agogelogs | [OPEN] Oh, in dreams I have watched it spin

So she did see her.

He makes a little noise of agreement, and a few seconds pass before he collects his thoughts enough to say more.

"Ygritte."

Then, after another few seconds, "I told you once, I was sent to spy amongst the Free Folk. They didn't like Crows. I was just eighteen or so."

Ygritte. A Wildling girl he'd met when he was still a boy learning the ways of the world, in some respects. Not all that different from her time with the Dothraki, is it? No, he doesn't say as much, but she recalls their other conversation, so many weeks ago.

She shifts, releasing his hand to catch his cheek, coaxing him to look at her. If he does, she'll reach up to tuck wayward curls behind his ear, her touch painfully gentle--much like her eyes.

"What happened?"

He looks up at her, but he's hesitant, and without the gentle coaxing, he probably wouldn't. He'd continue to stare down past the surface of the blanket. As it is, his expression is troubled. He might have told Daenerys more of this in time -- or he might not have. He might have kept it locked away forever.

"I was told to do whatever they asked of me. The first thing I had to do was kill a man I respected, on his own command, to prove I was a turncloak. We'd captured Ygritte... she was a sentinel and I was meant to kill her to keep her from alerting her people, but I couldn't. The Halfhand and I wound up getting captured by her people in return."

She couldn't blame him if he had. It's not easy to talk about the past, sometimes. What good does it do, save for dredge up memories best left forgotten?

We don't have to talk about her, she's about to tell him, all because of a simple look. He's told her some of this already; there must be a 'but...' in there, somewhere. We were captured by her people in turn, but--but what? She thinks she knows. He had to prove he was no longer a Crow, hadn't he? Revoke his vows.

A fierce wave of protectiveness roars to life in her chest. She didn't know him when she was seventeen or eighteen. She'd had her own struggles, her own people to lead. But, but, but. There's always a but.

She's cupping both his cheeks now, her eyes bright. "You did what was necessary to survive."

"I did." The look in her eyes is melting, and he melts a little along with it, presses one side of his face into her hand. Does she understand what that really meant, and does she understand that, even so, it's still an excuse, at least half horseshit?

"I did whatever it took. But some of it was easier to do than the rest of it. Killing the Halfhand was... he was the first man I ever killed, the first living one. If I'd failed after that in the task he had set me, he'd have died for nothing.

"Breaking my vows with Ygritte wasn't hard at all."

Affection warms her gaze due to the motion. There and gone, as she listens to what he says.

"You don't enjoy killing." She remembers. He'd said so at Dragonstone. "Of course that was hard, someone you knew?"

It wasn't easy to kill Drogo. Gods, it's never easy. Even ordering the murders of those with the Lannisters who directly stood in opposition to her... But this is not about her, and he's seen far, far too many battles. And all the faces at the Wall. If even half of those were people he knew who were now dead?

If only she could wrap her arms around him, hug him close, and will his hauntedness away.

"She was beautiful." Not that it's an excuse. Drogo was handsome. Daario was handsome. Jon is handsome. It doesn't matter. Looks are so very fleeting, and he was a young man, thrown into a different life. "Did you love her?"

"I don't know if she was beautiful. I thought at first that she wasn't... that she was common... then I thought that she was, more and more every day."

A pause, and he presses his lips together. He's made the decision to tell her everything, but it still doesn't want to flow out of him: it comes out in bits and pieces, each one tugged past his reluctance to speak of it.

Sam and Tormund are the only other people who really know any of it.

"I loved her. I left her anyway, when I could, to go back to Castle Black and warn them that her people were planning to attack." A low, uncertain laugh. "She put three arrows in me. One in my leg, two in my back. And then some of the officers at Castle Black wanted to hang me for a traitor."

He loved her, she concludes, when he speaks of how she grew more and more beautiful each day. He confirms it moments later, but during that pause, her thoughts twist inward: nothing ugly manifests at the idea of him loving someone else. She thought it would. She thought, because this is so sweeping and all-encompassing, what they share, that she would resemble the dragon card in the deck she'd received.

The girl is dead. How would she feel if their positions were reversed, and it was not Drogo who walked the halls, but Ygritte?

"She shot you." There's disbelief in her tone. Indignance on his behalf. "And they viewed you a traitor because you fought to survive? Even despite you warning them?"

She doesn't like Ygritte very much, after all.

Jon speaks slowly when he answers her, but the words themselves come out with less difficulty now.

"There was no record of the Halfhand's orders, no proof that I hadn't truly turned. I freely admitted to breaking my vows with Ygritte, and the master-at-arms at Castle Black had hated me almost from our first meeting, but Maester Aemon spoke for me. He saved my life... more than once.

"And why would I have gone back there to warn them if-- well. It doesn't matter very much anymore. I could have stayed with her, I could have broken my vows in truth, but if I had, I would have died with her."

He leans back against the wall, encouraging Daenerys to follow and rest against his chest.

"And she is dead. She died..." (a breath, and he frowns), "... when her people attacked the castle. You have to understand, it isn't defensible from the south. The Watch takes no part in the kingdom's wars."

She huffs an exhale, disgruntlement diminishing in painfully slow increments... flaring to life upon mention of the master-at-arms, and soothed upon mention of her great-uncle. If only she could have met the man. If only she could thank him for what he did, even if he'd done it for Jon. If he hadn't, where would Jon be, today?

It's stupid, is what it is. Holding these grudges, disliking someone for no reason.

"I learned to love my chains," she carefully says, not following him right away, but instead allowing her fingers to purposefully trail down his chest. She regards the puckered scars there, a troubled look flickering in her gaze, gone as her palm settles on his thigh. The blankets hide his skin from view. No way to find the scar, so she looks him in the eye. "Yours freed you in some ways, and tightened around you in others."

I understand, is what she means to tell him with that. So, so much more than she could ever articulate. A dead lover, a heart still aching over the memory, as much as she can, she understands. And could she not also relate to Ygritte in some ways, as well? Granted, she hadn't shot Jorah with arrows.

With a sigh, she scoots closer to him, tugging the blanket with her as she rests against his chest. He's warm and alive and he's home.

"I'm sorry it all happened that way. Were you with her when she--" Her tongue darts out to dampen her lips. "--when she fell?"

His tongue feels thick again, remembering it, and leaden; he's never really spoken of it before.

He hadn't killed Ygritte, and he hadn't really even been responsible for her death, but he'd still felt guilty for it. The choice had been to betray her love or to betray everything he'd ever known and everything he was, even his father's memory, and the faith that people like the Old Bear and Maester Aemon and Qhorin Halfhand had had in him. So he had betrayed her love. The fact that it was the better choice didn't make it any less a betrayal, and it didn't make her any less dead.

He could have been free, but not with honor, and not for long.

"She died in my arms. I took her body north of the Wall and burned it."

She stiffens against him. Involuntary her reaction might be, it comes forcefully. Just as swiftly, she's craning her neck to peer at the corner of her room where a simple and small box sits. It's not a simple box at all, though. And inside it... She squeezes her eyes shut.

Did you kill her? What use would his answer be? Certainly nothing to make either of them feel better about, and it's clear he still carries the guilt for her death, no matter his role in it... or hers.

"The Dothraki believe that every star in the sky is one of the Great Stallion's fiery khalasar. In order to ride with the Great Stallion, their bodies must be burnt so that their ashes can rise to the heavens."

Talking about this... she doesn't want to do it. But if she doesn't, he'll become lost in his own memories, won't he? If I look back, I am lost. With a sigh, she sits back up, not meeting his gaze, not looking at the box with the fragments of Drogo's remains, but instead, she stares at the remnants of the egg she'd failed to protect and drags her fingers through the ends of her hair.

"His wound became infected, and I made an agreement with the witch to save him. But she used blood magic." Her fingers snag on a knot. She falls silent, working the strands loose. "That magic took his soul, turned him into something that was half alive, and killed our son. He didn't return. Do you know what she said to me, when I demanded she return him to normal?"

He'd burned Ygritte's body under a heart tree, which had seemed right at the time. He'd built the pyre himself, alone, and walked away from it as the flames rose with the Old Gods presumably looking on. He hadn't gone back to that spot since; he hadn't wanted to see her as a pile of ash and bone.

He doesn't understand at first why Daenerys pulls away, but it doesn't take long for it to come to him, particularly after she begins to speak. He rests his hand against her leg above her knee.

"What did she say?"

That there's nothing after death, no feasts, no Great Stallion, no halls to walk with the great and the good, just an encompassing void of nonexistence? He can attest to it, but he doesn't think that's what Daenerys is about to say.

"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child." Now, and only now, is there a waiver in her voice. Not because of a dead lover, but because she's lost any and all chances at a child or family. "Then he will return, and not before."

She meets his eyes; her own are dry. The first time telling someone of those exact words. By the time she finishes speaking, she feels exhausted, as if speaking the words again somehow has cursed her once more.

"I smothered him with a pillow," she says, voice blunted and dull. "And then I burnt his corpse on the funeral pyre. The witch and I burnt with him."

She glances toward the box again, and her fingers resume with her hair.

"I don't know if you killed her, or if someone else did. It doesn't change that having someone you love die in your arms feels like a part of you is dying as well. But you were with her. She didn't die alone."

"-- And you."

All of that, and this is what he seizes on. The idea of her burning herself in a pyre makes him heartsick.

"I didn't kill her, though for a long time I thought I might as well have. Someone shot her thinking they were saving my life... the boy you saw. He might have been right." He doesn't tell her now what Olly did later.

"If you died, it would feel like all of me went with you."

Would he say that if it weren't the middle of the night? If they hadn't flung themselves into wakefulness, if they hadn't been losing track lately of where one of them ends and the other begins?

Edited 2018-01-02 03:41 (UTC)

Her lips quirk, despite herself. All of that, and this is what he seizes on. "There's a reason they call me Unburnt, raqiarzy."

He didn't kill her, but he blamed himself as if he had. Guilt is such a terrible thing, eating away at one's heart and mind like a festering wound. Likely the boy did believe he helped. Who knows if he's right?

None of it matters. Not Drogo, not Ygritte, not Mirri Maz Duur, or that young boy. There's only him and her, and she's gripping his shoulders, settling herself on his lap, smoothing her palms up his neck. Reverent. Always reverent, her touches. She leans into him, banishing the words and thoughts from his lips with a kiss.

"I love you." You're my everything. If he died, she thinks everything so essential to her would die with him. Tiredness gives way to that fire inside her again. A manic sort of determination. "Your queen forbids you from dying, Jon Snow."

He may look troubled, but he still leans into her kiss. Her lips are soft. When it breaks, something in his expression has resolved, shifted away a little from the fears that circle through his mind and the sense of failure that the dream had given him, shifted towards his love for her.

But the thoughts themselves linger.

He had been ready to die that day, the morning after Ygritte did: he had been prepared to walk into Mance's camp unarmed to try to kill him, and only Stannis's arrival had really saved them both... though, in Mance's case, not for long. Soon after, he'd built the pyre for Ygritte and burned her. It had been one of the worst days of his life. And Thorne had still found a way to execute him as a traitor, no matter who'd won the Choosing for Lord Commander of the Watch.

Daenerys forbids him to die. The irony doesn't escape him: she still doesn't know.

"Your love doesn't like to think of you in a pyre, Unburnt or not." Because he can picture it now, having to burn her the way he'd had to burn his earlier love... or worse, not having the chance, because so little of her is left... and how little he'd want to live afterward, how hard it would be to fight. "But I'll do my best to obey you."

Edited 2018-01-02 14:20 (UTC)

There's a story to be told if one watches his face carefully enough. She's not become fully adept at understanding all the minute details yet. Yet. Someday, if they were lucky to survive all that looms ahead of them, she would. That one simple thing becomes a comfort in and of itself, when a nightmare leaves her still feeling chilled.

"Fire won't hurt me." Still, his concern is touching. How fortunate she truly is, to have those concerned about her wellbeing. She's brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheeks, pressing another light kiss to his lips. "My clothing, on the other hand, cannot attest to the same."

With a quiet sigh, she slips off his lap and reaches for the blanket. Ducking into the space to his side, beneath his arm, insinuating herself against him, curled close. This is fine. This allows her his warmth and she can still watch him. Study him. Learn him.

"It's the only command that I ever truly wish for you to follow." Let him resist and battle her in wits and resolve for all the others.

He welcomes her as she curls up under his arm; he leans over to kiss her head, then rests his against hers.

"It's also what I would ask of you. That dream... I don't like you facing him. I don't want to send you against him. I wouldn't if I thought we had another choice."

A pause, and he adds, "Drogo returned... for a while. If that's possible, then the other things might be too. The mountains and the seas and the sun."

Exhaling, she settles further against him, relaxing. Her eyes even drift shut, and had there been a longer span of silence, she might've even drifted off.

"So that you might face him yourself, one day? No. We do it together." Liability or strength? It all depends on the one making the determination. To her, he is a strength. Her feelings could make her hesitate when she might not have otherwise... not a weakness, though. Never with him. "You came to me because you needed allies, and I offer my help to you freely."

Her own pause stretches far longer. And the children. He doesn't say it, but of course this is what he means.

"I would need to become pregnant for his return."

"Or the witch lied to you, or she was simply wrong. The only witch I've met had some power, but she was wrong about some things. She thought Stannis Baratheon was the return of some prince from legend. Then she decided it must be me. They're people like anyone else... they make mistakes."

Or Daenerys will become pregnant at home, in the future. Or all of it is nonsense, nothing by which they should try to live their lives, and children will come when they will, if they will, and Drogo's temporary presence in COST is unrelated.

As to the rest of it... men follow Jon, to a degree that sometimes surprises him, but it's still rare for someone to tell him so bluntly that they won't leave him to face an enemy alone.

"We face the Night King together, but I would rather you didn't have to. Well, I would rather no one had to. I would rather he had never risen.

"How often do we get what we want, when it concerns our enemies?"

Edited 2018-01-04 02:46 (UTC)

She squeezes her eyes shut. Sleepy relaxation flees when he speaks in opposition to prophecy.

"She spoke highly of you." His words are in reference to Melisandre, she knows it; the Red Priestess had come to Dragonstone and Varys told Dany as much of her faith in Stannis Baratheon. But it is not the Lord of Light who stole her unborn son, nor had this god morphed the only family she'd had into horrible monstrosities.

Of all the times Daario was invited into her bed, not once had she taken child; now is no different. How could it be? Barrenness was not debatable, for there was nothing to do to correct it. And what happened to Rhaego... scales like a lizard, blind with bat-like wings, innards full of graveworms--

"I would rather you didn't have to, either." Easier to focus on the Night King. That terrifying face is easier to think about than a dead child. "As for our enemies... it depends, I suppose. Individually, we've defeated a number of them already. Together, I imagine that will continue."

She was never very good at losing.

"We'll achieve what we want, because we cannot lose. Not against the dead, nor against Cersei."

"She spoke of me?" He pulls back just enough to look down at her with a confused expression. "Melisandre? When?"

The rest can wait.

Edited 2018-01-05 02:57 (UTC)

"Melisandre, yes." She tilts her head up enough to return his confused look. "She came to Dragonstone the night I told Tyrion to send you a raven."

Of course, the priestess' disappearance so soon after her arrival was strange, but there were other things to worry about.

"She was the reason you'd been told to attend."

He pushes his eyelids together, still a little sleepy, and tries to process what she's said.

Where did Melisandre go in the time between when Jon exiled her and when she turned up on Dragonstone? She'd ridden off alone from Winterfell, and any voyage to Dragonstone would have needed a ship, even if she'd taken the Kingsroad most of the way. But she might as easily have sailed from White Harbor as anywhere further south. How soon had she known to go to Daenerys, and why?

"How long had you been at Dragonstone when she came to you? And what did she tell you?"

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