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He had been the first to discover it, long ago in the Old Bear's study; the only way to kill them was with fire.
The problem is, in the icy wastes beyond the Wall, there is so very little they can burn. They'd made do, the tattered remnants of the Night's Watch and the forces of Stannis Baratheon. The red woman had been their biggest source of hope at first; the night fires did burn so bright as to dispel not only the Others but any fear of their return, and she glowed like a beacon, lit from within. In the end she was mortal as the rest of them, and when an Other's cold fingers had ripped out her heart Jon noted dispassionately that it was the same as any other heart, except it was no longer beating.
Now they travel by night, sleep by day, more jealous with their fuel than they are with their food. Jon has never been this far into the wildlings' land; when he lies down to sleep in the thin sun he thinks of Ygritte, singing with tears on her cheeks with the last of the giants. We do not belong here, he thinks. Ghost burrows into his side without a sound.
He did not think they would be coming back from this. As they approach the trees where pale faces peer out at them from every direction, they make a circle and choose the place where they will make their stand and fight. It will not, Jon thinks, take very long.
Barely the first of the dead men have cleared the trees, lumbering toward the black brothers and the King's men, when a terrible scream rends the air, a screech of victorious joy. And suddenly in the depths of the blue-black night there is a flash of fire, red and gold blooming among the trees, an explosion of light and heat flowering toward the small party of men on the open ground, some grappling with their undead enemies, some standing openmouthed, staring at the sky.
The dragon banks sharply and whirls, flying over the heads of men who had been told all their lives that such things did not exist, that legends were best left to historians, dreamers and fools.
Jon Snow stands with his sword point in the snow, shading his eyes with his hand, laughing.
He doesn't know what to expect when they land-- certainly not this, not her, short and slight and wrapped in furs that weighed as much as she did. Her accent is strange, and Jon is no scholar, but he knows who stands before him, one small hand laid on the neck of a dragon as if it were no stranger than a horse. "I am Daenerys Targaryen," she tells him.
He can think of no reply save one. He bends his knee and his head, and when her two fingers lift his chin their eyes meet. "Winter is coming," she says, and it does not matter how she knows to say that to him. Ghost shoves his nose into her free hand, and Jon smiles.
---
She was not made for the cold; each night Jon stokes the fire in his solar as high as it will go, and retreats to the room below to sleep. Each morning he wakes early, climbs the stairs with more wood in his arms, and rebuilds what has burned out in the night.
He does not look at her, silver and tousled in his bed.
He does not ask why she remains, when the Others have been destroyed and there is naught to be done save rebuild the forces and fortresses of the Watch.
During the days she sees to her people, visiting the wounded, watching the warriors drill, checking her supplies, walking among them like a lamb among wolves. They meet at times, over a mug of soup at midday or at the fence beside the practice yard with the clang of swords humming backdrop to their talk.
And there is talk. She has a hundred questions for him on a hundred different subjects, and she draws out the answers with an easy simplicity that surprises him but does not seem to surprise her. Always she is cool, smiling and polite, unfailingly frank, and Jon leaves their conversations unsettled, shaken by the strange uncertainty curling around his insides. He does not know what he wants of Daenerys Targaryen; he does not know what she wants of him. He is more disturbed by the fact that he does not seem to care.
She is a queen; he never forgets this. He had learned well to be wary of kings, after all, and he has only to look at her to see what she is. Even uncrowned, she is regal, and it has nothing to do with the dragons. But with every day that passes she dismantles more of his walls, strips away more of his composure until he can barely contain his curiosity. He knows she sees it, too; somehow without Jon's noticing, she learned to read him, learned everything there is to know about him.
She has begun to fill in the cracks; she is exactly what he has been looking for.
Finally there comes a night when he has stoked the fire and seated himself in the chair beside it before she ever enters the solar. He hears the door click shut, hears her boots drop, her robe slither to the floor as she walks toward him. She does not speak, even as she comes to stand before him, a firm finger beneath his chin lifting his eyes to hers.
He remembers being a different person, a boy who knew nothing. He is not a boy, and he knows what to do when she climbs into his lap and presses her mouth to his. He hesitates for barely a moment. He is only a man, and she is a goddess; how could he resist? He stands, her legs wrapping around his waist, and carries her to the bed.
In the morning she sits, bare shoulders swathed in fur, hair loose and tumbled around her neck, and looks at him with calm violet eyes. "We will leave tomorrow," she tells him. There is no question, no doubt.
"What's kept you?" he asks, though he knows the question foolish, though he does not believe he wants to know the answer.
"Waiting, Jon Snow," she replies, the fur dropping to her waist as she reaches one arm out, shameless of her nakedness, one small callused hand cupping his chin. "Waiting for you to be ready to join me."