Jon Snow
The silence in the room was heavier than a wool cloak soaked in winter rain. It was a silence that screamed, a silence that felt like the split second before an avalanche buried you alive.
Jon Snow sat frozen in his bed, his breath shallow to spare his battered ribs, staring at the impossible creature curled in his palm. It was small, no larger than a kitten, with scales as black as midnight glass and veins that pulsed with the color of fresh blood. Heat radiated from it, a dry, intense warmth that seeped into his skin.
Arya was kneeling by the bedside, her mouth slightly open, her grey eyes wide and unblinking. For once, his little sister, who always had a retort, a question, or a complaint, was utterly speechless.
The dragon blinked. Its eyes were molten gold with vertical slit pupils. It tilted its head, looking directly at Jon, and let out a soft, trilling chirp that sounded like a bird singing inside a furnace.
"Jon," Arya whispered, her voice trembling. "That's... that's a..."
"I know," Jon said, his voice raspy. He swallowed, trying to wet a throat that felt like it had been scrubbed with sand. "I know what it is."
"But it can't be," she insisted, looking from the creature to Jon's face. "They're dead. They've been dead for a hundred years. The last one was a stunted thing, no bigger than a dog. This... this came from a stone."
"A stone I bled on," Jon murmured, looking at the smear of red on the black shell fragments scattered across the sheets.
"You sang to it," Arya reminded him. "You sang in High Valyrian and it hatched. Jon... how did you do that?"
"I don't know," Jon admitted, and the panic began to coil in his gut, tight and cold. "I don't know, Arya. I just... I felt like I had to."
He looked down at the dragon. It was preening its wing now, a membrane of dark leather stretched over delicate bones. Dragons were the blood of Old Valyria. They were fire made flesh. They bonded with the dragonlords, with the Targaryens.
I am a Stark, Jon thought desperately. I am a Snow. My father is Eddard Stark. My mother was...
His mind halted. Ashara Dayne. That was what he had believed. That was what the purple eyes suggested. But the Daynes were not dragonlords. They were ancient, yes, and they had the look of Valyria sometimes, but they did not ride dragons. They did not hatch them from stone eggs that had been cold for centuries.
"How?" Jon asked the empty air. "I have no Valyrian blood. Father... Father is North. The First Men."
"Maybe it's a mistake?" Arya offered weakly.
"A mistake?" Jon looked at her incredulously. "Nature doesn't make mistakes like this, Arya. This is... this is magic. Blood magic."
The dragon finished cleaning its wing and looked up at Jon again. It shuffled closer, its tiny claws pricking his skin but not breaking it, and rubbed its head against his thumb. A low, rhythmic thrumming started in its chest, a purr. It was a sound of absolute contentment.
"It likes you," Arya said, leaning in closer. She reached out a hand, her fingers trembling slightly. "It's so small. Let me..."
"Arya, wait—" Jon started to warn her, but he was too late.
As soon as Arya's finger came within an inch of the black scales, the dragon transformed. The purr vanished, replaced instantly by a sharp hiss that sounded like water hitting a hot iron. The little head snapped around, jaws opening to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth, and it snapped at Arya's finger with frightening speed.
Arya yanked her hand back with a yelp, stumbling away from the bed. "Seven Hells!"
The dragon kept its eyes on her, its neck arched, a tiny plume of grey smoke escaping its nostrils. It looked fierce, protective, and utterly hostile. Then, as if deciding the threat was gone, it turned back to Jon, rubbed its cheek against his palm, and resumed purring.
Jon stared at the creature, then at his sister. "It seems," he said slowly, "she's particular."
"Particular? It tried to bite me!" Arya rubbed her hand, looking offended. "I found the egg! I brought the chest! Ungrateful beast."
"It's not a pet, Arya," Jon said, the reality of the situation crashing down on him with the weight of the Red Keep itself. "It's a monster. A beautiful, terrible monster."
He looked around the room, the stone walls of the Tower of the Hand, the locked door. Suddenly, the walls felt very close.
"We have to hide it," Jon said, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs. "Gods, Arya, we are in the Red Keep. King Robert is a few floors away. If he finds out... if he sees this..."
"He hates Targaryens," Arya said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"He hates them more than anything in the world," Jon confirmed grimly. "If he knows I hatched a dragon... he won't just kill the dragon, Arya. He'll kill me. He might kill Father for hiding it. He'll kill all of us."
Arya's face paled. She looked at the door as if expecting the Kingsguard to burst in that very second. "Where do we put it? The Crypts where the dragon skulls are?"
"We can't get to the crypts. I can't walk." Jon gestured to his bandaged torso. "And we can't leave it alone. It's a baby. It will cry, or burn something."
"We keep it here," Arya said decisively. "In your room. It's tiny. We can put it in the chest when the servants come."
"For now," Jon said, shaking his head. "Look at it, Arya. It's small now, but dragons... they don't stay small. They grow. Fast." He tried to shift his position and winced as pain flared in his shoulder. "In a month, this thing could be the size of a small dog. In a year? The size of a direwolf. It will need to fly. It will need to hunt. We can't keep a dragon in a tower bedroom forever."
"Maybe it won't grow that fast?" Arya suggested hopefully.
"It's a dragon, not a puppy," Jon snapped. "Sorry. I just... I don't know what to do."
"We leave," Arya said, her eyes lighting up with a sudden idea. "We leave right now. Tonight. We pack the dragon in the chest, steal horses, and ride for Winterfell. By the time they realize we're gone, we'll be past the Trident."
"I can't ride, Arya," Jon said softly. "I can barely sit up. Maester Pycelle said a month before I can travel properly. If I tried to ride a horse now, the jostling would tear my insides apart. I'd be bleeding out before we reached the city gates."
Arya's shoulders slumped. She looked at the dragon, then back at Jon, her expression miserable. "So we're trapped."
"For now," Jon said. "We're trapped."
The dragon chirped again, louder this time, and nudged Jon's hand with its snout. It opened its mouth, flashing a gullet that was red and steaming.
"It's hungry," Arya observed. "What do dragons eat?"
Jon looked at the creature. "I... I don't know. Stories say they ate sheep. Sometimes horses."
"It's too small for a sheep," Arya said, tapping her chin. "Maybe milk? When you found the direwolves we fed them milk."
She grinned suddenly. "I could go to the kennels. Steal some bitch milk."
Jon let out a laugh, which turned into a wheeze of agony. He clutched his side, eyes squeezing shut. "Don't... don't make me laugh," he gasped. "Gods... bitch milk."
"It worked for the wolves," Arya defended, though she was smiling too.
"Dragons aren't wolves, little sister," Jon said, recovering his breath. "Dragons are fire. Fire doesn't drink milk." He looked at the dragon's sharp teeth. "It needs meat. Raw meat. And probably cooked by its own fire."
Arya made a face. "Raw meat. Like the hounds."
"Exactly like the hounds," Jon said. "Can you... can you get some? From the kitchens? But Arya, you have to be careful. You can't just ask for a bowl of raw bloody beef. They'll think you're mad, or worse, that you're feeding a wild animal."
"I'm a Stark," Arya said, lifting her chin. "I'll tell them it's for... for Syrio Forel. For a Braavosi training ritual. They believe anything about foreigners."
"Smart," Jon admitted. "Just... be quick. And don't let anyone follow you back."
Arya nodded and slipped out the door, silent as a shadow.
Jon was alone.
The room felt suddenly larger, the shadows deeper. The candles had burned low, casting flickering shapes against the stone walls. Jon looked down at the dragon. It had crawled up his chest, carefully avoiding the bandages as if it sensed his injury, and settled near his collarbone. Its heat was a comfort against the chill of the room.
"What are you?" Jon whispered to it. "And what am I?"
The dragon blinked one golden eye at him, offering no answers.
Jon leaned his head back against the pillow, his mind drifting. He thought of the woman who had visited him in the dark. The one with the purple eyes, eyes just like his. Older sister, she had called herself. Valonqar, she had called him.
Ashara Dayne... everyone said she was his mother. He had looked in the mirror and seen her eyes in his own face. He had not heard that Ashara had a child before Harrenhal, before she had the chance to dance with father, and to fall in love.
And now this. A dragon.
Did Ashara have Targaryen blood? Jon wondered. The Daynes were old. Perhaps, generations ago, a Targaryen princess had married into Starfall. Perhaps that drop of blood was enough.
But that felt thin. A drop of blood shouldn't be enough to wake stone eggs. This felt stronger.
My mother, Jon thought, the word feeling strange and heavy. She must have been Valyrian. Not just a little bit. She must have been of the blood.
He tried to picture her. Not Ashara Dayne, but someone else. A woman from Lys, perhaps? A dragonseed from Dragonstone? But Father... Father was the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. Would he have bedded a random Valyrian woman during the war?
Nothing made sense. The pieces of the puzzle were all there, the purple eyes, the singing voice, and now the dragon, but Jon couldn't make them fit into a picture he recognized.
The dragon let out a hungry mewl, interrupting his brooding. It gnawed gently on the woolen blanket covering Jon.
"Patience," Jon murmured, stroking its head with a single finger. The scales were smooth as glass but hot to the touch. "Arya is coming."
The door creaked open a few minutes later, and Arya slipped back inside. She looked triumphant. She carried a plate with bread and honeycomb, likely a decoy, but there was a strange bulge under her tunic.
"Did anyone see you?" Jon asked.
"Just a scullery maid. I told her I was hungry." Arya set the plate on the table and then reached into her tunic.
Jon expected a wrapped chunk of beef, or maybe some bacon. Instead, Arya pulled out a dead pigeon. Its neck was twisted, its feathers ruffled and grey.
Jon stared at it. "Arya... is that a pigeon?"
"From the rookery window," she said casually, dropping the bird onto the stone floor. "I grabbed it and snapped its neck. It was faster than going to the kitchens."
"You just... grabbed it?" Jon looked at his little sister. She was nine years old and she killed things with the ease of a seasoned hunter. "You are truly a wolf."
"It's meat," Arya said with a shrug. "Look."
The dragon had smelled the blood. It practically launched itself from Jon's chest, its wings flapping uselessly as it tumbled onto the bedsheets and then scrambled down to the floor. It moved with a terrifying speed, a black blur of hunger.
It pounced on the pigeon, letting out a savage hiss. Smoke poured from its nostrils as it bit into the bird, tearing through feathers and skin. There was a sickening crunch of small bones.
Arya watched, fascinated. "It likes it."
"It's a predator," Jon said, watching the tiny creature devour the bird. It was messy. Blood stained the stone floor. "We'll have to clean that up before the servants come."
Arya took a step forward. "It looks happy now. Maybe I can pet it?"
"Arya, no!" Jon barked.
She froze. "Why? It's eating."
"Exactly," Jon said. "Touch a dog while it's eating, you get bitten. Touch a dragon while it's eating? You'll lose a finger. Maybe your whole hand."
Arya pulled her hand back, looking sulky. "It's not fair. It likes you."
"I hatched it," Jon said quietly. "I suppose that counts for something."
The smell of the raw meat and the sight of the bloody feast made Jon's stomach turn. He hadn't eaten well since before the melee, and the nausea of the pain medication was still lingering.
Arya noticed his pale face. "You haven't touched your food." She gestured to the bread and honey. "Do you need help? I can feed you if your arms hurt."
"I can eat by myself!" Jon snapped, his voice harsh. He grabbed the bread with his good hand, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. "I'm not a cripple, Arya! Stop treating me like a baby!"
Arya flinched as if he had slapped her. Her face fell, hurt flashing in her grey eyes. She took a step back. "I was just trying to help."
The anger drained out of Jon as quickly as it had come, leaving him feeling hollow and ashamed. He closed his eyes, exhaling a long, shaky breath. "I know. I know you were." He opened his eyes and looked at her. "I'm sorry, Arya. Truly. The pain... it makes me wretched. I'm useless like this, and I hate it."
Arya's expression softened. She walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. "You're not useless. You fought the Mountain. You won."
"I survived and now I can't even put on my own boots," Jon muttered. He took a bite of the bread, forcing himself to chew and swallow. It tasted like ash.
"What are the chances?" Jon asked after a moment of silence, watching the dragon finish the last of the pigeon. "That a dragon would bond with someone with no Valyrian blood?"
Arya wrapped her arms around her knees. "Low. Old Nan says dragons only answer to the Blood of the Dragon. She says they roast anyone else who tries to tame them."
"Exactly," Jon said. "It acts like I own it. Like Ghost."
"Maybe..." Arya chewed her lip. "Maybe your mother was Queen Rhaella?"
Jon choked on his bread. He coughed painfully, glaring at his sister. "Have you lost your wits? Queen Rhaella? She was the Mad King's wife. She lived in King's Landing and Dragonstone. Father was fighting a war. When would they have met? How?"
"I don't know!" Arya defended. "Maybe she escaped? Maybe Father saved her?"
"It's impossible," Jon said, dismissing it. "Father was North raising an army, none of it fits."
"Then maybe it's just because you were the first thing it saw," Arya suggested, leaning over to watch the dragon licking the blood from its chops. "Like ducks. Ducks follow the first thing they see."
"It's not a duck, Arya," Jon said dryly. "And I don't think dragons imprint like ducks."
But deep down, he knew she was reaching. He knew he was reaching. There was a connection here, a tether of magic that went from his chest to that creature on the floor. He could feel it. It wasn't just sight. It was blood.
A scratching sound at the door interrupted them.
"Ghost," Jon said.
Arya hopped off the bed and unlocked the door. The great white direwolf padded into the room silently. He looked at Arya, gave her hand a brief lick, and then turned his red eyes toward the center of the room.
He froze.
The hackles on Ghost's neck rose instantly. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, his ears pinning back against his skull. The scent of reptile, of fire filled his nose.
He looked at Jon, his red eyes filled with confusion and a profound sense of betrayal. What is this? Why is this here?
"Ghost, easy," Jon said soothingly. "Easy, boy."
Ghost let out a low growl, stepping between the bed and the dragon, placing himself as a barrier.
The dragon, having finished its meal, looked up. Seeing the wolf, it didn't back down. It puffed out its chest, spread its tiny wings to look larger, and let out a piercing shriek that made Arya cover her ears.
"Hey!" Jon said sharply. "Stop it. Both of you."
He looked at the wolf. "Ghost. Be kind. She is... she is your new sister."
Ghost looked at Jon as if he had just suggested they eat rocks. He chuffed, shaking his big white head, and looked back at the dragon with disdain. That is not a wolf. That is a fire-breathing, overgrown worm.
But the command held. Ghost stopped growling. He walked over to the bed, and rested his massive head on Jon's uninjured leg, staring at the dragon. Mine, the posture said. This human is mine.
The dragon chirped, seemingly unimpressed by the display. It scrambled up the bedpost, hopped onto the mattress, and climbed right up Jon's chest to his uninjured shoulder. It curled its tail around Jon's neck and hissed at Ghost.
Jon sighed, feeling the weight of the wolf on his leg and the heat of the dragon on his shoulder. Ice and Fire.
"They'll get used to each other," Arya said, though she sounded doubtful. "Eventually."
"I hope so," Jon said. "Before they tear the room apart."
He looked at the dragon, curled against his neck, its golden eyes slowly closing now that its belly was full. It was a beautiful, terrifying thing. And it was his.
"What will you call her?" Arya asked. "Does she have a name? Or is it just 'Dragon'?"
Jon looked at the creature. He looked at the deep black scales, absorbing the candlelight, and the veins of red that pulsed beneath them, bright and vibrant. It looked like a heart beating in the dark. It looked like the blood he had shed to wake her.
"No," Jon said softly. "Not Dragon."
He reached up and stroked the creature's head. This time, even Arya saw the way it leaned into his touch, the bond undeniable.
"Her name is RedHeart."
Arya smiled. "RedHeart. It's a good name."
"Aye," Jon whispered, closing his eyes as exhaustion began to pull at him again.
Jaime Lannister
"Upjumped stewards," Cersei spat, the words dripping with venom. She paused before the Myrish mirror, glaring at her own reflection as if it were an enemy combatant. "That is all they are, Jaime. Stewards with delusions of grandeur. They grow flowers and they grow wheat, and they think that makes them kings."
Jaime took a sip of wine. It was good vintage, rich and oaky, but it did little to dull the headache blooming behind his eyes. "They are the second wealthiest house in the realm, sweet sister. And they have the largest army. Calling them stewards seems... reductive."
Cersei whirled on him, her green eyes flashing. "Don't take their side. It makes you sound weak."
"I'm not taking sides," Jaime said lazily. "I'm stating facts. Robert needs their gold, and the city needs their grain. Unless you plan to feed the smallfolk on Lannister pride?"
"The Queen of Thorns," Cersei muttered, resuming her pacing. "Horrible old crone. She looked at me as if I were a servant who had served the soup cold. And that granddaughter of hers... that little doe-eyed creature." Cersei's hands curled into claws at her sides. "Margaery. She smiles as if she knows a jest that no one else can hear."
Jaime sighed. He had heard this litany for the better part of an hour. The Tyrells were ambitious, yes. Mace Tyrell was a buffoon who thought himself a great general, and Olenna Redwyne had a tongue sharper than a Valyrian steel dagger. But Cersei's hatred seemed to stem from something far more personal than politics.
"She wants to impress Joffrey in a foolish attempt to convince him to fuck her, so Robert will have no choice but to wed Joffrey with her," Jaime reminded her. "She's supposed to smile."
"Not at him," Cersei hissed. She stopped in the center of the room, her chest heaving. "You didn't see them, Jaime. In the gardens. She put her hand on his arm. On my son's arm. And she whispered something to him, and Joffrey... he laughed."
Jaime frowned. "He laughed? Is that a crime now? I thought we wanted the boy to be happy."
"He never laughs with me," Cersei said, her voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "He scowls. He complains. He looks at me with those cold eyes and asks when I will leave him be. But for her? For that Tyrell bitch? He laughs. He preens like a peacock." She grabbed a heavy silver hairbrush from her vanity and slammed it down, the sound cracking through the room like a whip. "She is stealing him. She thinks because she has a pretty face, breasts, and a few bushels of wheat, she can walk into my Red Keep and take what is mine."
"He is a boy, Cersei," Jaime said, feeling a weariness that went down to his bones. "Boys grow up. They take wives. They leave their mothers. It is the way of the world."
"He is my son," she snarled. "He is all I have. And I will not have him turned against me by a smirking little whore from Highgarden."
Jaime wanted to remind her that she had Myrcella and Tommen, but he felt that would not help him at this moment.
Jaime set his goblet down on the floor with a clatter. He stood up.
"Is this why you summoned me?" Jaime asked. "To discuss the nuances of court flirtation? To complain that the Tyrells are precisely who we knew they were?"
"I summoned you because you are my brother," Cersei said sharply. "And my sworn shield. You are supposed to listen."
"I have listened," Jaime said, looking at her. "I have listened to you complain about Robert. I have listened to you complain about the Hand. I have listened to you complain about the Tyrells, the weather, the servants, and the very stones of this castle. I am tired, Cersei."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I spent the morning destroying straw men because I cannot hit the people I truly wish to hit. I am weary of politics. I am weary of schemes. I am weary of hearing about everyone in this Seven Kingdoms except us."
Cersei stared at him. The anger in her face seemed to falter. For a moment, she looked not like the Queen Regent, but like the girl he had known his whole life.
"You're bored," she said softly.
"I am empty," Jaime corrected. "There is a difference."
Cersei crossed the distance between them. She stopped inches from him; he could feel her warmth, and he could look at her green eyes.
"I have been neglectful," she murmured. Her hand came up, her cool fingers tracing the line of his jaw, lingering on the rough stubble. "The crown... it sits heavy, Jaime. It makes me forget things. Important things."
Jaime's breath hitched. He hated himself for it, hated how easily she could do this. One touch, and the anger of the last three months began to dissolve like mist in the morning sun.
"You've been distant," Jaime said, his voice rough. "Cold."
"I was afraid," Cersei lied. Or perhaps it wasn't a lie. "After the Stark boy... I thought we were cursed. I thought I had to push you away to save us."
She stepped closer, pressing her body against his. The silk of her gown was thin, and he could feel the curves of her breasts, the hardness of her nipples, the warmth of her thighs.
"I was wrong," she whispered, her eyes locking onto his. "I missed you, Jaime."
The words were a key turning in a lock.
"Cersei," he breathed.
"I missed your touch," she said, her hand sliding down his chest, over the white enamel of his Kingsguard armor, finding the gaps where the straps held it together. "I missed my reflection in your eyes. I missed... us."
She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry. It tasted of wine. Jaime groaned, a sound torn from the bottom of his chest, and his arms went around her, crushing her to him. Nothing mattered anymore.
There was only this. There was only her.
He lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist instantly, and carried her toward the massive four-poster bed. He didn't care if the door was bolted. He needed her like a drowning man needed air.
The afternoon light had turned golden, casting long, lazy shadows across the tangled sheets. Jaime lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing slowly returning to its natural rhythm. His body felt heavy, sated, glorious. The knot of tension that had lived in his gut for months was gone, untied by the frantic, sweat-slicked collision of their bodies.
Cersei lay beside him, her head resting on his chest, her golden hair spread out like a fan over his skin. She was tracing patterns on his stomach with one fingernail, circles, swirls, lion claws.
"Better?" she purred, the vibration of her voice humming against his ribs.
"Better," Jaime agreed, moving his arm to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen. She looked like the maiden he had loved at Casterly Rock, before crowns and kings and murders had stained them both. "I thought... I thought we were broken, Cersei."
"We bend," Cersei whispered, walking her fingers up his chest. "We do not break. We are one thing, you and I. We came into this world together. We belong together."
She shifted, sliding her leg over his, her skin hot against his own. Jaime felt his body respond instantly, the desire rekindling as if it had never been extinguished. He reached for her, his hand cupping the curve of her hip.
"Again?" he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Always," she answered, leaning down to nip at his lower lip. But she didn't kiss him properly. She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his. They were green as wildfire, and just as consuming.
"You love me?" she asked. It was a question she asked often.
"You know I do," Jaime said. "More than life."
"And you would do anything for me?" Her hand moved lower, stroking him, guiding him, making it impossible to think clearly. "Anything to keep us safe? To keep us happy?"
"Anything," Jaime vowed. The word came easy. It was the truth. There was no line he wouldn't cross for her. He had shoved a child out of a window for her. He would kill the world for her. "Name it, sweet sister. And it is done."
Cersei smiled, and it was the most beautiful, terrible thing he had ever seen. She leaned down, brushing her lips against his ear, her breath hot and wet.
"Kill Jon Snow."