dragonwarder | (no subject)

I am sure you will see a dragon before too long.

[Though...perhaps not anytime soon. It was never a happy time for her, when the dragon came calling. But he does not need to share those burdens with her.

Besides, he says something more interesting not long after.]

How do you mean?

The Boltons betrayed my brother to take the North for themselves. Before that, Theon Greyjoy betrayed him to take Winterfell for the Ironborn. When we took it back... no one I’d known there as a child still lived, other than Sansa. Not even the cook or the smith.

[He’s already spoken on this a little, back when he tried to explain why the Northerners were done with southron rulers. But this is more personal, now.]

We rode through the North looking for support and found it lacking... some because they regretted supporting Robb, some because the bulk of the force was made up of wildlings. They didn’t hate Bolton as much — at least he was a Northman, even if he’d sold the Starks out to the Lannisters for his own gain.

Even so, we nearly lost. We would have lost, if it hadn’t been for the support of my sister’s cousin in the Vale. Bolton was executed, I gave him to Sansa to kill, but then there is always the matter of how many lords there are to please at a time when I can’t await on their pleasure; even a normal winter would be troublesome, would have required preparation that’s been set aside while people fought amongst themselves, but this won’t be a normal winter. And then there is the fact of so many changes. The Boltons did considerable rebuilding. It’s the home I remember, but it’s changed. And I was only in it for a few moons before I left it.

[It is something she sympathizes with. Granted, her khalasar had ridden with her for many moons, as had Jorah and the Unsullied and Barristan (Gods rest his soul). She’d built a family from nothing.

She remembered what it was like, to yearn for the familiar. Even when the familiar was poison.]

Yes. I imagine that was very hard for you, and for Lady Sansa.

[She understands a bit better why the North might balk at Jon’s decision to bend the knee without consultation, though it does not endear her to his denial any better. There was too much at stake for them to be so stubborn in the matters of sovereignty.]

Forgive me. I should not have pried.

[Ultimately, it amounted to nothing, and only made Jon relive that which could not be altered.]

[He shakes his head and half-smiles, but it’s a smile that has no happiness in it.]

You weren’t prying. I spoke willingly. Returning to a home you lost may always be complicated: that was my meaning.

But I’m grateful to have had a home, a family, to have been taught things. I might as easily have been made a servant, to clean Robb’s boots and bow to Bran, when they still lived. I wasn’t raised to be a king, but I wasn’t raised to be a kennel boy or a horse groom, either.

[He doubts that she was raised to be a queen. Likely, they’ve both had to find their way as well as they could with what they did have. He couldn’t lay claim to a name like she could, but the fact of who his father was had gone far enough for it not to matter, in the absence of living trueborn Stark sons.]

It was never much of a home. The first home I remember--

[Her voice tapers. Why is she telling Jon any of this? When did she start to feel so at ease? She glances momentarily at the bottle in her hand, as if remembering its presence, and reconsiders her train of thought.]

I suppose it doesn't matter.

[But she does find the way that he imparts his treatment by the Starks to be interesting. He was, after all, no trueborn son. It was somewhat remarkable that he was afforded the same privileges as all the rest of Ned Stark's children.

She could not help but wonder how his mother had taken that.]

I know of few lords who would show such respect to their bastard children. But I suppose I do not know many northmen.

[She thinks of Jorah briefly, her brows pinching. With all of his guilt and all that had lead him to her, would he have treated a bastard son so kindly?]

[He finds himself curious about this first home, curious about Essos, curious about a world he hasn’t seen. But equally, it isn’t right to pry. His look of interest shifts into one that almost seems chastened: Right, you don’t want to tell me that. Why would she?

They move on to the subject of his upbringing.]

You wouldn’t have to know many northmen. It isn’t the usual way. Maybe if there are no other sons, and the lord has no wife. But often not even then.

The world isn’t kind to bastard-born children. I can’t imagine that Essos is any kinder.

Edited (Typos!) 2020-02-29 20:22 (UTC)

On the contrary.

[To say Essos was kind to its bastard children wouldn’t be strictly correct — but they were certainly less offended by their existance.]

Kingdoms in Essos oft have greater concerns than bastard born children.

[Still, the way Jon broaches the topic gives her enough of an answer. The love had come from his father’s insistance. and his mother —

Well. She does not need to pry.]

And yet a bastard has been crowned King in the North. I would call that ironic.

[Ah. She shouldn’t be pushing this. Logically, even without her advisors, she knows this. She could feel Tyrion a world away pressing his face into his palm tiredly. But she had worked too hard to already have Kingdoms resisting her coming.

Before he can rebuke her for her cold heart, she moves to stand.]

We should be getting back before our absence is noted.

[He isn’t sure how to react to what she’s just said. Over the years, as he grew from boyhood to manhood and once he was away from his father’s care and protection, more than one person had tried to use his birth to insult him. Too many for it to matter after a while: why should he care if they called him what he is? Them calling his father a traitor eventually had more power to anger him.

But he isn’t even sure that’s what she means. She is self-possessed; her manner so far is mostly mild and firm, sometimes flatter or sharper or a little more fierce, not giving much away. She doesn’t seem given to insinuations. He already knows that she thinks the North should be hers — but it’s no fault of his that her family had failed to hold it.]

We should. [But he hasn’t finished the salad, or his second bottle of ale, and doesn’t yet move to stand.]

I could call myself Jon Stark if I wanted. There’s no one to stop me. But I don’t, and I won’t. It’s a lie, but beyond that, I want every Snow in the North to know that their king was bastard-born. I want them to know it’s no dishonor... the same for the Stones and the Hills and the Rivers and Flowers if they hear of it. [He stares at her, emphatic, wondering if she can possibly understand — asking her to.] I know you and I aren’t the same, and I mean no disrespect, but — you’re more than they wanted you to be when you were a child, too.

Edited 2020-03-01 10:39 (UTC)

[Truthfully, she never cared for the politics of power in regards to bastard children. Of course, she knew the dangers, just as any Targaryen would. Still, she listens without further comment, staring at him for a touch longer than perhaps is proper. You're more than they wanted you to be when you were a child, too.

If only he'd known how close his words had cut her, and in how many different ways. He certainly isn't wrong.]

More than they bargained for.

[It is a gentle correction. She was never anything but what she was -- and she has a hard time imagining anyone wanted anything for her. All she was to most was a trophy to trade about -- until she became too large for any of them to carry.]

[If she stares at him for longer than is proper, he does the same to her.

Back when he was a boy, he felt that his birth made it easier -- and important -- for him to understand people just by watching and listening. He's had cause to doubt his skill at it, seven daggers' worth of cause, but still, he knows he is more perceptive than many he meets.

He wouldn't say that he understands her now, but he does understand her better than he had when he knocked on her door a few hours ago. The fact that he feels like he knows her better than he did comes into his look now, but so does a hint of curiosity.

She isn't much like anyone he's ever met. He knows that much. Not a marriage prize, like most highborn girls, but a queen in her own right. Without breaking his gaze, he nods, small and slow, in agreement.]

Aye. More than they bargained for.

[More than he had, too. What exactly had he been expecting, when he was summoned to meet someone, a woman even younger than him, who had been given the name The Mother of Dragons? Not this.

He finds another place to look -- down at the ale in his hand.]

Who's going to notice our absence?

[He is of little importance in New Amsterdam.]

[She allows him to hold her gaze while he muddles through his thoughts.]

It is the magic of this place. The sort that lets us send pictures to one another with a mere thought.

[Though Jon looks away, she does not. Her eyelids lower slightly as she recants the memory — of conversations she’d had with others, about the possibility that they were being watched or tracked. Nobody had a convincing answer for her.

It was easy for a queen to be paranoid about such things.]

The Displaced are not often thought of kindly, anymore. It would serve you well to remember that there are many here who seek to make our lives difficult in any way they can.