Sacrifice | Daenerys Targaryen

-20-

The castle is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the stone walls as torch flames flicker. It's in this labyrinth of history that she unintentionally collides with a figure in the hallway. Both stagger back, and she looks up to meet the eyes of Jon Snow.

"Apologies," He says, a genuine smile playing on his lips.

"No, it's my fault," Lyla responds.

Their eyes lock, and in that moment, something unspoken passes between them.

"I suppose we both need better navigation skills," Jon remarks, breaking the silence with a lightness that makes Lyla smile.

"Or perhaps the castle has a mind of its own," She adds, her eyes holding a glint of mirth.

They stand in the corridor, a bridge between the past and the present. The stones around them bear witness to Targaryens, Starks, and a myriad of other tales, yet in this moment, it's as if time itself has slowed to accommodate the meeting of two kindred spirits.

"I heard you missed the introductions in the throne room," Jon says, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

"Yes, I was... preoccupied," She replies, choosing her words carefully, not yet ready to unveil the intricacies of her newfound knowledge.

"Royalty and their preoccupations," Jon chuckles, and Lyla finds comfort in the ease of their conversation.

They start walking side by side, the torches casting playful shadows on the walls. The castle, once a witness to the fiery dance of dragons, now harbors the footsteps of a queen and a king — heirs to legacies that intertwine in ways they are only beginning to fathom.

"I'm Jon Snow," He introduces himself.

"Lyla Bay," She replies.

" Bay is for bastards... isn't it?"

" I suppose," Lyla says with a faint and faked smile.

The night air wraps around Dragonstone, a tapestry of whispers and the distant echoes of waves against the cliffs. Lyla and Jon meander through the castle's passageways, their steps blending into the silent conversation between stone and sea.

The courtyard leads them to a balcony that overlooks the Narrow Sea, the moon casting its silver glow upon the waters. A breeze ripples through Lyla's hair, a curtain of firelit strands that frame her face as she gazes out to sea.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jon remarks, his eyes fixed on the undulating expanse.

They fall into a comfortable silence, both lost in their thoughts. But as the silence extends, so does the curiosity.

"You're not like the other Westerosi I've met," Jon says, more an observation than a question.

"I'm not Westerosi," Lyla reminds him as she takes a shuddering breath.

"No, you're not," Jon agrees, "There's something different about you."

Lyla looks at him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight, "And what about you, Jon Snow? You're not like other lords and kings I've heard of."

"I'm not a lord," Jon chuckles, "Not really. I was raised a Stark, but I'm a Snow, a bastard. I never quite fit into their world."

"Sometimes not fitting in is an advantage," Lyla muses, her eyes filled with a depth that hints at a lifetime of lessons.

As they resume their walk, the conversation weaves through the tapestry of their pasts. Jon, in turn, unfolds the narrative of the North — the vastness of Winterfell, the Wall that guards against ancient terrors, and the songs sung by bards of long winters and even longer nights.