Chapter Text
Author’s Note: Here it is. The finale. It’s bittersweet, but I am hoping it was all worth it for the people that have been around all these years.
Thank you to my two betas that got me through this – Aiur, wherever you are, and Vicky, you sexy mama!
Chapter Forty Nine
Epilogue
Jon
“I’ll call her Khaleesi,” Sansa said, her vibrant blue eyes shimmering with tears. “After Daenerys.” She held the adolescent direwolf tightly, struggling to hold the weight, but not caring a wit. He could see both the pain and the happiness coming off her in waves, and his throat tightened with emotion. He knew what this meant to her.
“I haven’t seen her happy a single time since I’ve met her,” he said. “Haven’t seen her tail wag, haven’t even heard her bark. She always kept herself apart from her littermates.” He paused, appreciating the sight of Sansa and Khaleesi giving each other affection. It was like the pup knew. “It was sad. For a long time I thought she was mourning her parents, but now I think I know why she was the way she was,” he said, watching as the direwolf wagged her tail and sat before Sansa, her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
“Why is that?” the northern queen asked, gently petting the grey and white fur. It was shortly after they had signed the Accords, and everyone was in a pleasant mood, having settled much of the bad air between them all.
“She was waiting for you.”
Sansa’s ministrations to the direwolf stopped. Tears built in her eyes once more. “Like Ghost to you, and Lady to me. We were all meant for each other. Bonded.”
Jon nodded. Sansa’s meticulously groomed hair was in disarray from her burying her face in the pup’s fur, but he was sure she did not mind. It brought back many good memories; memories of when Sansa had been little, and not so much a lady. It was so strange now that she was a queen. It was like she was two different people. He supposed she was, really. They all were.
“I know she will not replace Lady, just like how Spirit will never replace Ghost, but maybe...”
Sansa stood then, her palm rising to stop the direwolf from jumping up. Much like Lady, this direwolf obeyed politely.
“Nothing will ever replace Lady, Jon. But...but maybe this can be the next step to healing that I desperately need.”
Daenerys stood in the background, two other direwolves standing on either side of her. Jon had told Sansa who those pups were meant for, and it was obvious to anyone who watched the pups follow Daenerys around. They almost never left her side, and were frequently reprimanded for their howling when the queen would leave their presence. Their training was not going as well as Khaleesi’s and Spirit’s was.
Spirit stood next to him, white as Ghost but missing the red eyes. Sansa had listened to the story of how Ghost had saved Daenerys and little Jaime and had cried openly at the loss of her friend. Ghost had helped her heal in so many ways, Jon knew. He had saved her life. Had shown her what she had missed all those years when Lady should have been alive, by her side.
“He was the best of them all,” she had said quietly, brokenly, and wept against her newly gifted direwolf’s fur.
He watched now as the Queen in the North left King's Landing behind her, the direwolf named Khaleesi lopping alongside her horse.
One day that direwolf will be the size of that horse, he thought with sad amusement, and turned away to look at his wife, who was gazing at him fondly, her hand on her belly.
“You will miss her,” Daenerys said, and he fought the urge to scowl. He was sure his face showed some displeasure, but he could not hide his true feelings from her.
“She’s one of the only family I have remaining, but she has her own kingdom to run. We probably won’t see each other for years.”
Daenerys stepped closer, until her stomach was pressed against him. He pulled her closer, so her head was nestled against his chest.
“You love her, Jon. I know you do. Maybe not in the way she hoped, but in a way that she will always be in your heart.”
He had never openly admitted it to himself how he felt for Sansa—he had been too afraid of it all, being married to a woman that he loved and cherished more than his own life—but he supposed that she was right. He knew he loved Sansa, loved her in a way that was more than familial, but not enough for true love. Maybe if they had gotten the chance it could have been more, but not now, and more than likely, not ever.
“You will always be in my heart,” he said softly, tilting her chin upwards so she could look at him. He bent down to press his lips upon hers. She was so thin, but the Grand Maester assured him that the babes were healthy. And that was all Daenerys cared about.
Not so much me...
Daenerys
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
Tyrion nodded, reclined lazily in his high backed chair and sipping his wine from his opulent goblet. He was the picture of rich and content. “She’s brokenhearted, Dany. She’s lost most of her family, she’s lost multiple crowns, and she definitely isn’t getting Jon now. Her best chances of power are marrying me. She’s under no obligation to provide an heir as I have one, and she will be here in King's Landing, where she can do the most good. Perhaps one day you will even allow her on the council. You do have many openings.”
Dany rolled her eyes, feeling almost no sympathy for the Maid of Highgarden. She did not know her well enough to truly care, but she loved Tyrion like a brother, and he was her family. “I will have her killed if she ever hurts you.”
Tyrion chuckled. “She is so beloved by the people, undoubtedly she would have me killed if we ever have a spat. We have grown curiously close, however. I think she is amused by my cleverness.” He took a large gulp of wine and waggled his eyebrows at her. She grinned. “I believe we are a good match though. We are both exceedingly intelligent. I offer her a challenge, I believe. No one has really ever tested her aptitude. Time will tell if it becomes a love match, but it isn’t something either of is looking for. It is purely for political purposes.”
Dany looked at him with narrowed eyes and shifted to be more comfortable. “Are you planning on...staying true to her?”
Tyrion’s mouth tilted slightly to the left. The horrible sight of his missing nose was a familiar view to her, and Dany wondered silently if it repulsed the beautiful Margaery Tyrell. She honestly could not picture the two coupling; Alestra and Tyrion had been like rabbits, and it stunned her that a man like Tyrion would settle for a woman that would not ravage him at any given chance. It made her smile crookedly at the thought of Jon and their own escapades, something that had been toned down of late due to her relentless soreness and overall achiness.
“Margaery and I haven’t completely explored the option, but as of now, I am focusing on the realm and my son. Women hold no interest for me.”
Dany held back a snort and rubbed her large belly, flinching slightly with discomfort. The babes had been causing her extreme pain in the last two days, and her back was constantly in agony. Nothing she did helped; not sleep, not a bath, not Jon rubbing her with decadent oils. Her handmaidens were always at her beck and call, soothing her in any way they could, but her misery was acute.
Tyrion’s expression switched to one of concern. “Have you started having labor pains, Your Grace?”
She sighed, again shifting slightly in an attempt to be more comfortable. It did not help. If anything, it just made it worse. She was tempted to just collapse into a heap, but it would not be queenly.
“I’m always having pains. The Grand Maester says they are false, however. He wants me off my feet, but my Dothraki handmaidens are forever telling me to walk. My feet are twice their size! I think Jon is disgusted when I ask him to rub them.” She laughed. Tyrion chuckled and set his wine to the side upon his large desk. His fingers laced together and he leaned forward. “I doubt that Jon would ever be disgusted by you, Daenerys. The boy has moons in his eyes every time he looks in your direction. Your feet could be thrice their normal size and I’m sure he would still do his marital duties. But only thrice, mind you.”
They both had a long laugh. It felt wonderful to chat so idly and without any particular weight or direction. It had been so long since herself and Tyrion had done so. With him losing Alestra and his young child needing a father, along with the duties of being Hand, he oft was too busy to spend time with her. Jon had taken over most of the ruling of the Six Kingdoms while she prepared for her confinement, but she still dabbled occasionally in ruling. Not enough to cause stress, but enough for her to feel useful.
“Jaime’s wet nurse believes he is ready to start eating solids. He eyeballs her food ravenously, she says. Just between you and me, I let him have a bit of a nibble of some fruit the other day. He was staring at me as if he wanted to eat me. I couldn’t help myself. Poor thing—”
“Oh.”
Tyrion stopped mid-sentence at her soft gasp. She pressed her hand to her stomach and felt how hard it was. “That was more painful than usual,” she mused, noticing that this pain felt different, and was lasting longer. She looked up at Tyrion, who suddenly was paler than she had ever seen him.
“I will get your husband.”
And he was off.
She sat there, unsure of what was going on and if she was finally experiencing the true pains of labor. She did not remember Rhaego’s birth, only the beginning when she had fallen and labor had started instantly. Jorah had tried to tell her of what he had seen, what had happened, but she had been in another world, devastated at the loss of her child and Drogo. She could not remember his words. She mourned the loss of her bear, husband, and child for only a brief moment, for another pain hit her. It was not bad, in fact it was surprisingly tolerable, but as she sat there for some time, she could tell that they were coming evenly, not sporadically like they usually were.
She curled up on the lavish crimson cushions Tyrion had strewn about and closed her eyes. Tyrion’s legs were short, and Jon was in the training yard. It would be some time before her king was there.
Jon
The keep was unbearably hot. The open windows and the servants fanning the air did nothing but move the sweltering heat around. There was no respite.
It was the first day of summer. The white raven had appeared just that afternoon, as Jon was rushing his heavily pregnant wife to his chamber. The Grand Maester had been nearly skipping in his haste to announce it, only to see the state of his queen. He had immediately hurried back to his tower to retrieve his medical supplies.
A muted cry punctured the stillness around him. He felt his face twitch as he tried to keep his emotions under control, for the feeling of helplessness was ever growing. Every hour that ticked by left his shoulders more stiff, his jaw more pained as he clenched his teeth. Her cries were growing in pitch and frequency as every hour wore on.
Tyrion placed his hand upon his shoulder, squeezing. Missandei offered him a weak smile. No words were said.
Evening came. The temperature cooled drastically. Handmaidens ran to and fro from the room, bringing more water and more cloths. His wife’s cries were hoarse and full of agony. He gripped his hair and rocked in his chair, praying to the Old Gods to be by her side and guide her through her labor.
He remembered the times that Lady Catelyn had given birth. As each child was born, he remembered it better. He could recall Rickon’s the best, but he knew for all of them, Ned’s face had been still, his body ready to spring up at any moment that he was called. He had paced or sat rigidly in his chair, and Jon could recollect from his memories that Lady Catelyn’s cries had echoed through the entire castle. The only way you could escape was to leave, and Ned never did.
Nor would he.
He hated being barred from her bedside. He wanted to hold her hand, lend her encouragement. As soon as he had tried to step through the threshold, Grand Maester Hyndyll had halted him. “No, Your Grace. This is no place for you. I will call you once the babes are born, and no sooner.”
The door had been closed in his face, and he had not even gotten to see his wife one last time.
Fear rolled through him as a hysterical scream penetrated his thoughts. Tyrion and Missandei both sat up, their dreary eyes suddenly wide and full of fear. He felt his heart pound and all of the blood in his face drain. He went to stand, but Tyrion stopped him.
“Wait, Jon. Don’t do anything drastic. You might only make it worse.”
He wanted to throw up the contents of his stomach. He went back to rocking, wishing to all the gods in existence that he knew what was going on. What if she was dying? What if the babes had not made it? What if...?
Another wail filled the room. One after another, very close in succession. Tyrion encouraged him, tried to tell him that it must be near the end of the birthing process. His research had indicated that women screamed a great deal towards the conclusion.
Jon knew his eyes were wild as he looked at his friend in disbelief. He made it sound so clinical and distant, as if this was not his wife.
The cries stopped and it seemed as if even his heart ceased beating. All three of them were looking at the door, waiting for an announcement.
The door opened. Jon stood, but watched in surprise as two Dothraki women ran from the room. Nothing was said, and the door was closed quickly.
It was quiet for a long time. Hours, he knew. He paced, went to take a piss, nibbled on some cold food. He paced some more and then sat and tried to read. The words blurred.
He was not sure what happened, but the next thing he knew, he opened his eyes and the sun was long since in the sky. Tyrion was curled up in a ball next to him, and Missandei was resting her head upon the table, both dead to the world.
There were new Unsullied guards stationed in the corners of the room. The change of the guard happened at sunrise, and the sun was several hours beyond that.
The doors were closed still. Not a sound emerged from the chamber.
He rubbed his eyes and stood. His clothes stuck to his skin, sweaty from a restless sleep. He looked to the double doors again, debating on what he should do. Surely the babes should have been born by now?
Almost as if on cue, one of the older women that Daenerys often had by her side slipped from one of the doors. She glanced his way tiredly, and then tried to hurry away. He caught her in three strides.
“What’s happening? How is Daenerys?”
“Jin khaleesi ajjin vo chek. Jin koalak ajjin addrivat mae!”
One of the few women that did not know the commontongue, of course. He wanted to shake the old hag, but it would do him no good. The woman fled, her face full of something he could not describe.
Tyrion and Missandei woke from the outburst. They inquired as to the situation, but all they got was a head shake. He knew as much as them.
They sought to distract themselves. They ate breakfast, took turns playing some cyvasse. Occasionally there was a faint sound from the chamber, but nothing else. A maester or a handmaiden would leave and then return, but no words were said. They never saw or heard from the Grand Maester.
Afternoon passed and evening crept in. Exhaustion had long since settled into his bones. He would find himself nodding off, only to jerk himself awake. Tyrion and Missandei both begged him to rest, as he would be useless if the babes came. He knew he had been awake much longer in the past—when battle raged for days and there was no chance for rest...for if you dared, you died.
Distractions no longer had their effect. Games, food, walking, all of it just blurred into hour after hour going by, and no word from the chamber.
Darkness cloaked King's Landing, and cries began floating from the room once more. He hated himself for thinking so, but it was almost a relief to hear her voice. He had been so afraid...
The tone and pitch of her voice was different, however. Before it had been just pain, the primal screams had been ones of agony, but now...they were filled with desperation. They were weak, and tinged with hopelessness.
His pacing began anew. Every one of her cries ended on broken sobs. Her weeping tore at his insides, made him shake. Something was wrong—he knew it. He could feel it.
Direwolves began howling outside from the kennel. Jon looked to the balcony, to the open windows where the sounds came from.
The door creaked open slowly. He jerked towards it, his whole body on alert.
Grand Maester Hyndyll emerged. He was bedraggled, covered in sweat, and blood stained many areas of his maester’s robes.
“Your Grace,” he said, his voice tired and raw. There was nothing about his face that told Jon that things were going well, or had gone well. No smile of a maester that had delivered a healthy child. No joy, only sadness and exhaustion.
Jon walked towards the old man slowly, suddenly afraid. He swallowed hard, his throat closing. “Daenerys...?”
The Grand Maester nodded, but it was weak. “She lives, Your Grace. But just barely, I’m afraid. The babes will not come. Nothing I have done has helped. She has reached a point where she is no longer strong enough to deliver the children. I am sorry, Your Grace.”
Jon blinked, then felt his head shake back and forth. “I...I don’t understand.”
The Grand Maester placed both of his hands on Jon’s shoulders. Jon did not feel them. He could only look into the darkness beyond him, where the doors were just slightly parted.
“Her Grace will not make it through the night.”
Jon heard gasps and then moans of despair behind him. His hands fisted. He looked down, and he knew, he knew, that his eyes were filled with madness. Targaryen madness.
The Grand Maester’s own blue eyes widened at the sight of Jon’s face. The old man stepped back, fear clearly defined upon his frame. Jon could feel the expression that he wore, and knew that he had never worn such an expression in his life.
He wanted to kill the Grand Maester with his bare hands, but he knew that every moment he stood there, was one less moment with Daenerys. And so he swept passed the Grand Maester, and entered his room—their room—the room where Daenerys would die.
She was lying in their stripped bed, sprawled at an awkward angle. She was dressed in a sweat and blood-stained white nightgown. Blood was splattered on everything from the bed to the pillows. Her hair was drenched and tangled, the braids long loosened and frayed. Her trembling hand reached for him, and he was by her side instantly.
He pressed his forehead to hers and cupped her face. He felt her breath shudder out of her body in harsh pants, gusting against his face. Her lips were cracked and bloodied, dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion. Her skin was clammy and unnaturally pale. Her fingers trembled as they tried to hold his, but her arms fell weakly to the bed after only a small attempt.
“Jon,” she whispered, and the voice was not hers. Fear and pain and utter desolation speared him in the heart. He grabbed her hand and pressed his mouth desperately to her knuckles, trying to stifle the sobs that were ripping their way from his chest.
“No,” he choked, barely able to breathe. Anguish clawed at him as he looked at her, saw her pathetic smile, and the tears fell in an unstoppable torrent.
Gods, don’t take her from me!
“Save them,” she said, her free hand fluttering weakly to her belly. She swallowed and tried to lick her dry lips, and anger infused him. He turned to the women lined along the wall, their heads down sadly.
“Get her water. Now!”
It took three of them to get her to drink the water offered. She coughed, but looked relieved. He forced her to drink more, until she turned her head away.
After she rested for a few moments, she looked back at him. Her fingers moved gently along his arm. “Take my life, Jon. Save them.”
He shook his head. “I can’t. Please. Don’t ask me that. I’ll do anything...anything but that.”
Her weak smile reappeared. “They will die with me, then.”
The tears returned. “I won’t let you die. I won’t let you...”
A bit of a fire lit in her eyes. “You will do as I say. I am your queen...”
He let out a wretched laugh and stroked her cheek, hair, fingers. Anything he could touch. Her cool, moist skin chilled him to the core. “And I am your king. We rule equally now, Daenerys. We signed the papers.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. For a short moment he thought...he thought—but then she opened her eyes again. “I knew I would regret signing those,” she said softly.
He went to speak when she suddenly twisted, groaning in pain. Her voice was so harsh from her constant screaming that a feeble, throaty sound was all she could manage. She laid there panting afterward, beads of sweat dotting her forehead.
“I can’t...” she murmured suddenly, her eyes rolling back into her head. He jumped up, his hands grabbing her shoulders. He shook her, shouting in her face. He did not know what he was saying, did not know what was coming from him, but he could feel his throat working and his mouth forming words. The women in the room sobbed, spoke in their dark, foreign language, but nothing registered.
Nothing but the sudden roar that shook the room.
Her eyes flew open. Jon stood and turned at the sound of the door flying open.
“Drogon,” Daenerys whispered in awe.
Tyrion and Missandei stood in the doorway, disbelief painted upon their features.
“She flies,” Daenerys said, and Jon turned back to his wife, who was somehow sitting up in bed. He pressed upon her shoulders, tried to get her to lay back down, but in a sudden burst of energy, Daenerys swept him aside.
“Drogon is circling the keep,” Tyrion said, his voice filled with wonder.
Drogon had not flown since Jon had returned with her from the north. Her sickness and destroyed wings had weakened her so much, even Daenerys had been waiting for the dragon to pass eventually. As each month went by and no changes were evident, all they could do was feed her, clean her waste, and make sure she was as comfortable as they could make her. Viserion and Rhaegal stayed by her side, but always took the time to fly and hunt, leaving the black dragon behind for days at a time.
“Jon,” Daenerys said, lifting her hands into the air. In complete disbelief, he aided his wife to stand. Her legs wobbled and she nearly fell, but he caught her and swung her into his arms. She felt so slight, even with her large belly.
“Take me to her,” she whispered, resting her head upon his shoulder. “If I die, I want to be with her.”
It was a long, arduous journey. The entire keep emptied of Unsullied for their late night journey to the Dragonpit.
Daenerys demanded to ride with him, and he struggled to hold her as she twisted and moaned weakly in pain every few minutes. It took all of his strength to get them both there, but he was spurred on by the sight of Drogon flying in the dark sky.
The Grand Maester went to follow into the Pit, but at a dark look from his wife, Jon forbade him. He told no one to enter, and the doors closed behind him.
He carried her deep into the Pit. Memories arose of Drogon herself laboring in the large underground chamber, and that was where he took his wife.
Drogon was waiting by the time he arrived. Both the dragon and himself were huffing from exertion. He had stopped many times for Daenerys to cry out in pain, but Jon felt as if Daenerys was drawing strength from his presence. She gripped his hand at every contraction, nearly breaking it, but he accepted it and soothed her with encouraging words. She gave him cross looks a few times, but soon all of her focus was on the pain. She could not talk, could only motion when they could continue their trek through the Dragonpit, closer to Drogon.
Drogon spread her torn wings and washed them both with a harsh wind as she closed them and settled into the dirt. Daenerys panted, gritted her teeth, and strangled his hand as she writhed from the pain.
“Take me to her,” she growled, saying the first words she had said in nearly an hour.
He sat her next to Drogon’s wing arm, where his wife leaned weakly against her beloved dragon. It was only a moment though, before she was arching her back and screaming. This cry was different, similar to how they had been towards the beginning of her labor—stronger.
“Something...is...different,” Daenerys panted, her face twisted in concentration and fear and pain. Her breathing was harsh, desperate, and she clawed at the dirt as she knelt on all fours.
He swept her tangled hair out of her face and rested his hand upon her back. He lowered himself so he could see her face, which was red from exertion. “Tell me what to do,” he said quickly, feeling an urgency from her he could not explain. She was writhing and arching her back repeatedly, screaming nearly nonstop. She began trying to hike up the filthy nightgown she was wearing, and his eyes widened at the meaning.
“Is...is—?”
She let out a strangled cry. “Jon! Jon, help! HELP!”
She sat up, her hands tangling in her nightgown in desperation to reach between her quaking thighs. In but a moment he had it torn from her body, leaving her bare. Only low firelight from the torches lit the room, but he could clearly see what was happening.
Daenerys’ hands were between her shaking legs, covered in blood. Fluids ran down her thighs onto the ground. He could see the top of a dark head emerging, and then a face.
Her wild, dilated eyes looked at him. And a moment later, a baby slid out into her awaiting hands.
He let out an overjoyed cry, shock filling him at the sight. She cradled the babe against her belly, her body trembling with fatigue and adrenaline.
“Take...take the baby,” she said, and he got as close as he could, afraid of the cord that was still attached to Daenerys. He knelt next to his wife, who rested against Drogon, exhausted. He took the babe, and felt his heart become overwhelmed with love.
“It’s a boy,” he said softly, feeling a deep rumble from Drogon. Daenerys closed her eyes and smiled tiredly.
“Viserys,” she murmured. “Just like little Jaime...this name shall regain its honor.”
It was not too long before she began feeling the pains once more, however. She sobbed sadly, begging for the pain to be over, and he felt helplessness overwhelm him at what she was going through. All he could do was encourage her, tell her it was almost over, that they had a son and soon it would all be over.
She forced herself to her knees again, telling him in between pants that the pain was less when she did not lay down, as she had been forced to do with the Grand Maester. Jon stayed close, hesitant to separate the babe too far from Daenerys because of the cord. He did not like not being able to help her as his hands were full, but Daenerys took hold of Drogon’s wing, digging her nails into the dragon’s scales as she screamed. Drogon snorted, but Jon doubted she felt any pain.
Daenerys threw her head back, her tangled hair tumbling down her back. Her face was a mask of fierceness, and Jon watched in awe as their second child slid into his wife’s hands.
The air suddenly grew hot as Drogon bathed the Pit with fire. Daenerys cried as she clutched her child to her belly, and together all four of them huddled against the black dragon.
“A daughter,” Jon whispered to his wife, stroking the wet, black hair on her tiny head. He looked to Daenerys, and knew the perfect name. A name that his missing cousin Arya would have loved.
“Visenya,” he said softly, and Daenerys nodded, leaning her head back against Drogon.
Daenerys was quiet for some time, her eyes closed and her entire body shaking. He pressed their first babe into her free arm and stood, quickly divesting himself of his loose fitting tunic. Between Daenerys’ soiled nightgown and his shirt, he was able to aid his wife onto the ground, where she could nestle the babes on their clothes. She sighed with relief as she settled the two newborn’s on the ground. The twins were quiet, only softly mewling.
“I will deliver the afterbirth soon. I need help, Jon. The babes need their cords cut, and I need someone to attend me. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake,” she said quietly, her eyes closed. With their babes resting against her sides, her body naked and illuminated from the torchlight, her snarled hair spread upon the dirt, he could not think of a more primal or beautiful sight he had ever seen. At one time he would have said the same of the night they had made love in this very spot, their clothes and hair burning away from dragon fire, but this...this was beyond that moment.
“I will get help,” he said, watching as Daenerys gave him a sleepy smile. He checked the twins and made sure she was not bleeding too profusely. “Don’t miss me too much.”
She opened her eyes to stare at him. Tears began leaking from the corners.
“I love you,” she whispered, and he could not help but kneel beside her and press his lips to hers. He felt a fierceness overcome him, and he could not describe the feeling completely. Love, protectiveness, insanity.
“And I you,” he said, gently touching his hand to the curling black hair on both tiny heads before he left.
Daenerys was weak for a few days, but recovered remarkably well. Even after sleeping but a few hours after the birth, she ate ravenously and took both babes to her breast. Both suckled eagerly and he watched with complete awe.
She was up and about the Keep, giving orders in only three days. The twins and the direwolves were never gone from her side. She refused to have her children out of her sight. He figured it had something to do with the loss of her first family.
She grew stronger every day. Her color and strength came back quickly, and he watched her become the vibrant, powerful woman she had been before he had left Dragonstone.
He also watched with fascination as her breasts grew so large that all of her dresses had to be altered. He was constantly getting caught staring, but she only giggled and offered him a fondle here and there, as long as he promised to be gentle. He always was.
It drove him mad not being able to ravish her as he wanted to, but she was in her confinement and healing. All she did was tease him and give him secret smiles, knowing that she was torturing him. She would tell him, “Soon,” but he knew it would be at least a moon before he could have her again.
He distracted himself with ruling. Daenerys dabbled occasionally as the days went by, but he was the head of the Six Kingdoms until she could return and they would share the duties once more.
He visited frequently, but some of his favorite moments were lovingly caressing the heads of his son and daughter as they slept next to his wife. Seeing all three of them asleep, vulnerable and innocent, tore at him and made his throat grow tight with emotion.
He found joy in returning to pastimes he had not gotten to enjoy as much during Daenerys’ pregnancy, as he had felt the need to always be with her. He returned to his daily sword training and re-honed his skills and body. He even caught Daenerys ogling him a bit a few weeks into his training, right after he had returned and was covered in dirt and sweat.
Perhaps it was torture for them both to not make love as they wished.
He also made it a point to visit the Dragonpit almost every day. At first he had gone to Drogon and had stood before her, pressing his forehead to her enormous snout. He had thanked her, thanked her a thousand times for saving his wife’s life and that of his babes. She had snorted at him, and then looked at him imploringly, as if asking him if he wanted to fly.
He hadn’t flown in moons. The exhilaration of flying Drogon was so much different than flying her two smaller brothers. He could feel her strength rebuilding, could see her wings healing. She was returning to herself, much like his wife.
A moon had passed and his son and daughter were growing plump. He loved seeing their chubby little bodies grow bigger every day. He took pleasure knowing that they were growing so big from Daenerys feeding them. A queen, a woman who refused another to feed her children.
He was talking to her one day as the twins were sleeping in their cradles nearby. They were eating an early dinner, for both wanted to go to the Dragonpit. Daenerys was getting restless, yearning to return to flying, especially when she knew that he was having fun and she was not.
“Drogon is almost back to full strength,” he said biting into a grape. It was nice having fresh fruit again now that summer had returned.
Daenerys suddenly looked entranced. He could see the thoughts building in her mind.
“It is time, then,” she said, and he cocked his head to the side, uncertain of what she meant. Then it dawned on him. His lips thinned at the graveness of his own thoughts.
“I will arrange everything.”
Daenerys
It had been so long since she had laid eyes on him, and her hatred had not lessoned. It took all of her bearings to keep herself in check.
The High Sparrow stood before a wooden scaffold, to where he would be tied and tried before the entire city. He was incredibly weak, having never healed properly from Ghost’s attack. His arm hung limply beside him, useless. His shoulder, hidden only beneath a filthy smock, looked mottled and humped from malformed flesh.
He panted from exertion as two Unsullied guards dragged him up the wooden stairs to the stake. She stared hard at him, her being infused with anger and hatred. This man was truly evil; it was a shame that they would never know or understand all of his crimes in the name of his religion.
More and more of the city’s populace were crowding around the scaffold. They had no idea what they were about to see, and a perverse part of her smiled internally.
Before the stake at which he was tied, an altar was arranged. She nodded to the captain of her guard, who gave the order to tighten security. Hundreds of Unsullied held out their spears, forcing the crowd back.
She walked to the scaffold with a bag that had once been carried by Ser Barristan on their travels to Dragonstone. She lovingly delved her hands inside, and gently set three eggs upon the altar.
She stared at the beautiful, gem colored eggs. The crowd was growing restless, but she heard many gasps as the ones in the front saw what she had withdrawn from the bag, and what was now on display.
She stroked her hands over each egg, memorizing their colors.
Jon’s egg—nearly all white with tiny bits of grey.
Viserys’ egg—red with creamy yellow speckles.
Visenya’s egg—pure gold, with veins of red.
She pressed her lips upon each, and prayed to Jon’s gods, her gods—the Old gods—that this would work.
She stepped to the side so that the mass of smallfolk could see her, the dragon eggs, and the High Septon. Then she spoke.
“Today is the day that the High Septon answers for his heinous crimes. Crimes against not only the city and the smallfolk, but against me, and thereby the Six Kingdoms. This man has committed crimes so evil that it is hard to speak of them. He has killed in the name of his seven gods! He has caused suffering untold. He is not holy, he is unholy, and today he will meet his end.”
The crowd began screaming and crying out. It was not a mob of angered citizens, but a crowd wanting justice. Missandei had done a wonderful job spreading the news of what the High Sparrow had done, and the entire city hated the man.
Now if only I could get them to stop loving the old man’s religion.
She turned to the High Sparrow and looked at him. He was standing proudly, as proudly as he could tied to a stake. Sweat was pouring down his face, and she hoped it was because he was scared. She hoped he feared death and the answers he had to give his gods in the afterlife.
“High Septon, I give you the chance to speak. Say whatever words you would before I sentence you.”
His chin lifted into the air, exposing scared flesh on his neck. She would have felt anger if this was any other situation, but now she only felt satisfaction. It would be over soon.
The High Septon called upon his gods. He called to the Warrior to give him courage, and to the Father to defend him in his need. He spoke of his innocence, and how he had done only as the seven had asked of him. He spoke of her evil, of her incestual and lustful ways, of her flying demons that would lay waste to their homes and lands.
The crowd was silent after his tirade. He looked out desperately at the people that had once adored him, had once followed him, and began screaming, cursing them all and damning them all for their betrayal of him.
“Heathens! Sinners! Betrayers of the seven—!”
“Enough!” she yelled, motioning for the man to be gagged. “Let it be known that I, Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, have been wronged. And I destroy those who wrong me! I made a promise that once my dragons were grown that I would take back what was mine. And so I did! I have destroyed those who have sought my throne, and I promise that I will keep this throne safe until the end of my days. I will protect my people and their lands until my last breath.”
The High Sparrow screamed and thrashed as he fought the men trying to gag him. “Whore! You shall be cast down by the seven! You shall—!”
“I shall not!” she cried out. “I am a Targaryen. I answer to neither gods nor men.”
A thunderous roar filled the air. All heads turned to the south, where a black figure emerged from the Dragonpit.
She smiled darkly.
The High Septon’s screams became hysterical around the gag. The dragon’s form grew larger and larger, until she could see the man on Drogon’s back.
Jon.
She stepped in front of the altar that held the eggs Drogon had birthed. Three of them—one for Jon, and two for their children. If this worked and she did not die from dragon fire, then three new dragons would be born into the world.
Drogon’s powerful wings beat the crowd beneath her as she hovered in the air. Daenerys stared at Jon, and together they nodded.
“Dracarys,” they said together.
The old man screamed horrifically as Drogon incinerated the scaffold. It took all of her own strength to not do so as well, for she had never taken direct dragon flame.
Warmth. It felt like a lover’s caress. She closed her eyes as her clothes and hair melted away. Flames bathed her like a waterfall, and she drew in a deep, cleansing breath as the High Sparrow died behind her.
Now.
She gathered all three eggs into her arms quickly, as everything was collapsing around her. The wood cracked and splintered beneath her, and then turned to ash within moments of Drogon’s powerful fire touching it.
The scaffold thankfully had not been built high for just this purpose. Her feet touched the ground, and she held tightly onto her children, praying.
Drogon’s fire stopped for only a brief moment before she felt it engulf her again, and this time she felt warmer. Hotter. Almost to the point of it being unbearable. She gritted her teeth.
Crack.
She gasped as an egg split apart in her arms.
Crack. Crack!
Her heart swelled and tears came to her eyes. The water was instantly gone, but she could still feel her eyes burn with the sensation.
Three tiny creatures curled around her body, clinging weakly. Breastmilk poured down her body from the warmth and she knew it was because it sensed that her children were nearby. It brought back such beautiful memories, of her first three dragons nursing from her.
She held them tenderly, sitting with them on the ground, until the fires died around her.
It was silent when Jon approached her. His jaw hung in shock and awe as he saw the three baby dragons holding their mother, feeding from her.
“Take your dragon, Jon,” she said, knowing from her and Tyrion’s research, along with stories her brother had told her, that dragons had to be given quickly to their owners after their birth, so they could imprint upon them.
“He is yours,” she said softly, passing the tiny white and silvery dragon to her husband. He was silent as he held it in his arms. His eyes were huge as his gloved hands stroked the tiny creature.
She walked, naked and bare of all hair, to a thick circle of Unsullied, where her babes were being held by her Dothraki handmaidens. Just as quickly, she was handing the two other dragons to her children, watching as the newborn dragons curled into little balls on top of the babes. Her son, Viserys, popped open his purple eyes and made a tiny cooing sound. Her daughter Visenya did much of the same, her purple eyes glowing and delicate black hair blowing in the soft wind.
The city of King's Landing had been silent for the duration of the fire and the revealing of the new dragons, but as she walked naked before them, they exploded into cheers and cries of her name.
Daenerys!
Daenerys!
Daenerys!
She felt Jon wrap a cloak around her and then pull her into his arms. She drew in a deep breath, sucking in the smell of him, pressing herself against the length of him and feeling his strength. He held her tightly, too tightly, but she knew it was because he had been afraid. They had both discussed the risks, but she had felt she had figured out the method to bringing dragons to life.
She had been right.
There were now six dragons in the world, when it was thought that there would never be anymore. It was all because of her. Her and Jon, and their children. They were starting a dynasty that would never be forgotten. Their stories and songs would be sung forever.
Jon’s lips found hers, and she thanked the Old Gods as they kissed.
Drogon’s roar filled the air, and she let it envelop her just like Jon’s arms.
Three-Eyed Raven
He watched contentedly at the world.
Everything was right and good. Peace prevailed in a way that had not been seen in hundreds of years, not only in Westeros, but his entire domain. His domain that grew everyday as he learned and grew stronger.
But for now he observed two stories that were near and dear to him.
A pair that had struggled so much at the beginning—fighting a war that had threatened to overtake all of existence, and then the one within. He had watched their love grow and bloom into something that he, in all his wisdom, knew was very rare indeed. He had enough experience from his travels and constant watching to know that they were unique, despite his young age.
Their relationship was filled with rapture, indeed. He frequently found himself following their story, watching their children grow alongside their dragons and direwolves. He knew that there would be more children, many more. Jon and Daenerys were going to truly rebuild the Targaryen dynasty.
Yet there was another story that was a bit more sad. He knew that she still had a role to play, a future to build, so he knew it would not be sad forever. She had suffered too much to really look forward to what her life could hold, could enjoy, but every day his sister Sansa found ways to make others happier and stronger, and for now, she was content.
They called her many names. Sansa the Salvager. Sansa the Shipwright. Sansa the Savior. She had the north exploding under her love and strength. For the first time in hundreds of years, the North was building a navy. It was going to bring trade and commerce to their homeland that it had never seen before. She was building homes and castles and walls. Keeps that had not seen life or laughter in hundreds of years were being rebuilt, and new castles were having their foundations placed.
He watched her speak of how the North would never be weak again. They would be powerful and ready for when the fight came again. She offered rewards and incentives to families who had children, to encourage growth. She had bards and other men travel abroad and offer pay for labor. And it was all possible because of Daenerys and Jon.
Several wagons of goods and gold were delivered shortly after she had returned to Winterfell. Bran knew it was meant to be reparations for the damage Drogon had done, but it had also been done out of love. It would supply Winterfell and her lands with gold for years to come, and would help rebuild her treasury.
The North would be rich under Queen Sansa.
It saddened him to know that Sansa’s heart had been broken, but he knew that one day his sister would find love again and build her own family. It may be several years yet, but he knew it was on her mind. He knew that she also wanted to rebuild the Stark family, and to reunite the Seven Kingdoms.
One day winter and ice would meet fire and blood, and the world would see the most powerful force that had ever existed.
He smiled, content, and knew all was well in the world.
Dothraki: “Jin khaleesi ajjin vo chek. Jin koalak ajjin addrivat mae!” (The queen is not well. The healer (maester) is killing her!)
Author’s Note: Well, this is the end. The end of almost 3 years of writing. I hope that the conclusion was all that everyone hoped it would be, and that everyone enjoyed reading this. I may or may not write little ficlets based on this story to show how Sansa is, how the twins are growing up, etc.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review, you meant a lot to me. The support everyone showed for my husband when he had cancer and when I had my son was overwhelming, and I have to say that this community is beautiful and I love you all!
I have several story ideas I’m tossing around, but nothing concrete right now. Hopefully you will see me again soon :)