Jon Snow seemed forever brooding. He scarce spoke to the victims he visited, in apparent contemplation of his influence on their predicaments. He stared at raging skies sullenly while his hands unconsciously cleansed his sword. And he responded with cold black eyes when Varys explained his surviving the flames by, potentially, being a bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.
Daenerys Targaryen could not tell if it was his habitual appearance or if he was lost in thought. It was easy to assume that a man of few words could seem possessed to commoners, but she preferred the simpler adjective: shocked.
They were in the town now: the Winterfell king had insisted people be told about the conclusion of the battle. They toured Barrowton together, yet with their own envoys: Jon, with some soldiers and a fat lord, while Daenerys with Qhono and few of her Dothraki. It was more a show of peace to the northerners, to keep their fragile alliance intact.
She remembered her words with Varys about Jon, and how the northerners held him in high regard, but little did she expect this. His words were all that it took for Barrowton to treat Daenerys from foe to friend. Northmen flocked around him like lamb to their shepherd.
Perhaps it was because they had seen a miracle with their own eyes – Drogon had burned right through Jon, yet to see him standing at the end of it…
When the flames were out, Daenerys recalled, she saw for a second the marks on his chest and abdomen. They were unmistakable. Varys had claimed half of Jon’s tales inflated and the other false, but what if he had the wrong of it? Could a man really rise from the dead?
He is to the north what I was once to Yunkai, she thought, recalling those chants of Mhysa, which now felt seven lifetimes ago.
Hail and snow were relentless in their march, and the cold had seeped past her clothing swiftly, yet Jon seemed forgetful to the clime, alone in his thoughts, alienated from immediate society. Daenerys felt pity for her khalasar, too proud to ask her for shelter, yet who could risk frostbite wearing the attire they did. “Would you like to visit the dragons?” she asked Jon, wondering if that was where his mind lay.
Roofs of stables needed to be removed to accommodate Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion. Dothraki and northerners took shelter in adjoining stables, while Jon approached her children, Daenerys not far behind. He had kept a safe distance. “If I have Targaryen blood,” he said, finally approaching the subject, be it tangentially, “does that mean they will be friendlier?”
“I do not know.” Daenerys was interested. “The only other Targaryen I really knew was my brother.”
Jon boldly went nearer to Drogon, reaching his hand as if wanting to touch him. The dragon, instead of bowing down, flared his nostrils and snapped teeth in his direction. For a second, it looked like he would much love to devour the King in the North, but before it could consider so, Jon hurriedly backed away. “Clearly, it has not forgotten our encounter at the rooftop of Barrow Hall,” he said, rare grin on his face.
“Do they frighten you?” Daenerys said, half-laughing. “They can even frighten me sometimes.”
“I thought I would be all right,” he said, sheepish. “After the things I’ve seen…” he hesitated. “I mean, I have seen some direwolves,” he finished somewhat meekly, and then spoke about his pet. Daenerys made light chat with him, and Jon seemed to try his best to engage in meandering conversations, but she knew they were wasting time, avoiding the something simmering underneath the surface.
Eventually, she came right out to say it. “Perhaps it is time to move to more serious matters. The secret of your… lineage, will forever lie between you, me and Varys. But how does that not make you want the Iron Throne?”
Jon seemed taken aback by her sudden line of questioning. “I do not have any interest for King’s Landing. When my father… when Lord Eddard went there, he was labelled a traitor and executed.” His voice grew bitter. “My brother was killed for waging war against it, and my sister scarce survived the place. There is more tragedy in the capital than glory.” He paused. “But why do you ask?”
It was Daenerys’ time to act confused. “Well… I just felt we needed to address the important issue.”
Jon nodded, sullenness back, and in that second Daenerys realized her error in judgment. He is no politician, that is for certain, she thought, as she understood that the engagement that Jon was showing in their previous ramblings was genuine. Prolonged company with Hizdahr zo Loraq, Tyrion Lannister and Varys made her forget that, among lords and kings, there could still exist men with sheer sincerity.
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