Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was just past four in the morning when he got the call.

Jon was lying in his bed, staring at the dull shafts of lights on the ceiling, cast by the lone streetlamp outside his window. When his phone rang from the nightstand, he sprung up and grabbed it. A call at this hour could only mean one thing.

Someone was dead.

Still, the low chime was a welcome interruption, nearly a relief.

“This is Snow.”

“Hello, Detective.” It was Arianne, the dispatcher down at the precinct. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got a stiff.” There was a faint clicking in the background, the hushed sound of voices. “At the edge of Wolfswood park, right by Torrhen's Square. Officers are already at the scene, they asked for the homicide detective on-call.”

“Got it.” He already climbed out of bed, pulling his pants on as she spoke, phone wedged between ear and shoulder. “I’ll be there in twenty.” He tucked the phone in his pocket and turned to the closet to pull out a clean shirt.

Gravel and frost crunched under Jon’s boots when he made his way from the dark parking lot and into the park. Harsh blue and red lights blinked from the police cars already at the scene, officers busy stretching a black and yellow “CRIME SCENE - DO NOT CROSS” tape around the perimeter.

Jon moved towards one of the officers, ready to pull his badge out of his pocket when someone waved at him from just beyond the yellow tape. “Detective Snow! Over here!”

It was officer Tarly, wearing his usual anxious expression, his round face sweaty. “Over here,” he repeated, gesturing at another uniformed officer to let Jon through.

Jon ducked under the tape and fell into step next to Sam.

“We have a body. A passerby found him just an hour ago.”

“At 3 in the morning?”

“A nurse, returning from a night shift. I phoned the hospital. He checks out.” That explained it. Many streetlights lit the park, the body would be clearly visible from the road.

“Did he see anyone or anything else suspicious at the scene?”

Sam shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. But I got his contact information if you want to question him later on.”

They circled a dense copse and descended stone stairs to a large open area. Sam delivered a constant stream of information as they walked. “We’re still canvassing the area and making note of anything that seems out of place. I also called the ME’s office. They’re sending someone.”

Jon acknowledged with a nod and moved closer, getting his first look at the crime scene.

The victim lay at the foot of an ancient oak, head bent at an unnatural angle. Jon approached, accepting a pair of disposable gloves from one of the CSI techs. He pulled the gloves on as he crouched next to the body, his mind already making meticulous notes.

Male, early to mid-twenties, shot in the chest at least twice. No visible footprints in the immediate vicinity of the body.

“How close would the shooter have to be to cause this kind of damage?” Sam asked in a hushed voice, as though the dead guy could hear him.

Jon leaned in, eyeing the wounds. “I’d say face to face. ID on the victim?”

“None yet. He didn’t have a wallet. We’ll run the fingerprints later to see if they turn up anything.”

“Phone?”

“Couldn’t find one.”

Jon continued his examination of the body, noting that the right leg was bent at an odd angle—possibly the result of additional gunshots—and the dull unseeing eyes staring at the starless sky. He inspected the hands next, observing faint bruises decorating the victim’s wrists.

Sam was still peering over his shoulder, and Jon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The one good thing about being called to a scene in the middle of the night was that he didn’t have the rookie trailing after him, peppering him with a million questions. Yet here was keen officer Tarly filling the role, anyway.

Sam pointed at the victim’s hands. “Are these defensive wounds? Did he try to fight off his killer?”

“No.” Jon indicated the pads of the victim’s fingers. “No marks here, but his wrists are bruised. These are ligature marks. He was tied before he was killed.” He held the victim’s wrist so that a lamppost illuminated it. “Notice the pattern? Zipties.”

Jon’s brows furrowed when he noticed more blood on the back of the victim’s hand. He turned it carefully and froze, staring at the shape crudely carved into the graying skin. To anyone else, it would look like a simple X. Jon knew better.

The flayed man.

His vision clouded over, his heart racing. His hand clenched, and he had to physically stop himself from pressing it against his own chest to banish the phantom pains.

It’s done. It’s over and done with.

An eternity seemed to have passed before his heart resumed its normal rhythm.

“Detective Snow?”

“Aye.” Jon jerked himself back to the present and straightened from his crouch. “Get Hightower from organized crime here,” he told Sam, who was standing next to him, teetering from foot to foot. “He should see this.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped back to examine the rest of the scene.

Tire tracks, far side. Drag marks on the ground. Victim killed elsewhere and then dumped here.

In most cases, this would have been an attempt to obscure the identity of the killer, but not this time. The mark made it loud and clear. They were sending a message.

Sam was still following him, albeit at a distance, so he turned back. “Any casings or projectiles found at the scene?”

“None so far. But he was only shot twice, it would be tough—”

“He was hit twice,” Jon corrected. “He could have been shot at multiple times.”

“CSI can get some metal detectors here if—”

Jon shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” The lack of physical evidence of shooting at the scene confirmed his suspicion that the murder took place elsewhere. “He wasn’t killed here. This is merely a dump site.”

Jon crouched next to the tire tracks and ran a gloved finger over one.

Deeper and wider than usual, belonging to a larger vehicle, possibly an SUV or a van.

Jon rose to his feet and looked around. This part of the park was full of scattered trees and uneven terrain. Not the best place to drive a car. Any vehicle driving through it would leave marks.

He turned to Sam. “Got a flashlight?”

“Oh. Sure.” Sam wrenched one out of his pocket, almost dropping it in his haste to pass it to Jon.

Jon clicked it on and shined the beam around the area.

Bushes to the right appear to be trampled, this is possibly where the car drove through.

Jon followed the trail, reaching a small clump of pines. He trained the flashlight over the trunk of one of them, which had noticeable black marks.

By Jon’s side, Sam gave a sharp intake of breath. “Is that from—”

“—The car that transported the body here, aye, possibly.”

“Oh.”

Jon looked around, spotting a young CSI tech examining a thoroughly unremarkable clump of rocks on the ground. “You. Get over here.”

The man jumped and hurried to comply, glancing at Jon with an air of a deer caught in headlights. “Sir?”

Jon pointed out the marks on the tree. “Take pictures and collect paint samples,” he instructed. “This could be our transport vehicle.”

Not bothering to wait for a response, he turned back to Sam. “Pull footage from nearby traffic cams in a five-mile radius. It might help us identify the vehicle.”

Sam nodded, already pulling his radio out. “Yes, Detective.”

“And tell CSI to hurry,” he threw over his shoulder at Sam as he started walking away. “It can start snowing any minute.”

Jon stepped away from the main area, where most of the team toiled, and towards the part closest to the road. The area closest to the body was likely to generate the most evidence, but it was possible that he could glean some information from further away.

Now that he already suspected who was involved in the murder, he wondered...he knew the MO and he had an idea what to look for.

Shining the beam of the flashlight on the partially frozen ground, he moved about the area in a strip pattern, canvassing soil. At long last, he found something. A knife, its blade glinting in the pale light.

Jon crouched down, examining the object, which he suspected was the actual murder weapon. If his hunch was correct, the victim was shot postmortem.

If he was right, Jon doubted they would find any fingerprints on the weapon. Bolton was cocky, a textbook narcissist, but unfortunately, not stupid. Nevertheless, they needed to follow procedure and record the evidence.

Jon rose from his crouch to call for a CSI tech.

The day’s first rays shone through the sky by the time Jon finished at the scene. In lieu of going back home, Jon drove towards the precinct instead, keen on getting an early start on his workday.

Arianne smiled at him when he entered, giving him her usual, poorly-concealed once-over. “You’re up early. Were you at the crime scene this whole time?”

“Aye.” He gave her a quick nod and made his way towards his office, feeling her eyes burning into his back.

For months now, she’d been undressing him with her eyes every time she saw him. He had briefly considered it, taking her to bed, but he had long ago resolved to not dip his quill into the department’s inkwell. The complication just wasn’t worth it—not for a casual fuck—and he was uninterested in anything beyond that. Either way, he had plenty of other, simpler options if he only wanted to release tension.

“Snow!”

With a hand on the handle of his office door, Jon turned towards the familiar voice of his Chief, Jeor Mormont. He cursed inwardly. His boss was a stickler for rules and probably wanted to chew him out about showing up to work too early. Again.

“Heard you were called to a scene this morning,” the chief said without preamble, as he walked towards his own office and gestured Jon to follow. “What did you find?”

Jon followed obediently—relieved that his boss wanted to talk shop—stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. Chief Mormont sat behind his wooden desk, heaped high with precarious piles of files, and stared pointedly at the chair across from him. Jon sat on the edge, clasping his hands in front of him in an effort to keep from fidgeting.

“It was Bolton,” Jon said flatly.

Mormont leaned back in his chair, his brows furrowed. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Why do you think that?”

“The flayed man sliced into the back of the victim’s hand. It’s unmistakable. CSI took pictures. It’s all in the report.”

Mormont nodded, tapping his fingers on his desk, fixing his eyes at Jon. “Are you alright?” he asked finally.

Jon stiffened, fighting to keep from snapping at his boss. Over the last four years, he’d been asked this question time and time again. It did nothing but bring back memories he resolved to steer clear of.

“Aye, fine,” he said, getting to his feet and inching towards the door.

“Jon.” His boss’ voice stopped him. “You know I can’t assign you—”

“I know,” Jon said. “Already notified Hightower. He’s taking point.”

“Good.” His boss nodded. “If you need anything—”

“I better get back to work,” Jon cut him off, firmly putting his hand on the doorknob. “I’ve got a new lead on The Dragon.” He opened the door and stepped out, resisting the urge to curl his hand into a fist.

It was done. Not his case anymore. Hightower from Organized Crime was spearheading the investigation and if he needed resources from Homicide, Mormont would probably assign someone else.

He needed to concentrate on The Dragon. It had been over three years of investigation and they were making very little progress. After the disastrous incident that marked the end of his involvement with his previous case, Jon was hellbent on succeeding this time.

He was going to put an end to The Dragon’s operation if it was the last thing he did.

“Are you gonna finish that?”

Jon dragged his eyes away from the darkened warehouse to his partner’s expectant eyes. He was pointing at the brown paper bag that held Jon’s barely touched fries.

Jon pushed the bag towards him. “Knock yourself out.”

It made Jon’s stomach turn, the stale car smell intermingled with the grease of the burgers and fries his partner was currently gobbling up.

Waters loved the cheap shit.

Gendry Waters was young and fresh-faced, straight out of the academy, and chief Mormont had tasked Jon with teaching him everything there was to know about the work of a homicide detective.

It’s been over five months since his previous partner had put in for a transfer and he was bound to get assigned a new one, eventually.

Jon hadn’t been pleasant to work with ever since his return to active duty four years ago. The Old Bear would not let it go on like this for much longer, despite Jon’s insistence that he was better off on his own. One loud conversation involving the words “team player” and “direct order” later, here he was babysitting a 23-year-old.

At least Waters was halfway decent. For a rookie, that is. Bright and eager to learn, he appeared sinfully excited even when engaged in the most boring part of the job.

“So why are we not using electronics?” Waters asked once he stuffed the last of the fries into his mouth.

Jon groaned inwardly, resigning himself to another round of 20 questions. “Too expensive,” he replied. “We only have a tip from a low-level informant. We need to give the chief a good reason to approve more than good old-fashioned surveillance.”

“Right, right.” Waters nodded, so eagerly that he resembled one of those bobblehead dog figurines. “And the tip said The Dragon is going to be here tonight?”

“Not himself, no. Associates of his, possibly key figures in his organization.”

“And we’re hoping to catch them in the act and arrest them tonight?”

Jon arched an eyebrow. “In the act of what?”

“Uh—well...crime?” Waters frowned. “Why are we here, again?”

Jon sighed.

Stakeouts were not the most entertaining ventures. In fact, Jon would say it ranked amongst the least favorite parts of his job. Alas, they were necessary sometimes, and this one was vital, connected to the case he’d been working on for the last few years. Tonight could mean a breakthrough, one Jon was desperate for.

Unfortunately, it’d been three hours, and nothing was happening. Shit intel or abysmal luck. Perhaps he changed the plan. The Dragon was one paranoid fuck. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Jon grabbed his can of energy drink from the cup holder and drained it. It was awful, like cough syrup with an unpleasant metallic aftertaste, but it got the job done.

Something shifted in his field of vision, barely visible. If he was not mistaken, he could spot someone there. Jon leaned forward, squinting at the dark alleyway behind the warehouse. A shifting shadow. Come to think of it, he could hear something too, something that wasn’t there before. The whir of a motor. Faint, but rapidly becoming less so.

Waters blinked at him, brow wrinkling. “What?”

“Look.”

The young man leaned forward, squinting at the dark patch of street. “I don’t see anything.”

“Look,” Jon repeated. “And listen.”

Waters quieted, staring ahead with a furrowed brow.

The hum of the motor grew louder as shadows fluctuated on the alley’s wall. Moments later, a shiny motorcycle burst into the scene, painted black as a crow’s wing, with an elaborate red dragon decorating the brushed aluminum tank cover.

The rider wore dark clothes and heavy boots. Jon couldn’t be sure of the exact color in the dim light of the broken lamppost. He was slim, so much so that Jon suspected a teenager. The Dragon had several of them running around, performing minor tasks. Although, that bike did not look like something a low-level errand boy would ride.

Grabbing the binoculars resting on the dashboard, Jon brought them to his eyes to focus on the scene unfolding in front of him.

The rider stopped right under the streetlamp and tugged the helmet off. Yellow light bathed the slight figure, and for a moment, Jon thought he might be hallucinating. Because the woman standing in the circle of light couldn’t possibly be real.

Flaxen hair spilled out, fanning over her shoulders in gentle waves. The moonlight hair, the blood-red lips, and the matching red shirt peeking from under a black leather jacket made her the only splash of color in an otherwise monochrome world.

The light she stood under brought her features into sharp relief, and Jon could clearly see the exquisite lines of her face. His breath hitched in his throat. He froze, entranced, unable to draw his eyes away.

A second rider appeared on the back of a black unmarked motorbike, far less conspicuous than the first. It stopped next to the woman, and the person on it tugged off his helmet as well. It was a young man with a smooth face, close-cropped dark hair, and a vague military appearance.

The woman turned to him, still perched on her bike. Jon could see her mouth move as she spoke, but couldn't discern what she was saying.

Waters’ nudging his arm jerked him back to reality. “Snow,” he whispered, as though they were in danger of being overheard.

Jon wrenched his eyes away from the mystery woman to glance at his partner. Waters pointed towards the man.

“Gun.”

Jon stiffened and returned his gaze to the scene. The man perched on a black nondescript bike had withdrawn a cellphone out of his pocket, momentarily exposing a trim waistline and a pistol strapped to his belt. This was an...unexpected complication. Their intel was obviously bullshit.

The two exchanged a few more words. The blonde suddenly turned, glancing over her shoulder in the car's direction. His skin prickled with awareness, a strange sensation as though she was looking right at him. That was highly unlikely, of course. Not at this distance and not in the dark.

Apparently satisfied, the woman turned her back to them, and she and her companion hopped off their bikes, making their way to the warehouse until they disappeared behind the heavy metal doors.

Jon swore under his breath. He would have to get closer if he wanted to get anything at all. Which would mean risk being seen. It might not be worth it.

“What now?” the rookie asked, squinting at Jon quizzically.

Jon sighed. “We give it a few minutes. See if anyone else turns up.”

Just then, a sharp noise pierced the silence. Jon had been in the force long enough to know what the sound was.

Waters leaned forward, his jaw dropping. “Was that a gunshot?”

Jon had already grabbed his gun and was checking the magazine to ensure that it was full. By his side, Waters was nearly vibrating with excitement, his hand already on the door handle.

Jon closed his eyes momentarily. He knew what he was about to do was going to earn him, at the very least, a reprimand. Chief Mormont was probably going to tear him a new one when he heard of this. But it had to be done.

“Hold on,” he said to Waters, just when the latter was about to leave the car. “Close the door.”

Waters frowned at him but did as told. “Aren’t we going to investigate?”

“I am going to investigate,” Jon corrected him, slipping the magazine back into the gun. “You’re staying in the car.”

“What? But, Detective Snow, I-”

“Call for backup if things go south. Under no circumstances will you come in alone.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing right now?”

“This isn’t south yet.”

“But-”

“Do not leave this vehicle, or call anyone, unless you hear gunshots,” Jon interrupted him, fixing him with a glare that made grown men cower. “Are we clear?”

The rookie blinked at him, pressing his lips together. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

Jon gave him a curt nod, then climbed out of the car, shutting the door behind him. He held the gun low, muzzle pointed at the ground as he cautiously approached the dimly lit building.

People called him careless. Reckless, even. The Old Bear would definitely agree. He’d sure yelled it at him more times than Jon could count. But he got the job done. And yet, there was no fucking way in all seven hells he was going to take a green, still-wet-behind-the-ears rookie into the Dragon’s den.

He reached the warehouse door and leaned close, listening carefully. Not a peep. He would have to go in deaf, blind and stupid.

Soundlessly slipping inside, he crept down a narrow corridor, straining his ears to determine where the pair he saw disappeared to. The front door was the only exit in the building, so they had to be still inside. And they might or might not have just shot someone.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard muted voices. They came from behind the old rusted door directly to his left. Jon moved closer, careful to make as little noise as possible.

Luckily for him, the door was ajar. A sliver of light shone from inside the room, providing pale illumination to the dark hallway.

Jon leaned as close as he dared, trying to peer inside. From his vantage point, he could see a large, mostly bare room containing two hardback chairs by the uneven concrete wall, one of them lying on the floor on its side, several large wooden crates stacked haphazardly in the corner, and not much else.

He chanced an inch closer, listening.

“—did he tell you?”

A feminine voice. It must be her, the fair-haired beauty.

“He will get you what he promised.”

A man’s voice. There was something unusual about it. Jon couldn’t quite put his finger on what, exactly.

“And what did he ask for in return?”

“The usual.”

“I doubt it.” A scoff. “There’s always more. Perhaps we should—“

The conversation halted. There was nothing but silence for a few long moments.

“What is it?” The man’s voice again.

The woman said something. Too quiet to hear. Jon had a twisting sensation in his stomach. The jig was up. He’d better announce himself before they start shooting.

He gritted his teeth and called out. “Winterfell PD. Put your hands where I can see them.” He then pushed the door open with his foot and walked inside, gun held in front of him.

Jon performed a quick scan of the room. The rest of it was as empty as the part he’d glimpsed at, except for the two people standing there, staring at him.

The blonde and her companion were in the very center of the room, hands dutifully raised in front of them.

She was even more arresting in the harsh lights of the warehouse. The delicate lines of her face appeared as though drawn by an artist. Her lips were full and plush, and her eyes had the most peculiar shade of blue. Inconveniently captivating.

She also looked remarkably unaffected for someone who had a gun pointed at them.

She arched one perfect eyebrow, her lush lips quirking. “May we help you, Officer...?” She looked at him expectantly, as if this was merely a friendly introduction.

“Detective Jon Snow,” he said. “We’ve received a report of gunshots fired in this building approximately ten minutes ago.”

“And you got here so quickly?” She smirked at him. “You truly are Winterfell’s finest, Detective Snow.”

“I was in the area.” He knew she wasn’t buying it, but for now, they kept playing the game.

“Of course.”

He turned his gaze to her stone-faced companion. With his hands in front of him, the gun strapped to his hip was clearly visible.

Jon nodded towards the piece. “You got a license for that?”

“Yes.” The man’s voice had a distinct accent. Essosi was Jon’s best guess.

The blonde spoke next. “Grey is former Meereenese military. He requires the gun for his job.”

“What would that be?”

“Protecting me,” she said simply.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “And what is it you need protecting from?” He knew, of course, he did. If she were a part of the Dragon’s operation—and everything he’d witnessed so far pointed to her being a high-ranking member of it—she would need protection. The Dragon did not lack in enemies.

She smiled. Slow and beautiful. “It’s a dangerous world out there, Detective Snow.” Her voice was low, nearly a purr. “I’m sure you’re aware.”

Jon tried his best to ignore the effect it had on him, hearing his name drip like honey from her lips.

“Grey would be happy to show you his license if you wish.” She cocked her head, waving her hands in front of her. “May we put our hands down now?”

Jon gave her a brief nod. He was very unlikely to face any sort of mortal danger here tonight. They wouldn’t risk shooting a police officer, not when he was posing no obvious threat to them. “I’ll need to see those papers.”

The stoic man—Grey, she said his name was—nodded, and slowly reached into his own pocket to produce a neatly folded sheet of paper. Jon had a brief glance. Legit, as far as he could tell. But then again, it didn’t surprise him. He nodded at the man and handed it back.

The blonde clasped her hands demurely in front of her. “As for the noise you heard,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s my fault.” She nodded at the upended chair in the corner. “I’m clumsy, you see. You wouldn’t believe how far noises here carry.”

She was right. He didn’t believe it.

He also caught her wording. The noise you heard. Clearly, she knew he was already there when the shot rang out—he didn’t believe for a second it was merely a fallen chair—and was letting him know that.

“Of course. You don’t mind if I look around, do you?”

The woman smiled, waving her hand. “Not at all.”

Jon walked around, examining the room. He couldn’t find any recent bullet holes in the walls, nor in any of the large unmarked crates. He was itching to find out what was in them but knew he couldn’t open them, not without probable cause.

“So what are you doing late at night in an empty warehouse?” Jon asked, turning back to face them after examining scuff marks on the dusty floor. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m afraid we do mind. Unless we’re under arrest...?”

So they weren’t going to make it easy for him. Figures. He shook his head briefly.

His search turned up a whole lot of nothing, although that didn’t particularly surprise him. He thought it extremely unlikely that they actually shot a person, and strictly speaking, it wasn’t illegal to shoot on one’s own property.

He glanced again towards the blonde, who had her eyes fixed on him still. If he didn’t know any better, he would think it was curiosity, or possibly intrigue, that was written across her fine features.

He still didn’t know what to make of it, though, so he resolved to tread carefully. “I seem to be at a disadvantage,” he said. Her arched eyebrow prompted him to continue. “You know my name. I don’t know yours.”

Her eyes tracked down his body. Slowly. She might have tried to make him squirm, but he kept his face impassive. Lascivious looks from women were something he was well used to. Her scarlet lips curved into another one of those slow smiles. “You can call me Dany.”

Dany. Was that her real name or was she just playing with him? She was under no obligation to tell him anything and he had a feeling she was well aware of it.

“Dany,” he tested the name. He saw something flare in her eyes when he said it, but it vanished in a blink of an eye, and then he wasn’t sure if he saw anything at all.

Silence stretched for a few seconds until Grey cleared his throat delicately.

Dany glanced at him and then returned her gaze to Jon. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Detective?”

The message was obvious. If he didn’t have a good enough reason to be there, which he really didn’t, he was being asked to leave.

He shook his head. “Have a good evening,” he said and turned towards the door, her parting words following him out.

“I’ll see you around, Detective Snow.”

Jon straightened and stepped back from the board to survey his handiwork. It felt like hours had passed since he started. He checked his watch. Approximately six of them.

By his side, Waters let out a jaw-cracking yawn, reaching for the chipped coffee mug amid the piles of case files.

Earlier, when he had dared to suggest that they break for dinner, Jon’s only answer was a quelling look. Waters obviously got the message because he stayed, tirelessly digging through one case file after another, occasionally checking the computer console or making a call when the data they had just wasn’t enough.

And now, they finally had something.

Try as they might, they could not find a picture, at least not a frontal one. The mysterious Dany was the definition of elusive. They’d had to work hard for every nugget of information. They still had precious little, but they had something.

A name.

Jon’s eyes lingered on the one picture they found. Blurry and grainy, profile barely visible, but he knew it was her. Dany. Daenerys Targaryen. Sister to The Dragon, Viserys Targaryen.

A chill went through him at the thought. It’s not like he didn’t already suspect she was an important member of the Dragon’s organization; her bike alone was a dead giveaway. But somehow, the realization that she was such a close blood relative of the man he’d been after for the past three years was jarring.

In hindsight, he should have at least suspected it. Her silver-blonde hair and pale eyes resembled those of her brother. That, however, was where the similarities ended, at least that’s what his gut was telling him.

Jon had seen him, in photos and in person, many times. Part of the job. Aside from her coloring, nothing about Daenerys Targaryen reminded him of her brother. His sole encounter with her was brief, but still. She left an impression. She differed vastly from the heartless, soulless creature he knew Viserys Targaryen to be.

His perception of her wasn’t anything based on concrete intel, quite the contrary. But he had a gut feeling, and Jon had learned a long time ago to trust his gut.

03 : 17

The digital display of the alarm clock on his nightstand glowed a harsh crimson in the dark. The boxy digits mocked him, reminding him that he should be sleeping.

Jon rolled to his back, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Sleep was elusive. It had been so for the last four years.

Ever since the incident. Ever since he woke up in that hospital room, his chest burning as though it was on fire. He absently rubbed at the largest and deepest scar stretching from over his heart and down to his diaphragm.

Sometimes, it was tough to banish the images that appeared repeatedly before his eyes, the phantom pain. The heart-stopping sensation of cold steel plunging deep into his chest, the echoing memory of his own screams.

For the last two weeks, it had only been getting worse. Since he came face to face with a reminder of the most horrific experience of his life. The ache increased, clutching at him like a vice, refusing to let go.

He tried to fight it; he did. But the pain always won.

Fuck.

Jon kicked off his blanket and got up, making his way to the small bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the orange plastic bottle.

He looked at it for a beat but no amount of self-loathing was enough to stop him from opening that bottle. Nor to stop him from taking three small white pills. Or dry-swallowing them because he didn’t even need the water anymore.

The bottle was nearly empty with only four pills left. As much as he didn’t want to, he would have to pay The Viper a visit. And soon.

He stared at his dull reflection in the mirror. It was tough to recognize the person he had become. Someone else. Or something else.

Something broken.

Jon flicked the light off and went back to bed.

The wind howled and raged, beating against the car’s windows.

Jon yawned, stretching his tired muscles as he clambered out of the car and slammed the door shut.

The icy breeze ruffled his dark curls, blowing one into his eyes. He turned up the collar of his worn leather jacket against the chill and the faint drizzle, making his way towards the frosted glass door which glowed a warm yellow in the semi-darkness.

Night shifts were brutal. And, unfortunately, this one wasn’t over yet, even though the first rays of sunlight had already started poking through the night’s sky.

Mornings like these were the only time when Jon wished he lived somewhere south of The Neck. But The North was home. Jon appreciated the unadorned beauty of it, the quiet and the cold.

Sometimes, however, the cold became tiresome. Especially on these long, godsawful shifts from the seven hells. The ones where he felt like banging his head against a wall because he was getting nowhere. The investigation had come to a standstill once again. Everywhere he turned, everywhere he looked, he found only closed doors. He yearned for a breakthrough.

Jon made his way to Davos’ Cafe. The only place that was open this early in the morning. A cup of the bitter brew had the magical property of lifting his spirit, at least for a little while.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee hit his nose as soon as he opened the door, instantly cheering him up, if only marginally. The small cafe resided in an old refurbished building, complete with wooden beams crisscrossing the high ceiling and a working fireplace.

Davos Seaworth, the proprietor, sent him a wave as he entered. “Your usual, Jon?” he called from behind the counter, his eyes crinkling with his customary affectionate smile.

“Aye, Davos.” Jon cracked a small smile. “Thank you.”

The old man had become a sort of friend over the years, one of the few Jon had left. He’d even met the man’s wife a few times. She was inexplicably kind, offering home-cooked meals once she got wind of his busy schedule.

Jon politely declined every time. His constant lack of appetite aside, he rarely dined on anything but sandwiches from the vending machine at the precinct. There just wasn’t time for anything else, not with the amount of work he had. The Winterfell Police Department had been understaffed and poorly budgeted for years, resulting in a consistently increasing workload for everyone involved.

Jon took a seat at his usual table, a secluded one at the back. He waited while Davos served a few other early risers, fingers drumming restlessly on the scratched surface of the sturdy wooden table. Within a few minutes, Davos had arrived, a large mug of coffee in hand. He placed the drink in front of him and sat down in the opposite seat.

Jon raised an eyebrow at the twinkle in the man’s eyes. The last time Davos looked at him like that, his wife had tried to fix Jon up with a friend’s daughter. It was only Davos’ shameless bribery in the form of free coffee that got him to agree to even meet the girl.

She was a decent fuck, but that’s where the appeal ended. She took great offense at his long work hours and made repeated snide comments about it until he finally had enough. As a result, things between them spectacularly crashed and burned soon after they started.

Although, if Jon were honest with himself, he’d admit that he was to blame as well. His heart had not been in it in the first place.

“What’s up?” He asked cautiously.

Davos smiled. “I have a funny story for ya,” he said. “A young woman came by here asking about you.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Apparently, she’s seen you here, but was too shy to talk to you.” He slid a piece of paper, folded once, towards him.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Is this another elaborate scheme to fix me up with someone?”

Davos raised his hands in a mock-defensive gesture. “Hey, this one was all her, I swear,” he said. “She was quite beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying.” The old man winked at him. “Not as beautiful as my Marya, naturally, but...”

Jon unfolded the piece of paper to find a phone number. No name. “And you didn’t get a name?”

Davos shrugged. “She didn’t give it. I didn’t ask.” He clapped a hand over Jon’s shoulder as he stood up, nodding at a few patrons who had just entered the cafe. “Call her, my boy. And find out.” With that, he walked off, leaving Jon to his coffee and the note in his hand.

Jon sighed, stuffing the note into his pocket and grabbing his mug. Davos came back after a few minutes, a small plate in hand. Jon eyed the pastry on it and raised an eyebrow.

“You should eat something,” Davos said, thrusting the plate towards Jon. “You can’t survive on caffeine alone.”

Jon nodded his thanks, and Davos left again. He glanced at the pastry, trying to push down nausea that came with it. He took two, three half-hearted bites, just to appease Davos.

After finishing his coffee and getting back to his car, Jon sat there, staring at the piece of paper in his hand. The handwriting was elegant, cursive. Other than that, the note revealed nothing about the mystery woman who left it. Eventually, his curiosity won, and he grabbed his cellphone, punched the number and brought the device to his ear.

A woman’s voice answered after only one ring. “Hello, Detective.” The voice was vaguely familiar. Jon was certain he heard it before.

He frowned. “Who is this?”

“I think you know.”

Jon froze. An image floated into his mind. Silver hair, blue eyes, blood-red lips. A black and red motorcycle. Dany. Daenerys Targaryen.

“You remember me.” The voice on the other end of the line said when he didn’t answer, laced with a note of amusement.

“What do you want?” he asked abruptly. Why would she contact him?

“I want to help you, Detective.”

“Is that so?” It made little sense. Was it some elaborate ploy to...to do what?

“Meet me at The Smoking Log tonight at 9,” she said. “I’ll explain.”

The Smoking Log was a local nightclub; dark, noisy, and crowded. A good place to blend in.

“I think we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement, Detective,” she prodded when he didn’t answer. “What do you have to lose?”

What did he have to lose, indeed?

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

The music pounded on his eardrums, making them throb. A mildly unpleasant smell drifted in the air. Stale sweat, alcohol, and smoke. The Smoking Log was mostly dark, except for blinding neon lights over the dancefloor, causing his eyes to sting and water when he glanced at them.

Jon was still somewhat convinced that he had lost his mind, coming to this place to meet Viserys Targaryen’s sister. The alarm bells in his mind rang loud and clear, and yet, here he was. Waiting for one of the most dangerous people in the city.

But he was intrigued and—he begrudgingly admitted to himself—desperate. This was him grasping at straws, making a last-ditch effort to make headway with the case that had consumed his life for the past three years. Maybe he really was crazy. Or maybe, a voice whispered in his head, maybe you just want to see her again.

Jon pushed the niggling voice to the back of his mind as he made his way to the bar. He chose a seat at the far end and signaled the bartender for an ale. If he had to be here, might as well take the edge off.

He felt her before he saw her. The back of his neck prickled, his skin tingled with awareness. The air crackled peculiarly as if it was going to emit sparks. Jon already expected her next move, but could not suppress the involuntary tensing of his shoulders when she slid into the seat next to him.

He ignored her, taking another sip of his beer, but he couldn’t stop her scent from drifting into his nose. She smelled of lemon and flowers, the scent foreign and exotic in the crowded club.

She must have signaled the bartender, or she was a regular, because a moment after she situated herself on the stool, a drink landed in front of her.

Jon glanced at it. Scotch. Neat. Not quite what he expected. Unable to ignore her any longer, he finally raised his eyes to meet her pale ones. She was much closer now than she was that night at the warehouse. Close enough that he could properly see the color of her eyes. It wasn’t blue, exactly, nor was it violet, but a melange of the two. Otherworldly. Perhaps the overhead neon light was to blame.

She already had her gaze fixed on him, a slight smile stretching her lush lips, not at all abashed to be caught staring.

“You showed,” she said simply.

The look in her eyes was inscrutable. Jon couldn’t tell whether she was surprised or not. He wasn’t sure what to say to that either, so he settled on a simple “Aye.”

She lifted her tumbler to her lips, taking a delicate sip, leaving a smudge of crimson-red on the rim.

Jon said nothing, just looked at her. First chapter in the investigator’s book of tricks, let the other person break the silence.

She must’ve known what he was doing because her lips stretched into a smirk. “Why did you come here tonight, Detective?” she asked, idly running a finger over the rim of her glass.

“You asked me to.”

A delicate eyebrow raised. “You could’ve said no.”

“Aye,” he said, eyes fixed on hers. “I could have.”

Her lips twitched again. “You’re not at all what I expected, Detective,” she said finally, after spending a few more seconds staring at him.

Jon narrowed his eyes, turning sideways to face her. “Why did you ask me to come here, Ms Targaryen?”

Daenerys hummed. “You know who I am,” she said. There was no surprise evident in her voice. She was merely stating a fact.

By now, he knew a touch more about her, but he preferred to keep his cards close to the vest for the time being.

She turned in her seat, facing him, leaning forward so that her face was mere inches away from his.

Jon did his best not to react but by the Seven, she was lovely. Her proximity was like a punch to the gut. He fought to keep his expression smooth and unaffected.

“I asked you to come here,” she said, “because I think we might come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” She leaned back to toy with her glass, the amber liquid inside close to spilling, eyes still fixed on his.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “And what can I do for you?” What could she possibly need from him? She was the Dragon’s sister. She had endless resources at her disposal. Including, if what he was suspecting was true, sources within the WPD itself.

“Maybe I should start with what I can do for you, Detective.”

“And what’s that?”

“Information.”

“About?”

She smiled. “I think you know.”

Jon stiffened. The Dragon. She was offering him information about her brother.

“And why would you give me anything?” He asked after a short while, during which he tried to wrap his head around this proposal. She was either desperate for something from him, or this was all some elaborate ruse to throw his case off.

She pressed her lips into a line briefly, something passing over her eyes like a shadow. “Let’s just say that lately, my brother and I don’t see eye to eye,” she said finally.

“If that’s the case, why not go to the DA? I’m sure you can work out an immunity deal and witness protection if you testify against The Dragon.”

She shook her head. “That is currently not an option,” she said in a flat voice. “Do you want to hear my terms?”

“By all means.” He spread his hands wide.

If she noticed the sarcasm, she ignored it. “I need help with a few things. And I think you’ll be perfect for the job. Some of it will require you to use your resources in the police department. Otherwise, I might need you to accompany me to a few...business meetings.”

None of this sounded like a good idea, and there were no guarantees that the information she promised was any good. She could just feed him false information and then sit back and watch his case go up in smoke.

“I’m even willing to take the first step,” she said. “A little tip. So you know I’m good for it.”

That was an intriguing offer. He could see what she shared and decide on his next step. He wasn’t promising anything or making a deal with the devil—at least not yet. If she was sincere, it could mean progress on his case. Finally. Still...an uneasy feeling spun around in the pit of his stomach.

He drained his mug and stood up to leave. “Thank you, Ms Targaryen,” he said, shrugging his jacket back on. “I’ll consider it.”

He pushed his chair back and was just about to make his way to the exit when she spoke again.

“One last thing.”

He turned back. She nodded towards the chair again and he took the hint. He sat back down, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Before you make your decision, Detective,” she murmured, “there is one more thing you should know.”

“Oh, really? What’s that?”

“We have an acquaintance in common. He usually goes by Viper.”

Jon stiffened. His right hand clenched into an involuntary fist as he tried to push his anger and shock down.

Fuck. No one was supposed to know. No one was supposed to find out. How did she?

He had to physically stop his hand from jumping up to press against his chest, against the pain that’s been plaguing him for years; the reason he ever went down that path, the reason he contacted the Viper.

Next to him, Daenerys delicately sipped her drink, waiting.

“Are you threatening me?” he asked with a calm he didn’t feel.

“Not quite, Detective.” She shrugged. “I’m merely offering you a carrot...and a stick. It’s your choice which one you wish to take.”

Jon willed himself to calm and unclench his fist. He wouldn’t become a plaything, a puppet tied to invisible strings. He had to act before everything spun out of control. Leaning back, he folded his arms so that his shirtsleeves strained against his biceps. It was a crude—yet effective—show of power.

“You should be careful, Ms Targaryen,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s just like you said—it’s a dangerous world out there.”

Her delicate eyebrows shot up for a moment, and Jon was pleased with the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “Who’s making threats now, Detective?”

He continued, ignoring her. “It took me no time at all to find out your name. I wonder what else I can find if I dig deeper.” He cracked a smile. “Something that could land you in prison for a very long time, I bet.”

“Detective,” she finally said, after a silence that stretched a lifetime. “I’m sure we can do each other a lot of harm. But at least consider my offer.” She cocked her head, mimicking his pose. “I would much rather you take advantage of what I propose.” Her lips curled into a smirk, nearly devilish in quality. “You just might enjoy it.”

Not an hour after she left the club, Daenerys felt the telltale buzz of her new burner phone in the pocket of her trench coat. She slipped her hand inside, pulling the device out just enough to glance at the screen. She smiled when she saw the message.