wolf stalking its prey.

A flash of imagery then: the hot wet sound of bodies moving together, searing hot skin scratched raw, deep cries of pleasure, the howl of a wolf, the roar of a dragon.

There was no other in the seven kingdoms who would do now. I would have Jon Snow or I would have no man.

'Your grace,' he says, his voice rough but like silk upon my skin.

'You have remembered the proper address I see?' I challenge lightly. My voice sounds weak. I do not care for it..

A small half smirk tugs at the side of his mouth.  'I'm here as you commanded me,' he says, stronger than I.  As though it is my weakness that strengthens him.

I nod. 'You have brought your answer?'

'I have.'

I'm certain then that he has come to refuse me. So certain that a great chasm of loss opens up in the pit of my stomach and I am falling into it. Alone.

'I accept your alliance, your grace,' he says quietly and without preamble. 'I'll be your husband and consort.'

'What?' I blink, my voice a weak whisper.

'I accept.'

'You accept?'

'I do.' He watches me carefully, his dark eyes cloaked. The rush of relief is loud, louder than the sound of my fall, and it takes me a moment to recover. When I do only one thought remains, one consideration, one truth that I know now I must reveal to him. He came to me in the dead of night to reveal that which weighed heaviest on his mind — even though he knew how it would sound. Now I must do the same. This alliance would begin on truth. On facing that which frightened us most of all together.

'I am gladdened by it, by your agreement to this alliance,' I tell him. I feel more than gladdened, I feel weightless and light and filled with hope. But as always, I feel the whip of the witch's promise with more force. 'However, there is something you must know. Something I long ago promised myself would have no bearing on my rule. But which any husband I took would know from the first.' A slight frown creases his features as he waits for me to go on. I take a deep breath and meet his eye. 'I will never give you an heir.'

His frown deepens, a strange darkness creeping into his eyes. 'Why do you say that?'

'Because I cannot have children.'

There's such a wealth of emotion on his face then that it is difficult to discern which is strongest. Confusion, grief, suspicion, sadness, anger.

'How do you know this to be true?' He asks, eyes narrow.

'There was a promise spoken to me... by a witch I begged save my first husband.' Pain lances at me, the memory sharp even now. Drogo in my arms, Rhaego sliding unformed from my body, the mass of flesh that should have been a prince. That should have been the Stallion Who Would Mount The World. 'Instead she took my husband from me, and then my unborn son. By her promise I would never have another.' Latent bitter rage twists inside me, my blood coursing fiery and satisfied at the memory of her strapped to the funeral pyre, the scent of her flesh, her crumbling bones.

When I look at Jon I find his eyes uncharacteristically soft.

'I'm sorry,' he says, gentle.

When his gaze turns thoughtful, studying me, I tilt my head with curiosity.

'What?' I ask him.

'It is only.... well, has it occurred to you that perhaps this witch merely wanted to cause you pain?'

'She certainly wanted to cause me pain.'

'Then perhaps her promise was no more than the bitter words of an enemy,' he says. 'I have never known witches to be the most trustworthy of women.'

'You have known many witches?' I ask.

'Aye. One at least...' he rubs a hand over his chest, absently.

There is so much calm reason in his words that it causes a spark of hope to light within me. But what did he know of blood magic and the curses of godswives? He knew nothing. Would not Daario's child have quickened within me if the witch had lied? How many times had we lain together? More than I could count.

The witch spoke true. I felt it within me. It was an emptiness. A barren womb. A charred graveyard filled with the bones of the children I would not bear. Who knows how many there may have been. Who knows what Jon's child might look like if it were allowed to be born. A princess with his dark eyes and my silver hair, or a prince with his dark hair and my violet eyes? Perhaps both. My heart constricts with loss.

'My dragons are the only children I'll ever have,' I tell him, flatly. 'If you still wish accept this marriage then know that it will be a childless one. Otherwise I free you, without retribution, from the binds of it.' I expect him to be silent, to consider it far longer than he does.

'I have made my decision,' he says without hesitation. 'The words of a witch will not sway me.'

There is so much strength in him then, in his words and his eye that I feel crushed by it.  I certainly cannot trust my voice, so I merely nod.

'I do have one request I permit you grant me,' he says blinking away the fire in his gaze.

'You have already made many requests of me, Jon Snow. Perhaps more than any man I have ever known.' There is a smile in my voice and it causes Jon to smile a little too. The softening of his mouth sets something inside me to flutter. 'Very well. Make your request.'

'I request we be married here, in the north, before the old gods.'

'I had counted upon such — I have no abiding love for the seven either. Though I am told it is unwise to announce such a thing to the people of the realm,' I say lightly and Jon nods his agreement, half smiling still. 'I grant your request. We may be married here. But we will need to be joined before the seven when we return south — or they will forever question the validity of our marriage.'

'You think they will not question it anyway? You're marrying a northern bastard who may never give you an heir.'

There is no bitterness in his tone, only quiet resignation. Of course I had considered both of these points. And had arrived at a solution for the first at least.

'You are the last remaining son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,' I reply. 'Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. I have no care for the usurper's rule but I know that your father served him faithfully and with honour. The realm knows it too.' When it's clear he does not understand my meaning I take a step toward him, close enough that the faint scent of leather and soap tickles my nose once more. I take a deep breath of him. 'Your bastard's name will die here and now. I will make you Lord Jon Stark of Winterfell if that is what you desire?'

His mouth falls open a little, his throat moving beneath the high collar of his doublet. The shadow moves slow across his eyes as he steps back from me. 'Of course a crown is not enough to make me worthy of you,' he glowers.

'What? No. I said no such thing.'

'Of course Daenerys Targaryen, descendant of the great dragon himself, must wed a legitimate son of a Lord.  After all, a low born bastard wearing a crown is still a low born bastard.' His mouth is twisted into a half sneer but there's pain in his eyes too. My face feels hot and my throat dry as I move towards him.

'Jon, no. You misunderstand me. That is not why I—.'

'Oh, I understand perfectly, your grace,' he snaps.

Several terrible beats of silence follow where I consider what words I might use to calm him, to smooth away my folly, but I'm afraid to make the matter worse, to cause him more pain. So I stand quietly, waiting for the storm to pass.

'My name is Jon Snow, whether it pleases you or not — it was this low born bastard the people of the north named king, and it is this low born bastard who you will take as your husband. If it is a legitimate Lord you desire then I'm sure there are still some left alive somewhere.'

When he turns on his heel and marches for the entrance I start after him. 

'I have not given you leave to go!' I call out, my voice tight with consternation and panic.

He stops, shoulders tense and back straight. I want to demand him look at me but I feel something in the air that I can neither see nor control. When he finally turns to me, his eyes are hard like dragonglass and I see the dark wolf in him once more.

'I may not be your equal, but I am still a king,' he says quietly. 'I do not require your leave.'

And yet he does not move to go. He stands where he is, staring back at me, his breathing deep and fast, his eyes black as a moonless sky.

'Very well,' I say after some moments. 'You may go.' He does not move, not immediately, before finally he lets out a breath, turns, and strides from the tent.

Letting out a deep breath of my own I move to the divan and sink down into it, squeezing at the root of the ache which has begun behind my eyes, in my temples. It is a few moments before I hear someone enter.

I lift my head to see Tyrion dressed in his hand's finery, his eyes swollen from lack of sleep, concern creasing his brow. 

'What happened? I was certain he would accept? We spoke at length before the sun rose — I thought he understood it was the best option for the realm, for you both?'

'He did accept.'

Tyrion frowns, looks at the exit, then back at me, confused. 'But I saw him storm out... brooding heavily — though I suppose that is nothing out of the ordinary — it did not go as planned?'

'It did not,' I sigh, dreadfully tired all at once. 'I offered to make him a Stark, which he took as an insult. I thought...' what had I thought? Had I done it for him or for myself as he accused? 'I suppose I thought it would please him...'

'Ah,' he says.

'I did not intend it as he took it. I did not mean to lessen who he was... I only... I do not know,' I sigh, despairingly. 'I know nothing of him. I know nothing of what might please him or anger him. Am I really to marry a man I do not know, Tyrion? How am I to rule with him?'

'You already know more about him than you did about either Drogo or Hizdhar Zo Loraq when you married them.'

'Do I?'

'Of course you do,' he scoffs. 'You know he is a man who places family and honour above everything, who gave his people hope and something to believe in again. You know he hates the very idea of you taking another to your bed, and now you know that he is quietly proud of his bastard name.'

I blink in surprise. 'He hates the idea of me taking another to my bed? I do not know this?'

'Oh, well, now you do.' He waves his hand, dismissive.

'You said you spoke with him at length before the sun rose? Of me I assume?'

Tyrion nods. 'And of him...'

'And who shares my bed was a topic of discussion?' I take no care to hide my disapproval.

'Only for a moment. But long enough to know that the very idea of you taking Daario to your bed again makes him maddeningly jealous.'

'And why would he think such a thing?'

He looks down and brushes a piece of lint from his breeches.

I sigh. 'Because you told him I might do such a thing...'

'I may have... hinted at... the merest possibility of you considering such a thing. To help him arrive at that which was obvious but which he was stubbornly intent on denying. He is half in love with you already, he needed only a small push to realise it.'

I frown. 'Jon Snow is not in any way in love with me, Tyrion.'

'Then you are both as blind to it as the other,' he remarks. A thoughtful silence fills the air. 'There was a request that he made — a matter which was troubling him.'

'He wants to marry here before his own gods, yes, I granted him it.'

'No, not that. Though if you granted it you know you will require to take the vows again before the seven?'

'I know this, yes.'

Tyrion nods. 'No, his request was of a more... political nature.'

I tilt my head, gesturing with my eyes for him to continue.

'With Jon in the south with you there would require to be a new warden of the north.'

'There would,' I agree.

'Jon asks you name Sansa.'

Pressing my lips together I sit back. 'Sansa...'

'It is a good suggestion,' Tyrion adds. I raise an eyebrow at him, questioningly. 'By doing this you guarantee her loyalty to you.'

'By doing this it would give her the power to raise an army against me.'

Tyrion frowns. 'I do not believe that is what she wants. For what purpose? I believe she wants peace, just as you do. As we all do. She would not betray Jon's trust in such a way. He is her brother — the only family she has left. No, I believe it guarantees not only her loyalty to you, but the norths loyalty as well.'

'You told me marrying Jon Snow would guarantee the North's loyalty to me?'

'Yes. And this only serves to strengthen that loyalty.'

'You promised him this,' I say, watching him carefully.

'I knew you would see the reason in it.'

'You are my hand, your job is to advise me, not to make my decisions for me.' I stand, crossing the tent to pour myself some wine. 'The title was not yours to bestow.'

His argument for Sansa as warden has sense in it, but I also see the threat in it. In her. Shining as bright as the fire of her hair. She would not favour this match between her brother and I, her eyes as she looked at me told me that.

The suspicion and resentment had been crystal clear in the ice blue gaze. Perhaps she was in love with him after all? Perhaps despite all that Tyrion had said, there was something in the rumours that lingered around Eddard Stark's two remaining children?

That she was capable I had no doubt. She was strong-willed certainly. She had survived the abuses of men who sought to use her for their own gains — as I had. And she had the favour and support of her people — more than I had. Was that deep down what bothered me most of all? That she was loved by the people when I was not? That she was loved by the people who I longed would love me? That she was loved by Jon who I longed would love me?

If I granted this and she betrayed me... how would he handle what I would require to do then?

'Baelish,' I say, turning to him. 'He appeared close with her after the feast did you not think? How do I know they do not plot together against me? That I would be handing her the weapon by which to do it?'

He considers this, his quick mind twisting with calculation and contemplation.

'It is likely he does try and influence her,' he agrees. 'As he tries to influence everyone around him. However Sansa is too smart to get caught up in any web of his. She is not a fool. And she is not the girl I left in Kings Landing.'

His certainty is almost always enough to convince me of any path. His certainty has never failed me. He stayed by my side as his family's bannermen were destroyed; as men he had known all his life were put to the fire and the sword. He did not waver when his sister was brought before me and turned to ash by Drogon's fire. His brother had not been found amongst the dead at Kings Landing, and whether he hides somewhere in the seven kingdoms, or somewhere across the Narrow sea did not matter. He will be found. Tyrion has assured me of it. I'm certain he will not fail me in this either.

But for this first time my mind is not swayed by my Hand or those around me who have always served me well.

For the first time it is swayed by another. By one I know nothing of. 

By the man who will share my bed and my counsel and my rule.

By my husband.

This is what Jon desires and so it will be done. His sister will be named warden of the north by my decree and we will marry here before his old gods and never again shall I allow his bastard name come between us.

'Very well,' I nod. 'I will name Sansa Stark Warden of the North. Make the arrangements for us to wed here as soon as possible. I want to go home.'

Tyrion nods, looking relived. 'It will be done, your grace.'

'Now we must talk of something else,' I say, moving to sit beside him once more. 'something which may render all of this talk meaningless.' Tyrion, frowns, sitting forward in the seat to take the wine jug from me. 'Were you aware that there is an army of dead men beyond the wall marching toward us?'