What Are You Waiting For?

The White Wolf and The Dragon Queen

Dany stood at the prow of the ship, looking out into the foggy, grey expanse of the Shivering Sea. The wind was high, the salty air growing colder the lower the sun settled on the horizon. She liked coming outside when it was like this. The fresh air cleared her mind, helped her think.

A thud of heavy, booted steps could be heard on the deck behind her, and her lips tilted upward at the familiar sound.

"Are you not cold, my lady?"

"Your Grace," she corrected, but there was no sting in it—she was only playing with him. It seemed strange, but already Dany had developed an easy sort of friendship with Jon Snow.

She turned to face him, leaning back against the ship's railing. Jon's dark eyes were somber as they looked her over. He didn't pick up on her jest. Of course, she thought to herself, grinning up at him. Always so dour.

"No, Jon. I am not cold. And you may call me Dany," she reminded him yet again. "'The King in the North' need not be so formal with his queen."

Jon blushed at her familiarity but made no reply.

Dany hadn't known what to expect when she met the famed White Wolf, The King in the North, slayer of White Walkers, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who united the Wildlings and defeated the Bolton army—a man who had faced Death and returned victorious. Whatever she had expected, Jon Snow was something else, something more.

He was strong, a fierce warrior and formidable swordsman. He was smart, a brilliant commander and strategist. He was gracious and thoughtful, clearly well-loved by his men.

But he was also oddly quiet and almost maddeningly polite and dutiful. He hardly ever looked her in the eye, and when he did he would hastily turn away. Lately, Jon seemed uncomfortable around her, shy and sometimes awkward. I wonder why, she mused to herself. Perhaps I make him nervous.

She liked the thought of that. Strong, brave, loyal—yes, Jon had many noble virtues. But looking at him standing there on the deck, the wind fluttering his dark hair across his eyes, Dany was reminded again how very handsome he was.

"Dany," Jon said hesitantly, stepping closer. "There's a blizzard upon us. This is the farthest north you've ever been and you haven't the clothes for it. I meant to offer you this." She could barely hear him over the howl of the wind on the sea as he swept his cloak from his back and held it out to her.

Jon was right about the storm. There were little flurries of snow in the air; she could see them as they caught in his hair, glistening in his curls, black and shiny as Drogon's scales. She must have looked a fool to his eyes—wearing nothing but one of the silk dresses she'd brought from Meereen, her shoulders and back bared to the elements. But the cold did not bother her. She was the Blood of the Dragon: there was fire in her veins. Still, Dany was touched by Jon's considerate gesture.

"I suppose it is a bit chilly," she conceded. He smiled slightly and reached around her, draping the cloak about her shoulders. The gale coming off the water threatened to take it right off again, so for the moment his arms encircled her as he fastened the clasp at her throat. When he'd finished, though, Jon didn't move away, and Dany peered up to find him looking down at her, his eyes kind and inviting, his breath steaming in the air.

"Thank you." Dany stood up on her toes so she could speak at his ear, the better to be heard over the wind and the crash of the waves against the ship. "But what about you? Or are all you Northern men just immune to the cold after all this time?" she asked, arching her brow at him jokingly.