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.
when he looked somewhat presentable, he walked toward the door, reached out, and turned the handle. and there she stood. as clear as day. what the hell had he been drinking? befuddled eyes stare, gawping in dismay. after a few seconds, jon realised his jaw had sank, and wound it tightly back to it’s usual solemn state. thoughts had left, but they began to crawl back in now, muddled by the wine. “why — i...” he stumbled over his words, slur more apparent than he would have wished, knowing there was no way she wouldn’t have realised. jon shook his head, trying to reshuffle whatever the hell was going on in his brain and make sense of what he was seeing. “what are you — ?”
