Chapter 1: DANY I
Summary:
The Dragon Queen ponders the Winter Lady.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
DANY I
In the end, the Night King was just a man and he died like one. Unlike the other White Walkers, the sword that pieres his frozen heart passes right through his torso. With surprise in his icy eyes, he meets Jon’s gaze. Jon steps back immediately. Daenerys and Drogon dive down and bath him in a wash of blazing fire. Minutes pass with Jon staring at the flames, Dany’s face contorted in a vengeful, angry expression as she destroys the thingthat killed and deformed her child.
When she is satisfied that he is truly dead, she glances down at Jon. He nods at her, imperceptibly, and she feels relieved and angry and saddened by his face, all at once. Their enemy is truly gone. Ignoring the complicated feelings, Dany spurs Drogon up and away, and all that is left of the Night King is a pile of dull leaden ashes and melted Valyrian steel.
She lands beyond the legions of Unsullied and Dothraki, far enough away that the dragon will not startle the horses. But perhaps they are beyond startling, standing as they are among the newly-dead bodies of wights, from humans to giants to horses to bears.
Ghost, Jon's direwolf companion, trots from the piles of carnage. Blood stains his white muzzle and his mouth is curved in what could almost be a smile. She startles as he comes up besides her, red eyes leveling a strong gaze at all the bodies they pass as if the wights might rise again from death.
Her men look stunned as she nears them, searching their faces for her commanders and friends. Are they alive? Am I, or is this all just a dream? The last members of the enemy army must have fallen when the Night King was finally destroyed.
Relief fills her when Qhono appears in the crowd, his dragonglass arakh clutched in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other. “Khaleesi, is it done?”
“It is done.” She says and while part of her wants to smile, she is so, so tired. Ghost sits besides her and taps her side with his nose as if trying to support her. The battle raged all night, through the day and into the night again. She does not know what the hour is or even what day. She looks to the horizon, but it is still dark as the hour of the wolf.
Dany climbs behind Qhono and they head toward the safety of the walls of Winterfell. The numbers of her army have dwindled, she sees it just from riding through their masses. They stand and walk and some just sit, unsure of what comes next. The nightmare is over, but how can they know?
She calls to what commanders and lieutenants she sees, telling them to settle their remaining men by the fires and bring the wounded undead into the castle. Slowly, they leave the snowy field of battle and their fallen comrades. The end of this battle is not like the ones Dany has lived through before, where the conquest and rage and defense and excitement filled her. There are no enemy soldiers to ask to bend the knee, no harpies to punish, no enemy combatants to send away, no Masters to crucify for the deaths of child slaves. There is only an empty expanse of death and destruction, and the living left to question whether it was worth it to stay alive.
Ghosts trots from her side in the courtyard, glancing around as if trying to find a living Stark before heading towards the godswood.
In the keep, Dany falls into her bed like a feather, light and delicate and down. Sleep comes and with it dreams of her family, mostly of Viserys but her other brother too, or at least what she imagines Rhaegar looked like. She feels someone snuggle in with her and then leave, a body more feminine than Jon's, a woman weeping into Dany's shoulder, but she is so deep into her sleep that she draws the person closer but does not wake herself. Rhaegar's face morphs and forms, between Viserys and Jon, Jon and Viserys, fire and ice and night and day and light and dark and life and death.
When a knock on her door wakes Dany, one vision is branded on the back of her eyelids and in her mind and everywhere she looks: the small, deformed body of her son sitting in the dawn.
To her surprise, it is Lady Sansa, who looks just as tired as Dany felt all those hours ago. But of course she is. Even though Sansa did not fight the battle, she guarded their people’s minds and kept the young and old and infirm safe in Winterfell’s crypts. And after, Sansa would have been the one to oversee the settling in of the warriors and wounded, making sure they were fed and healed and cared for. Sansa may be a lady, but there is a steely strength to her, too.
“I’m sorry for waking you, your grace.” Sansa comes to Dany’s bedside and motions to sit. Dany nods, her eyes falling over Sansa’s form. Surprisingly, a long, blood gash tears through her clothes and forearm.
Dany sits upright. “What happened to you? Did the dead break the walls or did one of ours hurt you?”
Sansa measures Dany carefully. “The dead were in the walls, your grace. The ancient Starks embalmed their dead and my ancestors rose to terrorize us at the Night King’s command.”
Horror fills Dany’s gut, pulling at her stomach and her heart. If there were anything in her stomach, it may have come up. She racks her mind, thinking of her people there. Sansa covers Dany’s hand with her own. Her touch is warm and gentle, and she speaks in a soothing voice.
“Lady Missandei is safe, but frightened. So are Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion, although Varys nearly lost his leg. A few smallfolk were killed and others injured, but a little girl had the quick thinking to set the crypts alight.” Sansa straightened. “Jon has called a council. The sun has not risen still... will you come?”
“Of course.” Dany gathers herself and her clothing, asking Sansa to stay and help with her hair. Before that, she tears the edge off an underdress to wrap round Sansa's blood-crusted sleeve, since she would not accept one of Dany's own dresses.
“Could you fashion it like yours? I’m not familiar with the half-braids you have on the side.”
She wants to rule the Northerners. Perhaps it is time she look like one, share their culture and ways. Sansa moves gracefully and quietly, and before long Dany’s hair is fashioned in a similar way. Dany gazes up at the stern Lady of Winterfell. Once, Dany thought those eyes were blue ice, her jaw and cheekbones chiseled of the same stuff. That was before she looked into the heart of winter and saw true death embodied. Now, she focuses on the warm beauty of Sansa Stark, the gently curled hair glowing like burnished copper, the tall body and straight back, the careful stitches in her gown and the pinkish tinge that rises in her cheeks whenever she is embarrassed or excited or happy. Dany hopes see her happy more often.
“How long was I asleep?”
“It’s been nearly twenty hours.” Sansa steps back from Dany’s hair. “Many of the fighters still sleep, but Jon awoke and when we told him there had been no light, he grew concerned.”
“What of our dead?” Dany asks, no matter how scared she is to hear the answer. She must be brave and face the future of her realm.
"Of your people, the Unsullied captain Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont." Sansa swallows. "I'm sorry for your loss, your grace. I'm told they fought bravely, and Ser Jorah died protecting his cousin."
The sadness comes to Dany like the ocean's waves, suddenly then all at once, pushing and pulling at her heart strings. "Thank you for telling me." She rises and tries to keep the tears at bay and yet they force their way beyond her control. Lady Sansa gently offers a handkerchief and wipes away Dany's sorrow. She is startled by the kindness of the gesture and the lady's soft touch. She leans into it until she is leaning into Sansa, who rubs her back and holds her close until the queen has cried all she can and more.
Dany backs away and takes Sansa's hand in her own, gentler than last she took it. "Did you lose anyone? Is your sister alright?"
"Arya lives, your grace." Her words are nearly a whisper. "Theon Greyjoy, my dear friend…he was slain, on the field of battle."
"I'm sorry, my lady. He was a good man, from what little I knew of him." Dany's words ring hollow, she knows, but they are all she can offer. She squeezes Sansa's hand. Staring into Sansa's eyes, she thinks about what Sansa asked her in the library of the castle, about what Sansa wants for herself and her people. Freedom, for the North and all its peoples.
They walk in silence from Dany's chamber to the council room, but before they enter she turns to Sansa. "Did Jon tell you?"
Sansa blinks, her face smooth as a shield and silent as one. "Yes, your grace." Her silence holds for a beat and Dany can see Sansa calculating, waiting for what to say. "He does not mean to challenge your claim, if that's why you ask."
"It's not. I only wondered..." Dany is not quite ready to share her plans, yet. "Call me Daenerys, please. We've survived the end of our world together and we are family now, of a sorts."
"Daenerys, then." Sansa's voice is steady and on her lips, Dany's true name sounds like a song. When Jon calls her "Dany," she feels young and free and cared for. But "Daenerys" from Sansa…it makes her feel brave. Her heart pangs to think of Jon, but she must face him soon enough and let him know how she feels and what she plans. She hopes he will agree, although it may not be enough to have what she offers in exchange for doing what she asks.
It is too early, the pain of their loss all too fresh. But when the dead are burnt or buried, she means to offer Sansa the North's independence. For a price.
Notes:
You can hit me up at tumblr for more Game of Thrones fun.
Chapter 2: JON I
Summary:
Winterfell’s rulers ponder its future.
Notes:
Thank you for all the kind feedback I got on the last chapter! Hopefully there’s more of this fic to come later. I’m not quite sure where I’m going to take it, but we shall see.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
JON I
In one sweeping motion, he removes the blocks that represent the Night King, wights, and White Walkers off the war room table. The satisfaction that comes from this action is immense and indescribable. But still, the wall to their north is destroyed, Cersei Lannister moves in the south, and he isn’t sure if the end of all this war and destruction will ever truly be over.
Dany enters with Sansa and his heart nearly stops in his chest. Dany is a vision in a black and red dress lined with dark grey fur, her hair braided almost identically to Sansa’s northern plaits. Sansa shines just as beautifully, but her weariness is more evident. He spoke with her before she went to fetch Dany and knows she has only slept a few short hours over these last few days.
He too had slept after the battle, collapsing in an alcove off the great hall and not even making it back to his own chamber. When he awoke, though, it was with a down pillow under his head and heavy knit blanket wrapped round his shoulders, one he recognized as made by Sansa’s own hand. And at his side, a cup of cooling stew and a hunk of brown bread, left with a horn of ale.
Jon guzzled it down to cure the gnawing emptiness inside his belly before finding his room. He had not known who had shown him that kindness until he passed by Sansa setting another blanket over Tormund with another tray of food. Her kindness overwhelmed him, to see her caring for the people even though the tiredness showed in her own eyes. Gentle Sansa, who takes all the evils the world through at her and while it hardens her, it also makes her kind.
Once this council is done, Jon will insist she take to her chambers and post a guard at her door so that no one can bother the Lady of Winterfell. She deserves a rest as much as any of the warriors who fought on the field, and Jon will ensure she gets it.
Jon smiles hesitantly at them both, not sure what kind of reaction to expect. It is just the three of them in the war room, three of five total people who know the true identities of Jon’s parents. He will tell Arya later, but she has been missing since he confirmed that she still lives.
Jon always wanted to know his mother’s name, to know who she was and if she loved him. He thought it would bring him peace, but it only brought him turmoil both internally and without. His mother isn’t some tavern wench or camp follower who seduced his father, like he always feared. She isn’t some lord’s young daughter or a septa that Ned Stark fell in love with either, not like he always hoped. His father is his uncle and his mother is his aunt, a woman who ran away and kindled an entire war founded on bringing her justice. How am I to live with that?
And he has a claim for the Iron Throne. A better claim than Dany’s.
Sam urges him to take the Iron Throne, but he won’t. He wants no Southern crown. He doesn’t even want the North. Winterfell belongs to my sister - my cousin Sansa. He will remind Dany, if she offers Winterfell in return for his silence. It would be a sane political choice, one many the Northern lords would even support considering how they made him king over Sansa despite her own impact on the Battle of the Bastards and retaking of the keep.
But his parentage is a secret he means not to share, ever, and Sansa's claim is not one he will ever challenge. But neither will he take what is rightfully Sansa's. Because she isn't just the blood heir to Winterfell, she's the best equipped to make the decisions to protect the castle and its people. She understands their greatest human enemy like no one else does, she supported him against the Night's King without question as to if the Others were even real. She's taken the time to know the grounds and its people, and invested everything she has to make sure they are secure. Jon will serve the North in anyway he can, but it will be Sansa's, or Arya's, or Bran's. It was never meant to be his and should not be now. He will find some other way to make Dany cognizant of his fealty and desire to protect the secret. Somehow.
The room is tense as Dany takes her place at the opposite end of the table from Jon, but some of that dissipates as Sansa offers him a small smile and nods. In that secret language that’s developed between them since he requested she stop challenging him before the lords, he understands. I’m alright here. I’m fine with her.
“How are you, your grace?” Jon asks. He cannot think of anything else to say but does not want to fill the silence with stewing on their parts.
“I have a headache, and I’m fairly famished. The battle left me feeling unwell. Dany glances down at the map of Winterfell and the surrounding countryside and picks up the small green dragon replica. When she looks up, there is a warm smile on her face. “Have you visited him?”
“I have.” Jon takes a seat at the head of the table with Sansa to his left where she has belonged for so long. “I took Rhaegal out with Drogon, to burn the fallen and assure they were all dead.”
He sees Dany’s face fall, as she realizes not only that she did not help ensure the end of the battle for good, but that Drogon followed Jon to see it happen. When first he went to see her, she had looked so soft and peaceful, despite sleeping in her battle dress, he did not want to disturb her rest. Dany had been the one to puncture Viserion’s wings, wounding him enough that Jon could bring Rhaegal to burn the wight-dragon. She had watched her child die again and then killed the Night’s King herself.
And the second time he went to raise her, Missandei had crawled into bed for the comfort of Dany’s warmth and to mourn the loss of Grey Worm. That was a tender moment he could not interrupt, Missandei crying herself to sleep in her closest friend’s arms.
Jon wants to reach out and comfort Dany now, but she is so far away across the table and Sansa sits as their audience. Is that acceptable, anyway? What are we now, that I am your nephew and not just your lover? To a Targaryen queen, their relationship would not be so strange. But to Jon... once long ago, Jonnel Stark had married his niece, Sansa, although no issue resulted from their union. It is not so strange, then, he thinks, and besides I barely know her as my family.
He glances at Sansa, wondering what she thinks of this pregnant silence between them.
Jon bites his cheek and infinitesimally quirks his eyebrow. Sansa uneasily bites her lip and glances away from his gaze. Her face fixes into an easier smile, her courtier’s face. “So, your grace, who designs your gowns? I’ve wanted to know, but haven’t found the time to ask.”
She plays this role well, talking kindly to people she is unsure of. And there is a realness to the conversation, despite Sansa’s previous concerns about Dany, she likely is truthfully curious about the make and design of all Dany’s elaborate gowns.
Her earnestness and honesty become her and hold to her like snow on the castle walls, ever present no matter its affect upon her. He thinks to their last conversation, when he told her the truth of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Even thinking on his parentage makes him sick. He always knew himself a bastard, and that was shame enough. But to know a war was fought for his mother, while she ran away with a married man . . . Worse was knowing that his stepmother, brother, and sister were both dead because of his existence. Aegon should be the conqueror to reclaim Westeros, a king with Dany at his side, a proper Targaryen named for the first king of the seven kingdoms. His sister-by-blood should be here, too. He does not even know enough of Rhaenys or Aegon to imagine what they might be like as adults or how they may have ruled. All he knows is that they are dead, because of him.
He asked Sansa's advice about the politics of his birth, and to his surprise, Sansa urged him to announce it to the North and unite in marriage with Dany. Her voice had cracked as she told him, but it was true: “A union with the North would protect our people, if she would not give us independence. If you would be willing to follow her south... she could not be threatened by another Targaryen if you were at her side, and the North would be safe all your reign at her side and through your children.”
Jon did not share Dany’s curse of barrenness with Sansa. It was not his secret to say.
Across the table, Dany meets his eyes. Her gaze is distant and forlorn but he feels the fire of her in his soul. He stares at her deeply,
Jon still loves her, but there is much uncertain now. And her reaction when he told her...she was more concerned with the Iron Throne than his horror. He doesn’t want the throne in the south, he never wanted to one the North gave him. But Dany doesn’t know that and only saw a rival contender for the kingdoms that was her birthright. She’s the only true heir to Aegon the Conqueror, her the Stormborn Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, with the lilac eyes of her ancestors and the silver hair of blood of ancient Valyria. Jon belonged to the North, the cold and the snow and the ice.
His thoughts are interrupted by the entry of their council, or what remains of it: Varys, Tormund, Qhono the Dothraki bloodrider, Tyrion and Jaime. Sam lives, but is absent to tend the wounded along side Dany’s Lady Missandei. An Unsullied man comes, the newly elected leader, who introduces himself curtly as Hero. Davos wheels in Bran, half his face blackened from where the Night’s King touched him. Jon thinks of the other dead and injured. His little sister Arya sleeps in the infirmary, too cut up and her exposed back frost bitten. Lord Royce from the Vale takes his customary spot at Sansa’s shoulder as Lady Karstark and Lyanna Mormont close the door behind them.
The emptiness of the war room burns into Jon’s mind. Beric Dondarrion, Jorah Mormont, Lord Manderly, and other advisors to the Northern Lords and Ladies with names that Jon never learned. Petyr Baelish's absence still shocks him, even though the man has been gone for months and the news that he was dead was some of the happiest Jon had received since learning Arya and Bran still lived. Most obvious to him now are the loss of Theon Greyjoy, a brother in all but name no matter how he had turned traitor and cajoled Jon through the years, and Dolorous Ed, his faithful friend through life and death and life again. Sam had found Ed’s body and they’d burned it quietly together on the hills outside the keep, watching until the dark smoke disappeared into the night and his body was nothing more than ash.
Jon looks around the table once more and sighs heavily. “We have lost this battle but won this war. Every man and woman in this room, in this very castle, has lost family and friends since the Walkers arrived. But day has not yet come.
"We do not know why this has happened. My brother searches for that answer and mayhaps will have more to report, but until then we must prepare to last through this Long Night so long as it may last. We have Queen Daenerys to thank for the end of our greatest opponent - " Jon pauses as the table burst into a round of heavy applause.
"Hear, hear!" Tormund cries out. "I may not kneel to you, Queen Dragon, but I will raise a tankard in your honor every day for the rest of my life!"
Dany glows as she basks in their adulation, smiling at his people in a way he has not seen her react yet. Even Sansa has an appreciative smile on her face, although her claps are still polite and restrained. Finally, the North sees Dany as he sees her, the heroic queen ready to risk everything to ensure that the people she has claimed are protected and defended. It only took a war for their blindness to be cured.
As the raucous chatter dies down, the seriousness of the truth weighs upon their shoulders and their miens become stoic again. "But we still have many natural and human enemies to face before peace can be ours. Shall we begin, my lord?"
Jon nods to Ser Davos, who begins on the topic of space and the castle's damaged fortifications. They begin discussions for their plans to redistribute the men within the walls of Winterfell and what resettlement problems have arisen. Bran has searched the ravens’ minds but has seen no sign of other wights or enemies nearby. He cannot answer why their world is still darkened. Once, when Lady Karstark stumbles and accidentally addresses Jon as “Your Grace,” he catches Dany watching him, gaze prying deep into his own. He brushes the comment along and moves along to the next point.
Finally, Sansa takes the lead on the most pressing issue at hand: the number of people left in Winterfell and how long in the night the supply of grain and root vegetables will last them through the Night. Their supplies are lower than expected because of the great army from the South, but they could not have survived this battle without them.
“I propose we lower rations for the warriors by a quarter and for the rest by half until we can discern how long this Night will last.” The lords and ladies around the table nod in agreement. None of them have the true understanding of preparing for the Winter for it is a woman’s role in all parts of Westeros and the Southerners have never prepared for a Northern winter. Even among the Northerners, Lyanna Mormont and Alys Karstark are both too young to have learned these lessons yet. If Sansa and Lord Royce believe this decision to be best, they will believe their sums.
Sansa closes her eyes as if summoning her strength, then stands. She stares hard at Dany and Qhono and Jon suddenly feels ice climbing up his spine. The Dothraki commander senses it and his hand tightens on the edge of his chair. Whatever she is about to say cannot be good.
“We should also slaughter the excess Dothraki horses for food.” She pauses, taking in Dany’s shock and Qhono’s brewing anger. Before either can speak in retaliation, Sansa continues. “And some of the horses with living riders as well.”
Qhono bolts up and shouts in Dothraki, gesturing angrily at Sansa. Dany’s gaze is icier than Jon has ever seen it. Normally, her rage is like a raging flame, but today she is all sleet.
”My commander asks, how they are meant to fight without their horses.” Dany asks, and leans in. “I would also like to know why just the Dothraki must sacrifice their mounts and not the Northern forces.”
Jon watches with unrestrained awe, his appreciation writ clear on his face, as Sansa gestures toward the parchments of calculations scattered in front of her and expertly explains the reasoning of her plans. While caring for them all she still has had time to prepare for the future. They fought the battle, and she arranged the aftermath. ”Your Grace, My Lord, we have already eaten many of the horses ridden by the Knights of the Vale. A single horse can eat between twenty and forty pounds of grain a day. We must spare as many resources as we can.” Sansa stares firmly into the eyes of Qhono and holds his gaze. She speaks slowly and in a soft tone, so Dany may easily translate her words into the angry language of the horselords. “While the Dothraki’s mounts were bred to carry a single rider through Essosi plains, the remaining mounts from the North and the Eyrie are those that have the strength to pull wains and wagons of supplies and people. If we decided to abandon the castle, those horses are more necessary for our people’s flight and journey south.”
Qhono speaks hurried words to Dany but they sound less angry. The queen nods firmly and answers back, and he settles back into his seat, still boring a stare through Sansa’s being. Dany looks troubled and Jon nearly can read her thoughts.
“Without those horses, it will be much more difficult to take Westeros back from Cersei.” She weaves her fingers together, brow creased in consternation. “But with those horses alive, how many of my men would die? How many of my people?”
Her gaze levies on Sansa. “Thousands, your grace.”
“As I thought. Qhono will oversee the selection of horses for the slaughter so proper Dothraki rites may be honored. They do not kill riding horses so easily but he will see the thing done.”
Sansa bows her head in deference and sat in her seat. A few more details are hashed out, mostly concerning the immediate repairs necessary to the western walls where the legions of the undead breached the castle’s safety and invaded the godswood. Where Theon Greyjoy died defending Bran. Only two ironmen escaped, his brother cradled in their arms.
The council leaves quickly and quietly. The entire castle has been quiet, their people not fully recovered from the horror they lived in. Finally, it was just Jon and his queen.
For the first time since the battle began, he sees her smile and it warms his heart like no fire ever could. The thing is soft, small, secretive - just a moment of happiness between them. Dany walks over to him and he pulls back from the table. She settles on his lap and buries her head against his chest. Jon wraps his arm around her, hoping beyond all reason that they could stay like this, forever with nary a concern for the world outside them.
They sat there for a century or a minute, Jon could not tell. But when Dany stands, he follows after. Before long, he is leading, guiding her to the ruins of the godswood where his father - uncle - would spend hours sharpening his sword each day of Jon’s childhood.
She looks around in wonder at its beauty, and if the light were here she would be a beautiful vision: a silver-haired woman in a black dress stark against the white and red and green of the godswood. Jon almost smiles, watching her before going to stare at the black pool of water. It’s never frozen in all his years alive, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of it freezing, and yet now it has.
Dany steps behind him and links her arm around his elbow. He sets his hand on top of hers and stares at the milky blankness of the pool, so like Bran’s gaze when he sees into the future.
“What was it like, growing up here?” Dany asks, her voice nearly a whisper. “Growing up a Stark?”
“I wasn’t though. I was a Snow.”
“Eddard Stark must have loved you very much, to raise you with his own children.” She squeezes his hand. “To treat you as his own.”
“I had brothers and sisters, yes, but I knew my role was different from my earliest days, when Robb was given special lessons and care that I was not.” They begin walking, slowly around the pool and deep into the godswood. “Lady Catelyn, his wife, did not want me here. She did not treat me badly, but she ignored me to the greatest of her abilities. She was always afraid I would try to displace my brother as Lord of Winterfell.”
She died thinking her husband dishonored her with my mother. He thinks, for the first time since he received the news of his true birth. She couldn’t have known...
“You loved him, though?” Dany‘s light, airy voice sounds wistful. She’s told him little of her brother, but from what he knows he was a cruel, mad Targaryen. They spent their childhood on the run. Just like him, she never knew a mother’s love. He remembers Melisandre’s words: At least you had family. At least you had feasts.
“Yes. I did.”
Dany lets go of his arm and steps back, distancing the space between him. Jon wonders what he had said to offend her. “It’s time we talk about what you told me before the battle. About your birth family.” Jon swallows hard. Am I ready for this? His jaw hardened with consternation. It doesn’t matter. I have to be.
Notes:
You can hit me up at tumblr for more Game of Thrones fun.
Chapter 3: ARYA I
Summary:
Arya spends some time with Sansa, reflects on news, and considers the future of the North and Westeros.
Notes:
This is ~new.~ and I kind of hate the ending. But it builds on some things I wanted to explicitly include. So, here ya go!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Arya collapses with an over-dramatic sigh into the overstuffed chair in her father’s old solar, dropping Needle beside the hearth. Sansa sits across from her, staring intently at her knitting. With a raised eyebrow, she levels a look at her little sister. “How was your day?”
“If one more snot-nosed lordling tells me ‘your grip is wrong, my lady.’ I will smack his smug little grin off his stupid face.” Arya responds, raising her voice to mock the little lords she teaches. While the battle against the Night King is done, the North’s lords are either too old or too young. As Lady of Winterfell, Sansa has taken all the orphan children under fourteen into her care to learn the ways of lords and ladies. In the morning, the girls learn etiquette from Sansa and the boys learn fighting from Arya. Then, they switch for the afternoon. The girls, like fierce little Lyanna Mormont, are much more to Arya’s liking. “The little ladies don’t give any lip. Karstark is a better aim than Lord Cerwyn but if I told them I think he might toss aside his courtesies and kick me.”
Sansa smiles at Arya, as if to say and you said this would be easy. She momentarily sets aside her knitting to poor a cup of tea for them both. She offers the mug to Arya, who accepts grateful as steam rises to cover her face. Sansa settles back into her own chair. “Maybe we could hold a tournament, once the light comes back and Cersei is defeated, to prove it to him.”
“Won’t that be too southron for the lords?” Arya adjusts in the chair, trying to fid a comfortable angle for sitting. “And from what you’ve said about our finances, I doubt we have the coin.”
Sansa nods. “It wouldn’t be large, not a real tourney. Just an exhibit of the children’s skills, to show them off. We can have an archery competition, races, some melees like the North has used for years, with a ball that night to show how well-mannered they’ve be come. It could be a fun distraction from all the sorrow that has plagued us.”
“Mayhaps. Before then, the sun stills needs to rise.”
“Jon and Daenerys are working on that.”
Arya scoffs. “Can dragons turn into suns? If not, I doubt there’s much they can do.”
“They were thinking of flying North. They thought here may be other White Walkers that still need to be killed.”
“More of them?” Her dark eyebrows crease in concern. “I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I.” Sansa shrugs. “Our brother said something about Valyrian scrolls and a priest of fire having answers about it, but who knows.”
“Our brother. Yes.” Two days ago, she learned the truth: Jon is not her brother. He told her in the godswood as they watched over Bran while he took one of his vision quests to learn about their current darkness. A snow fell around them, gentle and light.
Jon looked at Arya, his face somehow more brooding then normal. “You’re not my sister, Arya.”
“What do you mean?” She had asked, taking a step away from him and his lantern. Her heart had thundered in her chest, confused what he means.
“You’re my cousin. Lyanna Stark is my mother.” He had heaved a heavy sigh, like an anvil was lifted off his shoulders. “I’ve known for days but haven’t found you to say so.”
Arya had shook her head. “That’s not true. It can’t be.”
“It is.” He motioned towards their - her brother. “Bran saw her marriage and my birth in a vision, and Sam Tarly found paperwork of her marriage at the Citadel in Oldtown. It’s true. Ned Stark isn’t my father. Rhaegar Targayen is.” A flash of pain fills his dark, brooding eyes, so intense that Arya wants to cry. And then she does as it disappears, filled by that look of self-loathing Jon got the day Robb said Jon could never be Lord of Winterfell.
“Why would you say that?” In that moment, she had felt hurt and attacked by his words. Angry tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. “He loved you like a son.”
“You’ll always be my little sister, Arya. Just not by blood.” Jon had smiled sadly and opened his arms. She had rushed into them, giving him a long hug.
Turning back to Sansa, Arya shakes her head. “Has he told you about that?”
“Yes. You’ve finally seen him?”
“Yes. It’s fine. He’s still my brother, no matter what.” Arya says. The look on Sansa’s face is indiscernible, like she doesn’t quite believe what Arya says. Like a childhood together doesn’t still make them family. But there’s something else Arya wants to know about now, more than Sansa’s thoughts on Jon’s parentage. “And has Jon told his queen?”
“He has.” Sansa starts another row in her sweater, her knitting needles clacking happily. “I imagine she’ll want to marry him for certain now, to unite their claims.”
“Marry him?” The surprise in her voice surprises her. She knows Jon loves Daenerys, or at least desires that. Anyone with eyes can see that, from the way they lean in close when they talk to the way he itches to grab her hand before them all. Even anyone without eyes can, if they still have ears. Jon’s tone is softer, more kind when speaking with the queen then with almost anyone else. But marriage is another step away from the Starks and their family only just reunited. Of course Sansa would think it the logical next step, because politically speaking, it is. “I suppose.”
“And we’ll bow before Jon and Daenerys, eternal pawns to the Iron Throne.” Sansa sets aside her needles with an angry clatter against the table. She looks at Arya with consternation. “We promised never to bow again, yet here we are.”
“I don’t like it any better than you; bending the knee is rather one of the stupidest things Jon has ever done. The North should be free as you made it. It’s ours to keep and ours to protect. But at least she doesn’t seem like the rest. She cares about her people.” Just yesterday, Arya saw Daenerys doling out food at Ser Davos’s side. When she sat down to eat her own meal, she gave her entire crust of bread to a flaxen-haired orphan and half her horse stew to the girl’s grandfather.
“But will their child? Or their child’s child?”
“You could say the same about your own grandchildren, Sansa. What use is it to try and predict their character?” Arya smiles. “Perhaps it would be better for the smallfolk to have a say in selecting their own kings.”
Sansa laughs, but the sound rings hollow. She leans back in her chair. “Maybe that’s not so bad an idea. Or at least starting a council of representatives to help guide the king’s hand. . .”
“The merchants elect the Sealord in Braavos. It could be done.” Arya reflects back on the system there. Not all people in Braavos liked it, but it was better circumstance then in Westeros, where they had no say whatsoever in who ruled over their own lives. There weren’t so many merchants in the North, but creating a farmer’s council to advise Sansa about the problems that plagued their people . . . It could work.
“Another question to leave until after the sun rises. We can’t do anything until then.” Sansa’s wide-eyed gaze levels at Arya carefully, something sparkling there that she cannot name. Her sister hesitates before asking her next question. “Will you go south, when they go to take King’s Landing?”
“It’s not my fight.” Arya shrugs and takes another sip of her tea. “But I want to kill Cersei for everything she’s done. For you. For lady. For Micah.”
“Micah?” Sansa asks. “Who’s that?”
While she knows her sister asks out of the goodness in her heart, that Sansa has her own sadness wrapped up in the memory, the question still pricks her in the wrong way. Arya bristles, but answers. “The butcher’s boy. The one that struck Joffrey at the Trident.”
Sansa’s eyes widen in recognition. When she speaks, her voice is low and slow. “After all these years, you still remember his name?”
“He was my friend. He was an innocent child and Cersei ordered the Hound to kill him, like he was no more than meat for the slaughter.”
“I’m sorry . . .” Sansa swallows and goes to refill her mug of tea from the pot. “I should have remembered. So much happened that day . . . I should have stood up for you then. And for him. He wouldn’t be dead, if not for me.”
“You’re not the Hound. You didn’t chop him to pieces. And you’re not Cersei, who thinks a boy deserves to die for being bullied by an older prince who should’ve known better.” Arya says. A part of her does still blame Sansa for what happened. But it’s true. Cersei is the true one at fault, the one who gave the command for the boy to die, and Sandor Clegane is the one listened to her command. The Hound is dead and Sandor has repented, but it’s still not the justice that Micah deserves. And that’s why she wants to be there, to see Cersei die. Maybe to do it herself.
That would be enough, but she also knows all the other wrongs Cersei has committed, not least of them allowing Joffrey to beat and torment Sansa. “Would you come, when they march?”
Sansa shakes her head, then proffers the pot to Arya. When Arya nods, Sansa pours more steeped tea into her cup. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I won’t leave unless I must, not without anyone here to hold it down.”
Instead of returning to her own chair, Sansa sits at the foot of Arya’s. She sips at her tea in silence, staring at the hearth that is the only light in the room. Finally, she glances up at Arya again with a look that spells foreboding. Apparently there are more difficult topics they must discuss today - tonight?
“I know that look. What are you thinking about?” Arya asks. She wonders what time it is, how long they have been talking. She enjoys her time with Sansa, a ritual they’ve completed as much as they could since Petyr Baelish died, but she promised to spar with Gendry after eating her supper. She smiles and tries not to roll her eyes. He's been puffed up since Dany drunkenly legitimized him and named him the Lord of Storm's End. It'll be good to smack him around a little and knock some humility back into him when she trips him into the ground of the training yard.
“Would you be interested in a spot on the small council?” Sansa asks.
“You mean here? I already play an informal role in helping you. I don’t know that giving me an official role on your council would be much different.”
Sanas laughs with a shake of her head. “No. In King’s Landing. I was thinking, we should ask Daenerys for a Northerner to take a seat on her council. Both to offer her advise, but also to look out for our interests.”
“Won’t Jon, if he marries her?”
“If Jon goes south, I don’t know if we can trust him to prioritize us over his wife and their eventual family. You, or some lord or lady . . . I could trust that.” Sansa smiles sadly. “Marriage changes people. Children change people. Father didn’t play the southern games and I think it killed him, a little. We need to play their games if we are to protect our own. If we are to live.”
Arya twists the idea over in her mind. It is not a bad one, although she would not want to return to the city under normal circumstances. She thought to stay in the North, but serving its interests for a few years could be worthwhile. It would be a dedicated place for herself, rather than always standing in Sansa’s shadow. And she would be near Jon and see her niblings as they were born. “What role would I fill?”
“A general advisor, at the least. Perhaps Mistress of Whispers or Coin. You’ve always had a good head for numbers.”
“If I’m taking care of Daenerys’ books, who will take care of yours?” Arya teases with a light tug on Sansa’s braid. Her sister shrieks and swings her hair around to her other shoulder.
As she glares at Arya, Sansa softens beyond just the courtier’s face. To just be her sister for a while. “Make no haste on a decision. If it’s not something you truly want, I was going to ask that Lady Manderly's uncle be appointed Master of Ships. There are other ways to protect ourselves without sending you somewhere you would rather not go. To make sure you were safe, too.”
“I’ll always have my Needle.”
Sansa stands and offers Arya a hand, most likely it is finally time to attend dinner in the Great Hall. “Yes, little sister. But there are things that swords can’t protect you from. And that’s what concerns me.”
Chapter 4: SANSA I
Summary:
Daenerys makes an offer. Sansa confronts their similarities.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Please leave any Sansa, Dany, or Jon hate at the door. This is a fic celebrating all three of them.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
SANSA I
Daenerys Targaryen is the most beautiful woman Sansa has ever seen. She used to dream of Targaryens when she a girl, from Rhaenys to Shaera. Arya favored the stories of the fierce warriors, like Visenya and Daena, although she loved Queen Nymeria most of all. Sansa’s favorite had always been the tragedy of Queen Naerys and the Dragonknight. Looking at this Queen, though, with her sad lilac eyes and shining silver hair plaited back in neat Northern braids, she thinks she had the wrong of it to admire Targaryens at all. For one does not admire gods, one worships them.
The queen’s first words startle Sansa, blunt and quick as they come. “You don’t mean it do you, when you said you should thank me?”
Sansa cannot help her bitter smile. The queen is more perceptive than Sansa thought. She should not underestimate such an opponent, just as she should not overestimate such an ally. “No. I didn’t, but at the time it seemed better to send you off to battle with happier thoughts and a mind unclouded by our own disputes.
“Don’t lie to your monarch.” Daenerys warns. While there is steel in her tone and ice in those haunting eyes, a fire playfully dances beneath it all. “Unless I ask you how I look, of course.” The queen smiles and Sansa almost laughs at this interaction. I have not heard such a lighthearted joke since before Cersei, she thinks. Perhaps when Jeyne and I went to the Tournament of the Hand...
But that memory is a world away and this is a different queen. “Why have you sought me out, your grace?”
Queen Daenerys motions to the seats by the fire, a table set between them with Sansa’s discarded book and a pitcher of wine. Sansa sits back down and pours a glass for them both. “I would like to make a proposition.”
“To me?” Sansa regrets how startled she must sound before the great Dragon Queen, but Daenerys’s visit to the library has caught Sansa off guard. She escaped here after their meeting to mull on the preparations of supplies and the darkness outside. There is little advice Sansa can offer in any war, but especially in this one, where the enemy is a dark spot on the horizon, a magic being she never though would exist.
But Sansa is well-read, and many of the stories Old Nan told when she was a child were about the Long Night and the eternal winter that lasted a generation. Sansa wants to see the sun again, and wants her children to see it to. The enemy is gone but the Night remains. She hopes to read, will read every scroll and book if she must, to find an answer to their dilemma.
She rips her lingering gaze from the shelves to look at the Dragon Queen, resplendent before her even in her simple mourning gown. Sansa swallows down her edge of steel, putting on her most pleasant armor of courtesy and conviction. “What is your proposition, your grace?”
“The North is mine, by birth and blood. Or perhaps Jon’s, as Rhaegar’s son, but he has ceded his right to me.”
Sansa creases her brow in irritation that slips into her tone. “He bent the knee at your demand, before his claim was known, when we needed your assistance against the Others. But before that your father lost his claim to Robert Baratheon, and his son’s followers lost it to us.”
“I did not demand anything of Jon, not in the end. I offered help after the Night King killed Viserion, and he offered the North to me then. It was not a condition of my armies or my dragons.”
Sansa fails to hide her surprise at this. She doesn’t even try. “What?”
“He didn’t tell you that? Ask him, and you’ll know I speak true.” Daenerys’ satisfied smirk annoys Sansa. “But that is not why I came here today.”
She stares at the queen, using the silence as a tool to extract the reason that they're sitting together like this, talking about Jon giving away the North as if it were merely a gifted cow in a dowry and not his kingdom.
“I would offer you the Northern crown, and in exchange you’ll give me a king. Or a queen.”
Something playful in her small smile reminds Sansa of the closest friend she’s ever had, of days spent in this library playing pretend princesses with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel and even sometimes Arya. She sets a hand over her quickening heart, willing away the gnawing loneliness held there and the wistful thoughts of a time long past. There are no friends in this world, only allies and lords and family.
“A crown for a king?” Sansa raises her chin and leans into their conversation. “What do you mean, your grace? Are you asking my leave to marry Jon?”
A shot of sorrow flashes through the queen’s eyes and she briefly flashes a glance into the fire, away from Sansa’s strong gaze. But it is gone, in a fast moment.
“You want Northern independence from the rest of Westeros.” Daenerys’s voice sounds more distant, more queenly than Sansa has ever heard it. “I want my kingdom back, and freedom for my people from Cersei.”
She nods, waiting for the other woman to get make her point.
“I’m barren, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys admits, sadness breaking through her queenly mask. Sansa thinks of the children she once wanted so desperately, sons and daughters named after the family she had lost. For the first time, she understands this queen’s great pain in a way she had not before. In a way she could not, for one who seemed to have everything Sansa had lacked, and had received so easily - power and followers and dragons and agency.
But now, Sansa can see Daenerys as a woman, not just a queen. For children are a woman’s dream (at least for most, Arya being a rare exception), and to not fulfill that dream, to be unable...
“I am sorry. I did not know.” Sansa takes Daenerys’s hand, surprised by the pulsing warmth that emanates from her like a fire. Are all Targaryens so hot, or is it just this one?
“A witch cursed my womb for my first husband’s actions, and my own. While I have lain with a few lovers since then, I have not quickened and will never bare a living child.”
Sansa tightens her grip on Daenerys’s hand, genuinely hoping the gesture comforts the queen in some small way. But Sansa does not know if there is comfort she can offer to one who has had but lost so much.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “What does this all have to with me?”
“By the old ways, I should be Jon’s heir but he has not made any attempt to claim title over Westeros.” Daenerys looks at Sansa, as if inspecting her fully. Her eyes linger on Sansa’s midriff and it takes everything in Sansa not to curl her arms around herself. “He is my heir, then, but I need assurances that he will not rise against me once I sit the iron throne, and that he will provide the throne with an heir after both of us our gone.”
Sansa widens her eyes. She doesn’t mean... she cannot mean - “Your grace, are you suggesting that I and Jon, that we, we -“
“Marry?” Daenerys pulls back her hand from under Sansa’s. She misses the comfort of it, and that Targaryen warmth, for she now needs comforting. “Yes. I am. I know he is a brother in your eyes, but my parents were siblings, and their parents before them. For a Targaryen, it means nothing.”
“I don’t know what to say, your grace.”
“Daenerys, please.” The queen no longer smiles. “We may be family, after all.”
“Daenerys, then.” The name rolls over her tongue like a whisper of wind through the trees. “And our child, if we had one, would be your heir?”
Would my child be taken from me? Sansa means. They would have taken her children with Tyrion, too, to be raised as Lannisters away from their Stark mother.....Sansa feels like the wights are pulling at her legs all over again, like her death is imminent and pressing in. I cannot breath. I cannot breath..... the last time she wed she could not breath either. Would Jon love me like Ramsay did? A shudder runs up her back and she feels her wounds pulsing in her back, like blood pours from the scars again.
Sansa leans into the soft touch holding her, clutches at the warmth of this gentle body...warm like fire, fire like flame, flame like dragons... Daenerys.
She pulls away, realizing the tears that stream down her face and tries to wipe them off, quickly. But Daenerys is already dabbing them away with a handkerchief that smells like sun and sand and lemons and coconuts. “It’s alright. You’re safe, Sansa. I promise.”
“I, I’m sorry, your grace.” Sansa straightens her back, trying to regain the facade of a Lady. “I do not know what overcame me -“
“Jon told me about your late husband. What he did to you.” Daenerys settles Sansa back into her seat and sits opposite her. She intertwines her fingers and sets her hands in her own lap. “My brother Viserys used to climb in bed besides me, and once I flowered he began to touch me in ways I didn’t realize were wrong until I was much older. That same brother sold me to Khal Drogo when I was barely sixteen. I fell in love with him eventually, but for months I was nothing more than a mare for him to brood an heir upon.
“Before the Dothraki swore allegiance to me, one of their khals captured me, beat me, whipped me, and was going to rape me until he realized that I was one of their former khaleesis.” Daenerys levels her gaze upon Sansa. “I tell you this because I know what it’s like to be hurt, to feel powerless. I know what I ask of you is hard, and I would not ask it unless I thought it was necessary for the peace of both our realms.”
Sansa does not speaks, waiting for Daenerys to explain herself in full. The queen sets her hands on the arms of her chair and continues, “I can vouch that Jon will be a gentle lover and I know he will not hurt you in anyway. If you require time to adjust to him in your bed, he will wait.
“Do this for me: marry Jon, recognize my authority in the south and the independence of Pyke under Queen Yara Greyjoy. In turn, I will recognize you as Queen and Jon as your King-Consort. Not just of the North, but of the Vale and all the Riverlands north of the Red Fork, as well as Riverrun. Your cousin’s lands and your uncle’s will all be under your protection, Stark protection, in perpetuity.”
Sansa gasps. She thought she understood what Daenerys wanted - Sansa’s blood and claim and womb - but this is more. The North is ours. The North is safe. In perpetuity. Another voice, ever present, whispers in her mind: The North is one kingdom. But sweetling, if Jon is your husband, you could have all seven. She forces the sickly sweet tendrils of Littlefinger's remnants out of her mind, wondering if she'll ever be free of his games and manipulations. Sansa dwells on the offer again, turning it over in her mind and considering it from every angle.
“And you want one of my children in return.” The pain seeps into her voice, past the still-present awe and surprise. Petyr would say a child is enough of a bargaining chip to give away, to get an entire kingdom in return. He claimed to love her and he still gave her to Ramsey. But I am not Petyr. And my children deserve a better future than that.
Daenerys nods, but her expression is kind. “Given the many separations in your family and your own history, I understand that you would not want to send a child south without protections.” Daenerys uncrosses her ankles, subtle movement but some to show that she may be just as nervous as Sansa. “I would come visit, once or twice a year, and send my own teachers and masters to oversee the child’s education. And only when they are full grown will they come south, unless I die before then and Jon will stand in as Lord Regent.”
Sansa sets her elbow upon the table and her chin on her fist, pondering all these words. Independence is a great prize. She hoped to win it for the North, but had not thought Daenerys would give up any of the Riverlands or the Vale. This would right the wrongs agreed to by Jon. Yes, Daenerys had an army they needed to defeat the dead, but something else could have been offered besides a kingdom. Petyr had assumed a marriage pact, and she had thought he came North with one based only on the way Jon looks at Daenerys with his whole heart in his eyes. Now, there is a marriage offered on the table. It's just not the queen's. It is Sansa's own.
“What does Jon say, about this arrangement?”
“I wanted to tell you first, so you didn’t think I was attacking you from all sides.”
“He will be hard to convince.” Sansa's brow furrows. Jon will not like this implication, this idea. He may be a Targaryen by birth, but he is a Stark by nature. She isn't sure she likes the idea of lying with him anymore, but it would be worth it, to free the North and protect them and Bran and Arya. And this is Jon's mistake, anyway, if Daenerys is to be believed. And why would she lie about such a thing? Jon must right the wrongs he's done to his family and to their people. And this marriage offers that solution.
Dany grins, the first genuine smile Sansa has seen light up the queen’s face. Even during her speech at their victory celebration, she had not looked so giddy. “You are a formidable woman, Sansa Stark. Between you and I, what chance would he stand?”
Sansa smiles, a gentle, little thing. “He wouldn’t be able to.”
“Exactly.”
She glances back at the fire. “May I have some time to think it over and speak with my advisors, your grace?”
“Of course. This is no small thing I ask of you, my lady.”
Sansa hears the way Daenerys speaks the title, the hidden meaning. She wants to address me as an equal, as another queen.
Daenerys stands to leave. “If you have any questions, any counterpoints, please seek me out.”
“I will.”
The dragon leaves and the wolf stares out the window, into the face of a raging winter storm, as an even greater storm rages within her.
Notes:
You can hit me up at tumblr to chat about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa and more Game of Thrones things!
Chapter 5: DANY II
Summary:
Dany grows closer to Sansa.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
DANY II
“No, no, no, not like that!” Sansa bursts into a fit of giggles, tossing back the Dothraki braid that Dany had fitted in her hair that morning. The hearth fire reflects off her hair, shimmering like burnished copper in the light.
“This is hopeless.” Dany sighs and tosses her sewing hoop on the table.
For the last half hour, Sansa has been attempting to instruct her in the feminine art of embroidery. Dany never had a septa of her own, and growing up on the run from invisible assassins borne from her brother’s imagination, Dany never had the chance to really learn the ways of Westeros. Even when Viserys found them shelter in the noble manses in Voltantis or Pentos or Myr, they were Essosi lords and she would join their daughters’ instruction in the skills valued by the upper echelons Essosi. Thus, she could sing and dance and speak nearly every dialect of Valyrian spoken across the Narrow Sea, but Dany never learned to sew because to her hosts, that was a task for servants.
When she breached the subject, Sansa had seemed suspicious, but agreed after some goading, and they have found a few hours in the afternoon for the last few days to attempt to sew. Mostly what they do is talk. Learning about Sansa has enlightened Dany to the happenings in Westeros that she missed word of while she lived in Meereen. And it is lovely to have a friend from her homeland. As dearly as she loves Missandei, there are some questions the other woman cannot answer, about life and culture in the Seven Kingdoms.
“I didn’t master the skill in an hour either, Daenerys.” Sansa has finally calmed from her outburst. She smiles kindly at Dany. “You just need some patience.”
Dany glances at the hoop and the undyed fabric stretched across it. Sansa had tasked her to sewing basic shapes, a repeating pattern circles and squares in simple red thread. Somehow, she had managed to mangle it all in a giant knot. “I don’t think patience will be enough to fix whatever that is.”
“You’re holding it like you’re trying to stab the hardest venison steak in Westeros.” Sansa explains, and stands from the other side of the table. She comes to sit besides Dany, picking up the hoop and taking the needle in her own hand. “Imagine you’re plucking the strings of a harp. Your touch should be light and delicate, not hard and angry. See?”
Sans demonstrates the touch she describes, then hands the needle over to Dany. When Dany resumes her prior hard grip on the needle, Sansa repositions Dany’s hand with her own and guides her through a few stitches.
Dany watches in awe as together they stitch first a circle, then a triangle. All too soon, Sansa leans away and leaves her without that careful, gentle guidance. “See, you have it. Just keep going slowly.”
It amazes Dany that Sansa has the patience to teach her embroidery in the middle of all the duties that have kept her running from one tower of Winterfell to another. The day before, Tyrion said he had been up drinking with his brother well into what should have been the night through to what should have been the morning. And as he crept back to his own chamber in pursuit of his bed, he found Sansa rising from her own to oversee the kitchens as the cooks began preparing the morning meal.
“Thank you for taking the time to help me. I know you have been busy.” Dany dips her head in acknowledgment as Sansa returns to her own seat on the other side of the table.
“I enjoy the time we spend together.”
“You don’t need to pretend that my bumbling is enjoyable.”
“This is the only chance I have to relax.” Sansa takes Dany’s hand and squeezes it. “If not for these lessons, I would feel guilty for sewing when I should be going over accounts or meeting with Lord Royce.”
Dany takes this chance to stare into Sansa’s gaze, studying the lines on her face and the dark circles beneath her cerulean eyes. Sansa took total responsibility for overseeing the burning of the dead and everything that entailed: collecting enough firewood, moving the bodies, lying them out in a respectful way. She even ensured a special recognition for the foreign fighters, the Unsullied and Dothraki, and had collected their helms and weapons so that the material could be used to erect a monument in special commemoration of those lives lost.
And she planned the celebration afterward: adjusting rations for a small feast, bringing out the best wine from its hiding spot, finding who among the fighters and smallfolk could play instruments or sing for entertainment.
Dany is comfortable in war, commanding troops and proposing creative plans to freeing cities. But the ruling always came harder to her. Sansa’s brand of ruling is soft and quiet, but there is a special power to organizing these occasions. They gave people the chance to mourn and celebrate and be. On doing that, Dany would not even know where to start.
“Well thank you, anyway. For everything you’ve done.” Dany pulls back from Sansa’s touch, unsure how long they were staring at each other in the silence. She turns to a topic that she’s wanted to breach for many days, but hasn’t found the chance too. “Tell me about Cersei Lannister.”
“What would you like to know?” Sansa asks. This is another way their burgeoning friendship is different from hers with Missandei. Even in the early years of their time together, Missandei was good at reading Dany and understanding what the unspoken parts of her questions were. Sansa’s careful gaze shows that she can read much of Dany just from her bearing, but she still leverages her guise of a courteous lady to drag information out of those around her. Missandei does not play the game of politics with Dany, but even in a growing friendship, Sansa is always gauging her and weighing what she says.
“What kind of queen is she?” Dany amends. “How does she treat the people? Do they love her? They’ve had many years to grow accustomed to her.”
“The smallfolk love whoever feeds them. Whoever protects them.” Sansa says.
Her words remind Dany of something Jorah once told her when she was just a girl who knew little of the ways of the world. She feels a pang in her heart, missing his presence. The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are.
“We lost the bounty of the Reach.” Dany leans back in her chair. “So long as Cersei feeds them, they will support her, then?”
“She makes no attempts to woo them. When the Tyrells were in King’s Landing, they walked among the people, prayed with them, made themselves beloved. But Cersei will stay in her castle, drinking her wine and watching them suffer. There will be no love for her in a few years. The people will grow to resent her as they observe her uncaring.”
“And if I decide not to wait for their love to dwindle?”
“Then there suffering is in your hands.” Sansa looks at her with that unnerving gaze of ice. “If you want to rule, you could fly there tomorrow and claim the city with a dragon. But if you want the people to choose you, you cannot sack the city to ruins.”
“That’s not what I want.” Something strange tugs in her stomach. “I want the people of Westeros to have peace. Safety. Food in their bellies and laughter on their lips.”
“Then you must win them over on your own. Not just by being a different queen than Cersei. By being a better one.”
Sansa’s words are wise beyond her years, likely coming from all the time spent observing court in King’s Landing. Dany cocks her head. “What kind of queen would you be?”
“I’d make the people love me.” Sansa intertwines her fingers. “Court their love by listening to them. Feeding them when they have need, protecting them. Giving them more than what little they have, so they can make something more.”
“You’d be a good queen.” Dany says. “Have you given more thought to my proposed arrangement?”
“I spoke of it to Lord Royce of the Vale.” Sansa purses her lips. “I wanted to ask my sister, but I haven’t seen her in private in days.”
“I think Lady Arya’s made a friend of Lord Baratheon.” Dany had been a little drunk on the excitement of the celebration feast and the strong red wine that flowed freely. Seven lords had been made that night, and two ladies in their own names. Among the new nobility was Gendry Waters, Robert Baratheon’s bastard, who she appointed the new lord of Storm’s End. Her cousin-of-sorts was startled, and though her declaration had been brash, she thought it fitting. He had well distinguished himself as a forger of dragonglass weapons and in his command of the Brotherhood without Banners during the battle.
“So, tell me, what did Lord Royce have to say?”
“The Vale will support such an agreement.” Sansa says. Dany feels a burden that she did not know she carried lift off her shoulders. The Vale was the region she expected the most resistance to the proposal from. The marriage works twofold: it puts away the North, the greatest dissenters to her own reign except for Cersei, and sets aside the Riverlands, the region most ravaged by human wars, away from her attention. She will have enough difficulties rebuilding the rest of Westeros and caring for the people who followed her from Essos. The Northern lords and ladies she knew would agree since they have been adamant about their own desire for independence; Lady Mormont even approached Dany about it that first morning after the battle. “They’d like my heir to marry a lord or lady of the Vale, when the time comes, to secure their own position, but that’s not a promise I’m yet ready to make.” She pauses, swallowing visibly. “It is a generous offer you have made. But I won’t bargain away my child’s future more than I must.”
“I hold to my promise, that your child will stay with you, until they are of age.” Dany says. “I would not steal my heir from its crib. Growing up with you and Jon as parents will teach the child all it needs to know to rule, anyway. Visits and letters can make due for what influence is needed for a future ruler of South Westeros. Perhaps a ward or two from my court to keep the child company among its future peers. But when the heir comes south as an adult, they will come as a future king, or queen.”
“That is not what bothers me about the betrothal. All children must leave their parents eventually. However, I still must speak with Jon.” Sansa admits. “I will do it soon, though, your grace. And then you will have an answer.”
Dany smiles. “It would please me greatly to call you that as well.”
Before Sansa can further respond, a quick knock on Dany’s door announces someone right before they hurtle in. She rises, wondering who would enter so boldly and for what reason. Dany cannot help but laugh when she realizes the swaying figure trying to catch his breath is Jon. Finally, when he is breathing steady, he straightens his back. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I just sprinted up all six flights of the tower.”
“What’s so urgent a matter?”
“Lord Royce is looking for you.” Jon says, licking his lips. While he speaks to Sansa, his darkening gaze lingers on Dany’s mouth. “Something about not having enough wagons for the march south?”
“You didn’t need to run here yourself for that message. He’s probably talking about the food supply we’ve set aside for distribution in the Riverlands.” Sansa rise from her seat. “Where did you see him last?”
“In the Great Hall.”
“Thank you, Jon.” Sansa dips a curtsy to Dany. “Until tomorrow, your grace.”
The moment Sansa leaves the room, Jon surges forward and grabs her by the waist. He lifts her small, slim form onto the table and presses a hard kiss against her lips. Jon tastes like salt and evergreen, like the North that was once was kingdom. “Gods, I miss you, Dany.”
They came to an understanding, after the council meeting. Jon has no intentions of claiming her throne, of challenging her. He will help her win it and then return to Winterfell to stabilize his homeland. In a better, perfect world he would be her husband, her perfect match. Has a couple ever understood each other in the innate way they have? But alas, no good would come of them uniting because of the witch's curse upon her womb. Instead, Jon will support Dany's claim in all ways and be her heir until she determines some other scheme. That other scheme is one she hopes Sansa will convince him to agree to.
Until that time of reckoning comes, Jon’s feelings hold true. He does not care that she is his aunt by blood. He loves her anyway, relations and all. Such marriages have happened in the North. The fire between them, the love building deep in her heart like nothing she has ever felt before -- this bond is real and true and good. It’s been six days since that conversation, the one that confirmed all of this, and two since she last kissed him, last felt the taste of his lips on her tongue. This time, Dany wants more than just a kiss.
She shifts on the table, pushing herself closer to him until their bodies are flush against each other. Her legs lie on either side of his, straddling him in an upwards manner. Through the material of his jerkin, she can feel the outline of his long, hard member. Jon groans deep in his throat at the connection. He pulls her by the hips so that she is pressed even tighter against his body. Dany wriggles her hips, rubbing more against his rigid cock. A wave of pleasure runs through her body.
Jon whispers in her ear. “I didn’t run up those stairs to deliver the message. I wanted to see you.”
His words send a shiver of want through Dany and she kisses him again, crossing her legs behind his back as she does so, which pulls him in closer. This kiss is harder, both of them acting to go beyond. Jon's tongue runs along her lips before he nips and pulls at the bottom one. He sucks and nibbles at her skin, pulling her into him. Jon pries her lips apart with his tongue, but she dominates in their kiss, their tongues meeting and dancing and clashing.
With one hand, Jon supports her lower back and with the other he reaches for her teat. Jon gently palms at her breast, kneading the firm flesh. A thought races through her mind, sudden and uncalled for: Sansa's breasts are significantly larger than Dany's own. Will Jon prefer making love to his bride-to-be for that reason? She wonders what it might be like, to see Sansa's naked teat, to feel them in her palm, to pull Sansa's nipples to a pert, stiff peak with her own tongue? As Jon fumbles for the edge of Dany's leggings, a shiver runs through her body, but it's not just because of how Jon makes her feel.
Dany tangles one hand in his hair, stroking his bicep with the other. Jon’s finger skims across her core as they pull her leggings and smallclothes away. She bucks her hips. The want and need and desire build within her center, beginning his touch to take her to release.
“Jon.” She whines and squirms against him, until finally she gets what she wants.
He slips two fingers inside her easily, pumping them with practiced ease. His thumb finds Dany’s clit as a third finger enters to stretch her. She moves her hips against his touch, breath coming hard. “Jon, I’m ready, I want you, please, Jon . . .”
He kisses her hard, startling her from her building excitement. For a moment, Dany fills with guilt at what they’re doing. She’s asked her friend to marry this man and yet she craves his touch. But then Jon aligns his cock with her core and looks lovingly in her eyes, tells her “I love you, Dany,” and thrusts inside her slick heat.
Jon’s need is as desperate as hers. The way he takes her proves it.
Jon's thick cock slips inside her as if coming home. He does not wait for her to adjust. He does not need to; she is filled with him, perfectly fitted to his size.
He rolls his hips with urgency and speed, stopping only to find the right angle to hit the spot deep inside her, the one that has her gasping and clutching at his tunic. His strokes are short and hard, his fingers still rubbing at her clit. In their time together, he has come to know her body. To know it well. And he strokes and flicks and rubs in the right way, furthering her joy in the experience in the best possible way.
Dany feels her pleasure coming too soon, and sinks deep into the pleasant warmth of coming undone. She focuses only on herself, raising her hips to meet Jon’s thrusts and grasping onto his shoulders as the only thing to keep her steady.
She can tell Jon is nearly there as he begins to chant her name, over and over, fingers pressing harder against her. But first he brings her to that precipice herself, and Dany lets herself fall fully from the peak she’s risen too. She shudders and moans as the pleasure washes over her in powerful waves, her core spasming around his cock. Jon rides the intensity of her peak, his thrusts coming quick and sloppy as his climax overtakes him and he joins her in the feeling.
Dany leans forward on Jon’s chest, surprised he is still standing. He takes her hand and guides her over to the fire, legs wobbling from exhaustion. Jon pulls her into his lap and traces slow spirals on the exposed bit of her thigh.
“I can’t go a day without thinking about this.” She admits between heavy pants. “Your touch, your warmth, you . . .”
Jon sets a gentle kiss upon her brow. “I love to make you feel like this. To see you trust me enough to bring you there.”
“And I’m glad to go with you.”
“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted like this.” Jon squeezes her thigh. “Once Cersei is defeated, maybe we can come back to those waterfalls. Just you and me together. It could be like this, forever.”
Dany leans her head against his chest and listens to the rapid beating of Jon’s heart. The vision he paints is a pretty one, a vision she’s dreamed a dozen time at least. But even so, they have people to care for. Sansa made it clear that no one is safe under Cersei’s reign. She wonders if Jon could even think to want her, after Sansa approaches him with their tentative agreement. And how he’ll react to having Sansa in his bed instead of her.
For he may not know it, but this must be the last time. It has to be, for Sansa’s sake.
But even still, she worries. What have I begun?
Chapter 6: SANSA II
Summary:
Jon and Sansa discuss their options.
Chapter Text
"We would need to - to -" Jon's face turns bright red, likely for the same reason Sansa's does. She has made Queen Daenerys' proposal to Jon and, to speak lightly of the issue, he was not thrilled. Noting their distress, Ghost whimpers from his place by the fire and covers his head with his paws.
In her mind, she recalls the few times she has seen his naked torso, taut muscles glistening with sweat in the practice yards or the rest of him swimming in the heated pools. She takes a deep breath to still her rapid heartbeat. Unthinkingly, Sansa reaches over and grabs Jon's hand across the table. He startles at the motion and makes to pull back. In response, Sansa tightens her grip and runs her thumb carefully across the knuckles of his hand.
"This is the best way to keep the lords happy and preserve the North's freedom, Jon." Sansa's voice softens and she squeezes his hand once. "It's the best way to protect our people. What if there's a peasant rebellion and the dragons become players in quelling it? Or even something less nefarious - Dany could visit the North and her dragons could wreck a flock or hurt a child. Drogon ate a child, once, a little girl."
Jon's brow furrows. "How do you know about that?"
"Dany told me." Sansa leans back. "I know its displeasing to think about -"
"Dany?" Jon pulls back with a harsh yank and stands up from his place on the other side of her worktable. "A week ago, you wanted to depose her. Now you're on a first name basis and trading stories of your pasts? What's gotten into you, Sansa?"
"Things changed. I changed." Sansa bites her lip and released it, eyes alighting on Jon's tormented face. This is the first time since her conversation with Dany that the pair of them could talk without anyone else nearby. Even Arya has disappeared, likely canoodling with her newfound friend from the forges. While she has not recently spoken with Jon, Sansa has spoken plenty with Dany. They've sat together at meals, spoken quietly in Sansa's solar, and even sat up together, giggling like little girls well into the night. How can I explain all this to Jon?
Sansa thinks of Dany's bright hair, how soft it is beneath her hands whenever the queen lets Sansa use her head to practice intricate Northern braids, in a way Arya never would. And the subtle, distant look in her eye when she describes her past lovers, to convince Sansa that not all men are like Ramsay Bolton and Littlefinger and Joffrey. Her breath hitches as she remembers the queen's gentle touch against her skin when they both fell asleep only the night before, curled around one another instead of sleeping separately. Sansa had apologized profusely the next morning, her hair bedraggled as she stumbled away from Dany's bed, but the queen had laughed and helped Sansa fix her appearance before she went out for her daily inspection of the Northern troops' morning routines.
"Are you even listening to me?" Jon says, startling Sansa from her reverie.
“I’m sorry, Jon. What were you saying?”
“That you’re my sister, even if not by blood.” He sighs and runs a hand across his face. “Father would kill me for even thinking these things. Gods protect me if your mother knew.”
“Mother would be pleased.” Sansa says, drily. In fact, Catelyn Stark would have many mixed feelings about this arrangement, especially the truth of Jon’s parentage that had brought so much hurt and sadness to the Starks’ marriage. “You know she always wanted me to be a queen. Since I can’t very well marry Daenerys, this is the next best thing.”
“Is being queen really something you still so greatly desire?” Jon’s accusation hurts her heart, as if he doesn’t think she’s grown in all these years. “To bed your own brother?”
“This isn’t a discussion we’d be having if you hadn’t given away the North!” She flings back. He shakes his head a little, mouth opening as if to respond. Sansa holds up a finger. “Tell me it isn’t true, and I’ll let this go. Tell me you didn’t offer our kingdom because she seemed kind in fighting a war all humanity had a stake in. If that’s true - if you really had no choice in bending the knee before she would commit to the fight - then we will join her Westeros and I will hail her queen and defend her to the lords who crowned you. But if what Daenerys told me is true, then we will proceed for this and keep our independence.”
Jon runs a hand across his face and sighs heavily as if in defeat. “It’s true.”
"Why?" Sansa folds her arms across each other and stares hard at him. Beneath her gaze, Jon flinches. "It's because you love her, isn't it. You wouldn't admit it when last I asked, but - "
"No, Sansa." Jon turns back to her. "It's because I trust her, because she was willing to fight for us after seeing it with her own eyes. Because she's compassionate and good and truly cares about her people. And I thought she would be a better ruler than me by far because it's not a power I ever wanted."
"You don't need to wanter power to understand how to use it to care for your people. You were a good king, Jon. And you will be again. A marriage arrangement to get back all you've lost us and more. It gets us back the trust of our men, people who don't believe in Daenerys like you might."
"Would you really want to give away your child, though?"
"We agreed it would be when the child is an adult and ready to make their own way in the world." She explains. This isn't really what she wants. Sansa wants her children to grow up happy and safe in these walls and never leave, but such an ending is impractical and ignores the truth of life. All children grow away from their parents, and any child who isn't the heir will be lost in the world until they make their own place in it. "You were restless and ready to leave Winterfell as you came of age. Even Bran wanted to leave and join the Kingsguard. When our second child comes of age, what would its place be in Winterfell? This way, they have an inheritance of their own. An entire kingdom they will be raised to lead."
"It's not that simple."
"It's exactly that complicated." Sansa says. "What else holds you back?"
“Why not some other Northern girl, then. Alys Karstark is of age, and Lyanna Mormont will be soon enough.”
Sansa had considered these proposals and shares her ready response with Jon. “They both have their own lands and do not represent the whole of the North. Only I do.”
Jon turns his back to her and stares out the window at the snowflakes fluttering down through the darkness beyond. Even without looking at him, she knows the face he makes, dark and brooding and nearly a scowl.
She tilts her head. “If the idea of marrying me detests you so, we could make the same offer to Arya. No one can deny she is your preferred sister. I wouldn’t be offended.” Even as she says it, her stomach tightens in a horrified knot. Does part of me want this?
“She would refuse. Her heart is with Lord Baratheon, we both know that.”
“We could at least ask. Perhaps she'd rather be Queen in the North than Lady of the Stormlands.”
"I will not force Arya to make that decision. We promised never to marry either of you off unwillingly." Jon pivots, a deep-set frown creasing his cheeks. He meets her unwavering gaze with his own gentle and undemanding one. “Do you really want this?”
Sansa nods and rise from her table, her voice soft. “Would it be so bad to love each other?”
Timidly, she approaches him and steps close enough that she can feel his sudden breath against her cheeks.
“Daenerys came to speak to me, before the battle.”
“Was that when she proposed this harebrained scheme?” His voice is dark.
“She suggested you had manipulated her love to bring her North.” Sansa intertwines her fingers and holds them tightly against her body, her white hands a shield holding back her nervousness. “I believed her.”
Jon looks at her aghast. His apple bobs as he swallows thickly. “She promised to come join the war when her dragon died, not when we . . . shared our feelings.”
“I realized that later, of course.” Sansa nods. “Once I saw for myself, at the feast after the burning, how deep your love for her is, I thought your plan was to marry her and leave Winterfell to be King of Westeros.”
“You really think that’s something I want?” His face falls deep into sorrow. "I never asked to be anyone's King."
“But you were a king, the King in the North. I know you didn't want that title, but you accepted it because it was the best way to protect us. To protect me. I think you would be King of Westeros if it would do to protect your family.” Sansa cups his face with her hand. “To protect our people. This marriage is the same.”
"Sansa, be honest: do you truly want another love borne out of duty and vows and kingdoms?"
"All I want is for my family to be safe. For the North to thrive, the Trident and Vale too." She runs her thumb along his cheekbone. "And maybe love can grow between us. My mother and father married for duty and vows and kingdoms, and in the end they built a love stone by stone, five children and a happy home."
Happy but for Jon's secrets. Sansa had been confused when he told them, and concerned how Daenerys would react to new, proclaimed family that could challenge her claim. But Jon got down on one knee before all their lords and swore to be her dutifully nephew and that she was the rightful queen. Between that and the dragons, few could challenge Dany's reign once they took King's Landing. And Jon is not the type to raise rebellion and challenge the throne without just cause. So he was protected from Dany's potential wrath, and their family was still secure from any chaos the change could cause.
"If we were too do this, we must try to build that too." Jon finally admits, his true fears shining through. He wants love as much as me, Sansa realizes as she studies his shining eyes, grey and somber in the lighting. Sansa has never realized how beautiful they are.
Struck by a sudden thought, she leans in and presses her lips to his own.
She’s kissed many men in her lifetime, but this is the first time she chose to do so. Joffrey, Tyrion, the Hound, Littlefinger, Marillion, Robin, Ramsay – these men forced their harsh affections on her by right and rule. She still seizes up in the night and wakes in a sweat, cowering at the memory of Ramsey’s bloody grip against her arms and his fist pummeling into her breast while he thrust inside her.
But this is a gentler thing. Jon stiffens, then relaxes into the embrace. His hands fall to her hips and pulls her flush against him, a connection so tight it feels natural that their bodies would fit together. Jon kisses her soft and slow, not forcing her beyond her own comfort. With the smoothest touch, he pushes her hair behind her ear and cups her cheek in his hand.
Breathlessly, he pulls away and rests their foreheads together. “Sansa – ”
Sansa purses her lips, already missing the taste of him. Her cheeks flush and she tries to bury these horrible thoughts, but she wants more of him, more of the gentleness she thought her husband would show her, so different than all she’s had before.
“Yes?”
“You’re my sister.”
“And Targaryens marry their sisters all the time.” Sansa grasps the front of his jerkin and pulls him in. “Our people need this Jon. However much this arrangement may displease us – and know that while I agreed to this idea, it is not what I would have wanted – we must proceed to protect the North in perpetuity from any enemy, including ourselves. We are direwolves and they are our pack. There is no lion pride or rose thorn to protect them. Only us.”
“Only us.”
“Like Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys.” Sansa said. They both used to cry at the beauty of those stories when they were young, of a brother loving and protecting his sister.
Jon startles her by kissing her again, a soft touch like a snowflake melting against her lips. She leans in, pulling at his jerkin and falling for the heat of him. His kiss becomes more urgent, hungrier, until he pulls away like he can’t stand her anymore. Jon’s face is grave, but he says the words she needs to hear:
“I’ll marry you. For the North and for us all.”
Chapter 7: JON II
Summary:
The arranged marriage pact is announced; Jon stands up for Dany's claims; the Northerners finally learn why he bent the knee.
Notes:
This is a new addition added to kind of explain some of the background and emotions and feelings. Also, some minor things set up the ~drama~ for part two. But this addresses a lot of the question marks that people were filling in against the way that I thought they would, so hopefully it sets the record straight. I'm going to leave it at the end for a few days and then move it between SANSA II and ARYA II.
Also, I'm well aware that Wylla has the green hair, but I'm combining her and Wynafryd for sanity's sake.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Seeing Dany is different, now that he knows what came of her time with Sansa, the plot the two of them have schemed behind his back. She stands across the room, as radiant as ever in a simple black dress with her hair pulled back with a simple braid over soft waves. But despite her beauty, he finally begins to see the iron underneath, and what it truly means to love a queen. Jon does not know who to be more upset at, his sister-cousin or his lover-aunt. Both of them consulted the other before turning to him, with no word of the suggestion until Sansa had decided to accept.
What happened to that sad, sweet young woman who sat and swore to defend humanity’s greatest enemy simply because she lost her dragon? Or the scared queen who wanted to keep his parentage a secret between only those they most trusted because she feared for her own life? Standing quietly in the waiting space behind the Great Hall, with only Bran, Tyrion, and the two would-be queens for company, Jon cannot help but stare at the silver-haired Targaryen, the only person he can focus his vision on.
He sees her more as Queen Daenerys now than his Dany, a shrewd politician who saw a secret threat and turned it into an asset that will benefit the stability of her throne and the realm. If he weren’t the pawn in her and Sansa’s machinations, he would admire it. But Jon instead thinks to the dream he had the night after the Night King fell, of a child with his hair and Dany’s eyes . . . She is a queen, though, he has known that since the first day on Dragonstone, a righteous queen who puts her people above her own desires. Of course she revels in the stability his marriage can offer. And of course Sansa took it, the one thing she has pushed for for so long, the strength of an independent North.
“I hear I am to call you ‘your grace’ soon.” Tyrion approaches, a pewter goblet in his hand. Even the imp has made it here, and yet Arya is still missing. “We have both risen far since we met in this same castle.”
“Cripples, bastards, and broken things, wasn’t it?” Jon chuckles, glad to take his eyes off the queen and queen-to-be. “Now the three-eyed raven, a king-to-be, and hand of the queen.”
Tyrion quaffs his wine. “You didn’t have to steal my wife, you know.”
“It was her idea.” Jon says, eyes darkening. Tyrion blinks at him in surprise. “Did they not tell you that?”
“Sansa told me nothing.” Tyrion eyes the women across the chamber and lowers his voice. “Daenerys told me. At first I thought it some strange jape until she swore it on her claim. What made you agree?”
Jon wonders that answer still. He wants Dany, her strength and her softness and her laughter. He loves Sansa, yes, but she is still his sister, no matter how many weeks he has grappled with his new identity. And there is an ice to her, has always been a wall between them. Dany only recently seemed to put one up, as if she’s pulled away on purpose. Now he knows why, but he wonders if she meant for it to hurt, if he’s offended her someway.
Instead of revealing this uncertainty, Jon merely shrugs. “I swore to protect the North. They offered me the best way to do that.”
Tyrion eyes him strangely, but goes to again fill up his goblet from the pitcher in the corner. A serving man enters the waiting room and goes to whisper to Sansa and Dany, pulling them from their whispers.
It was more than just Viserion’s loss that made her vow to turn from Cersei and save us all, Jon knows. He did not believe the Free Folk’s claims when first they clamored to go across the wall. But he saw it, time and time again, with his own eyes, the dead hand at the wall and Craster’s icy gods. And Dany did too, saving the party beyond the wall. Unlike Cersei, Daenerys the Queen did not hesitate to offer her full support once she realized the vast danger of their eternal enemy.
Finally, she looks at him, but it is with the queen’s eyes. He loves Dany the woman deeply, but Daenerys the Queen is someone still strange to him. The same kind heart and wisdom lurks behind the deep, inspecting gaze but the filter makes it different, like milk turned to cheese. Still good, but . . . different.
Sansa turns to Dany. “It is time. Shall we, my lords, your majesty?”
Daenerys nods. Sansa goes to link their arms, as if they are old friends, the way she used to walk together with Jeyne Poole. Sometimes now she even walks closely with Arya, but not with the same closeness she takes with the queen. Daenerys slips away and motions for Jon to come forward. “Perhaps you should go together. A sign of unity.”
Jon stiffly offers Sansa his elbow and she takes it with her delicate fingers. Her touch is different than Dany’s, more precise and careful. Like an actor on a stage. Again he wonders where Arya is, if she will be in the hall to hear it before they can tell her this news in private.
They enter after Bran and Tyrion, with Daenerys in the place of honor as the last to enter the Great Hall. Each takes their seat except for Daenerys, who will begin the introduction of this mad scheme.
The room is filled with all their allies, even a few of Dany’s Unsullied captains and Dothraki kos. The news does not pertain to them much, but still they are here to support their khaleesi, the leader they chose to follow on the Great Grass Sea and beyond it. Her collective legion baffles him sometimes, they way she’s made such a quilt of colors from Dothraki horselords to Meereenese nobles to slaves of all ethnic origin.
Even a few of the Stormlords sent support from their lands, less so from Jon’s plea for help against the dead and more for Daenerys’ offer of justice and vengeance and fire and blood against the queen who ended their overlord’s great bloodline. Among the lords now he see all her Stormlands support: Houses Penrose, Trant, Caron, and Morrigen. They brought soldiers from other houses too, from men too scared to face Cersei directly or too old to make the march to Winterfell. Among them were two hundred men from Tarth, sent by Lord Selwyn to fight under Brienne’s command in the Battle for the Dawn. Only ninety of them remained now.
Jon skims the room, looking for Arya, begging for her to meet his eye, but she can't be found. It does not surprise him. She disdains listening to the angry, demanding lords and prefers to appear when they have heard petitions from the smallfolk and merchants who are in need of help and support rebuilding. Even though the war is done, more and more people had come to the castle for help in the distress of the night. Sansa has taken to sharing that responsibility with Arya, who has a deftness for hearing them out and understanding their causes and concerns. But she will not hear this, and if she did he doubts she would understand it.
“My lords, thank you for gathering here today.” Daenerys looks around the Great Hall. The heart fire and braziers burn hot and bright, for the sun still has not risen. Even so, Jon feels incredibly cold in this great hall. Even after a year as its king, he feels not-quite-right to stand where one Lord Eddard Stark stood, to sit in the chair besides his daughter, who will soon be Jon’s wife. A few of the nobles in the room have curious looks on their faces, all too aware of the strange setup, with Jon wedged between Sansa and Daenerys.
“We know these dark times have been trying and that many of you are worried about the return of the dawn.” Murmurs rise up around the room, but they will soon find these words misleading. This isn’t about the solar disappearance but about a different game that these women both play so well. “Our friend and ally, Lord Bran the Raven, has informed us that the ancient magic that held together the Night King, White Walkers, and all their strange followers is merely taking time to slowly return to its natural place. Should it continue, we shall fly North with our cousin, Lord Stark, to investigate further.
“But that is not why we have summoned you all here today. Instead, we are here to discuss our last war, against Cersei the Cruel.” The gathered crowd cheers loudly, the Stormlords the greatest among them. Daenerys motions for Sam to step up from the long table against the far edge of the room, packed with advisors from her bloodriders to Davos Seaworth. Moving another piece in the game. Daenerys glances across Jon’s head at Sansa, smiling. He feels some strange sense of betrayal as Sansa smiles back at her. A centerpiece in a massive game, that’s all he is to her and Sansa it seems. “Lord Tarly, if you would.”
“Well, yes, thank you, your grace.” He fumbles as he stands. “Well, Jon Snow is . . . That is, Jon - Jon is a Targaryen.”
There are cries from across the room, men standing from their trestle tables and knocking over benches as they shout. Among the Northerners, Lyanna Mormont looks the most upset. Lord Templeton of the Vale has turned as red as a pomegranate and is glaring above Sansa’s shoulder. With a turn of his head, Jon sees that Lord Templeton has focused his rage on Lord Royce, Sansa’s Valeman advisor and confidante. Lord Royce stares at Jon with a stormy expression, but Sansa has already told him their plans here. Nothing is betrayed on his stony face except for a hint of disgust.
But most concerning are the men who sit in shocked silence, staring at him. In the middle of them all, Lord Varys catches his eye from the back of the room, evaluating him with a quirked head and calculating gaze. When he meets Jon’s eyes, the Spider smiles and nods his head. Bowing. Jon realizes. He never did that, not ever when I was King in the North in my own right.
Sansa sets a supportive hand over Jon’s and squeezes before rising. “My lords, be quiet, please!” At her raised hand, most of the Northerners and half of the Vale fall silent.
“We named a Targaryen King in the North?” Lyanna calls out, still standing with that bear’s glare of hers. “Did you know what we did then, my lady, but let him deceive us into making an enemy our king?”
“The Targaryens may have once been our enemy, my lady, but they are no more. Queen Daenerys slew the Night King herself and is a friend and ally to the North.” Sansa says, her voice calm as soft-falling snow. “But if I did not believe him my brother, do you truly think I would have calmly let him rule my home and people?”
Jon thinks of her brash reactions and outspoken challenges in his open meetings before he went to Dragonstone. He gives a half-smile. I wouldn’t call that calm.
“Lady Sansa, how do we know that he did not plan to give away the North to the queen from the beginning?” Lady Manderly calls from the back of the room. Her green hair stands out in the dreary room. She's been an interesting addition to these meetings and the castle dynamic ever since she came from White Harbor with news of the battle there, that ended with the sudden collapse of all the White Walkers and wights around the time Dany killed the Night's King. “I thought he bent the knee out of force, but it seems he gave it away too easily.”
“There was neither force nor did I make that decision lightly.” Jon rumbles, his first contribution to the discussion. He meets Lady Manderly’s gaze, remembering the first time they met when he stayed the night at White Harbor before his ship launched to sail to Dragonstone. She reminds him of Arya and Lyanna Mormont, bold and brash in equal measure. A fighter. “She proved her dedication to the cause and the justice of her rule. I have seen her fight for not just her people, but all people, and make the trying sacrifices necessary of a good ruler. The decision to bend the knee was mine alone and there will be no more further conversation on it.”
After a tense moment of silence, Jon says, “Now to the point at hand.”
“Lord Tarly, will you please explain how you came to know this knowledge?” Sansa nods, holding Sam’s gaze steady. “Just as you have told it to me.”
Sam stares at Sansa, visibly gulping, but speaks slowly and loudly for all to hear. “At the Citadel, Gilly found an annulment signed by the High Septon Maynard himself. It was written for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife, Elia Martell. He also oversaw a secret marriage in Dorne. Lord Bran had a vision of that marriage, where Prince Rhaegar married Lyanna of House Stark.”
Gasps are heard around the room, but with Daenerys’ careful sweep across all the tables no lord rises from the table. She and Sansa exert control over their subordinates in a way he still cannot manage. Jon wants to hear every voice, but there is a time for discussion and commentary and a time for silence. Without either woman, he doubts he could have Sam tell this tale without the whole keep going up in rioters’ flames.
“We later discovered a marriage contract buried beneath the altar of Lady Catelyn’s sept.” Sam continues. “Proving that the marriage was lawful. Jon Snow is not the bastard son of Lord Stark and some woman who was not his wife. He is Aemon Targaryen, the lawful son of Prince Rhaegar and a prince of the ream.”
The moment of truth and the end of triumph. As Sam takes his seat, they are all quiet. It is Lord Ronnet Trant who stands to speak first. “When will Prince Aemon wed the queen, then? I assume you announce this to prevent another Dance, considering he has the stronger claim.”
Both Dany and Sansa stiffen at his sides, women overlooked for a man too many times. Specifically, overlooked for him despite being better at most everything a ruler does, except for their understanding of battle strategy. And that is easier for advisors to guide a ruler on than the subtle talk of courtiers and politicians that they both have mastered so well.
“I will not be marrying Queen Daenerys, nor will there be another Dance.” Jon calls out, anger building in his system. Why does this even matter? He does not want any throne, not even the North. Sansa and Dany can have it all without him. He just wants peace and some place warm. “She is the one true queen of her realm, rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and I will not take that claim from her. I reject my rights in any way to the kingdoms that are rightfully hers.”
“Your highness, surely you are more suited for the throne.” Lord Trant says, apparently fully set on open treason.
“I am not, and you will mind your tongue.”
“What he means to say,” Sansa says softly, kindly from his side. “Is that he has no connection or ties to a throne. This knowledge is new to us, only discovered in the days before the battle. My cousin has chosen to go by the name Lord Stark gave him and is still Jon. We have spent many weeks discussing and understanding this information and understand that it must be a shock to all of you. But we will announce our agreements for it in a moment, if you have no other questions, my lord?”
She gives that courtly smile, the one that could tempt nearly anyone to do her bidding. Lord Trant is the brother of the so-called man who beat her bloody beneath the Iron Throne and yet Sansa treats him like a dear friend. It seems to work, for all of Jon’s private stewing, as Lord Trant takes his seat besides Lord Templeton. The two men bow their heads in hushed whispers, but at least they’ve shut up so that they can get along with this embarrassing charade.
But then Garon Penrose stands from the table of Stormlanders and turns to address the high table. “My lady, my lord, my queen, as appreciative as I am that your leadership aims for transparency and truth, if Prince Jon will not be marrying Queen Daenerys, what will come of this knowledge?” He sweeps his arm around the room. “I came to heed the call of the King in the North for allies and support, for the display of the dead in King’s Landing showed a dire end for us all. But I stay in support of Queen Daenerys, whose bloodline is undisputed and who has already proven that she can take on Cersei and avenge the deaths of Lords Stannis and Renly.”
At his side, Dany shifts in that way she does when she is trying to hide a smile. Jon wants to take her hand but there are too many people watching them, including his wife-to-be. He knows her, knows that she must fear the lack of support at this news. But House Penrose has been a steady ally of the Targaryens, distant cousins of the dynasty through marriage who raised their banners for Rhaegar during Robert’s Rebellion. They will stand by the true Targaryen ruler in this desperate time now, too.
“Prince Jon will marry his cousin, not me. I am barren, or so the midwives and healers have told me through two marriages. Their child will be heir to the Five Kingdoms.” Daenerys announces, her queenly voice and facade back in place. Face as blank and emotionless as a cyvasse piece. Is her heart breaking like his? Will she go on to put duty before love, if ever there was love?
“Five?” Lord Penrose asks, brow scrunched together.
“You have heard the prince disavow his claims to the Iron Throne. He makes this willingly, and in recognition I have rescinded my claim to the North, Vale, and Riverlands. In perpetuity, these lands will be ruled be ruled by the children of Queen Sansa and King Consort Jon.” Daenerys states plainly.
Immediately, cheers go up across the hall. Loudly, the northern lords, the Valemen, and few riverlanders among them applaud and hoot and stamp their feet. Jon scans the tables to read the lords' faces but instead meets Arya's fiery, angry gaze staring holes through him from the back of the hall.
Jon lurches to his feet, not thinking, but then Daenerys and Sansa both stand as well. The two women are smiling widely, b shaking hands and putting on a show for the celebrants. A young page comes from the back room carrying a silvered tray with copies of the pact written on vellum. Jon barely notices as the treaty is signed by both now-queens, made by each other. His gaze instead follows Arya as she dashes out of the back of the room and is quickly followed by Lord Baratheon.
He stumbles through as Daenerys hands him the quill to sign on the line beneath Sansa and Dany's own sweeping signatures. His heart thrums in his chest. He was hoping to find Arya after this, to tell her without anyone else interfering, to explain -
"Ale! Bring out the casks! We must celebrate the Kingdom of the North and the Kingdom of the South!" Some pot-bellied lord calls. They have little let, but calls go up to join his, and for musicians to be brought from the soldiers who know how to play a little.
Sansa and Dany move to stand by the fire and take congratulations from the lords and ladies who are gathered to sign as witnesses and to show their fealty and agreement. But Jon cannot imagine celebrating now, not when his little sister must hate him.
Everyone seems so wrapped up in the suddenly-festive environment that no one notices as Jon sneaks out behind a pack of grumbling Stormlanders to try and explain everything to Arya before she decides never to speak to him again.
Chapter 8: ARYA II
Summary:
Arya distracts herself from politics and family drama with alone time with Gendry.
Notes:
We’re ignoring the canon-is elements of Arya/Gendry’s first time because I forgot that our girl, like the queen she is, topped for her first time until after I wrote this.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Loving Gendry is gentle, tender, sweet.
His kisses sear down Arya’s body like sun rising across a frozen lake, melting away the pounding ache of every purpling bruise and the phantom pain in every long scar. He caresses her frostbitten back with gentle caresses, letting his fingers linger only in the areas of skins that won't hurt her. It wasn’t hard, to sneak him into her room, to find his hands after the celebration feast and pull him in for kisses in a darkened vestibule. She dragged him across bridges and up spiraling stairs, into the tower room that Sansa gave her when she arrived in Winterfell all those months ago, pulled off their clothing piece by piece, until there was nothing left them but words unspoken and names that meant nothing.
This is not the room of Arya’s childhood, but even after years apart and through her narrow-eyed distrust, Sansa knew her sister well. From the windows in the chamber at the top of the tower, Arya can see all of the keep spread around her: the battlefield, then still burning with the fires with the dead, the godswood and its red-leafed weirwood, the inner courtyards converted to house smallfolk and lords and soldiers alike. The height of the room leaves it cold, but Arya always felt out of place in her mother’s chamber, with its heated walls from the hot springs beneath the castle. There’s no solar for entertaining and no large dressing room, but that suits Arya fine. Instead, the space is nearly one, save for the privy to the side. To fill it, Sansa had a weapons rack brought in, a pair of plush chairs besides the fireplace, a work table with seating, and a chest for her clothes where Sansa left the best gift of all: a cloak embroidered with a direwolf in their house colors.
The place feels like Arya in a way no other place has before, and it felt even more that way when she broke it in with Gendry’s hands on her skin and his kiss on her lips and his cock in her core.
She’s had him other times in the weeks since he was made a lord, always sneaking him in during the late hours when the castle sits in quiet. But every time, he’s loved her sweetly, in a way she never thought she would want. But Gendry does not treat her gently because he thinks she is made of glass. He holds Arya as a lady because as many times as she rebuffs him, she will always be a lady to him.
Above her now, Gendry pushes back the hair matted to her forehead by sweat and sets a hurried kiss upon the still-hard skin of her frostbitten shoulder where the White Walker slashed through her clothes and fighting leathers. Arya adjusts the angle of her legs, raising them up as he continues his constant thrusts. His other hand massages at her breast, but Arya wants something else tonight, something more to make her get all the way to there.
Taking Gendry’s upper arms in her hands, she pushes at him. Immediately, he stills with a furrowed brow showing his concern. “Arya? Are you - are you alright?”
She bites her lip and nods. Gendry dives in and kisses her, quick as a whip’s flicking on its target.
“Do you know how irresistible you are when you do that?”
Arya rolls her eyes. Her mother and Septa Mordane used to chastise her endlessly for the bad habit, but Gendry will find any excuse to compliment her. Even if it’s a lie. “Roll over.”
She pushes on his arms again, yelping in surprise when Gendry flips both of them so Arya is laying on his chest and his cock is standing straight in the air between them. In the low light provided by the moon, Arya takes a minute to study him as she chews her lip and thinks how to approach the question. Her gaze follows as her hand rakes gently across his pectorals and his abdomen, until finally it rests besides his thick, stiff member.
“I want to be on top.” Arya says, rising a little on her thighs. The whores at the Happy Port in Braavos loved to tell Cat of the Canals all about their trade; Lanna claimed this was her favorite way to have a man. But how to do it exactly?
Gendry watches with wide, observant eyes as Arya straddles him, not daring to move as she settles into the position. Seeing her intent, he settles his hands on her hips and idly traces patterns on her skin with his thumbs. Arya lifts herself up and takes his cock in hand before aligning it with her core and settling slowly down upon him.
“Oh.”
“Good oh?”
Arya nods, lifting herself before settling down on his cock again. The position is different, but pleasant, almost like riding a horse. She uses the strength in her thighs to raise and lower her body, setting a slow, exhilarating pace in their lovema- coupling. Arya looks down into Gendry’s stormy blue eyes, holding him in her darkened grey gaze. Thinking more, she leans down and kisses him, still using her position on top to keep control of herself and him.
Gendry pulls her in for a deeper kiss, tongues clashing and dancing like a sword fight. His lips are hard and hot, his breath still smelling of the beer they drank earlier besides her fire. He can move a little beneath her, thrusting his hips slightly, but he lets her keep the power and control of their bodies and melts into the kiss. Arya, feeling the heat pooling in her belly, speeds up the roll of her hips and leans up to get that deep angle from before, when she could feel him so completely.
Her small breasts pounced as she took her pleasure, and when she moved her hand down to please herself she found Gendry’s fingers already there, rubbing fast and hard and wild against her pulsing nub, bringing her there, there, - oh! THERE - until she shattered like a shooting star and turned their sex over to his control.
“Arya, ohhh, Arrrryaaa.” Gendry moaned, not lasting much longer with her riding out her climax on top like he was a Dornish sand steed. With one final thrust up into her, Arya felt the warmth of his seed spilling inside and down her sweat-slicked thighs. She fell on top of Gendry’s chest, his flaccid cock still in her. He kisses her gently on the naked shoulder. “Oh, milady.”
She swatted at him with a giggle. She could see why Lanna liked this position so much, although there was surely more Arya and Gendry both could learn from each other’s knowledge.
Arya breaths in deeply the scent of him, fire and smoke and sweat, and settles her head against his muscled chest. Even though it’s been days since he’s been called to work, her blacksmith still smells like a forge. Not that he’s much of a blacksmith anymore, she thinks, shocked back to reality. During the same celebration when they ran to her rooms, Gendry Waters was named Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End. And in the morning, or whatever they should call the darkness when they are awake, Sansa will make Jon a Stark in truth by marrying him beneath the hearttree in the godswood.
With an angry push, she gets off Gendry and stalks to the low-burning fire. A pot of hot water hangs over the flames, and she quickly pours some in the waiting cup with the satchet of moon tea. Arya carries the to a window and stares out at the godswood beneath.
Gendry’s footsteps are soft against the rushes as he pads across the room to stand behind her. She can feel his sweet nakedness behind her and as his arms sneak around her waist. Arya leans into Gendry’s warm grasp, chiding herself for feeling so comfortable in his arms. It was one thing when he was no one but a king’s bastard, but now that he is a lord of a great house, called cousin by the southern queen . . . she doesn’t let her mind wander there. Not tonight, not when he is close and warm and real and there.
“What ails you, Arya?” Gendry kisses softly against her collarbone again and rubs his thumb against a thick knot in her back. “Can I help ease your anxieties?”
“What doesn’t ail me would be a better question.” She replies, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “I haven’t talked to my sister since she announced this marriage agreement, and she would barely look at me at council. And how are we to have a wedding or handle a southern march without the sun?”
Arya's seen more of the delightful Lady Wynafryd Manderly than her own sister. She joins Arya, Lyanna, and Alys Karstark for sword and bow practice in the yard. She's also taught them all quite a lot about spears since she grew up using a trident.
“Your sister will talk to you if you find her tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“Daenerys is likely enough to be there, and I want to hear from Sansa alone.” Arya bites her lips again. To fill the silence, she gulps deeply from the moon tea. She’s been thinking for days now, about if it’s worthwhile to make a suggestion for the southern war. If it is something she can do without losing herself entirely. “I have an idea, about the march, but I need to talk to Sansa first, before anyone else.”
Gendry’s arms around her tighten. He knows she can care for herself, but she knows he still worries for her. In battle. In war. In life. Friends worry for each other, but he has the decency not to voice his fears because he knows she will just push away any suggestion that she not go. “What’s the idea?”
After taking another gulp of tea, Arya turns to face Gendry. The slim moonlight that is their only light fills his face, showing off the sharp, strong ridges of his strong nose and chiseled jaw. She cups his cheek in her hand. “What if there was something I could do, and less people would have to die to save King’s Landing?”
He blinks, considering what she has suggested, his eyes staying constant on her face. She notices when he rests his face more against her hand, taking comfort in her touch. “Then you should do it.” Gendry pauses. “What is it, that you can do?”
“I - ” She didn’t mean to explain it to Gendry, but she should be unsurprised that he asked. “When I was in Braavos I spent some time among the Faceless Men. I can take a person’s face and act as them.”
He blinks rapidly. “That was not what I was expecting.”
Arya’s face contorts in confusion. “You believe me, just like that?”
“I don’t see what reason you would have to lie. Especially not to me.” He strokes back her hair from her face, his finger hovering on the soft skin besides her lips. “And sneaking into the Red Keep as a servant, or - ”
“Or Jaime Lannister.”
Recognition dawns on Gendry’s face as he realizes her plan. “That’s brilliant, Arya.” He kisses her slow and long then, his hand tangling in her hair. Arya drops her empty mug to the floor and wraps her arms behind his neck, their skin slick against skin. Gendry pulls away, still cupping her face.
“Should I tell Sansa tomorrow?”
“No. It’s her wedding day. To her - to Jon. Let her deal with that and then bring it up after.”
Arya knows what he meant to say. To her brother. As if Jon isn’t still their brother, no matter who is father was. As if Sansa isn’t still her sister. And these are practices she has to support, for the good of the world.
The pain and bitterness from when Sansa and Jon made the announcement floods back to Arya, quick and sharp as a dagger thrust to the gut. Arya understood why Daenerys proposed and Sansa and Jon agreed; it makes political sense. But to learn along with the rest of them, without getting a say and having to hide her emotions and disgust before everyone - She closes her eyes and swallows. She needs to tell someone the plan, before they make more without her.
But there is nothing Arya can do about that now.
So she opens her eyes and takes Gendry’s fingers teasingly between her lips. And at his groan, she begins to kiss down his chest, losing herself in the happiest way she can.
Chapter 9: DANY III, Part I
Summary:
The wedding day arrives.
Notes:
This chapter got really long so I'll be posting part II - the actual wedding ceremony - in the next few days.
Chapter Text
Sansa looks every inch a queen.
The seamstresses did not have the cloth to make a lavish wedding dress, so Sansa stands radiant in one of Dany’s gowns instead. Her hair burns against the white fur like a wall of fire on a field of snow. The embellishments on the back, sewn by Sansa’s own hand, wrap like the scales of a dragon.
Dany smooths her hands over her own skirts, a Targaryen red dress with a black fur sheath draped over it. Although she wears the crown, she feels imbalanced before such startling beauty. She takes a deep breath and steps into the Lady’s chamber.
Around her, Sansa’s maids come to an instant stop and fall into deep curtsies. Sansa turns back from the mirror, and Dany gasps in astonishment and envy. The dragon scales on her back carefully turn into the figure of two Stark direwolves howling at the front of her skirts.
Dany bites her lower lip, white teeth bright against her red lip. “Lady Sansa, you look . . .”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Sansa chirps and waves her hands at the maids. “Agatha, Alysanne, you may leave us.”
They set down the pins and rouge brushes in their hands and scurry out. Sansa and Dany are at last alone. Dany goes over to the vanity before Sansa and lifts up the comb. She steps behind the Lady of Winterfell and runs the comb through her hair. Quietly, she braids back Sansa’s hair into a crown of copper and sets the glittering diamond pins within it until there is a crown of snowflakes atop her head. Dany steps back and observes what she has completed and breaths in another deep breath of air.
“Ravishing.” Dany says when she has finally caught her breath. “I wanted to say you look ravishing. Jon will want to get you out of that dress the moment he sees you walk into the godswood.”
Her stomach tightens. Jon will be inside Sansa tonight, will cup those supple, bountiful breasts between his calloused hands, tweak her nipples and make her moan . . . Dany blinks rapidly to pull herself out of her fervor and tries to will away her brightly burning cheeks. This is her idea, she cannot be jealous of another woman just because she suggested Sansa marry her lover. Although, truth be told, I’m not sure which of them I’m jealous of.
“Thank you, Dany.” Sansa takes Dany’s hands in hers, so soft and gentle compared to Jon’s or Drogo’s. Dany wants to stop these thoughts, but seeing Sansa here, in this gown, her hair gleaming down her head like burnished copper and her eyes like pools of crystalline water, it is impossible to not think of her like this.
“How are you feeling? The guests have begun heading outside.”
Sansa smiles, but it’s a thin line that doesn’t show her teeth. “I’m feeling well.”
Dany squeezes Sansa’s hand. “You can be truthful with me.”
Sansa’s smile fades and even her eyes lose their sparkle for a moment. She steps away from Dany, her skirts swishing softly around her feet. Sansa steps towards the dark window, staring out with her back to Dany. “It’s been weeks and still no light. I’m worried for our people, but grateful for this bargain you and I have made. There are many things that keep me up at night, but the last few days, well . . .
“Are you sure he’ll be gentle?” Sansa’s shoulders stiffen as if responding to a phantom force. She sets a hand along the ledge, fingers curled in an elegant arch. Dany comes behind her and gently sets her own hand over Sansa’s. Her cheeks warm, recalling of the hardness of Jon nestled between her thighs and the beauty of his grunting as he peaked and brought her to her own pleasure.
“He was loving with me.” Dany looks up at the Northern beauty, marveling at her height and the concern in her eyes. Dany cups Sansa’s cheek in her free hand and brushes her thumb across the softness besides her full red lips.
Sansa smiles sadly. “I wanted love, once. That seems so impractical after all we’ve lived through, doesn’t it? What is loving even like, next to the rough desires of most men? Can love be kind and intense at the same time?”
“It’s kindness and warmth, caring and compassion. It’s gentleness and softness from a rough hand on her skin.”
“Can I have that, with a husband who loves another woman deeply?” Sansa asks. “That’s why I was so concerned about you, you know. I though his love for your beauty had broken his logic and reason. But there’s a good heart in you, Daenerys.”
“Thank you, Sansa. Jon will love you in his own way, I am sure.”
“I’m not sure his love is what I want.” Sansa’s gaze on Dany intensifies. Then, Sansa closes her eyes and Dany may imagine that the other woman leans into the warm touch of Dany’s palm.
She is not sure what drives her, but Dany rises onto her toes and kisses her. Sansa’s lips are soft and warm and welcoming, and she shivers against Dany at the sudden contact, but leans in all the same. Dany kisses her softly, gently, genuinely wanting to give Sansa all the love and sweetness that no man has been able to give her yet.
Sansa smells sweet, like lavender and lemon. After a moment of light lover’s kisses, soft as snowflakes, Sansa's hands reach for Dany's hips and holds their bodies together. She grows greedy and desperate. She wraps one hand in Dany's hair and nips at her bottom lip, eliciting a deep moan from the back of Dany's throat. Dany wants more, needs more, of this woman.
Dany strokes the side of Sansa's face and runs her hand down until she grips Sansa's ass, clutching it through the thick material. Their hips rock together, stirring a lovely warmth between Dany’s thighs. The Lady of Winterfell, soon to be Queen in the North, moans against the Dragon Queen’s touch before her eyes snap open at the sounds she makes.
Sansa pulls away and glances at Dany, her eyes wide. Her breath is fast and hot on Dany's face, tickling her cheeks and driving her mad as a Targaryen king. "I'm sorry, I don't know what overcame me . . ."
"I'm the one who started it, dear one." Dany murmurs. "I only wanted to show you what intense loving can be."
She strokes Sansa’s cheek again, wanting to drown in those beautiful eyes.
“Sansa?” Arya Stark’s voice startles them both out of their deep gaze. “Are you ready?”
Dany steps back quickly, not wanting Arya to catch onto the moment if she looks too hard. She quickly wipes the back of her hand across her lips, burying the evidence of Sansa’s lipstain on her mouth. “I’m sure there is no more beautiful woman in all of Westeros.”
Sansa’s cheeks burn red as roses and her voice is low, quiet enough that Arya cannot hear. “Only you, Daenerys.”
Sansa runs a hand across her dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. Arya’s eyes flicker between the two women, but she says nothing about what she may or may not have seen. Instead, Arya visibly swallows before stepping towards them both. “Are you sure you’re both want this? I still don’t know how you convinced Jon to agree.”
“It’s for the future of the North.” Sansa says, simply. Her eyes linger on Dany, suddenly deep and sad. She turns to Arya. “Shall we?”
Arya offers her arm and Sansa wraps a soft gloved hand on Arya’s elbow.
“Good luck, my lady.” Dany smiles. “Or shall I say my queen?”
Sansa nods. “Soon you shall, my queen.”
Dany leaves the room to join the throngs of Northern and Vale lords and smallfolk heading for the godswood. Dany looks up to the sky as they cross the castle’s primary courtyard. Perhaps her head is still swimming with visions of Sansa’s brightly burning hair, but she swears the sky is turning orange. Dany shakes her head and moves along.
She has only been in the godswood once before, walking with Sansa in the days after she made her first proposal of this wedding. She had been offered a place of honor in the front row, as both a queen and aunt to the groom, but she decides to stand with Missandei in the rear of the crowds. The people deserve to see their new queen and Dany is not sure how she will react to seeing the man she loves and the woman she cares for in each other’s loving embrace.
Missandei sees her queen and offers her a hand, squeezing gently. So much tragedy has brought them only closer. Missandei is lost without Grey Worm, but still strong and fierce. Lacking his presence, she has spoken more at council meetings and fought back against lords who recommend that they do not need to help the south defeat Cersei.
Soon, the crowd is fully gathered and suspiciously silent. Their faces are illuminated and tossed in shadow by lanterns hung from the branches of dark trees and torches pressed into the thick banks of snow. The godswood in winter is a gloomy place for a wedding, so different from the beachside where Dany married Drogo, or even the temple where she bound herself to Hizdhar. Steam rises from the hot pools, warming the crowd, though some still shiver.
She wonders after the rituals to come. Dany had never learned the customs of Northern weddings before the Old Gods and only heard those of the Faith of the Seven. Because those gathered here follow the Old Gods and the New, the rites will be combined. Even a priestess of R’hllor will speak to the Lord of Light, to involve any who may want a stake in this union.
A group of men from the Brotherhood without Banners begin to play music, lute and pipes and drum. They seek to make the environment more bawdy, and yet these songs are somber. Dany notes. They play rites from the Lord of Light, songs that few of the people know, and so only a few join in and song.
Jon will arrive shortly, and then she will have to still the beating in her heart and the fluttering between her legs, to watch this miserable thing occur.
Chapter 10: DANY III, Part II
Summary:
Dany watches a wedding between her lover and her friend.
Notes:
Thanks for the wait. TBH, this chapter can be skipped, but I wanted to write some angst and the messiness of combining three religions into one marriage ceremony, so this was born.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Band of the Brotherhood stops its music as Jon appears in the opening of the clearing. With a deep breath, he stalks up the path between the two halves of the crowd to stand before the weirwood hearttree, his face blank as stone.
He does not spare a glance towards Dany, but keeps his eyes firmly set upon the weirwood. Before it burns a bright bonfire for the Lord of Light and behind that stands a makeshift altar to the Seven, decorated with seven crude statutes of the gods and tall burning candles. Walking side-by-side comes a Septon of the Faith, a fat old man in service to one of the Lords of the Vale, and a red woman in her bright robes, who followed Dany all the way from Essos.
Jon stands beneath the hearttree handsomely in black and grey, his doublet patterned like dragonscales with deep scarlet threading. The red priestess in her red robes steps forward to begin the incantations to the Lord of Light.
“R’hllor,” The red priestess sings, raising her arms to the sky and turning her back to the hearttree. “you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night, yours the light that drove away the darkness of everlasting winter.”
“All praise R’hllor, the Lord of Light.” The chanting guests were few but feverous in their devotion.
“The night is dark and filled with terrors,” She sings, louder now. “Alone we are born and alone we die, but as we walk through this black vale we draw strength from one another, and from you, our mighty lord. Two come forth today to join their lives, so they may face this world’s darkness together. Fill their hearts with fire, my lord, so they may walk your shining path hand in hand forever.”
“Lord of Light, protect us,” cried the faithful. “Lord of Light, bless your children.”
The Septon fingers his seven-sided crystal worriedly, although Dany notes a satisfied smile at the fewness of the Lord of Light’s supporters. Again, the priestess raises her hands. “Oh, Lord of Light, we thank you, for dear Daenerys, by your grace Queen of the South. Oh, Lord of Light, we thank you, for dear Sansa, by your grace Queen of the North. Guide them and defend them, R’hllor, these heroes who slayed the Night King. Protect these queens from the treacheries of evil men and grant them strength to smite the further servants of the dark, the false queen of House Lannister.”
“Grant them strength. Grant them courage. Grant them wisdom.”
“We thank you for the sun that warms us,” chants the faithful and their priestess. True, the sky is turning redder now, like a forest fire burning on the horizon. “We thank you for the stars that watch over us in the black of night. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches that keep the savage dark at bay. We thank you for our bright spirits, the fires in our loins and in our hearts.”
And finally, the priestess says, “Let them come forth, who would be joined.”
Jon turns to watch his bride approach, his eyes wide as he takes in the rapture of her unearthly beauty.
“Who comes before the Gods this day?” Jon calls, joined by the priestess and the Septon, their voices stronger together.
Finally, Sansa steps into the clearing from the walkway to Winterfell. Over her shoulders drapes the maiden's cloak of House Stark, grey and white and sewn with seven direwolves playing in a snow bank – one for each member of her family. She glances sideways and catches Dany’s eyes. Her hands are folded in the sides of her gown, but Dany can tell that they shake from nervous energy. Dany smiles to encourage her, and Sansa steps into the pathway.
Dany looks up the aisle to take in Jon. His entire face radiates like the sun's glow to see Sansa's divine beauty. When he licks his bottom lip and tries to correct his open mouthed stare, Dany wonders if he does it on purpose or if it is just an instinctual action, this work of a man tamed by that woman of splendor.
At Sansa’s side, Arya says her part, standing in place for the belated Lord Stark. “Sansa of House Stark, come here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She come to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”
“I do.” Jon waits until Sansa is halfway up the half before responding with his words, carefully chosen, fall heavy on everyone’s ears. “Jon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to Queen Daenerys, long may she reign!”
The world stands still. Arya says her words first, loudly and clearly, “Long may she reign!”
The Dothraki say it and the Vale lords say it, and finally the Northern Lords say it. She does not see a single man or woman of the freefolk speak, but this does not concern her now. They are not of Westeros in the way the others are.
For the rest of his life, whenever he is introduced, Jon will be named the Prince of Dragonstone and Heir of Queen Daenerys, until his own child can assume the title. In this way, every lord will understand that Jon is her heir and will not support an attempt to take her throne. It was a small thing, but it came at Sansa’s suggestion to emphasize the political decisions of these ruling families. Jon turns to look at his sisters. "I claim her. Who gives her?"
“Arya of House Stark, who is both sister and heir to Queen Sansa.” Arya removed the maiden’s cloak from Sansa’s shoulders. It pools in her arms as she steps back to stand besides Bran in his chair. Sansa moves to stand at Jon’s side.
A group of young squires and pages from the Vale raises up their voice in the wedding song of the Faith, the words and tune happier and warmer than cold clearing calls for.
The Septon wraps a ribbon seven times around the couple’s joined hands. Each time he winds it, he names a face of the Seven. “Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Stranger. Bless this union. May the pair find love and comfort in each other. Bless this realm. May Queen Sansa and King Jon rule justly over their people. Bless this pair. May they be fruitful and multiply.”
“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” Together, the bride and groom recites the vows of the Seven, in whose sight they are now wedded, their eyes interlocked deeply like a pair of well-acquainted lovers. “I am yours and you are mine from this day until the end of my days, from this day until my last day.”
When he is done,the red priestess begins a song of praise, but the chorus of voices joined was not enough to fill the glade as the choir of the seven had.Soon enough, she ends the chanting and raises her hands to ask, “Jon, will you share your fire with Sansa, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?”
“I swear it.” Jon says, voice strong even though is face is grim as if he stands at his own funeral and not his wedding. The priestess asks the same questions of Sansa, who echoes the traditional response.
“Then come to me and be as one.” She beckons them forward, eyes shining with fire and fervor. Sansa takes Jon by the hand, and side by side they leap through the tall flames. With a booming voice, the priestess cries, “Two went into the flames and one emerges. What fire joins none may put asunder.”
“What fire joins, none may put asunder,” the crowd echoes, from Daenerys and the R’hollorites and even a few of Westerosi. Jon rises with a startled look upon his face, a married man before the Lord of Light. The Lord’s rites finished, the Septon approaches on the opposite side to stand before the altar to his Seven.
Sansa joins Jon as he tenderly helps her to her feet, the bonfire illuminating both their faces with warm orange light and outlining them as the only spot of brightness against the darkened night. Dany catches her breath and muffles a sudden, anxious sob. Has there ever been a couple more beautiful than these two will be? At her side, Missandei tightens her grip on Dany’s hand.
“Khaleesi, it is almost over.” She whispers in Dothraki, so that none of those nearby can understand her words. Dany forces down the cries in her throat and chest, begging for a release she can never getter.
Soon enough, Jon and Sansa make the seven vows, the Septon invokes the seven blessings, and the pair exchanges the seven promises. The choir of boys from the Vale sang the wedding song before the Septon makes the challenge, “Does any man before us now challenge the truth of this union between Jon of House Targaryen and Sansa of House Stark? Speak now or forever hold your peace and never shall their souls be party.”
A surge of braveness races through Dany’s veins, spurring her to speak her truth, that she loves Jon and cannot bear to see him with Sansa. But she will not ruin this, the marriage to bind her throne and answer the Northern question.
And then it is finally time for the exchanging of cloaks.
The Septon steps forward now to lead his part. “You may now cloak the bride and take her under your protection before the eyes of men and the gods.”
Arya hands the folded bride’s cloak to Jon. It is not elaborate as Sansa’s maiden’s cloak, simple black patterned with red thread and a black fur in the Stark style, but the colors are sufficiently Targaryen to represent him and the pronouncement of his legitimacy by Dany.
He unfurls it with a simple shake and drapes the black-and-red across Sansa’s shoulders. Jon fastens the bride’s cloak tenderly at her throat, bringing her officially under his protection before the Seven. Silence falls as the crowd observes them, and the air fills with the quiet singing of the R’hollorites.
Arya asks, “Queen Sansa of House Stark, do you take this man?”
Sansa nods firmly and smiles, finally happy as a bride should be. “I take this man.”
“Prince Jon of House Targaryen, do you take this woman?”
Jon’s voice is terse as he speaks. “I take this woman.”
Sansa sets her hand in Jon’s and together they kneel before the hearttree and bow their heads in submission to the carved faces embedded in the weirwood. The Northerners in the crowd kneel as well, followed by the Vale and the Dothraki until everyone rests with knees in the snow, praying silently to their own gods.
The quick rites of the North were done, but still the ceremony continued.
The Septon raises his hands in prayer and begins his sermon,“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”
Sansa says the words, strong and clear so all those gathered in the clearing can hear her, although Dany swears Sansa’s eyes dash away to look back at the Targaryen Queen, not King. “With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my husband.”
Sansa will never have a lord again, Dany knows, because I have protected her with a kingdom of her own.
“With this kiss I pledge my love and. . .” Jon says, his voice faltering. Sansa grabs his hands in her own and meets his eyes with that beautiful, steady gaze that lets him know he is all she cares about in that moment. He breaths deeply and finishes, his words confident, “and take you for my queen and my wife.”
Jon kisses her lightly on the lips. It is the briefest second, but to Dany it feels like a lifetime. The words echo in her head, my queen, and the way he would call her that while buried inside her and bringing her to ecstasy. There is none of the passion that Dany has had from either of them. She blinks back tears, not sure if she is sad that they are together or that Sansa and Jon both seem miserable.
Jon looks into Sansa’s eyes and his own seem to soften. For the first time in days, he smiles as he says, “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”
“I am his and he is mine.” Sansa repeats. “From this day, until the end of my days.”
The Septon declares, “Let it be known Queen Sansa of House Stark and King Jon of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of fods and men, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”
Finally, husband picked up wife, the last bit of the Northern rites, and carried her down the path. He would carry her all the way to the Great Hall, for feasting and drinking, and stay by her side until their bedding only hours from now.
“A better kiss, my lord!” Someone shouts from the audience – a lord of the Vale? A rousing of cheers comes up and Dany can see the faint flicker of worry across Sansa’s face as her walls prepare to break. Jon’s face is stern but as the chorus of shouts continues, he does what he must.
The Septon raises his seven-sided crystal, catching the faint light in the sky. Sansa raises a steady hand to cup Jon's cheek and strokes his beard with her thumb. As Jon lifts her in his arms and leans down to press his lips more firmly to Sansa’s mouth, the sun finally rises and the pair are tossed in the light of the Seven’s rainbow.
All eyes are on them, which means no one but Missandei notices as the Dragon Queen ducks her head to hide her tears as she runs from the godswood.
Notes:
Next chapter is the long-awaited bedding!
Chapter 11: JON III
Summary:
Jon and Sansa consummate their union.
Notes:
Dany is not in this chapter; it is all Jonsa smut. She'll be in the text one though, I promise. Please skip if this isn't your thing or at least don't leave rude comments.
Chapter Text
Jon is not sure what to make of the fact that Sansa is already wet beneath her skirts. When his fingers light trace the outer folds of her quim for the first time, Sansa mewls with excitement and bucks her hips up to meet him, causing his fingers to slip between her slit.
“Is this alright?” Jon asks, tentatively stroking the warm wetness of her cunt, his two fingers making a slow, languid journey up and down.
His sister-cousin-wife tosses her undone mane of red hair back against the fresh pillows of the great, wide bed in the Lord’s chamber, quivering beneath him, and sighs a hearty, “Yes, Jon, gods, yes.”
They are both drunk, on wine and sadness and joy, but the music of her bliss brings him to a new kind of stupor.
With the coming of the light, the feast grew rowdier than anyone anticipated. The last of the deer and sows roasted on spits in the kitchens and Dany called for the flasks of their best Dornish wine to be opened. The liquor and beer ran freely, and when the time came a drunken excitement of men and women carried the groom and bride to their chambers. Thankfully, the guests knew the halls were too cold and frozen by winter’s winds to remove much of their clothing, and the southern queen threatened to burn any man who ruined Lady Stark’s carefully embroidered dress.
So Sansa stood before Jon in most of her wedding gown, having lost the bride’s cloak in the hall, her collar ripped to reveal mere inches of her quivering bosom. Neither of the pair where a maid in the moment, but only Sansa had been through a wedding night – two of them, he reminded himself.
Without speaking, she turned her back to him and undid the ties and pins, struggling until Jon took over. Sansa stepped out of her dress and smallclothes and sat on the bed, waiting for her husband. She shivered, from cold and possibly fear, and Jon came to her, wanting to relax her for the thing to come in the only way he knew how.
And that was how he made it here, two fingers between his former sister’s thighs, discovering her already wet and ready for him. His cock pulses in his breeches as Sansa moves against him, hands reaching to pull his tunic and shirt off. When he is half-disrobed, Jon strokes her again and softly pushes in deeper than before. Sansa squeezes around him, and finally he looks up to take her in.
Her eyes are closed to him, lost in the pleasure of his gentle touch, and she bites her lip to hold back her cries. Jon prides himself knowing that he has done this to every woman he has bedded, even her. His gaze moves down from her face, to the large, supple breasts heaving with her heavy breasts. Jon raises a hand to caress one and squeezes, the soft flesh spilling over his palm.
Continuing his finger strokes in a delicate rhythm, Jon leans in and licks around the nipple of the other breast, then nips it gently. Sansa gasps and bites her lips again.
Jon stops in confusion. Sansa’s eyes snap open and stare down into his own. She cups his cheeks in both her hands. “Is – is everything alright? Have I done something wrong?”
“You can speak noises, Sansa. There is no shame in it.” Jon tells her.
“It’s habit.” She chatters nervously. “Ramsay liked to hear me scream. I liked to not let him.”
“Well it will please me to hear you.” He murmurs and takes her hand in his. “But only if you want to let me. We do not need to do this, at least not tonight, if you are not ready.”
“I . . .” Sansa blushes furiously, her face the color of Targayen banners. Jon notices the way her thighs close tightly together and rub like a teenage boy, agitated from a dream of a woman. “I want to. Tonight, that is. And later, to . . . we need a babe.”
Of course. Jon sighs, not noticing the way Sansa’s face falls for a moment. The bargain with Daenerys is only secure when they provide her with an heir, a Targaryen heir. And the North is only secure when they have at least one heir of their own. “I will do my duty then, and give you a babe. But I will give you joy, too, if you will let me.”
“I’d like that.”
Jon resumes his earlier position, fingers filling her and coaxing her to completion. He finds her breast again and blows cool air across it.
“Oh!” Her hand wraps in his hair and holds him to her as he kisses and nips at her nipple, letting the other breast fill his hand as he kneads it. Jon holds himself to her, hoping he can give Sansa a reason to love him.
And finally, she comes undone beneath him. She dissolves like salt in the hot springs, and when he presses a finger to her closed lips, she opens her mouth and mewls and moans, she sings his name, he swears, and it is enough to make him shatter even without being inside her.
Sansa breaths heavily as she recovers and runs a hand across the dark hair matted to her forehead. She looks at him and smiles shyly, like a bride on her first wedding day.
“Thank you.” Sansa sets her hands against his chest, running them over his scars until they find the lacings on his breeches. “I’m ready. For you.”
The two of them stumble through the rest, and later he won’t remember quite how he got out of his restraints. But Sansa giggles when she seems his cock for the first time, giddy and excited, and he isn’t sure what to make of that until she reaches out and strokes him.
His groan comes unbidden, deep and desperate in the back of his throat. “Sansa, I –” He groans again, eyes fluttering shut, as she increases the pressure and strokes again. “I’ll finish before we start.”
Sansa wraps her arms around his neck. “Then let’s start.”
Jon adjusts and positions himself. “You’re sure?”
Sansa nods, a smile on her lips. Jon wants to kiss her, but it feels to close, too intimate, until she reaches up and presses their lips together.
He thrusts in partways, still waiting for her to refuse him. With a low moan, Sansa rakes her hands across his back, and rubs her fingers in circles around the cords of muscle in his lower back. “More, please.”
He sinks his hips down and fills her with all of him. This time they moan as one. As he moves himself for another thrust, Sansa raises one knee to hook it round his back. The new angle is everything and more, and Jon groans as he snaps his hips to hers.
He sets a pace, slow and excruciating, but he wants this pleasure to last. Sansa moans again, a beautiful sound he will never tire of. “Jon, Jon, Jon.”
Jon is lost in her, in the motions between them, but it is over too soon. He feels the coil in his stomach coming undone and loses the rhythm, snapping his hips in shallow motions, until he climaxes. With a final, deep moan, Jon sinks fully into her, buried to the hilt, as he fills Sansa with his seed.
Her hands rub circles on his back, comforting and wonderful, his head cushioned in the softness of her hair. Jon kisses her shoulder and brushes her hair aside, kissing her again on the neck, ear, jaw, cheek, mouth.
“You beautiful, wicked minx.” He whispers as he rolls off her. “My lady.”
“Queen.” She sighs besides him. “Is it always this wonderful?”
“We can make it so, if that’s what you want.” Jon promises. “It doesn’t always need to be blood and horror. There’s joy to beddings, too.”
Silence lingers, them both laying on the bed and a cool draft sweeps the room. Jon glances at Sansa, eyes closed and drifting off on the shores of sleep. He peels back the blankets and furs and pulls it over them both. Softly, he asks, “Is that something you would want?”
“It is.” Sansa cozies in against the side of his chest and sets her hand upon him. For the first time since she proposed this terrible, messy marriage, Jon thinks they may be able to build a bit of happiness together.
Chapter 12: DANY IV
Summary:
Dany gets sick and makes plans to defeat her enemy.
Notes:
I've been stuck on Dany's POV here for a bit; hopefully I've done her justice.
Chapter Text
Light pouring in through the leadened windows wakes Daenerys Targaryen the morning after her heir’s wedding to his sister-cousin. Light. She sits with a jolt, realizing that the sun has risen. She knew it came up the night - day? - before, during the wedding ceremony beneath the heart tree, but she hadn’t realized it was truly up. Part of her thought that the sun had only risen to mock her, illuminating the two she loves best besides her children, and that it would return to the ground on the other side of the horizon after their coupling was done.
Dany rises from her bed, throwing back her heavy covers and stalking over to the window. She stares at the glimmering sunlight, its rays glistening off the thick expanse of fresh-fallen snow. In the distance, Drogon and Rhaegal raise their heads and dance and fly across the snow, sunlight throwing their dazzling colors across the sky as they frolic and play.
Her children in the snow is maybe the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, except for Sansa Stark’s smile. Dany blushes like mad at her thoughts and stares down again. She wraps her hands around her stomach, clutching it tightly. She woke in the night - the true night - to punishing nausea in her stomach and emptied it into her chamber pot. Those pains come again, everything is too bright and too beautiful to bear, but she is determined not to let it out, until -
Dragon roars and the sound sees Dany running across the room and heaving, anything left from the feast before joining her other vomit in the bowl. Her head aches as she pours her stomach out and she pulls away with a heavy sigh. She burrows beneath her covers and refuses to come out.
Varys and Tyrion find her there and give a short report of new developments they noticed among the lords and words they have heard whispered in the halls. Tyrion inquires after how she feels while Varys watches carefully with that strange dark gaze, making no comment. She sends them off to the wedding breakfast without her and asks them to send Missandei to her in the afternoon. Dany flickers in and out of sleep, ignoring the headache and stomachache that plagues her. She wonders what Jon will think, if he will miss her at his side like she has been for every meal, if he will think she stays away from rage or jealousy or insecurity.
But then she imagines Sansa laughing gaily at his side, a gentle hand placed upon his elbow, a soft word whispered against the shell of her ear. Next to that lady’s gentle, soft grace and bright Riverland beauty, what man would miss Daenerys? He knows she is barren and that even now Sansa could be carrying his legitimate child. His heir. Daenerys is fiery and fierce and ethereal, not simple and joyful like her. With this wretched thoughts scampering through her mind, she buries herself even deeper in her pillows and blankets and furs and hopes everyone will forget her in her displeasure and misery and sickness.
“Your grace, can I have a moment?” Arya Stark is in her door, her shadow cast long by the flickering torchlight in the hall behind her. “I know you are unwell, but I do not believe this can wait.”
“Come in.” Dany says, pushing herself up on the stack of pillows behind her. Arya lets the door close behind her and comes to Dany’s bedside. She hands the queen a steaming mug of tea, and Dany tentatively takes a sip. Mint and chamomile. She smiles as the warmth rolls over her face and down her throat. Maybe the tea can soothe her stomach sickness. “Please, sit, Lady Arya. And thank you, for the tea. This is just what I needed, I think.”
Arya perches on the edge of Dany’s bedside. “It was Sansa’s idea that I bring it. She’s the one you should thank. And please, just Arya is fine.”
“Alright.” Dany takes another, deeper sip of her tea. She tries not to smile too hard, to think that Sansa sent this gift to her. Jon is a capable lover, as Dany can attest, and yet Sansa is still thinking of her, even the morning after her wedding and first happy coupling. “So, just Arya, what brings you to my dark chambers? Shouldn’t you be enjoying the morning after breakfast at your sister’s wedding?”
“Perhaps I should be.” Arya shrugs. “But I wanted to make a proposal to you, about how to take care of Cersei.”
She quirks a silver eyebrow in curiosity. "Why are you bringing this to me, instead of to Sansa or Jon?"
Arya glances away from Dany at something in the distance. "They're happy, right now. I don't want to make them think of war and carnage for a little while longer. But I had the idea, and I wanted to share it as soon as possible with someone who has the power to approve it."
“And what’s your proposal, then?” Dany feels another angry wave in her stomach and takes a sip of the calming tea to keep it down. She’s already vomited three times this morning and she isn’t sure there’s anything left to empty from her belly. Dany doesn’t want to think of what it is, but yet she still knows its her jealousy of Jon, of Sansa, and the unfairness of this whole situation, that the two people she wants - the only people she wants - are now promised to each other and both too duty-bound to ever look her way with loving eyes again.
Arya interrupts Dany’s thoughts with her proposal. “Let me kill her.”
“You?”
“This war will be over in a matter of minutes, rather than days of negotiations or battle.” Arya explains. “And before she dies, Cersei will hand over the city to you. The only life lost will be hers, not thousands of innocents.”
She takes Arya’s hand. “Your siblings would never forgive me if I authorized sending you into a war zone.” She has already lost Jon and Sansa’s love. She cannot take losing their friendship, too.
“I have certain . . . skills that will let me get past her guards undetected.”
Dany raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What are these skills, pray tell?”
“I know the tunnels beneath King’s Landing and through Maegor’s Holdfast. I played in them, when I was a child living there.” Arya swallows. “And I know how to use the face of another person and pretend to be them.”
“Like a faceless man? Can you truly?”
Arya nods. “I trained with them, for a time.”
Dany’s mind fills with wonder at the thought and she observes Arya in a different light. This skill will make her more useful than anything else before the queen at this moment. She could send a small contingent of soldiers, no more than a dozen, to help Arya, and the young woman could end the true war before it is begun. She ponders it, turns the prospective plan over in her mind, searching for angles and wrongness and what it could mean for their future. “Mayhaps. I will think on this a little while longer, when I am not feeling so unwell, and when I can see what Sansa and Jon think.”
“Thank you, you grace.”
“Please, call me Daenerys when it is just us. Everyone else in your family does already.” Dany smiles, thinking of the way her name sounds on Jon and Sansa’s lips. “And we are family of a kind now, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess we are.”
Arya excuses herself and Dany finishes her tea before falling back asleep. She dreams restlessly, of dragons and dragon eggs and wolves running through a forest. When she awakes again, it is with Missandei at her side, stroking a damp, cool cloth against her forehead. “I didn’t realize you were so unwell. I would have come sooner, had I know.”
“The sweat is new.” Dany murmurs. She doesn’t know if she’s ever sweated before, to be true. Even in the Dothraki sea and on the walk through the Red Waste, she does not remember feeling such sticky salt against her skin. “How are you faring?”
“Do not worry after me, not when you yourself are in such a circumstance. But I am doing better. Or as better as I can be.” Missandei sets the cloth aside and offers Dany another mug of tea and a bread roll. She settles in the chair before her hearth, now filled with a roaring fire, and sips and nibbles on the snack. She feels better, like she is able to hold it down, and leans her head back against the chair.
Looking across at Missandei, she asks, “so, how was the morning’s meal?”
“Some of the soldiers from the Vale are jugglers, so they put on a little show. It was amusing to watch.” Missandei says. “And Jon and Sansa seem besotted, already.”
Dany sighs. She knows she should be happy for them, and she is. But still . . . She sets her hand upon her belly in a mindless motion, staring into the flames and wondering when her pains and sadness will be gone so she can turn south in truth and win her throne.
“Do you think you could be with my child, my queen?” Missandei suggests after a brief hesitation, her voice soft as the snow falling outside. “Your breasts are larger than before, and this sickness does not give you a fever.” She reaches forward and tenderly brushes her hand across the front of Dany’s shift. Dany gasps at the mere hint of touch. She remembers when she was pregnant with Rhaego, how sensitive her breasts had grown . . .
“That’s impossible.” Dany says. “I’ve told you the Magi’s curse, yes? She rendered me barren with her words.”
“I do not think so, Daenerys.” Missandei tilts her head. “Who would be the father?”
“Jon.” Dany says, pain shooting through her even at the thought. “If what you say is true, I’ll give him a bastard. The gift he would least want in this entire world.” She leans against the taller woman, the tears coming fast and hard as she realizes what she has done, what chaos she has caused. If only she waited to seal her alliance with the North, to offer Sansa her crown. She could have had the North. She could have had him. But she’s sold him away, and her friend as a broodmare for Dany’s heirs, when she has herself proven capable of having the child she wants.
How to tell him? Jon would be wracked with guilt, this secret could so much destroy him, because he bedded his sister while another woman carried his child. And bedded her he did. Varys came to her to report on the happy coupling sounds that he overheard, assuring that her heir was on its way to existing. Dany starts as she realizes the sorrowful truth. I cannot.
If she were to share this news, this exciting thing that should bring her boundless joy, she would lose the Northern and Arryn lords whose support she has worked so hard to gain, for whom she has already given up so much to receive their support and arms and help. If she does, she may lose her advisors who spoke against proposing the alliance to Sansa, who said it took away too much and gave to little. They would realize she was wrong and they were right and leave her. Would even Jon and Sansa support her, since they could claim her rightful lands as theirs through Jon’s Targaryen blood and his own bonded dragon? Surely he wouldn’t betray her like that, but maybe he would.
Missandei escorts Dany back to her bed and lets her cry in the safety of her arms, without fear of repercussions. She cannot tell him, but she must. Surely he will know when she begins to show, or he will at least be suspect. But even then, she could pretend the babe was someone else’s. Jorah’s, perhaps, or some unknown soldier she bedded before the long night or even after it . . .
Hide the truth, a part of her whispers. Hide the truth and you will be free to rule your lands and keep your people safe. Protect your child and all your children. Oh, but how? This alliance was meant to free them all, not cause more problems. She sniffs and buries her head against Missandei’s comforting bosom., trying not to let her head fill with all the turmoil she feels oncoming.
A wicked, evil thought fills her, and she cannot hold back the accusation now that it fills her. What if Sansa finds out, and tries to end her child’s life? It would mean one less throne for Sansa’s children with Jon, taken by Dany’s bastard, and everything she has heard is that Sansa is much like her own mother, unforgiving of Jon’s own, supposed bastard existence. She shudders to think that Sansa would hurt her child, but she cannot know until it is happened . . .
“I need to go South, immediately. Summon Arya Stark here, and her siblings. Immediately, please.” She shudders in Missandei’s arms, plans forming from all she’s learned on this cruel, long day. “I need to secure my throne so I can secure a safe world for this babe. I will not lose another child. I’ve already lost too many.”
Chapter 13: JON IV
Summary:
Jon tries to talk to Sansa when she objects to the plan to take King's Landing and win the war.
Notes:
Initiating Phase II of "everyone is miserable before they are happy."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You can’t seriously agree with her that this is anyway a sensible idea.”
Jon groans and sets his face in his hands, rubbing his temples. Sansa has been deathly silent since they met with Dany and Arya to discuss this new plan to defeat Queen Cersei. In the meeting, she raged against the queen’s suggestions and stormed out like she was a child again, denied marriage to the prince of her dreams.
He wondered if he should follow, console her, bring reason to her about why this could work. Her fears and concerns seemed reasonable, are reasonable. She wants to protect their little sister, truly the only real family she has now that one brother is her husband and the other is a shell. But she still needed to understand the greater picture and the lives that could be saved, in her attempt to defend one person.
Jon stepped in the direction to go after her, but Arya stopped him. “Let her go. This is my decision to make, not hers. And I've made it.”
Jon remained behind to hear the remaining details from Arya’s own voice and came back to this new, shared chamber of theirs hoping for some peace and quiet to think it over.
It appears that he will not get the silence he so desires.
“Are you even listening to me?” Sansa stomps over to stand in front of his writing table and leers down at him. “You really want to put Arya, our baby sister, in Cersei’s path? She could die, we could lose her again, all to kill a woman who could otherwise be defeated with armies - ”
“Armies made of other people’s brothers and sisters.” He glances up at Sansa and takes her shaking hand in his. Jon strokes his thumb gently across her knuckles, and sighs that he ever thought they could change their relationship so quickly because of a drunken bedding. “Their lives would be saved through Arya’s actions. Actions that is choosing to take.”
He woke with Sansa wrapped in his arms, her hair spread across his face and pillow, smelling sweetly of lavender and lemon. Before the shame of bedding his sister could fill him, his cock had twitched and grown to attention as she had awoken too, pressing her body up flush against him. She rolled over and offered herself to him for a second coupling with light, snowflake kisses all along his neck, chest, and lips.
She woke him fully with her hand on him and he found her wet for him even before he put his hand between her thighs. Their coupling one had been quicker and quieter than the night before, several hard, quick thrusts with his hands at her breasts before he found his release inside her. He had felt more shame afterwards, realizing that he could not blame the alcohol in his veins or the goading of their people like he could for the night before. Jon Snow had fucked his sister and he had liked it. Loved it, even.
But their morning was interrupted by maids bringing hot bathwater, with one tub for them to share, and though he resisted the temptation, it ended with his fingers in her quim and her hand around his cock, pressing hard, bruising kisses against Sansa’s neck until she came with a beautiful, soft squeal.
Their newlywed whispers and giggles had continued through the breakfast feast prepared by the castle’s staff, the bawdy singing and the tumblers from their troupes. Although Dany was absent, he thought it for the best that she not be there. He would not want to tempt her anger or offer her any sadness by seeing him happy with Sansa, although a small part of him is still in disbelief that she suggested their union, would give up their love for Sansa’s queenly visions, would use him as a pawn to further both their goals. Jon had stilled then, wondering if he had meant anything to her at all, and a small part of him whispered in hopes that Dany would come and see them happily together, with Sansa’s kisses peppering his neck and the bruises he gave her on her own the night before. Maybe her jealousy would make Daenerys regret all she had given up between them.
Both those thoughts were lost when Sansa sipped from her mulled cider, and whispered so only he could hear, “your heir could be growing in me even now, husband.” He’d kissed her hard before them all, thrilled to think the he would be able to father legitimate sons and daughters on his wife.
But that joy had turned to ash soon after. A messenger arrived, summoning them to Dany’s side, and then had come the meeting with the queen and Arya, the planned proposal to send Arya to King’s Landing to kill Cersei. Sansa had raged against them all, so righteous in her bluefire that she could not see the good in their ideas. And her cold, harsh glare had landed on Jon’s face as she left, clearly accusatory that he would take Dany’s side.
He knew her face and all its forms and emotions, and her sad, empty look from when she felt betrayed by his actions or decisions. They’d talked about her questioning him in front of other lords, but to question him in front of Dany - Queen Daenerys, their ally - it set them apart, removed the united front that he suggested they take when he was aKing without a Queen besides him, with only a sister to advise. She had been like this before with the queen, but now it was even worse. She wasn’t just his sister, she was his wife. Family of the closest kind and yet he stood against her.
Daenerys was his aunt, yes, but it never felt like that. For what aunt was of age with one? And their ardor formed before he knew what their blood could tell them, and even then marriage of uncle to niece, or aunt to nephew, was not uncommon. Their relationship is as distant to him as his relationship to his distant cousin Alys Karstark. He never looks at Dany and thinks, there goes my aunt.
But these feelings for Sansa, the ones he finally could acknowledge when he had her in his bed, they mix with other things too, feelings she may not want . . . will I always look at her and think of my estranged sister? Complicating this, part of him recognizes that his feelings for her developed long before he learned she was his cousin and not his sister. His guilt is high, to force feelings into what Sansa clearly looks at as a business arrangement.
“She can’t go into the lion’s den alone. King’s Landing is a cesspit -” Sansa says, her voice quivering in her fear for Arya. He’s seen the scars, he’s heard her tales, he knows that this is difficult for her, but she is imagining Arya there as a prisoner there, like Sansa was, not as a spy and assassin.
“If you had stayed, you would have heard that Arya is to be accompanied by six Northern men and six Unsullied as her personal guard.” Jon stands so he can look Sansa in the eyes and takes her face between his hands. “She’ll be protected.”
“I can’t believe you’d force her to do this. To leave her home.”
Jon sighs. “It was her idea.” Sansa jolts away from his touch in shock, eyes round and wide and surprised.
“What?” Her disbelief is evidence.
“Arya wants to help end the war. She suggested using her skills to surprise Cersei. All the men who go with her to will be volunteers. This mission will be a choice to end a war without more violence then is needed.”
“And how will they get into the castle?”
“Arya can take Ser Jaime’s face. As him, she’ll say the guard are defectors who want to serve their rightful queen.” Jon explains the details that Dany and Arya told him, taking Sansa in his arms. “They’ll go close to introduce themselves to Cersei, and when she embraces Arya in Jaime’s guise, she’ll put a dagger in Cersei’s heart and end this plague on Westeros, once and for all.”
“It won’t be enough. You don’t know Cersei like I do. She’ll know that something’s wrong, that it’s not really Jaime.” She closes her eyes and they stand in silence for a moment, the heat from the hot springs filling the room. Or maybe it is something else that makes his belly feel hot as a forge. “I don’t like it.”
While he has known Sansa for all her life, that long relationship distorts his ability to understand her, to trust that what she tells him of her reasoning and of her heart is truly what she feels. Jon looked over her with Robb when she was born, fondly being there for dance lessons and games of come-into-my-castle and princess and knights. But by the time she knew what bastard meant, that closeness had faded. And it was not helped by her appearance at Castle Black, years after they last parted, where she hid information from him about Lord Baelish and the Knights of the Vale. Even after, when they were safe, she insisted on challenging him at every turn. He half expected to arrive back at Winterfell to hear Sansa had declared herself queen in his place.
With Dany, it is easier. They knew their places from the beginning, as rulers in discussion and then as a queen and her lord. There never was confusion of where the other stood; her interests always clear to him, and his to her. She was his adversary then his ally, his partner then his queen, his lover then an estranged part of his family.
Again, he does not truly believe that Sansa is sharing all her concerns with him, that what she says about protection is all that holds her back.
“Dany’s plan is a good one. I promise.” Jon realizes too soon that he has said the wrong words to calm Sansa.
She steps back from him, pushing at his chest. The purple bruises on her neck glare at him in the firelight, a cruel reminder that only hours ago she didn’t look at him with such anger in her eyes. “Dany’s plan?” Sansa laughs bitterly. “Of course. I should have known why you wouldn’t see logic.”
Jon looks at her blankly. “Sansa, what?”
“You’re a fool of a man!” Tears brim in her eyes, eyes that looked at him with a smile as she came with his name on her lips, only this morning. She fumes, seeming to struggle against her own tears, and Jon’s heart beats rapidly in his chest as he attempts to figure out what’s going on.
“Sansa, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Oh, you know nothing! It’s because you love her still, isn’t it?” Sansa’s tone is venom to his heart, poisoning the happy thoughts between them. “Men are blinded by love. They’re easily manipulated and she’s manipulated you into giving her our little sister’s life!”
“Sansa, I told you, it was Arya’s suggestion! Dany - Daenerys merely agreed.” He sighs, knowing she won’t appreciate his next comment but its the truth. But in her rage, he cannot show her any reason. “And so do I.”
“If you agree with her so much, mayhaps you can put your cock in her tonight instead!”
Gods, she believes I would betray her. “Sansa I would never - ”
“Go on, I’ll allow it. I’m more then happy to share my husband if it means I won’t have to share my bed with you!” She shouts and leaves the room even more angrily than she came into it.
Jon sinks into his chair, leans back and tosses his head back with a groan.
He cannot understand why Sansa feels threatened by Dany. He promised to give her up, when the marriage proposal was made. Is my word not enough? And though it pains him so, he will not seek out the comfort of her caresses or the familiarity of her bed ever again, so long as he shall live, because he has a wife to whom he must attend.
A wife.
This entire situation is ridiculous; he should have never agreed to marry Sansa. He thought it could bring them closer, but Sansa feels more distant then ever, unwilling to speak wholly with him or to listen when he speaks. The pounding in his head matches the pounding in his heart, the anger and resentment built up from a life being second-best to Robb, a bastard son, a threat to Lord Stark’s true children, and now he’s in one of those true children’s beds, calling himself King in the North, the only remaining child with their living symbol trotting at his side.
For a moment everything felt whole and right and real this morning. Jon saw a hope for the future, but now all he sees is despair. Jon can never renege on the comfort he felt sleeping with her besides him, how right it felt to have her in his arms, her hands on him, his kisses on her skin. But already Sansa is regretting his touch on her skin, the feelings that sprung between them in their bedded passion.
Sansa’s words ring in his ears, an angry mockery of the legacy her father left behind, of how her mother felt whenever she looked at Jon.
I’m more then happy to share my husband if it means I won’t have to share my bed with you!
Of course she would be. She had finally come to her senses and realized that only a craven, wretched, vile man could lust for his once-sister as Jon did. A craven or a Targaryen, his crueler thoughts whispered.
He laughed dryly. Jon was exactly what she thought he was, lusting after his sister but still wanting his aunt. He cannot have them both, but he thought he would at least have her. And yet somehow he has neither of them and he doubts he ever will.
Jon walked to the table besides their hearth and poured himself a glass of mead to still the sour thoughts in his mind. Nothing good could come of the things he had done, these vile union he had agreed to, and he had only himself to blame for bending to the dragon queen and lady of the wolves.
Notes:
Let me know what you think and come fangirl about GOT, ASOIAF, and OT3 with me on tumblr.
Chapter 14: SANSA III
Summary:
Sansa thinks on heirs and love and lust. And then, she prays.
Notes:
Some of you are really going to hate me for this.
Some of you are really going to hate Sansa for this.
Please, for the love of the old gods and the new, try to keep your commentary sane. I'm human too.
(No one's been mean with this so far, I'm just nervous with this 'cause people get angry at Dany and Sansa so much when they're simple girls who deserve the happy lives they dream of).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sansa went to Jon’s bed that night but she refused to remain.
She was a courteous lady and always mindful of her duty, and her duty now was to provide the North and Queen Daenerys with their heirs.
And so during the remainder of the day she hid in her own office, pouring over ledgers the morning after her own wedding, keeping away from wherever Jon could be. Keeping her mind off him, the way he says Daenerys and the gentler way he calls the queen Dany, with an intimacy that speaks of the times and ways he’s had the other queen’s body. Sansa saw the way that Jon watches Dany when they met with the queen, how his eyes followed her across the room in a way he would never be able to watch his sister-cousin. Of course Queen Daenerys was his aunt, but knowing it was not the same as having a lifetime of familiarity and thoughts between you.
And even worse, Sansa saw the way that Queen Daenerys watches Jon.
Sansa had thought her kiss with the queen right before her wedding at meant something, that there was a true closeness between them that could mean so much more. And though it brought her shame it was the queen’s fingers she imagined plunging between her folds as Jon prepared her for their coupling. She knew the differences between their touch, the queen’s fingers much softer than Jon’s inside her were. But though they shared that moment, Daenerys had kept her eyes on Jon, sometimes flicking between him and Sansa, so hungry and watching and dark with lust for a man she willingly gave away.
They deserve each other, with their fiery strength and dragons and compassion and Targaryen identities. Sansa is their broodmare, as everyone always thought she was meant to be, to produce heirs for queen and country. She wondered if the queen and Jon would fuck today, without her in the way to keep them apart, or if they would have the decency to wait until she was with child and could no longer serve his pleasures. Until that time, she will think back and think of the North, for there is no greater kingdom to serve.
She sends out a runner to bring her Lord Royce and Lord Tyrion in turn for when she needed their advice on matters of the troops’ recovery and supplies for the planned march South.
Tyrion had not been told of the plan to send Arya off to her death, and she almost told him to get him on her side. But something keeps the thought back. Perhaps it is because it is easier to pretend that it isn’t even an option, when she is reviewing the numbers of soldiers and their defenses with him, discussing the siege weapons they would need ironwood to construct, debating if what port it was easier to meet the Iron Fleet at to begin the attack on King’s Landing.
But that night after they eat their meal in the great hall, she presents herself to Jon at the lord’s chambers, the chambers meant to be theirs together as husband and wife. Jon answers within seconds of her knock.
“You do not need to announce yourself in your own chambers, my lady.”
My lady. Back to a careful wall of courtesy between them both. Sansa wonders what it would be like, to be in love with the man who thrusts his cock inside her and can make her scream his name with his fingers. She blushes, thinking of how loud she was the night before. Most likely the entire castle heard her lose her own control. They will not hear my noise tonight.
“I will be sleeping in your old chambers, my lord. I do not know what you wish to do in your own bed and I would rather not you tell me.” Jon opens his mouth but Sansa glides by and holds up a hand. “We have a duty to each other, as husband and wife, a duty to our people as King and Queen, and a duty to our ally as you are her nearest relation.”
Keeping her steady, unwavering gaze on him, Sansa disrobes from her dressing gown and stands in nothing but her are shift. Jon steps towards her, some dark fire brimming in his hazy grey eyes. He comes nearer and tries to pull her close but before he can, she sits herself upon his bed, pulls up her shift, and spreads her thighs to show that she is not even wearing smallclothes.
“Sansa, please . . .”
“We have a duty, Jon.” She says, voice soft and solemn. She will not think of his gentle touch, of the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, of his strength in battle, the way he swore to protect her without any motivation except caring, when no one else had ever tried to protect her without some secondary motive. All these thoughts, of the Jon she knows she loves, she buries. It is better this way, if he is just a dark, nameless husband to her. A void with a cock to give her children, and not a man she briefly thought that she could fall in love with as a man and husband. “Let’s get to it, then.”
Jon’s gaze could break her heart. He looks at her like she is a porcelain doll, but Sansa is forge-made steel. She reaches out and unties his belt, pushes down his hose and smallclothes, and takes his member in her hand. Already half-stiff just from the sight of her, it is not hard to bring him to full readiness.
Jon touches between her thighs, fingers gentle, and Sansa half sighs at his touch. But she is already wet for him, for the idea of the care he brought to her bed the night before and this morning, and so she pushes him away. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure?” Jon tries to hold her face in-between his hands but Sansa flinches away, disguising her motion by leaning back all the way on the bed.
She grabs him by the cock again and guides him to her core. “Aye. Take your wife however you’d like.” Even if it means closing your eyes and imaging her. Mayhaps that’s what I’ll do.
But it was only Jon who pushed back the hair from her face and thrust himself into her, gently, letting her adjust to his size and girth. And though she had told herself she would lie still and let him use her, to get it over with, Sansa cannot help but meet him thrust for thrust, pressing herself against him, trying to feel him. Her arms wrap around Jon, her legs hooking into his back to adjust the feel of the angle within her.
Jon’s thrusts grow rapider, faster, and it is these sudden, hard and shallow movements that have Sansa calling his name as she comes, filled with the anger and aggression in Jon’s motions until he has spilled his seed inside her.
She latches him in her, holding him inside her even when he has gone soft and flaccid. Sansa tells herself it’s because she wants to hold in all his seed, to make sure she is with child sooner rather than later, but she knows the truth: she holds Jon to her because she feels safer there, in his arms, with that gentle strength protecting her. And that the feel of his cock inside her is a reminder of all they could be, even if it will never be, and the memory of the joy they had the night before.
But after a few moments, she disentangles herself of Jon. He rolls off her, eyes lingering on her legs and heaving breasts. Sansa sits up and before she can leave the bed, Jon presses a small, sweet kiss against her forehead. “Goodnight, my lady wife.”
“Goodnight, lord husband.”
She straightens her shift and puts back on her dressing gown before retreating to Jon’s old chambers and the bed that smells like him.
Arya comes to Sansa the morning after, waiting for her in her office, to beg Sansa to support her decision.
“Sansa I can end this war.” Sansa has seen the mystical faces Arya can wear. She knows its a real power, even more so when Arya dons a new person’s mien in front of her sister.
“I know.” She sighs, looking away from the eyes that are not Arya's but somehow are. Arya’s plan is sensible, it will spare much life. But it could lose hers. She glances back as Arya promptly removes the old man's face again.“But I cannot bear to lose you so soon after finding you. What would Mother and Father say, if I gave my approval for a suicide mission? If I let you go back south? Our family doesn’t do well there when they leave this castle.”
“They’d say that you supported me doing my duty to the realm.” Arya tries, again and again, to explain herself to Sansa. She says that Bran and Jon both support her, the dragon queen too. A few other advisors have raised questions and concerns, but they can formulate a secondary plan in case Arya’s attempt to kill Cersei goes awry. "It was my idea. Don't blame them. This is how I can protect us all."
"They’re supporting you without thinking this through!" Sansa sighs, slumping back in her chair in defeat. "We’re your king and queen, your older sister and brother. We’re supposed to protect you.”
"Sansa, I know you do this for my protection, but what faults are we not seeing? Help me make this plan better, instead of protesting the entire thing." Arya takes Sansa's hand and squeezes it, her brow creasing. "You've protected us by marrying Jon. Now let me do my part too."
She gets up and leaves as silently as she came, with one last thought before she closes the door softly behind her. "At least give it a thought. You're brilliant, and with my skill and your strategy, we can end Cersei Lannister for good."
Sansa shuts her sister out, too, refusing to see her and hear more talk of the unnatural, that a person can appear so much as another, and Arya must stay where she is safe and well and where her parents would want her to keep her. She crumbles under the weight of that duty, of protecting her family. It is an impossible task, a regrettable one. They are all finally together again, and safe, without threats of wights or dragons or even Cersei, and all Jon and Arya seem to want is to break the ice across the lake and plummet into the growing waters beneath.
But even then, Sansa begins to think and wonder and plan, analyzing the plan from every angle. How would Cersei react? Will she believe its Jaime when he comes to her? What if she decides to kill her brother for betraying her and fighting for the North?
She tries to talk to Bran about it, but he has no advice to give. His trees tell him what will happen, but he refuses to use that information to affect anyone’s mind, hers or otherwise.
So she hides in her office and her room and goes to Jon again that night. And he has her again, angrier and harder than before, and she rakes her nails down his back and comes when he calls her a cruel woman.
The rest of the sex that follows is like the second, quick and over and to the point. But Sansa still finds herself coming undone at Jon's tender grip on her hips, the way he guides her to completion before unleashing his own. She wakes up with an aching need between her thighs, her body wanting and demanding more. And after half a fortnight of silence and hiding and quiet couplings that taste of duty, she confronts the strangeness of these feelings that build up inside her like a dam about to burst, this confused tension that coils in the pit of her stomach.
She wants her brother to want her.
Sansa gasps and widens her eyes at the derelict thought. She remembers his touch on her skin, his touches, gentle and sweet, so different from Joffrey’s beatings and Ramsey’s tight grip as he forced himself roughly upon her. But more than that, there are so many other things to want in Jon. His kindness and soft voice when he addressed her.
The way Jon never shouts at her unless she starts it, and even then he tries his hardest to escalate in anyway he can. The way he never stopped believing that they could save Rickon, even when she herself had given up all hope. The way he took her in his arms when he first saw her, and even though she was the Stark sibling who loved him least, he still held onto her like she was everything that mattered in that moment.
She breaks into a hopeless sob. What have I done?
Sansa has pushed him away with her anger and demands, but really it was the fear. The fear that she would love him and he would not love her back. But it is already done. She already loves him as a part of her that she didn’t know was missing until it was far gone. The rage she felt when he rode into Winterfell with Daenerys at his side, it wasn’t really about the dragon queen manipulating him. It was about him loving someone who wasn’t her, who wasn’t them.
And so she summons Brienne first thing in the morning to hear how the older woman would take the situation, although she does not mention how if she wants her husband to love her, she must fight another woman, another queen who has dragons and armies besides.
Instead, Sansa explains this fool’s errand Dany - Daenerys, she reminds herself, bitterly. She is only Dany to Jon, or should only be, - and Jon would so gladly allow Arya to go on.
“My lady, if I may . . .” Brienne says, her face contorting curiously.
Sansa nods. “I brought you here for your advice. Of course, please share your thoughts with me.”
“I believe it is the wisest route.”
Sansa’s brows furrow. She had expected Brienne to understand her side. “And why is that, prey tell?”
“Using the dragons to sack a city will terrify the residents, not behoove them to the queen. Likewise, a mostly foreign army coming in and taking control, with little Crownlanders in its midst, will take a heavy toll. The war will continue beyond the battle, with the people remembering Cersei fondly instead of as the mad queen she is.”
Brienne looks at Sansa, studies her sad, tired eyes. “If it would ease your stresses for your sister, my lady, I will gladly volunteer as one of the band of guards.”
Sansa sighs. “It would easy my stresses greatly, Brienne. Thank you for your counsel.”
After Brienne leaves, Sansa interlaces her fingers and holds them to her chin. She stares out her window at the godswood and knows that it is time for her to pray. She leaves her office silently, earlier than she has these last few days as she takes all her meals in her office and hides there or in her own chambers the rest of the day.
Sansa bends before the hearttree, her knees set in the snowbanks, and lets her thoughts wonder.
She asks the gods for guidance, to help her see a way to protect her sister, to win back her husband and keep him to her bed, to rid herself of the dragon queen and all the thoughts she brings up in Sansa’s mind, from the jealous ones to the ones that would have her be the traitor to her husband.
She prays for hours, kneeling in the snow as the day nears sunset.
Until Queen Daenerys finds her.
Notes:
Let me know what you think, then come fan over ASOIAF/GOT, Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, and OT3 on my tumblr.
Chapter 15: DANY V
Summary:
Daenerys confronts Sansa about their plans to defeat Cersei.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
If ever there was a woman who did know the true affect her beauty has on others, it was Sansa Stark. Yes, she knows that she is beautiful, and that men lusted after her for that beauty . . . but Sansa did not seem to realize what affect her gaze has on Dany. Those bright blue eyes, two deep, crystalline pools. When she lets her guard fall and smiles, it is as if the whole world glittered like the sun ups on the sea.
When a tug in her belly pulls her from her dreams of Sansa’s kiss, Dany smiles bitterly.
She feels as if she is betraying her love for Jon by lusting after Sansa, but in fact if she were to act on her feelings for either husband or wife, they would be the traitors of the heart. If Jon had married another woman, Dany could pursue her feelings for Sansa and find out if that kiss meant what she thought it did. If Sansa had married another man, Dany could be content to still call Jon her own.
But she has lost them both to one another. She buries her face in her hands, strokes across her hair, and throws back the furs upon her bed. A bed she once shared with Jon, who now shares his with Sansa, near every night from what she’s heard in the castle.
No matter. Dany is a queen and queens must make hard choices and sacrifices for their people. Or else, they wouldn’t be a true queen at all.
She dresses herself and stalks out, thinking of the task she had been assigned by Arya Stark and Jon at supper the night before. It is time that someone else talks to Sansa about the plan to end the war, and Dany has been nominated.
Dany spent most of the meal quietly pondering how it would feel, to be Sansa. She too thought her entire family dead, that she was the last of the line, until Jon shared the horrible truth that he was her nephew. She glanced at him across the dining table, at his brooding stare into his cured horse-meat. I do not think I could bear too lose him again. It is one thing to lose his love, and another to lose his life.
But I have other concerns, besides the Stark family. She almost forgot herself and set a hand on her belly, feigning a last minute motion to wipe away invisible crumbs. My life has never been secure. My child will grow with the stability that I never had. Dany has never spent more then a year in one place, and even then Illyrio Mopatis’s manse had never felt like a home.
Security and stability for a woman in Westeros or Essos came at the blessings of a husband, though, and Dany does not have one of those. What she has are her dragons and an army, and with them she can seize the only true means to defend her child: the Iron Throne. With the power of the throne and her fighting forces, Dany can offer her child a life of plenty and protection. This all may be impossible for Sansa to understand, without knowing about this babe. When the southern war is won, Dany might finally have a chance to explain. She has longed all her life for family to fill the aloneness in her. She wants Sansa and Arya and Jon and even Bran to be that family. But she cannot risk it until her child is protected and the throne is assured, through Fire and Blood.
After Arya left the high table, Jon confessed to Dany in sullen silence that his wife won’t even look at him, that she closes her eyes when they are together intimately. He stared intently at Dany in that way of his, eyes grey and deep and beautiful, like he is trying to tell her his entire story without saying the words.
Instinctively, Dany had taken his hand and squeezed it. She meant to reassure him that she understood and that she would do her best to reach through to Sansa on not just the issue of Arya’s plan but their marital relations and Sansa’s avoidance of communicating with her own husband. But Jon had flinched away, so repulsed by her brazen touch. It was almost as if they had never been lovers, never shared their evenings together, never touched each other’s skin and kissed each other’s scars.
She knows every line that was upon his body before the Battle for the Dawn but now she feels as if she doesn’t even know him at all.
Dany breaks her fast with Missandei, quietly sitting by her hearth fire and sharing their fondest memories of Grey Worm. Missandei asks after the child and Dany says that she is feeling better, a sad, official notice that her sickness was wholly because of the wedding and not because of the child.
She meets with Tyrion and Varys next, learning news about her armies and the preparations to head south as soon as possible. After Tyrion has left, Varys lingers with the firelight glancing off his bald head.
“One more thing, your grace. The sunrise on their wedding was auspicious.” He titters, and slips his hands inside his large sleeves. “My birds have heard many of the people call them the Queen and King of Sunrise and Eternal Summer.”
Dany narrows her eyes at Varys. “Interesting. And what do they call me?”
“The Dragon Queen, of course.”
“Of course.” She purses her lips. “Thank you, my lord. I will think upon this.”
Varys bows and exits, leaving Dany to consider what he has said. In her empty room, she sets a hand on her belly. What would Varys do, if she gave birth to the child before they take the city? She has never truly trusted him, with his half-smiles and switching sides and all his little whispers, and she will never trust him with this. Daenerys would not put it past Varys to see her early death so that he could raise her child in the image of a perfect king or queen to rule the realm.
When Drogo died, Jorah told her the other khals would kill her son before delivering her to the dosh khaleen. They followed strength, not blood. Among the Andals and the First Men, it was the opposite. People followed blood over strength. And with her child’s bloodline, Dany’s strength would not be necessary to claim the Iron Throne or rule the realm. Not when Varys could pull the strings himself.
She summons Missandei next, and while her friend assures Dany that there will be no need for it, she swears if Dany dies, she will take the child and an Unsullied and flee to Winterfell or Essos or Dragonstone or Pyke, anywhere that they have allies who will protect them from Varys' influence.
She even spends time that morning talking with Jaime about the plan that has been formulated. He has not yet been told the purpose is to kill his lover, but only to get close enough to capture her likeness and order the gates opened. They have a stilted discussion of strategy before Lady Brienne joins them and asks for Jaime’s help in a new training exercise.
Dany seeks out Arya then, to update her on Jaime’s suggestion to get together so she could study his habits and mannerisms closely. She watches the training in the yard for a spell, Jaime and Brienne clashing swords with their opposite hands, and smiles at the young children running round the champions. And finally, when she can postpone it no longer, she sets out to find Sansa.
A winter storm descended upon Winterfell the night before, covering the castle and the roads in thick white snow. In some areas, the snowbanks are even taller than Dany. White winds howl across the moors, tossing the snow like so many fallen leaves in the autumn months. She had thought it beautiful, when she first came North, but this shows its danger, perhaps even moreso than the Night King’s army did.
Despite this, there is still something hauntingly beautiful to the godswood as she enters it. The trees are covered in snow and thick with ice daggers spiking from their branches. And in the middle stands the hearttree and bowed before it Sansa Stark, her hair as red as the weirwood’s leaves.
When Dany enters the clearing, Sansa starts and stands, her hair fluttering behind her like a banner of blood. She looks bewildered, blue eyes drinking in all of Dany for a moment. “Your grace.”
“Your grace.” Dany nods her head in recognition of Sansa’s new title. She's always worn a crown without one on her forehead, with all the regal bearing of a queen in temperament and poise. It suits her. “I have not seen you in several days.”
“My apologies.” Sansa’s lips form a tight line, suddenly formed in displeasure. “I have been . . . busy.”
“Of course.” Dany tries to smile at her, wanting to see that beautiful smile of hers from when Sansa lets down her guard. “You are a wedded woman after all.”
“Yes. And a lady of a castle and a queen of a new realm.” Sansa’s voice is colder than the winds that ripple the godswood pool, even though Dany does not need this reminder.
Dany’s eyebrows crease to hear that ice that chills her words and concern fills her heart that something is amiss. Did Jon hurt her? Does he? She wonders. Had she sent this woman into a bed that called up her old traumas? She reaches out to take Sansa’s hand, but the other woman flinches away from Dany’s touch. Her own voice softens. “Was he gentle, or did he hurt you?”
“No. He is as a husband should be.” Sansa pauses. “About the other night - ” Sansa’s cheeks turn red from old embarrassment. Dany feels no shame from her feelings, or even from her actions. “I’m sorry for making you do that, your grace.”
Your grace. So we are back to this. The first time, in greeting, seemed as a jest between two equals. But this . . . This is a distant, high wall of courtesy between them. Sadness overwhelms Dany at the blossoming friendship that she has now lost, which she may never see again.
Dany sighs. “You did not make me do anything. Dragons cannot be commanded.”
“But all the same, you felt bidden to relieve my tension.” Sansa’s white teeth nibble at her red lips, and Dany feels a flush of warmth across her body. “I appreciate it, but I understand that it meant nothing. That you still desire Jon even though he is another’s husband. And I can appreciate that, too. This is a relationship between the three of us that no one wanted. In a better world, you would carry his children to be heirs to your throne, not me.”
Dany swallows, her thoughts turning away from her confused feelings and to a greater concern.
Does Sansa know? She cannot, though. The only person Dany has confided her state in has been Missandei. She cannot bear to tell the news to Jon, not until her throne - her child’s throne - is secure.
She has not even consulted a midwife or maester about the pregnancy and how it may be affected by dragon riding. She does not want this secret of hers out. She resists the temptation to stroke her small, swelling stomach. It has been nearly three months since she first laid with Jon, had felt his love and strength and had his devoted protection, but her belly is much smaller. The babe cannot be more than a few weeks along, perhaps conceived in White Harbor or on the road to Winterfell.
She’d like to think the child came to its existence when they discovered the frozen waterfalls, the first time Jon rode a real dragon and not just her. The moment she realized she loved him, that her feelings were more than just lust for the handsome man and king. But that day would be too close, from what she knows of conception.
“And if my barrenness were false, Lady Stark?” Dany says, wanting to know where her child’s safety would stand with the other woman. She catches herself using the wrong title now, but Sansa does not mind. And besides, perhaps Dany will have needs to reclaim the title, if Sansa refuses in her stubbornness to rescind her future child’s claim to the Iron Throne. “What if I marry someone else, and have their child?”
“It would be heir to the Five Kingdoms of the South, your grace.” Sansa says. “And my child with Jon would be sole heir to the Kingdoms of the North, the Trident, and the Vale, as we have agreed.”
Northern independence will not be given up so easily, as Dany suspected. But still, she has more pressing concerns that the barren Northern soil and the defenseless Riverlands. “You would not try to put a second child on my throne?”
“I care nothing for the south, and neither does my husband.” Sansa states, with wavering confidence. “There are plenty holdfasts in the North in need of repair where we can send a second child to rule and build a home.”
My child’s rights are safe. Its life is safe. Dany thinks with more relief than she can explain. She has faith that Sansa would protect the child as her own cousin-by-marriage. It is those around Sansa she doesn't trust, quiet, analytical Yohn Royce and dashing, demanding Harrold Hardyng and dangerous, cunning Horton Redfort and all the others, who would take take advantage of an situation that they saw. Including killing a disadvantaged child or forcibly marrying it to a child of their own. That's something Sansa's Lord Baelish had already tried, with rumors abounding that he was slowly poisoning sweet, spoiled Lord Arryn. At least Sansa and Arya took care of him, so that there is one less threat to any of their futures. “Then I will head south, as soon as the roads are clear enough to march and claim my own kingdoms.”
“So you will not force Arya to kill Cersei?” Sansa asks, eyes alight with some misplaced joy.
“Your sister can be commanded about as much as a dragon, your grace. But Arya grows anxious to go south, but she will not do it without your blessing.” Dany explains, a bitter laugh caught in her throat. “She asked me to speak with you, in hopes that I could bring you reason.”
“Well, it needn’t be done.”
“For lack of my ability to change your mind, or because you already have?” Dany cannot hope that Sansa would agree, but at the same time . . .
“I have changed it of my own accord, after consulting my own advisors and my gods.” Sansa rises, and for a moment the snowflakes in her hair form a crown of silver. “But I have some amendments to this plan of yours.”
“And why, pray tell, does our plan need amending?” Dany says, stepping aside to follow Sansa out of the godswood.
“Cersei is clever. She’ll see through Jaime coming to her door. She knows you would never just let him leave like that.”
“And you have a better story to mask Arya’s intentions?” Dany is impressed by Sansa’s ability to understand Cersei better even then her lover-brother, although it is understandable considering how much time they spent at each other’s sides in King’s Landing. “Tell me what it is.”
“Seventeen false defectors will attend her, not a simple dozen.” Sansa begins. “Among them will be my sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, and Lord Royce’s son. And none of them will be your Essosi, although perhaps a Reacher man or two could represent your cause.”
“Why not?”
“She’ll never believe that the Unsullied or Dothraki would abandon you. Even if she did, she’d take their heads just to be sure. I don’t believe you’d want your men to suffer that fate.” Sansa sweeps into the courtyard as regal as any queen, nodding to her people as she passes them. “The band will not leave from the castle, but rather from a siege. You will make threats but you will not attack. You will surround the castle with our armies and your dragons, and demand that Cersei surrender.”
“We both know she will not.” Dany says, unsure of where Sansa’s plan is going. Despite her uncertainty, she understands that Sansa knows best when it comes to Cersei Lannister's mindset. Whatever suggestions she makes now, Dany will agree too, because Sansa can think like Cersei in a way no one else can.
“I know. But you will still offer to give her Ser Jaime, a ship, and a chest of gold and gems to make a new life across the sea in Essos. You will tell her she has two days to respond and if she denies it, you will burn Ser Jaime at the gate.” Sansa turns towards the library tower, where her office resides. "Her response to this offer will help you and Jon gauge if it is truly safe for Arya to enter the Red Keep. If Cersei seems ambivalent, then she likely doesn't care for Jaime to return to her and Arya will not be safe."
“Shall we bring the real Jaime to give off, then, if she does agree?” Dany cannot imagine Cersei would, although it is a good thought.
“Perhaps.” Sansa shrugs and begins to climb the narrow, winding stairs of her tower. “But when Cersei does not respond, Brienne will launch an attack with these defectors. Perhaps you can stage a burning the night before, to pretend there is fear in the men’s hearts. Brienne is fond of Jaime, and Cersei knows this. So when Brienne appears from the tunnels under Maegor’s Holdfast with Arya-as-Jaime, Cersei will believe her when Brienne says she could not let him die.”
“And then?”
“And then, Arya will kill her and end the war for your throne.” Sansa steps into her office, a room lined with bookshelves. Dany has never been in here before, but she can see the careful touches that mark the space distinctly as Sansa’s: the abacuses and books on math, to help her better understand her sums, the sewing basket in the chair besides the window, the carefully embroidered curtains and the woven Stark tapestry on the wall behind.
“It seems you’ve thought this through well.” Dany inclines her head in respect and takes the seat that Sansa offers across the table from her own seat. “I will present it to my advisors. I believe our armies will be ready to march in a week or two more, and Arya’s band can come with us. The maesters say the snow should begin to melt soon enough.”
“Perhaps I’ll send my lord husband south with an heir already growing in me.” Sansa says, her words purposeful. She knows that hurts me. She says it to hurt me. Dany thinks. “We’ve been trying quite hard and frequently.”
“Jon had mentioned that you come ready to him every night.” Dany says back with words just as much chosen just as much to make the other bleed.
Although the words had not been said to her but rather to Sam Tarly. Jon has not spoken to just Dany since his wedding, and all their conversations with others focus on the plans for the war that they are about to begin and how to prepare the rest of their armies to trace Arya’s steps.
His conversation with Sam had been more sad than anything: whispers of duty and honor broken, his upset to be sleeping with his sister but his knowledge that they needed at least two children. His mention that she was always wet and ready, but refused to spend any moment with him besides their silent, steady coupling, and that Sansa leaves immediately after the act is done.
She loves them both, she knows, but Jon was the first man she truly loved since Drogo. Maybe since anyone. And for Jon to be so miserable in a marriage she forced him into . . . Dany sighs. Thus is the life of a man or woman born into a royal line. Duty before love. Duty before all things.
“Well, if that is all, your grace?” Sansa asks, her look pointed and directing towards the door.
“It is.” Dany rises, not sure where else she expected the conversation to go. But before she reaches the chamber door, Sansa stops her.
“One more thing.” Dany looks back at Sansa with hope beyond hope that she means to fix the cold void stretching between them but all that she receives are harsh, accusing words that don’t seem to understand what Dany wants at all. “I know you both wish to ravage each other, but please wait until after you leave to fuck my husband so his seed is ready for our heir.”
Notes:
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Chapter 16: JON V
Summary:
Sansa tries to make up with Jon; the Lords of the Vale demand proof of the marriage's consummation; Dany comes up with a plan to protect them all.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sansa’s rigid adherence to duty would make their father - her father - proud. She came to Jon’s bed each night, knowing what her part to play was to secure the stability of the realm’s future.
Jon hates her for it.
He thought, when this plan was devised, that they could let love blossom between them. Jon tries to make her happy but Sansa will not let him bring her to completion with his fingers during their couplings. She does not seek him out for advice or to offer her counsel like she did before when they ruled Winterfell together. Even after Dany spoke to Sansa in the godswood, and Sansa emerged from her hiding spots to join the denizens of the castle for meals and sit in on Dany’s small council meetings - even then, she does not ever speak to Jon.
He thinks his wife is happier with his former lover than she is with him. Sansa at least smiles when Dany tries to speak with her, although she does not give more than a gentle courtesy to the other queen. Mostly, though, she speaks to Arya and Bran during their meetings and their meals together and avoids his lingering gazes.
Jon wakes in the morning hard from his dreams of her skin against his and the sound of her beautiful pleasured cries of which he’s heard so little. And he has nothing but his hand to keep him company.
He woke this morning with a fearsome vision in his mind, something he quivered just to think of let alone to ever see it. Though he tried to send it away, as he took his erect member in his hand, he could not stop the vision: Sansa and Dany naked and entangled together, kissing each other, feeling each other. Their lips pressing together, devouring each other . . . He stroked himself to completion imagining Dany’s mouth on Sansa’s cunt and Sansa’s hands in Dany’s hair, Sansa’s mouth on Dany’s cunt and Dany’s hands on Sansa’s breasts. And came to his own shattering completion envisioning the two most beautiful women in all the world making each other come with their tongues.
When he has washed himself of his sinful visions and dressed for the day ahead, Jon exits his bedroom into his solar. He startles to find Sansa sitting demurely at the table in a light grey dress trimmed with white, a pile of dark red yarn in her lap. She looks up as he enters and though she does not smile, she looks happier than he’s seen her in weeks.
“Sansa?” He broaches carefully, approaching her. “What brings you here so early?”
She sets her knitting down and motions to the covered tray upon his table. “I thought, since it was your last morning here, we could break our fast together.” She lifts the lid off the tray to reveal its contents in a cloud of steam: a basket of hearty rolls, cheese and sweetmeats, a pat of butter, and a pot of tea. “I hate that we’ve been so estranged. I miss you.”
Jon reaches for a roll as he sits himself. Sansa goes to pour them both mugs of tea, setting her knitting in the basket besides her chair. He contemplates the bread in his hands, not sure how to respond. Sansa passes him the mug, but when he goes to take it she covers his hand with her own. “Can you forgive me for acting like a petulant child?”
Jon closes his eyes and sighs deeply. When he opens his eyes and meets Sansa’s pools of blue, he understands she is asking about more than just her behavior these last few weeks. She’s unsteadily asking about their arrangement, this marriage of convenience to provide another queen with an heir. To fix the mistakes he made by giving away their home in the first place. The gods gave me this wife for all my days. She’s stubborn as a dragon, until she isn’t.
“The North is free, thanks to you.”
“To us. To our union.” She pulls away, a hurt look on her face. She distractedly claims her own mug and stares into its depths. “So you regret this, then?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Jon sips from his mug to give him time to gather up his thoughts and order them. “You seem not to regret it, but you won’t look at me when - ” His cheeks redden with the heat of the tea’s steam. “At night. I thought this was meant to be a partnership between a Queen and her King, but instead you hide away for days and ignore me when we’re together in public. I would like us to have a happy marriage, but I can’t build a home with no a foundation.”
Sansa is silent. She turns a weary gaze to the tray on his table, sets her mug down, and her hands fall back into her lap. “You can’t build a home without a family, either, but you seem content to send ours away.”
Jon cannot help his groan. “Arya said that you were passed this. That you even had some ideas for getting past Cersei.”
“That doesn’t mean I like this plan. It’s foolish and you all seem so ready to send Arya into the lion’s den without considering the consequences to her or to us.”
He thinks of the full conversation Sansa had with Dany at their meal yesterday, discussing southron dress patterns or some other ladylike pursuit. “Why are you so willing to forgive Daenerys but so set on hating me for the same decision?”
“She has no choice, Jon. She leads for her people, chooses what is best for her own kingdoms. But you do and you choose to support her over your own kingdom and your own family and your own wife.” Her voice cracks as she says it. “I thought you trusted me, at least, even if we haven’t had time to grow a different love.”
“It’s hard, when your own wife won’t speak to you.”
“Well, your grace, I’m speaking to you now, it just seems you do not deign to listen!” Sansa stands and grabs her knitting basket, furious tears spilling from her eyes. Jon makes to go after her. When he grabs at her elbow she meets him with terror. Sansa’s eyes are wide and her mouth open in shock.
Jon pulls away his grip as if burnt, having not realized what any harsh action could remind her of. “Sansa, I -”
“Leave me be.” She stops before the door and dips into a low curtsy. “I will see you at council, your grace. Farewell.”
Jon falls back into his seat and watches her leave like she is the last sunset he will ever see. He runs his hands over his face and buries them in his hair. How can he recover from this? He knows what she said, but how can she not see the choice they made, to save many and more of their own?
He agonizes for a while more over Sansa’s declaration, the meal she brought going cold at his side. But eventually, Jon arises. He has preparations to make for his journey on the morrow and arrangements to oversee within Winterfell. He joins Brienne and Podrick in the yard for training before running an instruction for the young children still interested in learning archery. They are not included as the forces going south, but the population of the North was always dense and the wars will leave them nearly defenseless. Jon meets with Tormund to discuss the resettlement plans for the Wildings in the Vale, but eventually must face the uncomfortable position he has avoided thinking about all day: the council with all the lords.
He settles into his seat between Sansa and Daenerys, refusing to look at either woman. The lords go through their qualms and quarrels with the siege plan. Daenerys determined it was too dangerous to tell anyone outside their inner circle about the true plan, with Arya and her faces and her men, and so only a select few involved know the truth of the plan. When the gathering has reached the end of its agenda without Sansa or Dany sniping at him, Jon considers it a success. But as Sansa turns to dismiss them all, a Vale lord rises from the trestle tables.
“Your graces, if I may?”
Daenerys nods her assent and quietly turns to Sansa, still unused to the title. Finally, she speaks. “You may proceed, Lord Templeton.”
“I’ve been chosen from a few of the other lords to speak, if it pleases your graces.” He looks to the ground. “Not meaning to be rude, but how do we know that your marriage is true? The concern is, you could try to take control of the Vale and the Riverlands without guaranteeing that what you’ve done to hold the alliance together is truthful.”
Jon rises, pressing his clutched fists into the table. “My lords, we bear you no ill will. There is no reason to believe that this marriage is a farce.”
“Queen Sansa was once your sister.” Lord Templeton says, as if Jon needs any reminding. “Is it so strange to think you would refuse to bed her?”
“He’s Targaryen, I’m sure he finds great pleasure in bedding his sister.” Another lord calls out. The laughs of lords and soldiers rumble in their bellies and fill the room.
Dany holds up her pale hand and is met with a deafening silence. Jon settles back into his seat like an embarrassed child. When she speaks it is in a calm, collect tone, her voice unwavering. “I have as much invested in the success of this alliance, my lords. If they are not lying together, it is not just north Westeros that will be thrown to chaos for I will not have an heir either. We cannot do much because our forces depart tomorrow, but tonight I will witness their coupling and ensure all is as it should be.”
Jon stiffens. This is mayhem. His former lover, his aunt, his once-queen, observing him bedding his once sister, his now cousin, his wife? This is madness. He turns to Sansa, her face an unreadable mask of ice. Perhaps she can convince the lords out of it, with a well-versed speech or pretty words like she is so good at doing, but she remains still as stone. Is it the shock or the fear or the rest? He turns, ready to try a speech of his own, but the lords are cheering, applauding this contrived plan for Daenerys to watch them.
He falls back into his chair. Sansa reaches over and clutches his hand. Her grip is tight and firm, stronger than he would have expected. She whispers, “We will survive. Starks endure. We always do, we always will.”
And then, Jon remembers what she told him of her second wedding and the fury boils in him as he realizes what cruel memories this will bring to her mind. Theon Greyjoy watched as Ramsey raped her. “We can fight it, I am sure Dany will -”
Sansa pulls away and rises as regal as any queen, as if the world’s crashing does not phase her. “Then it is agreed. Queen Daenerys will observe and report to you all in the morning before she takes her leave of Winterfell. If there are no more questions of our marriage, you may be dismissed.”
Jon disappears out the side door of the Great Hall, not wanting to respond to any of the suggestive calls of the lords who know him so little. He retreats to the Broken Tower, bashing the walls of it with a wooden practice sword until it breaks, then collecting the pieces to throw and smash with his hands.
He remembers the rage that pulsed through his veins, when Littlefinger said he loved Sansa as he had once loved Lady Catelyn. That was not just the affectionate protection of a brother for his half-sister. It was something more primal, more angry. So long as he avoided thinking to that moment, but what hope is there to ignore it, now?
He has bedded a woman he once thought of as his sister, and by the old gods and the new, he loves her. He’s loved her for a long time, or at least harbored an affection more than he should have then. But it does not matter what he felt before, when she is his wife before any god recognized on the continent and all the lords and ladies cannot ignore the truth of that.
Even in her stubbornness, it comes from the good of her whole heart. Mayhaps she really did speak the truth, when she said that all she wanted to do was protect the North and their family. Sansa would do anything for them, even this, something Jon knows would hurt her, if it means she can protect them.
Eventually he collapses upon the floor, disbelieving what they are about to make him do. There is so much he has already taken from himself, failing to go to his father’s rescue and holding to his vows, killing men he called his brothers, betraying his vows for a woman he loved, dying and rising, bedding a woman who he once called sister, a wife who scarcely loves him, but this may be the worst of them all.
And that is where Daenerys finds him, as the dusk turns to night. “It’s time.”
Jon looks up at her, the picture of a broken man. “Must we?”
Dany kneels before him and takes his face between her soft, small hands. For all that she is fierce as the dragon she rides, she has a gentle touch. He leans into it, ignores the guilt of finding comfort in her. He has been so devoid of any of it since the morning after his wedding and it feels so good to be held, even just like this. He hates that she can do this to him, make him feel so loved and cared for even with a simple touch. He hates that she took this comfort from him and gave him all this conflict, all to secure a throne he can only hope melts before her dragons.
But gods, does Jon miss Dany, the way she tastes, the way she looks at Jon after they’ve made love, like he’s the sun of her sky and no problem is too great to conquer together, not even the Night King.
“My sweet prince.” She whispers, her thumbs idly tracing the strength of his jaw. “There are lords waiting outside your chambers. Our dear Sansa awaits you there. It would shame her, if you were not to go. She would lose their support and we could not leave her here alone unless you want her to lose the North as well.”
“I -” Jon chokes back his fear. “Then we shall go.”
Dany rises and offers Jon her hand, pulls him up to his feet with godly strength. Jon’s strain does not leave him and by the time they reach his chamber his back is as stiff and straight as the wall. True to Dany’s description, a half dozen drunken lords, all but one from the Vale, wait outside his chamber. They are joined by four Unsullied with tensed jaws, although they do not reveal their feelings on this matter. Jon flinches as the lords make bawdy comments his way. One even tries to follow him and Dany into his room. She turns on him with fire in her eyes.
“I will be the only witness.” Daenerys says, voice unyielding. “And if I find any of you remaining when I emerge, you can be sure to face my wrath.”
She gives her guards a command in High Valyrian and they move to block the door from the lords as Jon follows her into his own chambers.
The tray from breakfast has been cleared from the solar chamber, replaced by a tray of candied fruits and wine. Daenerys picks it up on their way to his bedroom. Inside, a single chair and a small table have been set directly before his bed. Sansa sits on the edge of the bed in only her shift, her ankles crossed as she waits.
Daenerys sets the tray upon the table and takes the seat.
“Queen Sansa, would you like a glass of wine?” Dany offers cheerfully. She’s much too chipper for the occasion, Jon thinks. Shouldn’t she be upset to watch her lover with another woman?
“Yes, your grace.” Sansa says, and accepts a cup when Daenerys pours it. By the time Jon is handed one, Sansa is holding out her glass for a second. Daenerys fills her cup to the brim and looks back at the door. The room is silent so they all here the six sharp knocks from the outside.
Sansa jumps in her place. If there way any wine left in her glass, it would have spilt. “What was that?”
“A message from the Unsullied captain outside.” Dany explains, and plucks a candied grape from the tray. She pops it in her mouth before continuing. “It means the lords have all left the hall. I asked my men to be a bit aggressive in hopes it would scare off any men lurking at the door hoping for a peep show.”
Sansa’s face relaxes immediately. Jon asks, “You mean we don’t need to complete this farce?”
“Of course not. Did you really think I’d let them do that to you, after what you told me of your last marriage?” Dany’s face softens and she reaches to take Sansa’s hand in hers. “I wanted to tell you both I had a plan, but you were both too busy brooding and being difficult for me to find you.” She pops another grape in her mouth, the hint of a smirk on her lips. It’s for good cause, Jon reasons. She saved Sansa. And me. “I think that may be the worst collective trait of all you Starks, you know. You lot all brood too much. I would have complained sooner, if you didn’t look so comely as you did it.”
Sansa’s face is red as their wine, even as she stands to pour herself a third glass. Jon quietly holds out his own as a request for another. Sansa tops off Dany’s drink as well, then settles back on the bed. “What now?”
“Well, I should stay a while longer at least. No one would believe it went so quickly.” Dany shrugs and sips her wine. “It may be helpful to rock the bed or make some loud noises of pleasure, in case a servant passes by, but if you don’t want to - ”
With a surprisingly joyful giggle, Sansa downs her wine and jumps upon the bed. It creaked and groaned beneath her wait. She giggles and jumps up again before scampering off. Sansa sets her empty glass on the little table and grabs both Jon and Dany by the hand.
He’s bewildered as she pulls them both to the bed, falling in a heap of people. Sansa jumps up and its clear she wants Jon and Dany to join in. Jon looks uncomfortable, but Dany is quick to join his wife. The two women giggle and hold hands as they jump around him.
“Jon, make a noise, loudly!” Sansa commands. “It best be convincing.”
He widens his eyes but manages a half-hearted moan as Sansa and Dany collapse besides him. Dany rolls over and playfully bats his arm. “I can do better than that!” She attempts a moan, and while its close to the sounds he’s brought out of her before, the comparison ends in an unfamiliar fit of giggles. Jon tries again, mimicking the sense of release, before Sansa quiets him with a full kiss.
She pulls back immediately, her cheeks red and her eyes meeting Dany’s. “I’m so sorry, I - ”
“It’s alright, Sansa. He’s your husband. Of course you kiss him.” Dany says, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Although, may I show you a better way to engage it?”
When Sansa nods her consent, Dany leans in and presses her lips to Jon’s. His eyes widen in shock before he sinks into it, their love coming back like a memory of a dream. Where Sansa’s kiss was quick and firm, Dany’s kiss is slow and soft. She nips at his lip just a little, but pulls away before it goes too far. “See? You can put sensuality and excitement into even a little kiss on the surface. Go ahead, try it.”
Sansa leans in, her motions hesitant. Jon sits up and pulls her into his lap to help guide her a little. This time, her kiss is slower, but still firm. That firmness might just be a bit of Sansa, and he doesn’t mind at all. Jon sinks into the feeling of her, remembering how good things were the first night . . .
Daenerys clears her throat besides them. “Lovely, Sansa. The kiss, not you. Although you’re lovely, too.” She steps off the bed, her words slurring together. “I should really be going, I think it’s been enough time that they’ll believe it when I confirm you coupled tonight. I’ll let you get to that task, then.”
“No!” Sansa says, and pulls from Jon’s lap. She takes Dany’s hands. “Stay with us.”
“Sansa?” He asks, brow knitting together in confusion.
“I only mean, wouldn’t it be nice if she laid in the bed tonight? Just the three of us together? I sleep better with others around, but Arya’s been away most nights, and Brienne’s been with Ser Jaime . . .”
“If Jon agrees, I’ll stay.”
They both look at him with pleading eyes, eyes that Jon cannot say no too. “You’d best send your guards away, or people will wonder why they were here all night.”
Dany smiles widely before disappearing to the solar to do just that.
“Are you sure this is what you want, Sansa?” Jon asks. He pushes a lose strand of hair behind her ear. “She’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind.”
“I feel comfortable with her. At least when we’re not fighting. I’d so hate for you both to leave and die without me making you understand that.” She says, and tugs at his shirt. “Now prepare for bed. You still have your shoes on.”
Jon has changed into a nightrobe by the time Dany returns, and he blows out the candles in the room as Sansa helps Dany strip to her shift. They both pull him into the bed and settle beneath the covers, one queen on either side of him. Before Jon knows it, they are both asleep and so is he, with one final thought on his mind.
This is as it is meant to be.
Notes:
If it wasn't clear, Dany and Sansa are both drunk. This originally had a much angstier, smuttier ending, but I just didn't love it. I may end up publishing it as a separate fic connected to this one but first I'd have to finish it. (Pretty much, they consummate while Dany watches behind a screen, Sansa's kind of bitchy about it and stares in her eyes during the thing, then feels bad and invites Dany to cuddle. This felt more true to the dynamic that I eventually want, though).
Let me know what you think, then come hangout on tumblr to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my ask box.
Chapter 17: SANSA IV
Summary:
Sansa wakes up as Dany tries to go; Sansa and Jon say their goodbyes.
Notes:
A little bit of fun before everyone's separated and a little bit of angst because that's like half the story.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For the first time since the morning after her wedding, Sansa does not wake up alone. And he sound of a servant stoking the hearth fire does not rouses her from a restless sleep. Instead, her deep slumber is interrupted by the rustling silks of a woman dressing.
Sansa blinks open her eyes to watch Daenerys pull on her dress like a knight donning his armor. Outside of the keep, darkness still clutches its angry hands upon the night. The full moon and stars illuminate Dany’s silver hair, still held in her complicated braids, but some strands of hair are mussed from sleep and poke out from her buns. Dany is smoothing the cloth on her belly, studying herself in Jon’s looking glass. She licks her lip as Dany adjusts the fall of her skirt, running her hand across her firm arse.
Sansa pushes her thighs together, unsure why that familiar warmth is building up in her core. She doesn’t mean to wiggle, but when she moves her hips, Jon tightens his arm where it holds her at her hips. He pulls her closer and nuzzles his chin against her neck with a sleepy groan.
Jon’s noises draw Dany’s attention and her gaze snaps to the bed. Sadness fills her eyes as she looks at the two of them intertwined, but the look is gone when she realizes that Sansa stares right back at her. “Why are you leaving? It’s still dark out.”
“Yes.” Dany reaches for her boots on the ground besides her. “Most of the castle will be asleep now. I can return to my chamber without anyone noticing where I come from.”
Sansa gingerly unwraps Jon’s arm from around her body and slips out from under the pile of covers. He mumbles protests as his head falls into the pillows. A cool rush of air flutters the lining of her nightshift and the slate tiles are cold against her bare feet. “Don’t go.” She bites her lip again and takes Dany’s hand from her, stops her from putting on her shoes. “Please.”
“What they would say about us here . . . it would shame us all.” Dany says, turning to look out a leaden window instead of at Sansa. There is fear in her eyes, a wholly vulnerable look that Sansa doesn’t understand. Sansa puts her other hand on Dany’s cheek and makes her look at her. In the quiet of the early morning, she studies the queen. How delicate, fragile she looks in this lighting, her skin as pale as the moon and hair as silver as the stars. A gentle soul burns inside her, and something scares her more than just this bedding.
“What’s wrong, Dany? You can confide in me, I swear it.”
Dany’s chocking sob comes unexpected, as she throws herself against Sansa. The force startles her, but she pulls Dany tight against her chest and rubs calming circles against her back. For a moment, Dany feels a bit bigger than Sansa knows she is. But that is gone as the woman pulls away and Sansa can see that her dress falls just the same as it had last week.
“I cannot tell you. You would not understand.” Dany sniffles, straightening her back as if trying to save her dignity.
“Is it about Jon?”
Daenerys pauses. “Yes.”
Sansa understands that all too well. She wants him, but he wants Dany, who wants him, but neither would act to ruin the marriage that seals the fates of both their kingdoms. She hates herself for it, just a little, but she just wants Dany and Jon to be happy. All three of them don’t need to be miserable in this arrangement. “I regret the words I said the other week. I know you both don’t wish to dishonor yourselves or me, but I would not mind . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I would not mind it, if you sought your comforts with each other. When I am not with you.”
Daenerys steps back, perhaps from the shock of what Sansa has said. “Sansa, that’s not what I - ”
“Sh.” Sansa holds up her hand, looking back at Jon’s sleepless form upon the bed. He’s so innocent in the soft moonlight. So pure and untouched by darkness and by war. If only his life had been that easy, like the songs will make it out to be. But real life is not so simple or melodic as the songs they will sing about them all.
“It’s alright, to want him. To love him.” Her gaze softens. “He’s so easy to love, isn’t he?”
Dany’s eyes widen. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?” She takes Sansa’s hand. “Despite spending nearly your entire marriage fighting, you love him.”
“Every other man I’ve met would try to contain my storm, my ice.” She smirks. “My fire. But Jon . . . he lets me rage as I have needed to. He would not pen a wolf or cage a dragon. Joffrey hit me for even small defiances. Ramsey raped me because the power and control felt good. Littlefinger would have hurt me if it helped him. Jon has not once tried to harm me, no matter the spite he must be feeling. So yes, I love him. For he is kind, and gentle, and good.”
She shakes her head, surprised at how much she has said. “But that’s not the point. I love you as well. For your friendship and support and strength. You gave everything to save the North and then still gave it up. I want the people I love to be happy. And if you need each other to be happy, who am I to stop that?”
“Oh, Sansa.”
Dany’s lips are soft upon her own. Jon kisses come gently, sweetly. They are mostly slow, exploratory, learning every inch of her. But Dany’s kiss is demanding, insistent. She commands Sansa to enjoy herself, to find her pleasure in the other woman’s touch. It is the kiss of a queen, not just a lover.
As Dany nips at Sansa’s lips, Sansa can taste the wine from earlier that night on Dany’ tongue as she slides it in to Sansa’s mouth. Dany’s hands find Sansa’s hips and pull her close with a gentle intensity. Although the other woman is smaller, she controls their motions. Sansa wraps her arms around Dany’s shoulders, wanting more but not knowing what more means.
In this moment they feel like part of the same creature, not separate people. Sansa smells the sweet fragrance of Dany’s perfume mixing with the sweat of their romp earlier in Jon’s bed. Jon, her husband, sleeping in the same room where she kisses her aunt. The thrill of it sends streams of fire up Sansa’s back. Her heart beats faster and faster and her own courage builds as the kiss deepens. Sansa takes Dany’s lips between her teeth, something she not done to anyone before, and nibbles at the tender flesh.
Daenerys trembles in Sansa’s arms, both of them giddy on love and lust and things between. Sansa, emboldened, kneads the plumpness of Dany’s ass. When her soft little moan comes, Sansa makes to devour it before it can wake Jon. This is not something that she is ready to explain. If she can ever explain it. She wonders if he could understand.
The thoughts of him are too much. Sansa pulls back suddenly, scared to lose herself in Dany anymore than she already has. “Will you come back to bed, then?”
Daenerys’s smile is small and sad. “You know why I have to go.”
Sansa nods. “I understand. Put on your shoes, and then I’ll show you the servant’s stair. None of the lordly gossips will find you back there since its hidden.”
When Daenerys finishes preparing herself, Sansa shows her the back stairs used to maintain the water pipes that heat the castle’s walls. Sansa grabs her hand as she exits Jon’s chamber and squeezes. “I’ll say my farewells come morning, your grace.”
“You think that Jon is gentle and I am strong, but you are the bravest of us al, your grace.” Dany smiles for her, not Daenerys the queen, despite her formal courtesies. “Until the morrow.”
Sansa settles back beneath the furs on Jon’s bed. The bed that once was my own, she thinks, until I gave it up. Her husband wraps his arms back around her, presses a sleepy kiss into the groove of her collarbone, and she is fast asleep.
In the morning, she wakes with Jon’s arms wrapped around her, the feeling so much like home she almost cries. Sansa’s thighs are still warm and wet from her interaction with Dany and she still remembers the beauty of their quick morning coupling the day after their wedding.
Boldly, she whispers his name between soft little kisses against his neck until he wakes.
“Mhm,” he mumbles, leaning into her touch. Jon’s hardness pushes against Sansa’s core and she bucks a little against it. His eyes flash open. “Sansa, I’m so sorry, I - ”
Jon’s apologies make her laugh, and her laughter makes him cross.
He rolls away from her and sits up on the other side of the bed. Still giggling, Sansa crawls behind him. As he makes to rise, she sets a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back to the bed. Sansa kisses his shoulder, his neck, the line of his jaw . . .
Only after she stopped laughing can she explain that he has nothing to apologize for. “I want you.”
“Sansa?”
“I want you, now. Please.” She explains. “I don’t want to remember you for months like yesterday morning, both of us angry and confused. Don’t leave that as the last thing I see. If you were to die, and that was all I had to tell a child . . .”
Jon turns at her words, eyes wide in awe. His words are filled with hesitations. “Are you - are you with child?”
The bravest of us all. She wants to believe Dany’s words, but she’s not sure she deserves it. But if she pretends at boldness and bravery, maybe she can earn them.
“I could be, but I don’t know.” Sansa crawls into his lap. “But we have one last turn to try.”
She kisses Jon like she has wished to for too long: deep and hard and a little bit rough, biting at his lips as she tried with Dany, pulling him against her and bunching up her nightshift in the same motion. Jon startles at first, pulling away and staring at her with terrified, wide eyes. “Sansa?”
“Make love to me, you fool. I want you. And I think you want me too.” She rotates her hips against the obvious bulge in his sleeping pants to prove it.
Jon settles his hands against the divots of her waist with reverence. Their kiss is hard and moist and breathy, rising heat in her cheeks and heart. Jon untangles from her long enough to fumble at his laces, then pulls her back into his lap to kiss her hard.
Jon dips his hand between them to prepare her, using the other to massage her breasts and bring her nipples into stiff peaks. He glides two fingers over her tiny nub, tracing it with gentle circles. She spreads her legs wider, sinking down on his fingers and giving him space to add a third one inside her.
After only minutes of his careful, soothing touch and rougher than normal kisses, Sansa reaches her release with a crescendo of moans and furious fingering from Jon. She bucks against his fingers like she's on his cock, letting him know fully how he's brought her over the brink of the end and undone the coldly courteous lady she's been for so long. Jon seems halfway to unmaking himself as he rasps, “I want you on top. Can you do that for me, milady?”
The dangerousness that seeps into his voice excites her. “Mhm, yes.” She murmurs.
Sansa uses her thighs to press off the bed so Jon can align his cock with her quim. She settles onto him with a hiss at this new kind of fullness, but she pushes through the strange feeling to squeeze her cunt around him like she knows he likes. Jon sets his hands on her hips, lightly, gently, but Sansa has total control.
Jon's eyes are filled with excitement, maybe even admiration, and in a rush he presses quick kisses to each of her teats. She’s nervous, straddling his lap with him inside her. Septa Mordane and her mother never said it could be like this, but they never told her lots of things. She wonders if it could hurt him, if controlling like this is harder than being beneath. Jon keeps his gaze steady on her face, tracing his thumbs idly on the skin of her hips. "Go on, Sansa. It's alright."
As she begins to rock herself with unsure movements, he presses a searing kiss against the skin of her neck. Sansa moans at the contact, lets him feel her and fill her. Jon takes a breast in his hand, skimming his hand delicately over the nipple as if she may leave if he is too hard on it. Sansa trembles as he cups her breast and Her nub rubs against the skin of his stomach and the bottom of his cock, drawing out more of her crooning moans. She lets the feelings overcome her as she tries to rise and return. Jon uses gentle strokes to meet her motions with light grunts. The feeling is sweetness and ecstasy, the things she was promised in the songs.
When she sinks down so Jon is deep inside her, Sansa rotates her hips with circular motions. Jon leans in and murmurs against her skin, kisses it, and nips at the bruise he left there earlier. She chases the pleasure she can feel oncoming, letting her movements on his cock get faster and faster, rising and returning with an unknown urgency.
Sansa loves the sounds of Jon’s grunts as they meet and his moans as she meets his hips and squeezes around his member. She loves the feel of Jon inside her, as they connect and become one. She loves Jon’s laugh and his smile, his way of telling stories and how he always looks like its brooding. She loves the way he brings her to pleasure whenever she will let him, like he does now, for the second time today already, setting his hand above where they meet and flicking at her sensitivity until she comes undone around.
That’s when she tells him all her truths, whispering it against his skin like a caress. “Jon, I love you. I don’t want you to leave, gods I love you, I love you, I love you . . .”
She’s stopped moving her body against his, but the tight spasming of her cunt around his cock sends Jon into his own madness. He thrusts up one last time into her, then holds onto her as they both fall back onto the bed, wrapped together in their bliss, Sansa praying that his seed would quicken inside her.
Sansa greets Daenerys in the great hall early in the morning with a purple bruise worn proudly as any gem on her neck. Without explaining that Jon woke up hard against her back and she woke up confused and wanting, Sansa hands over a brown paper wrapped package. “A parting gift, your grace.”
Daenerys eyes it carefully but accepts the package. With delicate hands, she unties and unwraps it. She pulls out the crimson scarf, but her brow is still knit together in confusion. “Thank you, Sansa, but isn’t it supposed to be warmer in the south?”
Sansa takes her seat with a smile. “It’s a token of appreciation. For saving the North and all her people.” For saving me, she wants to say, although she’s not quite sure what Dany saved her from.
“Thank you, then.” Dany wraps the scarf around her neck, wearing it proudly as lords, commanders, the Starks, and Jon finally join them. Jon grins sheepishly at Sansa as he settles to her left, ducking his head when she smiles back.
He didn’t say he loved her back, when she confessed her feelings to him. Perhaps he wasn’t ready, or he was too focused on his own pleasure to respond. Perhaps he was thinking of her moans and words coming from another woman.
Sansa wonders what it will be like, if Dany decides to take her husband back as her lover. A deep, dark, secretive place in her mind wonders if she could watch. She quaffs back her full cup of hot green tea before anyone can notice the blush enflaming her pale cheeks.
Most of her tea bursts from her mouth in a coughing fit when Arya plops in the seat across from Sansa with a dark bruise on her own neck. That can only mean one thing. She raises her eyebrow but all Arya gives in return is a smirk that suggests whoever she is fucking left her well satisfied.
Once, Sansa would have been horrified to know her sister was engaging intimately with a man not her husband. Now, she’s just glad that Arya’s found someone who seemingly makes her happy. Even if that man is not someone Sansa has personally met. Although, considering her own thoughts and strange, foreign feelings for Dany, it could well be a woman who has attracted Arya.
After they’ve broken their fast, its time to say their farewells to the warriors who will destroy Cersei. Nearly every able-bodied man is heading south with Jon and Daenerys, ready to end their final enemy. Sansa stands besides Jon as he readies his horse, wrapped in her cloak but still shivering from the thought of his loss.
She watches with an aching heart as he kneels besides Ghost and pats his head. "I'm leaving you with Sansa. You protect her and Bran, alright boy?"
The white direwolf stares at Jon with his bright red eyes and slowly blinks. As Jon rises, Ghost comes to stand besides Sansa and sniffs at her offered hand. Carefully, she sets it on his snout and then his head, petting all of him she can reach.
“By the time you return, we may have a child for him to protect as well. Does that frighten you?”
“No, it gives me another reason to fight.” Jon sets his gloved hand on her cheek and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll miss you, Sansa.”
“Will you?” She dares to almost hope again, but something holds her back. Sansa throws up the walls she’s used to, with bitter jabs disguised as poor jokes. “You’ll have all the company you could want, a princely king in King’s Landing. A Targaryen in the Red Keep.”
“Of course I’ll miss you.”
“It’s alright you know, if you don’t. I don’t mind if you have her, truly. I said it of spite before, but now I just want you to be happy.” The words hurt to tell him, but it is true. Sansa will prioritize his happiness over her own, over everything except the North and her other family.
Jon’s hand falls from her face and he steps back. His jaw strains, as if she has said something to offend him. “Your grace, I will protect our sister with everything I have. And then I will come home and we can build this castle anew for our children.”
His words are serious and everything she wants to hear, but something is wrong. So many things are wrong, with him and Dany and Arya, but no one will tell her what distresses them. Frustration fills her with every conversation she has had this morning, everything people have left unsaid. She doesn’t want to leave them like this, but now is not the time to rage against Jon and beg his forgiveness for whatever she has done.
Sansa maintains her facade of cool, forgiving grace. I will not let anyone see me cry, she swears. Not even him. “I eagerly await that return. Of both of you.”
Chapter 18: ARYA III
Summary:
Arya contemplates love.
Notes:
Sorry if this is not what you're expecting today. This is a bit off where we were, but it affects the actual plot trajectory (even if you don't see it, it does). A bit shorter than normal and I'm not quite sure I captured Arya well, but here it is anyway.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stories have come to life, and I’m still riding down the king’s road on the back of a horse.
Arya sits glumly in her saddle, reins in hand as she watches the two great dragons flying above the marching troops with the guidance of Jon and Queen Daenerys. Jon’s dragon spins and careens above her head, twisting like a kite in the breeze. She wonders what its like, to ride on dragonback. The closest she’ll ever get is the crest of this hill without nary a mythical beast to be seen, only the horse beneath her and her companion, and the queen and king’s horses trailing behind.
“I’ve been with Queen Daenerys for years and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing dragons.” Says the woman seated on the horse at her side. Missandei, Daenerys’ translator and companion, seems to have misread Arya’s frown.
“Have you ever ridden one? Tormund got to ride one north of the wall.” Arya responds, the first time she’s spoken since Jon and Daenerys left them with the horses while they went to fly, like they were no better than page boys.
Missandei looks startled at the question, although her face stays mostly still. “The queen offered, once, when we were on Dragonstone. I did not want to.”
“Would you accept if she offered again?”
Missandei pauses, pondering Arya’s question. “No. I like to keep myself on the ground where I can feel and understand it.”
“If she asked me, I’d say yes.” Arya lifts her gaze to find the little queen in the sky. She’s a speck of white riding robes on top of her black-and-red dragon. Daenerys named it Drogon, for her dead husband, but the name makes Arya laugh. Too close to Dragon, it’s nearly unoriginal. The other one, of course, is named for Jon’s own father.
“If you end these wars and kill Cersei, she would likely agree if you asked.” Missandei suggests.
“Killing Cersei will be my own pleasure. I’m not just doing it for her.”
“Even so you will be a hero to all of Westeros, and to our queen’s cause.”
“I’m a Northerner. She’s not my queen. My sister is.” Arya tries not to let her melancholy show too much, that her sister finally gets to be queen over her and all that had to change was the way their entire family functioned
A voice inside her still whispers like her younger self that Sansa gets to be a queen and Arya will be nothing because she’s not enough for anything. Yet, logically, she knows this isn’t what her sister truly wants. The outcome might be, to preserve the Starks and secure the North in perpetuity, but the results . . . agreeing to marry their brother and away their eventual child to a southern ruler nearly defeats the goal of protecting the Starks, even if the promise protects them for now.
She still can't imagine them laying together. Hasn’t accepted that they will, someday. Maybe they’ve even lain together now. She thinks of the rush she felt when Gendry caressed her skin, the way he traced each scar like his fingers were pilgrims visiting the most holy of sites. How could our brother make her feel love like that?
Missandei’s eyes have darkened and she’s almost formed a scowl in her anger. “Still, Daenerys will be grateful.”
Sansa’s the one whose good at dealing with people. Arya doesn’t yet have a knack for it and she’ll never be a talent at politics. But still, even she can read the unfortunate direction this conversation could take. She takes a breath and lets a steely silence fall between her and the Naathi advisor.
The men from the Riverlands, brought North by Thoros of Myr, march across the road below. Gendry rides among them, sitting awkwardly in a saddle he was not born in to. He looks up the hill hopefully trying to catch her gaze. Arya swallows and turns her gaze back to the sky. They’ve made love since he was legitimized by Daenerys, but they have not spoken in a real conversation. She’s sure he still wants her to go South - permanently - to manage his castle and bear his children. But that’s not a future Arya wants right now. I’m not sure I’ll ever want it.
“Your lover, I hear he died in the battle.”
“Yes. His name was Grey Worm. Torgho Nudo.” Missandei says. The words sound beautiful on her tongue, even if they are themselves vile. In Braavos, Arya learned much about the slave trade and even about the Unsullied. And she heard more about the Dragon Queen who marched across the continent, freed slaves, and destroyed Masters in her pursuit of justice.
“Thank you, for his service. I’m sorry he had to die so far from home.” Arya offers, and she means it. A few hundred meters away, Daenerys and Jon are landing with the dragons. She smiles at Missandei, trying to offer an assurance of the truth of her words.
“He died defending us. The people he loves. We were his home, and he was home.” Missandei gives a small smile back. “Thank you, Lady Arya.”
She takes the reins for Jon’s horse and tugs so it knows its time to move. Before riding off, she says, “Arya, please. I’m no one’s lady.”
“Oh, milady.” Gendry groans as they fall back against his sleeping roll in a sweaty pile of bare limbs. Arya swats playfully at his arm before rolling away from his overheated torso. He’s called her that every time they’ve finished their lovemaking, even their first time together. But he means no harm.
“Yes, milord?” She says, in the voice she used back in her days as Nan the cupbearer. Arya sits up and fumbles her hands around in the dark tent in search of her breeches. “You know, you should start saying my lady instead of letting it all slur together. That’s how the proper lords of the south speak.”
“Well, I’m no proper lord.” Arya thinks she’s found her breeches, but before she can pull them closer to check, Gendry slithers an arm around her hips and pulls her down onto the sleeping roll. She leans back into the safe strength of his grasp, letting his other arm settle around her. With a gentle kiss to her shoulder, Gendry says, “Why don’t you stay the night?”
“Because you snore.”
“You know that’s not true.” He’s asked this before, wanting something more than simple sex from Arya. But she’s yet to hear his voice like this, so soft and questioning and sad. “What’s the real reason?”
Arya turns around, glad for how dark it is. This way, she doesn’t need to cover her breasts and scars from him. Her father said she looked like her Aunt Lyanna, once, and everyone always said Lyanna was beautiful. But Arya never feels that way, with her scruffy short hair and her manly ways. She’s not like Sansa or Daenerys, so comfortable in their own skin they fail to see the way the world looks at them as any different. “I don’t want to marry you Gendry.”
Gendry treats her like she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and calls her it to when they’re in the heat of their passion. But he’ll move south to his big new castle and marry some willowy lady who likes to sing and dance and forget all about the northern wolf he once bedded when he thought he was a bastard about to die.
So she separates herself from her feelings, doesn’t let her heart get more attached than it already is to Lord Baratheon.
“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m just asking you to stay.” He says, and cups her face in his hand. “I don’t know how to handle the southern lords. All I have is my blood, but I’m also just a bastard.”
“So’s the King in the North.”
“The rules are different for Targaryens married to the last lord’s sister.” Gendry says. “No talk of marriage now. Just you and me. Like it ought to be.”
“Fine. But just for tonight.” Arya says. She settles into the feel of Gendry’s arms uneasily, but feels the warmth of him and in it there is strength.
As Gendry falls asleep as quick as she fell in love with him, Arya wonders what its like, to love someone and have them fully love you in return. She saw it with her parents, although that took them time. She thought she saw it between Jon and his dragon queen, until he married their sister. Now, Arya’s so unsure what love looks like she’s not sure it could ever happen to her.
But maybe it has, all the same. Gendry’s arms tighten around her and he nuzzles against the smooth skin of her neck. Arya rolls around to face him, to study the laugh lines on his cheeks and count the heartbeats between his breaths. She may not be able to fall asleep herself right now, but at least she can fall in love for a little while longer.
Chapter 19: SANSA V
Summary:
Back in Winterfell, Sansa worries for those she loves and handles the running of a castle.
Notes:
This chapter has more characters than OT3 and no smut. I feel weird writing actual plot in this story all of a sudden, but here it is.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A lady’s work is never done but it certainly is easier when almost everyone in the castle marches south.
Sansa pushes back from her desk, tired from going over the ledgers in this room all afternoon. The sound of her chair echoes across her empty office. By the door, Ghost perks up his great white head and hops up as Sansa stands.
“Would you like to go outside?” Sansa teases. Ghost, though silent as his name, thumps his tail happily against the rushes. Jon left the wolf to watch over her and Bran, but mostly he stays with Sansa when he is not out hunting in the wolfwood. She pets his soft fur and leaves with Ghost bounding in front of her.
The godswood is more empty even than the rest of the castle; not even Bran sits besides the heartree staring the black pool. Sansa likes to come here to think in the soft quiet and solitude when the castle is full. But now the eerie stillness reminds her of all that is missing from her home.
Still, she swipes the snow from the bench beneath the tree and sits. Sansa tightens the red shawl around her shoulders against the cold winds. When will winter be truly over? The Night King is dead, but no white raven has arrived from the Citadel to confirm the turning of the seasons. She worries that their stores will not be enough, that her people will die cold and scared and hungry. Sansa sighs. There is no time to worry on that now.
Ghost runs around the godswood, disappearing in the trees as Sansa closes her eyes to start her prayers.
She starts with brave Arya, the one who gets to end their family’s greatest enemy and who can finally bring them peace. Peace. What a farce, to think the realm can ever be at peace. There will always be war and strife and threats against the Starks and their friends and allies. At least now they have direwolves and dragons to protect them and their children.
For Arya, she prays for strength and safety. The fortitude to not be frightened and the quick confidence her sister has always had in her true self. And Sansa prays for Arya’s love to find her and hold her extra tight tonight, an embrace that will truly come from her sister.
Her thoughts turn to Jon, her brother, her savior, her cousin, her husband. He’s been so many things to her, and it hurts to not know what she is to him. Sansa misses the sheer comfort of knowing he stands besides her, even when she knows he will argue with whatever she suggests. She wants him back where he can be safe, where she can protect him from the politics she forced him into when she pushed him to be a king again.
Sansa has slept in Jon’s bed since he left, moved back into the chambers that should have been both of theirs from the beginning. Once he is back, she does not plan on changing that again. No matter how much they will fight and argue and spar with their words, Jon will never hurt her. He may not love her like she wants, but he will always take care that she is safe.
For Jon, she prays for quickness with his sword and strategy, for feelings to blossom between them like flowers in the spring. And for a child. She wants to greet him at the gates with a rounded belly, the future of their house growing inside her. A babe with his eyes and hair, the Stark look for the Stark heir.
Without meaning too, Sansa sets a hand against her belly, wondering if what she wants is already there.
She prays for Daenerys, too, although these thoughts and prayers are her shortest. For Daenerys, she asks for victory against her enemies and justice in her court. For Dany, she wishes happiness can find her somehow in more than just a married woman, a married man, or in her dragons.
When Sansa finally opens up her eyes, a sprinkle of snow coats over her hair and dress and the sun is setting in a sky of pink and orange on the horizon.
Ghost leaps out of a crowd of trees and immediately comes to her side as she rises. His maw is stained by the scarlet blood of some poor kill. “Did you find a lovely snack, Ghost? Will you decide to stay or shall I let you out to hunt tonight?”
He stares at her with his intense eyes, where something dances like a smile.
Tormund Giantsbane meets her at the gate of the godswood. He wears a bow across his back, two daggers at his waist, and holds a spear in his hands.
“How was the hunting, Tormund?” Sansa calls with a smile. The wildling scared her the first time she met him, with his massive ginger beard and his wild-eyed grin. But he has been an ardent supporter and dear friend to Jon, and waits with her for his return. Although, she thinks, he may just be waiting to work on wooing Brienne.
“Sparser than I would like.”
Tormund tries to fall in step with Sansa. Ghost leaps from her other side, startling Tormund back as he nips at his ankles. Ghost’s mouth curls back in an angry snarl, bearing his sharp, shining teeth. He growls deep at the other man and snaps as Tormund tries to move.
“Ghost, its me!” Tormund protests. “What’s happened to him?”
“I have no idea.” Sansa sets a hand on Ghost’s neck. When he doesn’t react to her touch, she runs her hand along his spine. “Ghost, what’s wrong? Tormund is a friend.”
She holds out her other hand to Tormund. The man takes it with more delicacy than she thought he could ever show. Sansa speaks softly, like she might with a small child. “See, Ghost? Friend.”
On the road to Winterfell from Castle Black, Ghost had been adverse to approaching her. Jon had run them both through these motions every evening as they sat together by the fire until Ghost would willingly come to steal strips of meat from her beneath the table. Sansa thought he was familiar with Tormund and this behavior surprises her.
She kneels at Ghosts side, bringing Tormund’s hand in front of them. “Friend.”
Ghost sniffs at Tormund’s hand, then sniffs again. He glances over at Sansa, as if to say, Are you sure?
When she rises, he does not try to bite Tormund again. Ghost still insists on walking between them as they head to the great hall for dinner though. They discuss the hunt and the few, thin animals the Free Folk hunters were able to track down. There is enough grain for now, but with no end to winter in sight there is lots of concern among the northerners and Free Folk about how they will eat in the months or years ahead.
Eventually, the Free Folk will settle in the gift, man the wall if necessary, and establish their own tribes again. They will function much like the Flints of the wolfswood, paying tribute to Winterfell in exchange for its support and protection. But winter is not a time for rebuilding whole villages and planting groups. Until winter’s end, the Free Folk wait in Winterfell.
Sansa takes her place at the empty head table. Bran sits a seat away, staring vacantly at a thin bowl of potato stew. She pokes at the chunks of ham inside her own bowl. Sansa learned long ago it is no longer worth trying to start a conversation with her brother. He is too lost in his own, strange world to come back and share a chat.
Sansa glances at the empty seat between them, where Jon should be.
Or Dany, Sansa thinks. She frowns at her stew.
Sansa still doesn’t understand what has happened between them. She heard rumors in King’s Landing that Lord Renly Baratheon and Ser Loras Tyrell had lain together as man and wife were supposed to. Brella, Tyrion’s own maid who once served Renly, even confirmed those rumors. But no one ever told her a woman could love a woman.
If it’s even love and not just misplaced lust. Sansa reaches for her goblet of wine and drinks heavily to hide the blush creeping at her face from the way Dany has made her feel twice now. She didn’t know she could feel like that just from kissing someone else. Jon brought her to a peak unlike anything else with his touches between her legs and kisses on her breasts, but Dany hadn’t even seen Sansa bared before her to kiss her like it was the heat of something wonderful to come. Or is that all just a ploy to get my permission to fuck Jon?
Sansa drinks more wine. Her confused yearning will get her no where when Jon and Daenerys travel south together. If anything happens, it happens. And if it doesn’t, well . . .
She glances again at Jon’s empty seat. Sansa misses him, hopeless dreamer that she still is. But she misses him differently than the way she missed him when he went to fetch them allies on Dragonstone. This is a deep, different pull in the very core of her soul. She yearns for something she’s lost, not just put away for a little while. She wants him back.
Gods willing, Jon will return to her, with Arya in tow, and her family can be whole and complete and together. Finally. All she wants is them both back and safe. And that will be enough of a gift from the gods for the rest of her life.
“You, there!” She calls to one of the household guard sitting at the trestle table below. The man stands at attention immediately. His eyes are dark brown, his hair even darker, and he is old enough to be her grandfather.
“My queen?”
“Come here.” She motions to the seat beside her. “Bring your bowl with you.”
The man settles uneasily into what should be her sister’s seat. Sansa remembers seeing her father eating with his workers and officers when she was a young girl, although she thought little of it then. She wonders what lessons he had to learn from the people who joined his family for their meals.
“Tell me about yourself.” Sansa asks. “Who are you, and what is your role in my castle?”
The man begins to speak, timidly at first, as if he expects her to take his head where he stands. Slowly, between bites of the stew she is finally eating, Sansa coaxes information from him. His name is Ondren, but he goes by Old On. He’s one of the soldiers who mans the walls, although he’s a villager from a village closer to the wall than Winterfell.
He started south after Free Folk raiders took his youngest two daughters after the attack on the wall, and settled in the winter town with his family. Three sons and two grandsons died in the battle and another two grandsons died in the crypt.
“I am sorry for your loses.”
“They died so the rest of my family can live.”
“Who else is in your family?” Sansa asks.
“My remaining daughter and son, and sixteen grandchildren. They’re my pride, full of joy and life.” He frowns. “Although, my youngest granddaughter hasn’t taken well to her mother’s death. She’s six, too young to understand what’s happened and where her family is. My children have our hands full with the others.”
“I’d like to help, if I can. What’s the girl’s name?”
“Lyessa.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” Sansa ponders what he’s told her tonight. “If you approve, she can come stay with me. I’ve been quite lonely without my husband or my sister. It would be good to have some companionship and we can care for her in the castle. Your family would be welcome to visit at any time, as well.”
“Truly, your grace?”
Sansa smiles. “Of course. Bring Lyessa when you get a chance. We will find a place for her and maybe find her some happiness, too.”
After the meal, Bran joins Sansa in Jon’s solar for some time by the fire. Her brother is most like how he used to be here, and even smiles a little when she makes a poor attempt at a joke. But Sansa still feels the emptiness. Where there should be four Starks there are only two. Soon enough, she helps Bran back to his room.
She takes Ghost down to the gate, ready to let him run free to hunt for the night. The direwolf steps out into the blustering winds, then turns back to look at Sansa.
“What’s wrong with you?” She asks, wondering if his odd behavior is because he is sick. She never had enough time with Lady to know how to read the wolf’s expressions all that well.
Ghost quirks his head to the side then returns into the courtyard. Sansa shakes her head and commands the portcullis to be lowered for the night.
Back in her rooms, Sansa changes into her nightshift. She crawls in bed ready for another exhausting day to come in the morning. She hopes she’ll dream of Jon and their joy to come instead of all things she’s lost. With Ghost besides her, it’s almost as if she has her lover back. The direwolf sets his head against the hill created by her legs and nestles in until he looks comfortable. Sansa sets her hand against his head and plays with the fur, finding his soft presence comforting.
She sleeps with a smile on her face and happiness in her heart, cuddling deeper into the furs.
The furs still smell like Jon. Like home.
Chapter 20: ARYA IV
Summary:
Arya, Dany, and Jon deal with a surprise brought to their attention by Tyrion; Arya and Jon have a conversation about their family's new state.
Notes:
More ~plot~ which is so so so so weird.
There probably won't be any super smut until Chapter 19, although I could add some in Chapter 18 if ya'll are interested in some Gendry/Arya fun times. LMK below!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rising sun sparkles off the golden hand like dragonfire reflecting off the snow. Arya turns Jaime Lannister’s hand and lets the light run along the well-defined ridges of its knuckles and fingers. “How can anyone bear to wear this monstrosity?”
“I think he did it for our sister.” Tyrion Lannister suggests. “To let him feel whole for her.”
Arya wonders, not for the first time in this conversation, how she ended up speaking with the other Lannister hand so early in the morning. I wonder who Sansa and Jon’s Hand will be. Arya thinks. They better not choose me. Arya does not mind the burdens of leadership, but bending to the whims of quipping lords and bickering ladies seems the most unpleasant torture she can imagine. He watched her do her morning practice drills, then the two of them ate breakfast round the same fire and for whatever reason Tyrion Lannister decided to waddle after her when she went to prepare for another day of traipsing through the Riverlands.
“Well, I’ll be sure to let Cersei know that he’s whole without his hand when I kill her.” Arya laughs at a mental image that appears to her. “Or maybe I’ll beat her head in with this hand. Wouldn’t that be ironic, killing a Lannister with a hand of gold?”
Tyrion does not smile like she thought he would. Arya rolls her eyes and stows the hand in her saddle bags. “Or should I show her mercy like she’s never shown to anyone else?”
“She’s pregnant.”
Arya stops and turns around with wide eyes. “Bloody hells.”
“And yes, it’s Jaime’s.” Tyrion withdraws a flagon from inside his cloak and takes a swig. He holds it out to her. Normally, Arya wouldn’t drink this early, but she’s so stunned by the news that she takes a full gulp of the bitter wine before handing it back. “Still think its funny to beat her to death with her lover’s hand?”
“Did you not think to mention this sooner?” Arya’s glare hardens. ”Or was I just supposed to find out when she tried to plead for mercy for a child I assume was another Lannister lie?”
Tyrion shrugs. “I wasn’t sure how anyone would react and everyone seemed set on heading to King’s Landing as soon as possible. This is a conversation that could be had on the way.”
“And Jaime still doesn’t know our real plan.” Arya sets a foot in the stirrup and swings herself up into the seat of her saddle, wincing as her barely-healed shoulder twinges. The frostbite is nearly recovered thanks to a salve Sam Tarly made for her, but her right shoulder is likely to ache all her days. “Time to clean up this mess.”
She takes the reins in hand and snaps them, urging her horse to the head of the train that’s started to march along the King’s Road. The wind rushes through her face as she passes by the stragglers putting away their tents. Any other moment, she’d enjoy riding fast like this. But not now.
Jon and Daenerys stand together in silence, overlooking the troops with flat, sullen expressions. Arya tries to ignore the methodical steps of the Unsullied. The banging noise gives her a headache, but she has more important things to worry about.
“Jon, Daenerys, we need to speak.” When Jon’s only response is to sleepily blink back at her, Arya dismounts and grabs him by the sleeve. “Now.”
His brow creases in concern. Daenerys is the one to ask, “What’s the matter, Arya?”
“Cersei’s pregnant.” She hisses.
“How did you come by this information?” Daenerys asks. “Why didn’t we hear of this before?”
“Tyrion decided it wasn’t worth sharing.” Arya says, willing to throw anyone under the Dothraki stampede. “I’m not going to kill her child.”
Daenerys spurs into action and turns to the Unsullied captain by her side. She speaks in quick, fluent High Valyrian. “Bring me Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion immediately. Send four soldiers to bring Jaime Lannister from the prison wagon, but keep him in shackles.”
The Unsullied captain marches off, giving orders to his men and heading back towards where Arya left Tyrion.
“Jaime doesn’t know the plan. He may have thought to convince us to spare her, later.” Arya balances all the options. “Or, ironically, he planned to breakout and save her somehow. Like we’re planning on doing anyway. At least I’ll be properly in character.”
“You understood me?” Daenerys asks, taken aback.
Arya nods. “I learned it in Braavos, and a few other tongues. Westerosi is still my best, though.”
The queen surprises Arya with a small smile and a joking lilt to her voice. “That’s a useful skill for you. But I must watch what I say around you then. Cannot have you learning any of my deepest secrets.”
Jon sets a hand on his sword pommel. “What would you have us do, Daenerys?”
She intertwines her fingers in a motion that reminds Arya of Sansa’s habits when she is thinking. It’s so strange to see how alike the two queens are, when only a few months ago they were ready to kill each other to preserve their own positions. It’s a wonder Daenerys was willing to give up nearly half her kingdom in exchange for one child. It’s a wonder Sansa was willing to give up a child for a kingdom. So similar in bearing and what they have suffered, yet so different in how they let their experiences shape them. Sansa, working in the shadows, trading in secrets, politicking to protect their family and their people. Daenerys, waging wars, settling with her once-enemies, giving up on vengeance for her wronged family in order to preserve that legacy and build a better world.
“We cannot kill the child. I have asked not to be held at fault for the Mad King’s crimes and I will not hold this babe responsible for all the pain Cersei has wrought.” Daenerys turns to Arya. “Do you think you could capture her? We can let her give birth, then put her on trial.”
“What will be done with the child, then? It may grow up vengeful for us killing its mother, if it comes to that.” Arya says. “A child born with anger in its heart could grow up to be another Ramsey Bolton. Or worse.”
“The child may not be another Joffrey.” Tyrion announces his presence and enters the conversation, followed by Varys and the Unsullied captain. “Myrcella and Tommen were kind, sweet children, until they were dead. I will raise the child as my heir, unless I somehow end up having a child of my own by some miraculous marriage I am unaware of. Either way, I can give it a place at Casterly Rock.”
“Good of you to share this happy news with us, my lord.” Daenerys responds. Her lips are pursed and her eyes hard as purple diamonds. “Tell me, between you and Varys, why did no one think to mention this until now? Or did you not know?”
“My informants did not not know this, your Majesty.” Varys tucks his hands into his monstrous sleeves, a solemn look of apology on his face. Arya doesn’t believe him for a second. “I believe it may be false, a way to preserve her life.”
“We all know Tyrion would have used more tact if that were true, Spider. Why mention it so late?” Arya may not be one for politics, but she still knows an idiot when she sees one. “But anyway, who knew what or kept what information is not a problem I care about, with all respect, your graces. What are we going to do with Cersei’s child?”
The crowd of royals and their advisors falls silent, everyone staring out across the hills, valleys, campsite, and troops as they contemplate this question. Arya doesn’t want to trust the spawn of Cersei, but she knows these feelings are unprecedented. As traditional a lady as Princess Myrcella was, she still seemed sweet enough in hindsight. And Tommen had been kind boy when he escorted her into the great hall of Winterfel all those years ago. Even if she had been upset to be paired with the younger, plumper prince compared to Sansa’s radiant Prince Joffrey.
“Foster it at Winterfell.” Arya finally suggests, breaking the silence. “My sister and I will make sure its treated well. And if the time comes that Lord Tyrion needs an heir, we can send him the child.”
“Soon enough there will be a band of Stark hellions running amok, I wager.” Tyrion quips. “Another ward growing among them would not be unfamiliar, your grace.”
Daenerys’ hands tighten against each other, her hands turning white as her riding habit. “And if someone decides to use that child to raise a claim against me?”
“We would not allow it.” Jon says. “If . . . it must be done, I will swing the sword myself. Protecting your legacy is protecting my own. Through my child.”
“And would you kill a child you had grown to love?” Daenerys asks, her eyes searching Jon’s for something, but Arya cannot recognize what. “If you needed to?”
“My fa - Ned Stark kept his distance from Theon Greyjoy, although he was our ward for nearly ten years. He loved his children and he loved me, but he did not love Theon. It will not be so difficult to distance myself from this child, when honor requires it to hold our pact.” Arya can read the lines in Jon’s face though - he is unhappy about this decision.
“Could Jaime seek shelter at Winterfell, if he survives this?” Tyrion seems thoughtful as he analyzes all their faces. “Watch his child grow, act as its true father underneath your supervision? We haven’t yet discussed what was to become of my brother after this war is won.”
Jon nods. “If he lives and Queen Daenerys approves, we will accept him in exile.”
Arya scowls. She doesn’t approve of Jaime Lannister living out the rest of his life in Winterfell. She knows that Brienne of Tarth is fond of him - perhaps too fond - but she sees no reason that means he should live with them. If I’m even welcome back in Winterfell. They haven’t spoken of what will happen to me after the war, either.
“Our pact to protect your kingdoms and ours still stands.” Jon continues. “If Jaime or the child were to try any kind of rebellion, we would be honor our agreement with the Iron Throne.”
“Are all in agreement, then?” Varys chirps in that way of his. If he had eyebrows, he would raise them in Daenerys’ direction now. “My queen?”
She looks startled to be addressed. “Yes. We are. Now, shall we join the march?” As the advisors disperse for their wagons and horses, she turns to the dwarf. “Lord Varys, a word?”
Jon comes to Arya’s side, guiding both her horse and his. “Will you ride with me, little sister? It’s been some time since we spoke. I barely see you.”
Arya nods, mounts her horse and together they join the column.
“So where will Jaime Lannister live in Winterfell? Shall he be Bran’s roommate, since they get along so well?” She jokes, hoping to mask her displeasure at their new, permanent guest. “Or do you think Sansa will find space for him and his incestuous spawn in the Broken Tower?”
“Don’t be cruel, Arya.” Jon chides. She doesn’t think he’s ever spoken down to her like this before. “Truly though, we’ll figure that out later. Only if he lives. We have a long siege before we know if he makes it back alive.”
“Speaking of the siege, did Sansa tell you she wrote to our uncle at Riverrun? I don’t know if he will follow through, but she asked him to send what troops he could spare to the crossroads to join Daenerys’ fight.” Arya cannot imagine Edmure Tully leading forces. Yes, he is an anointed knight, but he was thin and sickly when she freed him from the dungeons at the Twins. There has not been enough time for him to gather all his strength again. But all the same, she hopes he sends some men.
“I didn’t know.” Jon’s brow furrows. “It’s been trying, whatever is going on. We don’t talk much about what we do.”
“Did you ever communicate well?”
“I trust Sansa with the North, with our kingdoms. She understands your mother’s words, and the importance of Winterfell to our family’s safety. I did before I left for Dragonstone the first time and I do now. But I don’t trust her to tell me everything. It’s something I’m working on with her, too.” He grins at Arya. “It’s good to have you back, to speak with and try to get through to Sansa. She’s never been as easy to understand as you have been, no matter her understanding of honor and duty.” Something flashes in Jon’s eyes and is voice softens. “Will you be returning to Winterfell?”
Arya resists the urge to cover her arms across her chest protectively. “Where else would I go?”
“The new Lord of Storm’s End seems quite besotted by you.” Jon tilts his head at her and raises a brow. “Dany and I were wondering if there would be another marriage on the horizon.”
She makes a face. “Gendry and I are just friends. Your aunt can find him some other bride. It won’t be me.”
“Do you think you’ll ever settle down?” Jon’s expression softens as worry flashes through Arya’s eyes. “You know Sansa and I would never make you.”
“It’s not something I’ve had the luxury to think about since leaving King’s Landing. Then, I never wanted to marry and have children. But now?” Arya shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“It’s good, to love someone and be loved in return. I hope you find someone someday, even if you don’t want to bear children.” Jon readjusts in his saddle. “On that, Sansa and I at least agree.”
Arya quirks her head in an unasked question. Jon explains, “We both understand that we want children. Not just because the law demands that we have an heir, or even that the pact requires one for us and one for Dany. We both want children, to fill Winterfell with laughter once again. I did not know her well when were young, but I knew she wanted family, and I know she still does.”
“Does it make it harder or easier to call her your wife, knowing you never knew each other that well?” Arya tries not to let the hurt tinge her voice. She’s always been Jon’s favorite sister, maybe even favorite sibling. But now, with Sansa in his bed . . . she doubts things will ever be the same. Arya takes an apple from her saddlebag and tosses it in the air, distracting herself with the rolling red above her head.
“I don’t know.” Jon sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He smiles as if at some distant memory. “I loved a woman once. A wildling beyond the wall. Ygritte. She reminded me of you, a little. Small and fierce, but smart and capable, a spearwife who cared little what people thought and less what men did.”
Something in the way he speaks about his wilding makes Arya think of Gendry, riding with the Brotherhood somewhere else in the column. She shakes her head to chase away those thoughts. She doesn’t love Gendry, can’t love him. Not when he’ll find someone better soon. Instead of lingering on her confused feelings, she asks, “What happened to your Ygritte?”
“She died, when Mance Rayder attacked the wall with a hundred thousand wildlings.” Jon’s smile fades. “Our love was different from how I ever felt about you or Sansa, no matter how much she reminded me of you. What I mean by all this . . . it’s hard to think of Ned Stark as my uncle. And it’s even harder to think of his daughter as my wife. Let alone someone I can loves as a man loves a woman.”
She bites into her fruit. “Then why did you marry Sansa?”
Jon hesitates. “Politics.”
The answers disclarity annoys her. He says she’s the sister he gets along with and understands the best, and yet Jon hides something from her in this conversation. Jon and Sansa chose to change their entire family dynamic, and now he won’t even answer for what he’s done. Arya glares at him for a moment and doesn’t wait for any more of his non-answer.
“Did you fuck her?” Arya takes another bite of her apple. The juice drips down her chin and she wipes it off with the back of the hand. Jon’s stony gaze tells her everything she needs to know. Although she’s not quite sure she wanted to know the answer to her question. Arya cocks her eyebrow. “More than once?”
“Yes.”
Jon offers no explanation; she doesn’t expect him too, either. She’s hurt, that Jon and Sansa both went through with this marriage. But she thinks of what Jon said earlier, about pacts and laws and duty and honor.
“So, do you love her?”
“That’s complicated.”
"It’s a shame. Sansa deserves better. She deserves a husband like she always wanted, someone who loves her.”
“I - ”
“You’re still in love with the dragon queen.” Arya states the truth plainly and tosses the apple core to the snowy roadside. Jon opens his mouth as if he’s preparing some aggressive protest. “Don’t look so surprised, Jon. We all knew it the moment you rode through the gates at Winterfell.”
“She forced my hand. Her and Dany.” He explains, finally providing some truth. “The alliance was Dany’s idea, and Sansa accepted. Then she convinced me.”
“You could have said no.” Arya’s anger boils high in her blood and she knows he hears her accusations of betraying her and their family in her tone. Jon’s mien is sad but he makes no chance to explain further.
“Yes, but on what grounds, when my actions would destroy all our kingdoms?”
Any further trace down this line of questioning will be useless, Arya knows. Without a word, she guides her horse to the mud-splattered edge of King’s Road and canters off beyond reach of the King in the North wondering where she can find Gendry, who might just understand.
Chapter 21: DANY VI
Summary:
Dany ponders the present, past, and future, and spends some personal time with Jon.
Notes:
I've been playing around with what OT3's future might look like together, how many kids they might have, names, appearances, personalities, etc. and accidentally made a chart for a world where they collectively have TWENTY EIGHT CHILDREN. Could you imagine the CHAOS?????
I know it's party unrealistic, but considering how young our leading ladies are, and how much sex these three have had and will have, it's maybe not as unlikely as I think . . . tbd if I go that far, but it's very amusing to imagine.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I didn’t know how many hills the riverlands have.” Dany comments to Missandei as they guide a supply cart along the King’s Road. Dany would rather be riding on horseback but her abdomen had been paining her all night and she had little rest because of it. Paired with the dizziness she felt when she mounted a steed, Lord Varys had suggested it would be best to sit in a cart for the day. Daenerys had deeply agreed. Missandei had dutifully joined her, riding up and down the hills eight times since the train met the Green Fork early this morning. The river is half frozen and rolls slowly besides the marching train of soldiers and supplies. “Although I know little about any part of Westeros.”
She thinks back to the books Ser Jorah gave her as a wedding gift when she married Drogo, filled wit stories and histories of her homeland. Somehow, the books have survived everything she has been through, traveled from Pentos to Vaes Dothraki to Astapor and Meereen. She left them at Dragonstone when she followed Jon north, and Dany aches for the familiarity of their pages.
“The hills beautiful, in a cold sort of way.” Missandei responds, although her voice is distant. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so many.”
Dany reaches out and squeezes Missandei’s hands. She asks, “What would you like, when all of this is over? Shall you want to go back home to Naath, I can arrange it.”
Missandei turns to Dany, her wise golden eyes thinking and turning over the prospects for her future. “I will stay by your side. You are my home now. And I would say happiness, but that goal is too vague to mean anything.”
“For so many years, happiness meant my brother on the Iron Throne and safety in the walls of the Red Keep under his stable reign. Then it meant peace in Meereen between the masters and the freedmen.” Dany muses, withdrawing her hand back into the pile of cloaks and blankets used to keep her warm from the chilly air. Missandei’s support and friendship has been one of the greatest blessings of her life. More so even than Drogo or Jon’s love, because that can disappear but their bond is constant, forged in the fire of hardship and heartache. “I don’t remember the last time I was truly happy.”
“I was happy for a while on Dragonstone.” Missandei admits. “Although I don’t know if I’ll ever find that kind of happiness again.”
She means her happiness with Grey Worm, Dany realizes. Their love. “You’re a beautiful and capable woman. Anyone would be lucky to love you and be loved in return.”
Dany sighs and gazes ahead to where Jon rides at Ser Davos Seaworth’s side, deep in conversation with the old knight. Her hand absentmindedly strokes her belly, thinking of their child growing in her. Time and time again, she has wondered if it is better to tell him. All her advisors and the lords that travel with them wonder and wait for news of Sansa’s potential pregnancy. But Jon is already a father-in-waiting.
A few times, during their months on Dragonstone, she let her mind wander to the potential of giving up on Westeros, running away with him to some city where even she could blend in. Volantis, perhaps, or Lys. A daughter city of Old Volantis, where one silver-haired maiden was like any other. They could have been happy, living like that. But it would have rejected who they are, Jon’s dedication to the North and his duty and her to saving the people suffering beneath Cersei’s reign.
If not for Jon’s marriage to Sansa, Dany might even consider running away with him now. She thinks after all he’s seen, Jon might even agree too . . .
Missandei catches her gazing eye and smiles secretively. “Do you think you’ll love again?”
“I don’t know.” And that’s the truth. She’ll have to find a husband to pretend was her long-time lover, to call the father of her child. She takes her hand off her stomach. But that is a problem for later. First, she must capture her city and oust Cersei Lannister. Not just for this child, but for all those who are subject to the other woman’s rage.
“He still loves you, you know.” Missandei says, sharing the truth Dany has tried so hard not to think about. She won’t follow through on loving him, she thinks, no matter how much her heart wants to. I can’t betray Sansa. Even with her permission. Dany values their friendship too much, and it has already been strained so much by keeping this child a secret, by holding her thoughts and heart so close to her chest.
Before her own complicated feelings, back when she proposed the idea of uniting their houses through Sansa and Jon, Dany thought to find a sister in Sansa, and in Arya. She would like to work on that, once the world is settled and she has protected her child and secured its safety and all the rest of her plans for the next few months. Sansa’s adverse reaction to their plan was only out of love for her sister and fear for Arya’s death. Dany has come to understand that concern more on the King’s Road, hearing more detail of what the North has suffered than she knew before, like the wolf head sewn to King Robb’s body. The loss and hurt to the Stark family, once so numerous and now so few, is palpable. It’s the same loss she felt her entire life, hearing stories of Viserys’ childhood with a mother and a father who loved him, a strong, kind brother to admire, and a niece and nephew to play with and spoil. Compared to his family, Dany had no one.
Even with these considerations, she still thinks Sansa was too quick to anger and childish by refusing bring Jon and Dany her concerns. Those days of silence numbed Dany to the choices before her and only encouraged her desire to go South and end the battle of wills between the two queens . . . and the battle of her feelings for the husband and wife.
Finally, she answers Missandei. “I wonder if Jon would feel that way if he knew I kissed his wife.”
Missandei gasps. “You kissed Sansa?”
Dany cannot help but smile through a painful pull in her stomach, announcing with a little pride, “Twice.”
“Didn’t a few of your ancestors have many wives?”
“Yes.” Dany has, of course, considered the silent solution offered by the question. What if Jon just took them both as his wives, Sansa and Daenerys? Aegon did not receive pushback for having two wives and many women offered to be his third or more. But she worries that the people of Westeros will rebel against another man with two wives or that the lords will call her the second Mad Queen for the mere suggestion.
“Just marry both then.” Missandei jokes. “Take a wife and a husband. Together, you three can rule the whole wide world. Free every slave and find every dragon egg.”
“It’s not so simple.”
Even if the three of them together were accepted, she worries of making Sansa a forgotten wife. She believes that Jon will move on from his feelings for Dany if given time to grow accustomed to Sansa, and maybe if they finally have a child. Love could grow between them, then. But if Dany marries Jon now, he may look at Sansa as his duty and her as his love because they already have that foundation. A wife for duty, a wife for love. They said the same of Aegon’s marriages to his sisters. And she isn’t even sure that Sansa did not just give in to the kisses Dany initiated because she feels honor bound to accept them.
Another pain racks Dany’s abdomen and she passes the reins to Missandei. Dany calls out to one of the guards passing the way, "Fetch Lord Varys, please. Tell him I have need of his special cider."
Lord Varys has proven exceptionally helpful in these few days, providing a cider from their stores mixed in with an herbal remedy that he said came from Essos and a little ox's blood. The remedy, although quite bitter, has been helpful to at least momentarily easing her stomach pains. She did not tell him of the true reason, of course, only complained of feeling nauseous and fatigued from the long days spent riding.
The other woman strokes her cheek gently. “Did Lady Sansa enjoy your kisses?”
“I don’t know.” Dany looks around the back of their wagon for a flask. She drinks eagerly when she finds one, hoping the cool, crisp water soothes her stomach aches. “Mayhaps I’ll ask her later. She offered to let me have him when we were on the road, if I wanted. Perhaps she wants us both.”
Dany stares again at Jon’s back, longing for answers she cannot ask right now. No matter what, I will not make another Visenya out of my friend. But if Sansa did enjoy kissing Dany as much as Dany enjoys kissing Sansa . . . well maybe Jon could have two wives after all.
But that is an idea to breach once King’s Landing is won and her own child’s future is secure. Until then, she will not breach the question. Anyone besides her and Missandei knowing could be a danger. She doesn’t know who to tell, who to trust. Any mistake could lead to her death, and her child living its early life like she did. Even Tyrion and Varys, who helped her and genuinely supported her claim . . . they could not be trusted with this. Not yet.
Lord Varys approaches on the side of their cart, a steaming mug in his hands. "I've brought you some of the concoction, your grace. Would Lady Missandei like some cider as well?"
Missandei shakes her head. "No thank you, Lord Varys." She has still not warmed to the eunuch. Dany hasn't really either, although she appreciates his help when it comes.
She wonders how he had heated it, but accepts the bitter drink without too much questioning. "Thank you." Dany sips, trying not to make a face as the bitter, hot liquid rolls down her throat.
"Have your riding pains still not ceased?" Varys asks. "Perhaps we should fetch a maester to examine you?"
"No!" Dany says, a bit too sharply. She wonders if he suspects . . . she has been so careful though, not touching her stomach, not holding it as she wants to, not even thinking of possible names. Calmer, she repeats, "No, Lord Varys, though I thank you for your concern. I had similar travails among the Dothraki at first and know it will be fine."
The lie should bother her, but she will do anything to protect her child. Lord Varys nods and backs away, returning to his own cart a few behind her and Missandei.
As she sips down the rest of the medicinal cider, Dany thinks back to the house with the red door and how sad she was to leave. Viserys and her lived in rich merchants’ homes in nearly every city across Essos. While it was luxurious, it was also dangerous. They fled in the dead of the night after a man in Volantis tried to bargain with Viserys to make seven-year-old Dany his twelfth wife. Another in Lys almost sold the both of them to a pillow house that specialized in exotic bloodlines. And then there were the nights when Viserys became convinced an assassin closed in on them, ready to end the Targaryen line. Escaping each city on foot or hidden in a caravan, it made no matter. Her youth was destroyed before she could really have one. She would not see her own daughter or son growing up scared of every shadow.
Another sharp pain in her side brings Dany back from thoughts of fear. She glances up to see Jon staring back and sending her an awkward little wave. She cannot help but smile brightly as he slows his horse. At the least, maybe her child can marry his. It isn’t quite the same as raising their children together, but it will bring their lines together if her babe goes unacknowledged as both of theirs.
“He’s besotted still. Maybe by both his queens.” Missandei whispers wickedly in Dany’s ear. She giggles like a little girl in response.
“What amuses you so?” Jon asks as he comes to their side. She takes in his almost-happy expression, the way his grey eyes shine in the snowy sunlight, the upturned tilt in the right corner of his mouth.
“My lord, we were discussing hills.”
“Hills?” Jon raises an eyebrow. “The riverlands are known for their hills, its true.”
“They’re beautiful.” She responds playfully. “Although I’m not quite sure what practical use they have to our people.”
Jon studies her for a moment then smiles in full like he’s hiding some secret. “I’ll have to show you otherwise my queen.”
“How so?”
“Find me when we break camp and I will show you.” Jon bites his lip and smiles. Before she can respond, he kicks his horse and canters back up to Ser Davos.
“What was that about?” Dany asks, leaning back in the wagon seat.
Missandei laughs. “I believe you’ll have to ask him that when you meet him.”
Dany frowns. “Should I, though? It may be bad to continue down this path.”
“You said yourself, you have Queen Sansa’s blessing.” Missandei says. “There is little harm in finding out what his offer was. And you are a queen, with dragons. You can always leave if that’s your will.”
Daenerys wishes it were that simple, but matters of the heart so rarely are. She thinks on Arya Stark, making eyes so frequently at the newly legitimized Lord Baratheon when she thinks no one else can see. Even a lady in love with a lord is confused and hiding her emotions. Sansa and Jon would surely agree to a marriage if Gendry asked for Arya’s hand. But something still stalls them from raising it, and Dany doesn’t think it’s because of the long march south. If anything, that’s only made them grow fonder of each other. They ride together for at least part of every day, and that is the only time she sees Arya truly smile.
Contemplating all the love and its confusion, Dany leans her head on Missandei’s shoulder and clutches at her waist as she’s wracked by another stomach spasm. Her eyes flutter shut and soon enough, she is fast asleep.
The wagon pulling to a stop wakes Dany hours later. She opens her eyes to a half-made camp and the setting sun disappearing over the crest of a nearby hill. Two of the cook’s boys quickly appear to begin unloading the cart, followed by Jon. Curiously, in one hand he carries a large plank of wood with a rope tied on one end. He offers her the other to help her descend, then does the same for Missandei.
“Now, your grace, may I show you the usefulness of my hills?” Jon laughs, a real, hearty sound. Dany feels a blush creep into her cheeks, although she swears its from the cold and not from the shyness of his smile.
Dany nods with a smile. “Lead the way, my king.”
He takes her hand, sending sparks through her. This may be the first time he’s touched her since before the battle of Winterfell. She follows along as he leads her past the night’s camp, sitting on the precipice of yet another snowy hill. She gazes out at the rolling ground below, studded with trees and shining in the light of the setting sun. In the distance, smoke spirals from the chimneys of a riverlands village sitting besides an iced-over lake.
“It’s lovely, but I’m still not sure what use this picturesque view is.” She turns to Jon, expecting an answer. Instead, he just sets his plank on the ground and sits on it. Jon yanks on her hand, pulling her down to settle in the space between his legs. She thinks back to last time she was this close to him, and the lack of clothes on either of their bodies. If possible, Dany’s blush deepens.
“Hold onto the rope,” Jon commands, wrapping his arms securely around her waist. Her back tenses as she worries that he will feel the barely-there bump beneath her. When he notes nothing, Dany shifts and settles so she sits more comfortably in front of him, and takes the rope in hand. Jon sets his hands over hers. “This is called sledding.”
Suddenly, Jon kicks off the ground.
She shrieks in a most unqueenly manner as they speed down the hill, gaining momentum with every inch. Snow flies around them, The whooshing wind thrills her. Dany tightens her hold on the rope as snow brushes into her face and leans further into Jon’s warm embrace behind her.
They reach the bottom of the hill and the sled comes to a slow stop.
“What do you think? Is pleasure a sufficient purpose for snowy hills?” Jon asks, helping Dany up. She ignores the new round of pain in her stomach, grateful to have him so close for a little while.
“It is a worthy endeavor certainly.” She says, still holding onto his hand as he leads her back up to the camp. “I will have to make a declaration that all hills are to be exclusively used for this noble design.”
“We used to go sledding whenever there was a summer snow in Winterfell.” Jon reminisces, eyes glazing over as he recalls his childhood. “Sometimes, we’d even go skating if the river properly froze over.”
“I never saw snow until I came to Dragonstone.” Dany states as they enter the encampment and head towards the Northern section. “I don’t think any description in any book prepared me for the crystals falling from the sky like so many flecks of sugar powdering a cake.”
“That’s a beautiful description.” Two guards stand straight in front of Jon’s tent, a brightly burning fire roaring in the pit they’ve dug nearby. Dany bows her head in recognition of the men as Jon pulls back the flap. “They’re still preparing yours. Why don’t you stay warm in here for a little while?”
She steps in, body trembling at the distinct rise in temperature. Dany laughs wildly as Jon pulls her close, huddling against him as shivers run up her spine.
“Are you cold, my queen?” He asks. “I didn’t think Targaryens got cold.”
“The first Daenerys, Alysanne and Jaehaerys’ daughter, died of the Shivers.” She says morosely. “The snow could take me.”
Jon’s eyes twinkle as if to say, this Snow already has. “Let me fetch something to warm you, then.”
He disappears, leaving her to settle on his bed. Dany pulls a blanket from it and settles it round her shoulders. Soon enough, Jon returns with two mugs of steaming tea and sets them on the carpeted ground. He doesn’t speak as he pulls off her gloves and his, wrapping his hands around hers. “You’re quite cold, Dany. Are you alright?”
“I’m perfect.” His hands bring warmth she did not know she needed now, and he rubs them until a bit of the cold redness disappears. Finally, Jon presses one of the mugs into her hands.
“Drink, it will help.”
Together, they sip at their tea and talk like they haven’t in months. The space falls darker as sunlight disappears outside, and eventually Jon lights a few candles on the camp table besides his bed. They speak of topics they haven’t had time to before, when the war to end all wars loomed so closely on the edge of all that they did.
Jon talks about his childhood, tells her memories of Lord Eddard Stark that make her question everything she ever knew about Robert’s Rebellion. His reaction to the deaths of Princess Elia Martell and her children, all the family he lost along the way, his father Rickard and his brother Brandon and his sister Lyanna. But Jon speaks of happier things, too: his brotherhood and rivalry with Robb Stark, his time among the wildlings beyond the wall and the maiden Ygritte he met there.
In turn, she tells him stories she’s never told anyone, about Ser Willam Darry’s death and her complicated relationship with Viserys and her strange love for Drogo and the lemon tree in the courtyard of the house in Braavos.
“Sansa’s favorite treat has always been lemon cakes.” Jon muses sleepily.
He’s lain down now, his head nestled in her lap. A messenger boy came by hours ago to say that her own tent was ready, but still they talked on. Dany traces idly at his forehead, combing her hands through his tumbled tangle of curls. She smiles at this first mention of Sansa, pure and good memories unlike so much else he has told her of their own complicated relationship growing up.
“Maybe I can arrange for a tree or two to come to Winterfell, when you’ve rebuilt the glass gardens.” Dany swallows, fearful that Sansa’s mention could spoil this conversation. It’s easier, in this delicate moment, to pretend she’s not invisibly between them. “Do you think she’d like that?”
“Mhm.” Jon nods, turning from his side to his back. The bed is small and his broad shoulders easily fills whatever there was left before he turned.
“I always liked honey fingers, but I haven’t had one in so long.” She responds, looking down at his face. Jon’s eyes have fallen closed. He looks years younger, gentle and at peace in a way she rarely sees him. “Are you asleep?”
“Mh-mh.” He mumbles. Dany slips out from beneath his head, guiding it gently to the bed. She pushes back his hair, leaning down to press a light kiss about his forehead. Part of her wants to stay, to wake up next to him in comfort and in safe security. But someone would see, or know, or tell, and that’s gossip that could ruin a woman. Even one with dragons.
“Good night, sweet prince. Dream of beautiful things and all your beautiful children.” And with that, Dany picks up her gloves and exits into the night.
Chapter 22: ARYA V
Summary:
Arya sees something she's not supposed to.
Notes:
Got some ~Gendrya~ content for ya, during all the angst.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Waves of heat pour off the fire pit. Arya Stark clutches a fur-lined cloak around her shoulders and burns her grey gaze into Daenerys Targaryen’s back as the other woman exits Jon’s tent and heads towards the Dothraki encampment to the west. The rage inside Arya is real as the pit’s flames, burning higher and higher into the sky.
She cannot believe what she is watching now. It hurts more than the scrapes from her tussle with her father’s corpse, when she ran to pull Sansa from the crypts of their rising answers. It hurts more than the remnants of frostbite from where the White Walker exposed her shoulder with its blade, just as it shattered into fragments from her dagger in its gut.
Arya wonders how long Jon has been yet again sleeping with his dragon queen. How long he waited until they left Winterfell before betraying Sansa. From breaking the vows he said to her sister and his wife. Was it the first night, or the third? Did he have the decency to wait until they crossed the Neck, away from the lands that are theirs by blood and right and their people’s choice?
She saw them earlier, sliding down the hill on a makeshift sled. The action seemed innocent enough, something she herself had done with Jon a thousand times. But something else had struck her, the familiarity of the dragon queen between Jon’s legs, their closeness, her soaring laugh . . . Arya glowers towards his tent, wanting to march in and demand an explanation of everything she’s seen.
And yet . . .
This is not the brother she thought she knew. If he’s willing to sleep with another woman, even with the spectre of Ned Stark’s false shame for those same actions always hanging over his head all Jon’s life - if that’s true, he wouldn’t mind lying to the person he claims he’s closest too.
She traces a gloved finger over the wolf sewn in startlingly clear detail on her cloak’s shoulder, a gift from Sansa before they began their march south. Arya blinks back the hot, angry tears threatening to spill from her eyes. As the white spot of Daenerys Targaryen disappears into the darkness away from their cluster of Northern tents, Arya loses her nerve for confrontation.
What does she have to say, to a queen? A queen who likely thinks Arya owes her much, since Daenerys is the one who convinced Sansa to let Arya go south to kill Cersei. Arya never thought she needed Sansa’s permission, but with how tenuous their past relationship was, she wanted her blessing. And the dragon got her that. Arya was grateful, until this.
Arya stands, dropping her cloak from her hands and storming off. Away from the fire and the maybe-watching eyes of Jon’s half-sleeping guards, she finally lets herself cry. She doesn’t like anyone to see her be emotional, because emotion is weakness and while it is a fine weakness to have, its also a weapon others can use against you. She stumbles through the campsite, not wanting to return to her tent in the noble northern circle. The tent right next to Jon’s.
Instead she ends up in the place where she’s been sleeping instead. Before she enters the circle of the Brotherhood without Banners, though, she wipes away her tears with the back of her glove. Firelight flickers across her face as she enters their circle. Some fighter she does recognize has replaced Thoros of Myr, chanting some hymn to Lord R’hllor. He keeps his intense stare into the red flames, but a few others glance up to see her, including the person she came to seek her comfort in.
“Arya?” Gendry says in surprise. They had not made plans to meet tonight, not like they normally agreed to. They’ve tried to keep this private, secret, because that’s what she wanted. She doesn’t care to hide the feelings on her face that she knows he can read so well. Instantly, Gendry rises and stalks over to her.
She’s done her best to hide their relationship, sneaking out of his tent early and coming in through the back when she’s seen him, but Arya just doesn’t care right now. Not when she needs something more from him than just his body.
Arya throws herself into his arms, and Gendry catches her.
Understanding fully that something was amiss, he guides her away from the circle of tents, beyond the other circles too, picking her up when they’re on the outskirts. Arya loses it then, burying her head against the firmness of his chest and sobbing like she hasn’t since she was a child. Suddenly, this all seems too much. The change in Sansa and Jon’s relationship that led them to be friends then lovers, the politics of Northern Independence and Jon’s lost-then-gained throne. Whatever she feels for Gendry.
He clutches her tight and lets her cry, eventually reaching the other side of one of the hills and sitting down in the snow. Gendry rubs soft circles on her back and rocks her, lets her settle in his lap and cry until all her tears are spent.
She hiccups as she sobs with dry wheezes, leaning against the security of his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“No apologies, sweetling. You never have to apologize to me.” Gendry wraps an arm around her small body and kisses her forehead. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I - ” She hiccups again. Arya looks up into his stormy blue eyes, the same color eyes as those of the children she sometimes dreams about. She puts a hand on his cheek and says the things she’s feared for weeks. “I love you.”
"And I love you." Gendry licks his lip, obviously confused but trying. “But why does that makes you sad?”
“It makes me more happy than I can explain.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “I always thought Sansa would be the sister happily in love. We all thought it had happened, the way Sansa mooned over Joffrey. She was in love with him within hours of his being in Winterfell, and once they were betrothed, I thought she had her happily ever after and I would never have mine.”
Arya sets her other hand on Gendry’s neck, kissing him hard and deep and long. He pulls her in closer against his body. Though she knows the happiness they have together is only for a few more moments, until he meets his southern lady, she loves him for true and wants him forever. So she enjoys the moment she has before pulling back from their kiss, so heady and breathless she wants to sleep just from that few minutes of intertwining.
Gendry brings his hands to her cheeks, using his hands to gently wipe away the tears frozen to her cheeks. “Why all this talk about Sansa?”
“Because she’s my sister and I want her to be happy but I fear she never will have that chance.” Arya swallows. “Jon’s sleeping with Daenerys.”
“He was doing that before.” Gendry responds. “I thought your sister knew.”
“I thought he stopped. But I saw her leaving his tent tonight. Just before I came to you.” The sobs threaten to come afresh, but Arya forces them down. She feels alright, being vulnerable in front of him. She just doesn’t want to cry over this anymore. Instead, she stands and steps away, wrapping her arms around her chest because she misses Gendry’s forge-fired warmth.
The hills roll out away from them, and only the stars and sliver of the moon light their view. It would be a pretty evening to spend with her lover, if she weren’t so tragic and upset.
Gendry waits patiently, letting her gather her thoughts. Arya’s voice is quiet when she speaks again. “He speaks of honor like anything indecent is his own burden to bear. Like every little problem in this world is his fault, just for being born. And yet he sees no problem with fucking his aunt behind his sister’s back.”
“Will you speak to him?”
“If anyone else knows, it could bring us to war with the dragons.” She has not yet lingered on the political implications of their affair, but as she says it she knows its true. The Northern households, the Valemen and Riverlords, too - everyone would demand the dragon queen’s head for breaking their treaty. Maybe even Jon’s, for endangering their peace and independence. She has to let it go, because to expose the truth would mean fire and flame and devastation. Even Sansa wouldn’t be able to talk them out of their wrath and anger. And that’s if Sansa even wanted to try. Who knows what she would think, if she discovers this betrayal.
She brings her head to look up at the evens. “You can’t tell anyone, Gendry. You can’t.”
“And I won’t.” She hears him rise, the crunch of the snow beneath his boots as he approaches. His breath is hot against her skin as he whispers, “I will always protect your secrets, love. I swear it.”
A shiver runs up her back as Gendry wraps his arms around her from behind. He spins her, claiming her mouth as his own, and chasing away her worry and fear and doubt for at least a little while longer.
Chapter 23: SANSA VI
Summary:
The maester confirms Sansa's premonitions; Bran shares a vision of the future.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Old On’s granddaughter comes to join Sansa’s company the morning after she spoke with the old man. Lyessa is flaxen-haired, with solemn grey eyes that remind Sansa of her father. But she takes well to being in Winterfell, although she is as shy as Old On suggested, timid and careful and like to jump at any sudden noise.
Mostly, Lyessa spends her time with some of the older castle girls, learning from Sam Tarly about reading and writing and history and houses and numbers, and shooting bows under the careful eye of the master-of-arms. At that time, Sansa holds court and oversees the preparations to the castle walls, meeting with Tormund and the Free Folk to hear about their preparations for moving to the New Gift, handling issues for the resettling of the North and defense for the worst case, if the South is lost and Cersei marches her men North.
But when the other girls spend time with their families, at meals and in the evening, Lyessa comes to Sansa, to learn to hold a needle and how to knit, keeping each other company besides the roaring fire of Jon’s solar hearth.
At first, Lyessa scares away from Ghost’s intense, protective red gaze. But within days, he realizes that Sansa has brought the girl into their family and he takes to protecting her, too.
Sansa sits in her chair besides the fire with Lyessa sleeping against Ghost’s side. The white direwolf blinks up at Sansa, using his paw to rub his nose. Earlier that evening, he would not let a soldier approach the high table to join her for dinner until he set his sword and hidden dagger away.
The behavior confuses her, but she thinks she knows what’s made him act so. Sansa sighs, not sure how to react to the news. She wants a child, yes, but . . . Will this be the one Daenerys claims? She has a feeling her Targaryen-looking child will be asked to come South, not her second. Sansa is not prepared to give up any of her children, and Daenerys promises it will not be for quite some time, but still Sansa worries.
These thoughts are no longer theoretical, or they won’t be when she meets with Maester Wolkan in the morning to confirm her suspicions. Now that Daenerys may have a Targaryen-blooded heir, will her promises and their friendship hold her to the agreement they made?
She sets her sewing ring to the side. “It’s past our bedtime, Ghost.”
He cocks his head to the side, a low whine in the back of his throat. “Yes, I know. But Lyessa needs to wake so we can put her in her own bed. I’m sure your side isn’t good for her neck.”
Sansa kneels beside the sleeping girl, brushing back a stray strand of yellow-blond hair. At her touch, Lyessa stirs and sighs. “Sweetling, it’s time to go to your real bed.”
“I’m comfortable here.” Lyessa murmurs. She raises a fist to her eye and rubs it. “Can I sleep with Ghost tonight?”
She smiles and takes Lyessa’s free hand. “You can stay with both of us, if you’d like. Let’s go get your sleeping shift.”
Lyessa has so far been sleeping in the empty nursery off the side of the solar, where Sansa and her siblings spent their first few months of life. But the room is colder and more lonely than her father’s old chambers, and she is not surprised that Lyessa wants to spend the night wrapped up in the dire wolf’s warmth. Together, they climb into her empty bed. Although she is happy to spend the night with Ghost and Lyessa, she cannot help but miss her husband.
——
“Your suspicions are correct, your grace.” Maester Wolkan confirms as he steps away from Sansa’s legs spread, a wide smile on his face. She closes them modestly and readjusts her small clothes from his inspection. “May I be the first to congratulate you on your pregnancy.”
“Will you send word to my uncle’s castle at Riverrun? He will be the first I trust to tell my lord husband.” She sets her hands on her stomach, observing it now in different light with wide, curious eyes. A baby. Sansa surprises herself by the tears pricking at her eyes. Ghost gets up in the corner of the room and growls in the back of his throat. “Look at me, being silly.”
“A mother’s emotions at this news are never silly, my lady.” The maester offers her a cloth to wipe away the water, uneasily eying Ghost. “It’s only human.”
“Thank you, Maester. Be quiet Ghost, please, we’re alright. Both of us.” She rubs a soft circle on her stomach. The bump is not enough to notice, not yet, but she is with child. The feeling excites her as much as it frightens her. What if Jon’s not back by the time I give birth? What if I die before I get to see my child, or see him again?
Noticing the crease in her brow, the Maester offers quick words of support. “Your mother had five healthy children in five easy births. Bearing your resemblance to her, I’m sure it will be no different for you.”
But my aunt had only one live child. Sansa worries, but does not voice her concern. Instead, she listens carefully as Maester Wolkan explains the many things she must do: drink only watered-down wine, no heavy lifting or picking up Lyessa, being extra careful on the stairs, and much more. He will visit her every few days to catalogue the process of the birth.
She thanks him and goes on her way with Ghost following behind, looking for the only person in the castle she really can tell this early on. As she steps carefully down the stairs of the master’s tower and through the maze of courtyards, she wonders at the child’s future.
No matter what, she will name her son Eddard. She wants to name a child after her father, she’s wanted it since he died. It feels only right, to honor his memory like this. But if the child is a girl . . . She stares out the open gate of Winterfell, at the snow that’s as white as Daenerys’ hair. Perhaps Rhaella, if she has the Targaryen look, for her grandmother that was a queen. Or Lyarra, to honor her Stark grandmother that was the blood of Winterfell in her own right.
She finds Bran beneath the hearttree, like she so often does. Ghost pads off into the dense forest, leaving her some privacy since she is in the safety of her family’s heart. She can still feel the weight of his red eyes, somehow, burning into her back. Staring at Bran in his trance, Sansa wonders as she always does what he sees. Does he know if Jon and Arya and Dany are safe?
As she enters into the clearing, his eyes roll back in place and he turns the wheels of his chair so he can face her. “Sansa. Congratulations.”
She blinks in surprise. “What?”
“Your premonitions are correct. You carry Jon’s firstborn son.”
Sansa does not like the dark, distant way he stares at her. She also does not appreciate her brother telling her about her son so soon, without giving her the chance to dream idly of the children to come and growing into her role as a mother on her own terms. She purses her mouth in a thin line. Why will he tell her news she would rather have as a surprise, but keep secrets from her that she is desperate to know the answer to?
She tries again, asking a question she’s asked a dozen times at least. “Do you see anything to the south?”
“You know I cannot share that.” Bran blinks slowly.
“Yet you’ll tell me my child is our son.” She takes a deep breath, trying not to get angry at her little brother. Though is he really that anymore? “Can you at least tell me if they are they safe?”
“I cannot tell you, Sansa.”
Sansa storms across the clearing, snow crunching under her feet like beating war drums. Sudden tears prick at her eyes. She wants to slap him, shake him, make him see her, the reality, not just these other planes he holds himself on. “Please, Bran. What knowledge can you share that’s useful?”
“I will not say anything more that can change your world or your way.”
“Didn’t you do that, by telling Jon who his father was?”
“Exactly.” Bran glances moodily beyond her, his gaze somehow even more distant. “I cannot change the trajectory of our world anymore.”
“Then why say anything about the future at all, if its words I don’t want to hear about my unborn babe, when the rest of the world is so unsure still?” She collapses besides his chair, kneeling in the snow, her tears falling with her. “I just want to know if they’re safe. If Arya’s alive, If Jon and Dany, if they’re fighting or quiet or dead or hurt. Please, Bran. If not for the future of the world, for the future of my sanity. For your love for your sister and your brother, tell me, please.”
“I have no more brothers. They’re both dead.”
Sansa’s eyes widen, before realizing he means Rickon and Robb, not anything with Jon. She pushes off his chair, stumbling backwards. “Tell me nothing more of the future, then, if all you will share of your visions are things that take away joy or frighten me. I want none of it, raven.”
She leaves the clearing and her maybe-brother, sniffing and wiping snot off her nose. She doesn’t care if her people see her like this. Sansa is human and a mother-in-waiting. There is no shame in feeling, and she can use her condition as an excuse should any lord say so.
She will not know for months if the people she loves are alright and alive and healthy and breathinh, if she must mourn the loss of someone she holds dear. If Arya’s plans go forward, if Jon will be able to fulfill his promise to bring Arya home safely. If he’s even alive to be able to. All she can do is sit and wait and pray, but none of that is anything useful.
Sansa only has known Daenerys for a few months, but still she wonders after her as well. If the queen lives or weakens, how her people are, if she has found comfort in their lover’s arms or if she sleeps cold and alone.
In her office, she sits and holds her head in her hands. Dany’s happiness is at the forefront of her mind. She offered to let Dany have Jon, once their heirs were both secured, and now they are halfway there. That happiness will likely come at the expense of Sansa’s own, but it will mean Jon is happy too. Sh wonders, does his gentleness with her come from a place of fear, that she is so delicate as to break like glass? Or does he treat her that way as a gift, because that’s how he likes his own pleasure?
Sitting there, she realizes not once has Jon brought her flashbacks to her painful, dark times with Ramsey. Is that because Dany prepared her fo softness, or because she was too happy to think back to him at all? She’s let his line and memory disappear, just like she promised. Sansa smiles, glad that she has done at least this one thing.
Delicately, she traces her fingers along her arms, remembering the way Jon worships her skin and scars when he has the chance. When she lets him in and loves him back, the way he deserves. That last morning together, it was what she wants forever. But if she lets him go, sends him as the Northern emissary to South Westeros, will she ever feel that again?
Sansa could, of course, take a lover. It would not be enough, even if moon tea never brought a baseborn to challenge their trueborn children’s claims, to complicate the matters of two thrones. A child born of love, but unloved by any except a father who could not acknowledge it. A sad life, for a child, even if she did pretend it was Jon’s. . . But that’s not even something Sansa would want, she thinks.
I want him. I want him and Winterfell, our children and the North.
Does it make her evil, to want him in her arms at night, to crave his touch and his protection, when keeping it hurts a friend she loves and the man she wants to hold? Sansa sets a hand on her stomach, overwhelmed by these thoughts. It’s just a mother’s emotions. She tells herself with a sigh. No matter what, I’ll have you, my wolf.
Arya will come back. She must. And no matter what becomes of Jon and Dany and the south. No matter what bed her husband lies in, she will have her sister. Together, they can care for this child, create a new Winterfell, a line of new Starks to fill the halls with laughter.
A knock on her door alerts her to the time for the midday meal. She glances at her desk, at the piles of paperwork and orders she still needs to sign. Her informal advisors held court for her this morning, but yet she is still woefully behind. With a sigh, she heads back to deal with the trials of a Lady.
She sets her hand back on her belly. Although the babe is only weeks along, somehow Sansa knows it is a boy. She knew even before Bran told her, she thinks. My own little one. Eddard of House Stark, First of His Name. Oh, what a darling child he will be. How loved, how happy. She will make sure of it.
Notes:
I did math and made a Very Serious Chart so I could share some math:
Sansa is about 7 or 8 weeks pregnant here. Dany is ~14 weeks pregnant in the last few chapter. Cersei is currently like 31 weeks pregnant. Euron thinks the child is his. I’m not going into the headache of "when did Cersei sleep with Euron” because this fic is about romantic angst and family and the related themes and not as much about the wars and the dynastic drama (outside Team Stargaryen’s loveliest).
Let me know what you think, then come hangout on tumblr to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my ask box.
Chapter 24: JON VI - Part I
Summary:
Jon dreams, and when he wakes, Arya has some choice words to share about what she's seen and how she interpreted it.
PLEASE READ THE BEGINNING NOTE.
Notes:
Soooo many updates, ya'll. I've done a bunch of really small edits in past chapters. I'd honestly reccomend rereading at least the new chapter (DANY II), but in case you don't have time/need, I've summarized them below. I have a new ARYA I planned that will go between JON I and SANSA I and hopefully add a clearer understanding of Arya's characterization and headspace later on. There's also a few more small edits I want to do that will be added by the time I post the second half of this chapter (hopefully later this week, probably next week). I wanted to give you guys something during the wait, though, and this has been done for a few weeks now.
All the updates, described:
- General:
- Re-outlined and updated number of chapters to expect.
- Added a DANY II between Sansa I and Sansa. If you haven’t read it, it covers: Sansa and Dany bonding while Sansa tries to teach Dany to sew; Dany listing everything Sansa has done for the post-war effort and appreciating her soft power; then discussing Cersei’s rule and the proposal to Jon; then Dany and Jon hooking up.
- Updates across multiple chapters:
- Added mentions of Ghost in DANY I, SANSA II, JON III, and SANSA IV.
- Added references to Petyr Baelish’s demise in DANY V, SANSA I, and JON I.
- Added references to Jon’s feelings for Sansa in JON III and JON IV.
- Expanded the conversation in SANSA III between Sansa and Arya about the Faceless Plot and in DANY V between Sansa and Dany.
- Updates in specific chapters with more direct effects on characterization:
- In JON I, added some appreciation of Sansa by Jon for the part she’s played and her plan with the “let’s all eat horse meat” thing; added a few paragraphs addressing his claim to the Iron Throne and Wintefell being Sansa's by right and blood and being the best person to rule it (in the context of "what if Dany tries to buy the silence of my blood with Winterfell"?).
- In SANSA I, added a discussion of how Jon bent the knee to Dany and Sansa finding out about it; added short paragraph with memories of Jeyne and Beth that remind Sansa how lonely she is.
- In SANSA II, she directly calls out Jon for bending the knee to Dany without getting anything in return and puts the blame for their current situation squarely at his feet and they discuss the feeling of giving away their child.
- In DANY IV, added Dany asking Arya why she came to her and not Sansa/Jon. Answer is, Arya wanted to address it asap.
- In JON III, changed reference to the “tantrum” to a paragraph reflecting on Sansa not seeing the bigger picture and a few adds to the conversation about it being Arya’s choice and another of him reflecting on the differences between his relationship with Sansa vs. Dany and wondering why Sansa doesn’t take him at his words that he’s given up on his feelings for Dany.
- In SANSA III, added several paragraphs of Sansa coming to terms with her early feelings for Jon and how they’re in conflict with his feelings for Dany.
- In DANY V: Dany now has a conversation with Varys and makes a contingency plan with Missandei for the baby’s safety if Dany dies. Added in Dany reflecting on Sansa’s resistance to the plan but prioritizing her child. Removed reference to “Sansa’s little tantrum.” Instead, it’s “Sansa’s avoidance of communicating with her own husband.” Added another sentence to the “Dany doesn’t trust the people around Sansa” paragraph to describe who, exactly.
- ARYA II changed some of the syntax of Arya thinking about Sansa’s new role and the marriage.
- In ARYA III, Gendry says “I love you” back.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
His dreams are warm and soft. A sleeping woman is there, bright hair spread in soft curls across his pillow, and a little child, too, slipped against her side. With a sharp clarity, he knows the woman to be Sansa. His wife. The fire rages in the hearth, making the chamber hot and humid. He wants to leave, to run in the white winds like he has for so many night. His stomach rumbles from the hunger for the hunting. The woman feeds him, yes, but he wants to feel the loam and snow between his toes as he pads through the wolfswood.
He leaps from the downy softness, huge and powerful, landing beside the heat of the fire. It crackles with the scent of cedar wood, colors flashing as it burns. The child stirs and sits upright, a small doll in her hand. She stares at him unblinkingly, not scared of him. He knows she should be scared because children are scared things, weak and small, but she is not. Her eyes reveal she has seen so much. She is for protecting, this little girl.
But there is something strange about her. Something is wrong with the child. Her eyes are a good color, the right greyness he expects . . . but that curly hair is blond as cornsilk, not red or black or silver. He approaches her, bats at her with his nose. He does not growl, not quite, but there is a deep sound building in the back of his throat.
The little girl puts a little hand upon his snout. “Good doggy. Good Ghost.”
The lady rouses, a tiredness to her groan. She rolls and sets her hand in his fur, petting gently at his neck. He is great and mighty, but her ministrations feel good, comforting . . .
He leaps up on the softness again and curls up besides the woman. The little girl is for protecting. But even more, is the lady for protecting too.
Jon wakes up with a hardness in his head, although he did not drink anything the night before. And a hardness in his breeches, at the dreams of the wife he thinks he might just love. His cock aches for release. He takes his cock in his hand, grasping it at the base and stroking it to stiff fullness. He knows his grip isn’t Sansa’s, her hand all softness except from the calluses of her sewing, his all hard and rough from swords and labor. But still, he closes his eyes and imagines her touch, cock twitching even at just the thought of her intimately holding him like this. He strokes himself rapidly, bringing his hardness to completion.
I love you, his vision-Sansa whispers as Jon comes with a guttural moan. He suppresses the rest of moans, not wanting to alert anyone else to what he is doing here, alone without his wife or anyone else in his bed. I love you. The sound is sweet, ghostly as it is. I love you, I love you, I love you. Even though it was sudden and unmeant, he came undone when she said it to him in the heat of their ecstasy before he left for good. He wants her to mean it, someday, and will live their life hoping to hear her say it from her heart and not just with her cunt.
He thinks of his conversation days before with Arya, about the complications of his love for Sansa. She’s one to talk, given the complications of her own affections.
Arya’s been gone from her tent, he knows, likely sleeping with Gendry. Jon’s not sure he approves of her sharing herself with Gendry, but with the peculiarity of his own romantic situation, he does not deign to judge her for who she loves. It is not that Gendry reflects himself so much that gives Jon pause - a noble’s bastard, raised to a seat he never expected to hold - but more that he cannot believe his friend and his sister know each other and loved each other even before Jon met Gendry.
It’s unfair, that she expects honesty and clarity from Jon, but does not judge Gendry for not giving it. Gendry did not once mention that he knew Arya when they first met. Does he truly love her, then, if he did not ask after her? Or is he just using her for clout among his Brotherhood and among the lords he will rule? Jon does not want Arya’s heart to hurt, she who has already hurt so much because of him and Sansa. Their marriage is not something she would have wanted in any world, and now . . . well now that world has happened.
He finds his sister outside his tent, huddling before their campfire with a few Stark guards, eating a bowl of morning oats. A pot hangs over the fire and he pours some oats into a wooden bowl.
“Good morning, little sister.” Jon ruffles Arya’s already-messy hair, and takes a seat on the log besides her. She does not even acknowledge him with a nod or grunt, instead staring stonily into the flames. Jon takes a few bites of his meal. Arya’s not the most joyful of morning larks, but she’s never been so solemn at their breakfasts. He tries again. “What’s amiss?”
Her voice is low, so no one else waking can hear her speak. “If you’re going to keep fucking your queen, at least do it more discreetly.”
Jon’s brows knit together in confusion. “What?”
“I know what you’re doing with Daenerys.” Finally Arya looks at him. Her gaze is dark and hard as the walls of Winterfell. “I won’t speak to you about how Sansa doesn’t deserve this, because if you cared you wouldn’t be caught like this. But the politics are tenuous, the lords demanding, and they will blame her, not you, if people catch wind of your affairs.”
“I’m not sleeping with her.”
“Don’t pretend with me.” She stares daggers into him. He wonders how she would react if she told him he just brought himself to completion with visions of his wife - and only of his wife. “I saw her leave your tent late last night, Jon.”
“It’s not what it looks like.” Jon thinks through what they did the night before, simply speaking and spending time together. Being at peace, the way he wishes he could still be with Arya. He cannot find a way to share this though, not quickly enough.
Arya sets her half-eaten bowl of oats on the empty collection tray besides the fire and stands. “I don’t care for you excuses. Just be more careful, if you insist on betraying our sister. I will not tell her of this out of my respect for you and this alliance, but others may not extend Sansa the same courtesy. I will not forgive you what pain your actions would bring her.”
“You don’t understand -” Jon stands up, his meal forgotten as he follows after her. He doubts she will believe him if she tells her that Sansa gave her permission to have Dany, since Arya doesn’t believe when he truthfully tells her that he hasn’t done just that. No matter how much I miss her touch.
“What don’t I understand, Jon?” Arya spins to address him. He is painfully aware that she sets her hand on the pommel of Needle tucked carefully in her belt. “Sansa always wanted a song. At first I thought this might be it, that you two could truly love each other. Now you frolic with you former lover in front of all your armies, riding your dragons together, sledding down hills like children, bringing her back to your tent for all too see, before she sneaks out late in the night. If this is a song, it is a tragedy, and not one my sister deserves.”
Jon swallows down his response, realizing finally how this must all appear to Arya, from little she has seen. Suddenly, he’s awash with guilt at what he has done. “Arya -”
“You told me that your love for Sansa is complicated. Well it doesn’t seem like you’re evening trying to. All you’ve done is fuck our sister and treated her like some disposable whore. You disgust me.” She storms away at at a rapid pace, obviously done with this conversation. Obviously done with him.
Jon wants to punch something, to stab someone, to scream his rage. But the campsite is beginning to awaken, breaking down tents and preparing for another day on the road. He cannot do what he wants, he cannot have what he wants. He marches back and punches the pole of his tent so hard his hand bruises and the tent collapses. His guards and the few Northern lords snicker, but when Jon turns to roar at them they all stare hard at their bowls or at the distance.
How can he explain to Arya these feelings he has without confusing her, when they confuse him as well? He wants them both, Sansa and Dany. By the gods, he loves them both. Is this how Aegon felt for his two sister-wives? Or did the women love each other, so that it was not so complicated?
As he packs his tent and prepares for the day’s march, Jon screams at himself for his stupidity. Arya is right. If he is caught with Dany, the politics could destroy them all. Including Sansa.
Even the thought of destabilizing Sansa’s place tugs painfully at his stomach. He cannot risk taking away their home from her. The lords might kill him and replace him, force her into another unpredictable and loveless marriage. At least with him, she is safe. And when he gets the chance, he’ll let his love be known. In Winterfell again, he’ll treat her properly, he swears. Like the queen she is, with the love she deserves.
Until then, he has to see to other obligations here, the dragon side of his blood calling to him. He scarfs down his breakfast and goes to find the green-and-bronze mount who has claimed as him as its own.
Sunlight shines down and glints off the snow-covered hills of the Riverlands but it is not half so bright as the queen’s smile. Dany strokes Drogon’s neck, giggling as he nudges his snout against her torso.
Jon has bonded closely with Rhaegal but he doesn’t think he’ll ever love the dragons as much as Dany does. They are my children. She told him. The only ones I will ever have. Do you understand?
It saddens him to know she can never have children of her own. He’s seen her with the children of the North as they passed through quiet hamlets refilling with his people. Dany stopped her horse a half-hundred times to accept bouquets of leaves and gifts of apples from the scared children. In turn, she would kiss the foreheads of babes and offer their mothers a coin or two. Twice, she commanded her Dothraki to dismount and leave behind their horses so the smallfolk could plow their fields and begin to rebuild their lives.
She’s a gifted rider, ruler, and queen. A stunning woman, and she could have been his if their names and families did not demand they put honor and duty first. Love is the death of duty. But Jon accepts his duty to his family - both of them - and to the North above his love for Dany. Although his feelings for Sansa are fulfilled with his duty to her as his wife, but still . . .
Jon sighs and approaches Rhaegal with a fresh-slaughtered horse leg in his hand. He holds it out, careful in his approach of the massive beast. Rhaegal roars low, almost like a bark, and blows a cloud of hot steam over the piece of meat. He barks again before grabbing the leg from Jon’s hand and tearing into it. His sounds make Jon miss Ghost, but he left the direwolf with Sansa to offer her protection and comfort.
He pats Rhaegal’s side neck and watches in awe with how quickly he charrs and devours his snack.
“I never thought dragons could eat so inelegantly.” Dany remarks. “I still haven’t gotten used to their slobber.”
Jon turns to see her standing behind him, a soft smile on her face. “Aye, your grace. The dragons are more like us than we think. It reminds me of the men of the Night’s Watch whenever a hunting party came in with fresh meat.”
“My brother always insisted I do everything daintily, as befits a princess.” She clasps her hands in front of her, a nervous tick that reminds him of Sansa. “I wonder what he’d think of me now, riding a dragon to war.”
“Viserys, I can’t speak for.” He wonders why she brought up her brother when they haven’t spoken since the day after Battle of Winterfell about the brother that unites them. But since she has, he ventures into the disputed territory. “But as Rhaegar’s son, I’m proud to know you. I think he’d be proud of what you’ve done, too.”
Dany’s smiles falls. Jon’s sure that beneath her white kid gloves, her hands have gone white too. ‘’Thank you, Jon.”
Daenerys turns to walk away and Jon reaches out to grab her but just misses her sleeve. He wants to ask about last night, if she saw Arya or said something untoward to someone with the capacity to judge. Instead he lets her turn from him so he can take the moment he wanted with his dragon.
He’s gotten good at chasing away the women he cares about it seems. Even Arya’s been distant on this journey, and she’s the sister he thought he could always rely on. Their conversation this morning has further soured that potential to rely on her. And now is when he needs her advice and support the most. He heaves a heavy sigh and slings himself on Rhaegal's back, taking to the sky in hopes of finding the clarity he so desires.
Chapter 25: JON VI - Part II
Summary:
Jon has a heart-to-heart with Sandor Clegane then gives into his more basic instincts.
Notes:
NGL this is 70% Jonerys smut with like 25% self-reflection by King Dope and 5% plot. All those changes I'm working on have not yet been updated, but I finished this and figured I should get it out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
How Jon ended up drinking at the end of a long day with Sandor Clegane is anyone’s best guest. But his sister won’t talk to him, being around Dany gives him confused feelings, and Tyrion is a man of his queen. He tried to find Arya but she marched passed him without so much as a hullo, disappearing towards the Brotherhood’s encampment. So as the sun drops low and the fire blazes high, he passes a third flagon of Riverlands mead back to the Hound after taking a long pull himself.
“So, how’s the little bird in bed?” Sandor asks, mead dribbling down his chin. Jon looks up at him, accepting the flagon with a quizzical look. Their small fire is hidden in the bend of a cliff besides the Green Fork, a distance away from the primary encampment. He had gone for a walk, found the Hound, sipped some mead and then some more, and stayed. “Your wife. I’ve always wondered if she was that still or if she’d show her wolfish side.”
The flagon falls into his hands as he chokes on the gulp going down on his throat. Sandor roars with laughter, picking up the flagon and thumping Jon on his back. Sputtering, Jon tries to catch the runaway wagon of his thoughts. To get himself some time, he asks, “Why do you call her little bird?”
“She parroted whatever the Lannisters wanted to hear right back at them, like a lady’s pet bird.” Sandor grins maniacally. “So, is she a bird or a wolf when you fuck her?”
Jon thinks back to the times they’ve coupled, how Sansa takes what she wants without reservation. Whether that’s her own pleasure or his seed, she commands it. Like a queen. Like a . . . “She takes me like a dragon.”
The Hound’s laugh is wild, echoing off the cliff face like a war drum. “The little bird would. Or should I call her your little dragon?” He smirks and quaffs more mead.
Reflecting on their lovemaking has Jon frowning. He demands more mead and lets it dribble down his chin as he stares at their little fire. “I didn’t tell her I loved her when she said it to me, the last time I had her.”
“Do you love her?” The Hound asks, face falling as he studies Jon. “She knows her duty. She put up with Joffrey’s abuses because the court and her betrothal demanded it. She married Tyrion and suffered in silence because her duty was to be a good wife. It’s not worth saying if you don’t mean it. You’ll get the poor girl’s heart up.”
“She’s not a poor girl. She’s a woman and a queen.”
“Yes, and I’m Aegon the Conqueror.” Sandor Clegane laughs loudly, like a barking dog. Jon is irritated at how the man jokes at his serious comment. He’s even more irritated that the Hound, of all people, understands his sister-wife better than he does. “You don’t treat her like a queen. She may have the power, but until you treat her right, no one will respect that. You have a good woman. But she’ll only be able to fly if she knows the boundaries of her cage. If there’s a chance for you to love her, but you don’t . . . well don’t let her think the cage is bigger than it is. That’s how you break her wings.”
He tips back the flagon and finishes it off with a long guzzle. Wiping off the sloppy liquid on his chin with the back of his sleeve, Sandor stands. “We’re out. I’m going to go find more drink and my warm bed.”
As the other man stalks off, Jon stares deeper into the fire and reflects on his conversation with Arya that morning. Guilt and anger mix inside his stomach like a pot of stew made from whatever is left in the kitchen. Of course Sansa is a queen. Do others really see it differently? It’s clear to him, in her bearing, her control, her understanding of their lords and people.
Jon stands and kicks snow over the fire, dimming the coals until not even a tinge of orange remains. If you cared you wouldn’t be caught like this. Arya didn’t believe him when he said there was nothing going on. But he’s only ever been friendly with Dany from the moment the proposal was made and agreed to. And that’s all her visit the night before was. Friends who were family, sharing memories and drinking tea. The most innocent of things, and yet . . .
You frolic with you former lover in front of all your armies.
Perhaps it appears like that, but it isn’t that at all. Does Arya want him to give up all contact with Dany? He loved her once . . . Jon loves her still.
He screams into the night, the sound carrying across the snow-covered hills. Can a man love two people at once? Jon certainly does and it is tearing them all apart.
If this is a song, it is a tragedy, and not one my sister deserves.
Nor any of them. To give up one to love the other would break him and maybe her. And there is no way to continue without people talking. They already are. They’ll continue to, until he’s dead. Mayhaps I’ll fall fighting Cersei. He thinks mercurially. It would solve this problem.
“Jon?”
He looks up the hill, towards the plateau where they make camp tonight. Dany stands their like some ethereal goddess, a red night robe tied round her waste. She stares at him for a moment before descending. Dany sets a pale hand delicately upon his forearm. “What’s wrong? My captain heard someone screaming.”
“Just drunken frustration.”
She looks up at him and bites her lip like some shy maiden. But that thought is betrayed by the lonely darkness gleaming in her gaze. “Can . . . can I help at all?”
Fuck my honor. Fuck all their politics, too. What good has honor done me? He thinks. Everyone thought Ned Stark, his uncle not father, was an honorable man, but he spent all his life lying to the world. Lying to Jon. He never knew who he was because of that, even when he was hold enough to know the truth should be hidden. And even his own father was dishonorable, abandoning one wife in favor of another just because he wanted her. Just like I want her. If even Arya, the one person he thought he could count on to hold his side in this awful world, believes him to be a sinner, a craven, honorless bastard, mayhaps that’s who he should be. Mayhaps that’s who I am. Jon leans in and whispers against the shell of Dany’s ear, “Come back to my tent.”
She looks up at him with boundless hope twinkling like stars in the sky of her violet eyes. “Really?”
“Yes.” Jon pulls her close. “I’d like to spend . . . time with you.”
He takes her hand and in a pregnant silence they weave through the corridors formed by they armies’ tents. Finally, they arrive at the dying embers of the Northern campsite and Jon guides her along the back edges of the camp, facing towards the darkness beyond. Once they reach the royal encampment, Jon holds back the back flap of his tent and motions for Dany to enter. She looks up at him and sweeps by him with after gently palming his cock.
As they stumble into Jon’s tent, Dany stops in the center. The area is bare and small, with not much room inside. Jon steps up behind her and slides his hands possessively over her hips, wishing he were touching her bare skin. Dany leans back against him, hips swaying erotically to some beat only she can hear. As Jon wraps his arms around her waist and anchors her against him, she tilts her head back against his shoulder with her eyes closed.
She moans as they connect, the sound enough to drive him mad. Jon buries his face against her smooth neck and deeply inhales the scent of her.
“Do you know what you do to me?” He whispers, pushing his cock against the curve of her ass for emphasis. He’s sure she can feel the hard swell of his throbbing length even through all their layers of clothing.
With one hand, he massages her breast while sliding the other down her side to grasp at her wide hips. He spins her round, still keeping a tight hold on her and palming at her plump ass. Jon stares into her hooded eyes, wondering what she’s thinking. She whispers, “I’m sure it’s what you do to me.”
Jon kisses Dany, claiming what he’s missed all these weeks, what he’s wanted for so long. Her response is hot and hungry; she pulls him in by the front of his jerkin and tilts her head to demand more. Jon runs his tongue along her bottom lip and she parts them. As she darts her tongue out to meet his, his fingers press hard into her hips enough to bruise.
Their hands go everywhere, tearing away their clothes so they can feel the skin of each other once again. But as she pulls off his tunic and moves to push down his breeches, Jon pulls back and sets his hands against Dany’s. “We can’t.”
Dany sets her head against his pectoral muscle and whispers against his bare skin, her warm breath fanning across him like a summer's breath, “She gave me permission to have you, once we were gone.”
“I won’t be with another woman, I promised my lady wife. . .” Jon runs a hand along the smooth skin of Dany’s arm, feelings swirling within him that he does not wish to deal with right now. Guilt for his honor and his wife. Love for two women he cannot help as he would like to as either way would dishonor them both. But mostly lust for the one he's holding right now, the woman who wants him and the queen who gave him away. Jon sighs, pushing down all these things he feels to focus on the feeling of Dany in his arms, wishing they weren't a king and queen and could just be two people, a man and woman, for a little while. “But I can still bring you where you deserve to go.”
Instead of pulling off his breeches, he falls into the camp chair besides his bed and gently pulls Dany into his lap. Kissing her hard again before moving his lips to her neck, he dips between her legs to feel the moist sweetness there. His fingers find her expected wetness at the juncture of her thighs.
Jon tears off her small cloths swiftly and plunges two fingers inside her, pumping them languidly inside her. Dany wraps her hands in his hair and tugs on his curls every time he slips a finger inside her.
He sets his lips against her bare breast, sucking and biting at her nipple until it is a mountain peak beneath his tongue. She makes the most beautiful noises as he fucks her with his fingers, her body arching closer towards his as Jon kneads her other breast with his free palm. The globes of flesh feel bigger, somehow, but its been so long since he felt her beneath his hand that he could be wrong. I’m just a fool of a man. What would I know?
He sucks against the curve of her neck until he is sure it is purple. I don’t care. She’s mine and they should know, those politicians and those gossipmongers. Dany writhes against his body, bucking her hips against his touch and riding his fingers as he adds a third. “Oh, Jon, Jon, Jon.” She murmurs, biting her lip and throwing her head back in ecstasy.
Jon stands with Dany in his arms and sets her back upon the chair before falling before her. “I’m going to make you feel so good, sweetling.”
He presses a finger again between her folds, playing with her nub with his thumb. He leans in and runs his tongue along her soaking seam, pressing down as Dany shudders beneath his touch. He leans in and kisses her cunt, delving between her thighs and licking up all the sweetness she has to offer. She cries out as he enters her and whimpers his name.
Alternating between his fingers and tongue, Jon performs a dance of pleasure. Dany’s fingers again weave inside his hair and tug harder as he finds the pattern of greatest pleasure upon her little nub. With the other hand she’s cupped her own breast and plays with it as he does his own motions below.
Penetrating her with his fingers and playing the pattern like an instrument, Jon speeds up the pace until she can take it no more. Dany screams as she comes, giving up all hope of her soft mewls being the only noise she makes. The heat of her tastes like nothing he has ever felt, spicier than he thought a woman could taste.
Dany shakes as she peaks, riding the wave through Jon’s face with low chants of his name.
As she calms down, Jon moves their position so he is once again on the chair with her on top of him. The last spasms of her cunt have Dany bucking against his leg, making his cock tremble beneath her. Jon brings his lips to hers again, kissing her slowly through the end of her climax.
“Let me at least reward you for your leal services to my pleasure, your grace.” Dany says, pulling herself off Jon’s lap and falling to her knees. She puts a hand on his breeches, squeezing gently at the enlarging bulge there, and makes to untie him. Jon’s traitorous cock twitches at the feel of her even through the layers of cloth.
“Dany . . .” He groans as she tugs them down to his knees. “Sansa . . .”
“Imagine I’m her, if it helps.” Dany tells him, stroking his cock to fullness. “I just want to make you feel good like you made me.”
“I want her . . .” Jon admits, letting the words spill from his mouth; he hasn’t said them yet to anyone. And then the greater truth, “but I still want you.”
“Maybe you could have us both.” Before he can ask what she means, Dany rises up and kisses him thoroughly, their tongues dancing together. Jon pulls her in by the hips so she rests flush against his member, not wanting to let this queen go. Even though he will not enter her, he will still make sure she knows how much she is wanted, pushing his straining hardness against her sopping cunt. She moans herself, rubbing along the edge of his cock. Jon gasps at the contact as she slicks along him, the perfect rightness of her cunt grinding against his cock. The tip of him slicks through though her soft, wet cunt, not entering it but feeling it all the same. Dany moves, not quite taking him in her core to fuck him but not also not letting him go, gyrating against so that there's pressure placed against her tight little nub. Jon bucks his hips in the steady, quick rhythm she sets, feeling his balls clench against the sloppy building friction. His tip brushes against her clit, Dany throwing her head back as if ready to shout his name. “Oh, Jon . . .”
“We can’t, Dany, I - “ Jon says, filling with guilt the depravity they are participating it. He already has her juice on his mouth and chin. He cannot betray his wife anymore.
“Sansa said I could have you.” Dany pulls away from his searing kiss and their nearly united intimacy, balancing by her core atop his thigh, sliding slowly against the slickness of her dripping wetness on his leg. “But I will not betray her friendship and take you all the way. Just return the pleasure you’ve brought me.”
She sinks back to the ground, again coming face-to-face with his cock. Jon debates protesting but the sight is too much and his hardness is too much and his longing to be back inside Dany is too much. He groans again as they come into contact and sinks into the familiarity of building and hoping to come undone.
She licks the tip of his cock and dips a little bit into her mouth so it brushes the warm, wet inside of her cheek. Dany presses his cock up and into his belly, leaning in to suckle each of his balls with sweet kisses. Each one disappears inside the warmth of her mouth The jolt of pleasure is nothing like he’s ever felt. Dany lets his cock spring back into place, smacking her cheek, then runs the length of it with one of her small hands. After a few quick, tight strokes, she takes his throbbing and aching shaft between her full lips.
Jon groans as she slowly, tantalizingly licks the underside of his member. This is new, an experience they have never ventured to try, one he never dared to even hope for. He's imagines the pleasure of Dany's soft mouth on his member a thousand times, but his mind could not conjure the magic in this. She takes her time, withdrawing when she needs to breath and swirling her tongue along the shaft to send spikes of excitement through his blood.
Jon tries to keep quiet, lest the entire camp here his pleasure, but as her nose brushes against his belly and she takes one of his balls in her now-free fingers, Jon moans loud enough his guards must hear him. "Ah!"
He sighs as Dany fondles him with her hands and sucks his cock with her mouth, spikes of delight running across his skin. She bobs her head vigorously now, faster and faster. As she takes him fully in, she swallows just a little and her throat clenches around the length of him. Jon wraps his hand in her beautiful silver hair to feel the sensation of her every lovely movement.
Even in this most lustful of actions, Dany is ever graceful with her motions. She draws her head back like a dancer sliding across the stage and glances up at Jon with beautiful violet eyes. As Dany comes down against his cock again, burying him fully in her throat and brushing against the base of his cock, Jon moans again and then he's gone, unleashed to eternal damnation.
He feels his pleasure coming like a wave on the shore. Jon grabs her silver tresses and pulls her tight against him. He cannot stop the wild moan as Dany swallows his seed down her tight throat and takes him in as he wildly bucks his hips against her face.
"Ah, Dany, Dany, DANY!" He chants with ever gentling thrusts. Dany swallows ever bit of his sticky seed and only pulls away once he has expended all he has for her. She immediately goes to clean his now-flaccid member with her tongue. She sweeps the last drop off her lips and smiles like a devilish dragon.
"Your grace, is everything alright?" His guard calls from outside.
Jon rolls his head back against his chair. "Just a poor dream, sarjeant. Thank you!" He glances down at the queen kneeling before him and holds her face in his hand. Dany leans into his touch and Jon swears she purrs when his thumb strokes her soft cheek. “You wicked woman.”
“Would you marry me, if you could?”
That’s not what Jon was expecting. “I’m already married, maybe with a babe on the way.”
“But if you could?” She looks hopeful and he hates himself for what he let happen tonight.
Jon sighs. “Dany, you know I can’t. I won’t shame Sansa, not like that. Not more than I already have.” Her face falls and it’s the saddest thing he’s ever seen. “Dany, I only meant – ”
“I know what you meant, Jon Snow.” She says, voice biting. Dany reaches for her robe and pulls it hurriedly around her body. “But you know nothing!”
The words shock Jon too much to form a coherent response. She storms out the front of the tent, not caring that she could be seen. Jon puts his face in his hands and wonders what special hell the old gods saved for men who lost all honor in the name of love. Love is the death of duty. Then even if I love my duty, I am surely gone.
Chapter 26: DANY VII
Summary:
Lord Tully arrives at the crossroads; Jon and Dany receive news and have a frank conversation.
Notes:
PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTE FIRST.
Note: I’ve thrown my hands up and given up on timelines entirely. Cersei’s birth is just barely on track, although she may end up being a few weeks over lol. A few people have commented on the prolonged angst of the last few chapters. This was in part to draw out the pregnancy timelines and give events and ~drama~ during that time period. The payoff is in this chapter. Unfortunately.
I have gotten ridiculous amounts of hate n the last few months since the last update, I have really struggled to continue this fic. However, I am choosing to continue on to share this story the way I envisioned because at the end of the day, it's my tale to tell and I don't write it for anyone except myself. I appreciate the feedback I have gotten from many of you about ways to correct this and fix how certain characters have been dealt with by the narrative.
I probably will not be writing much corrective edits at this point because I'm coming to realize that there are no ways that I will be able to make everyone happy. I swear there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, that these three do end up happy together. A huge Thank You to those of you who have offered feedback and support during this journey. As an outline, after this there’s another Sansa chapter check in at Winterfell, seven chapters dedicated to the siege of KL, and then that aftermath and the coronation of Queen Daenerys.
With all that said, I really debated writing this scene, but the plot progression and emotional progression after this doesn’t make sense without it. No matter how much I rewrote this and played around with it, it just didn't feel right to do what I had planned without this chapter and its events. It is likely going to anger some of you and I really apologize for that in advance. Please be respectful that I too am an actual human and saying "I wish you died" is one of the worst things you can say to anyone in general, and especially when you say it should be COVID-19 in this day and age.
Because of the below trigger warning, I am simultaneously posting a fic that represents the first live birth for a child, When You Bear a Living Child..
TW: miscarriage.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
PLEASE READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTE FIRST.
Dany hasn’t spoken to Jon in six days. She would compare the pain to torture, but she has been much too busy to feel any pain of his harsh words and cruel behavior the other night. The closer they get to King’s Landing, the busier the queen becomes. She oversees their supplies and meets with the war council to make plans for the taking of the city. And even then, they must make plans to take the rest of Westeros. Letters of alliance were sent from Winterfell to Yara Greyjoy, to the new Princess of Dorne, Arianne Nymeros Martell, a distant cousin of the Sand Snakes, and to potential supporters in the Reach and the Stormlands. And then there is the taking of the city. Not just the siege, but what comes after: how to handle any Lannister loyalists and resisters. Plans for distributing grain and coin so that the people understand that this is a new era.
Dany means to prove it to them, too, not just play political games. When the dust has settled and she is crowned, she means to establish a permanent council, a House of Commons, to advise the ruler of Southern Westeros on laws and how to best serve the people. Her mind brims with ideas, from Missandei’s suggested literacy program to training the Unsullied in building to pave the dirt roads of King’s Landing. But first, the Iron Throne owes a debt to the Iron Bank, and the people must be looked towards.
She resists another pang in her belly as she crests a hill, and watches as her children fly above and her soldiers march along the road besides her, a river of Dothraki, Northerners, Knights of the Vale, and Unsullied through the riverlands.
The company nears the crossroads and will likely reach it tonight, at which point they will join the forces of Lord Edmure Tully that marched down the river road to meet them and swear fealty to their new king.
And from there . . . from there she finally will arrive at King’s Landing. Not for negotiations, but as a conqueror. As a queen.
She sets a hand on the small swell of her belly. Her pains have gotten worse the last few days. She still rides a horse, as much as it pains her, because the villages have become more frequent and each day more scared villagers gather along the kingsroad to gape and stare at the woman who would be there queen. But she has ceased riding Drogon for fear of what goes on inside her, beneath her hand.
That’s why she sought out Jon, let herself be guided to his tent and lost herself in his calloused hands and searing kisses. She needed comfort, to be held and valued for a moment. Dany did not mean to take it so far, and yet they had. Dany only thought to sleep besides him, a moment of weakness on both their parts. It led to Jon betraying his wife, even though he claimed it was not, and Dany asking questions that he could not understand enough to answer.
Her mind wanders to Sansa, the gentle queen hidden behind a wall of ice. It would not be such a betrayal as it was, if they were all one. Dany cares for Sansa deeply and believes those feelings to be reciprocated. If Dany marries Jon, her child’s future is doubly secured and they don’t need to worry about who slept with whom or who kissed whom because they would all belong to each other. Maybe even their children could marry, son to daughter, to secure the throne and prevent strife.
But Jon did not seem to understand her, when she asked him if he would marry her. She thinks bitterly, Or maybe he does understand, but he only wants the benefits of my body and not the benefits of my heart.
And what good would it be anyway, to offer such a miserable arrangement to Sansa? Dany is not confidant that Jon would just make Sansa his second-rate queen, his Visenya, since he will already give up his honor and his chances with Sansa for one night with Dany. I know how I feel for both of them. But I don’t think either of them understand how they feel for each other.
They arrive at the crossroads late in the afternoon, as orange sunlight begins to settle. Quickly, the men begin to establish the campgrounds. Dany’s tent has been quietly moved to the far side, away from the northern nobles. The other night was a loud, gruesome mistake that she cannot allow to repeat. She sent a trusted captain with significant bribes to pay off Jon’s guards who had likely overheard their lovemaking, but there is doubt that will stop people from talking.
She will insist they confess their sins to Sansa. She has not told even Missandei all of that night, but Missandei is not involved in the muddle in the same way Sansa is. It is the least that Dany owes her, for giving into Jon’s whims and her own, too. And if Jon will not consider a different route, a more honorable way . . . then who is she to keep lying to a friend, someone she herself loves and cherishes?
Upon reaching the crossroads, she heads straight for the command pavilion, set up upon a hill. After an hour of meetings and conversation with Tyrion and Varys, Jon and the commanders join for further adjustment of their plans for taking King’s Landing. For all that she prays Arya’s plan works, Daenerys must be prepared to take the city by force in case it should fail. And from there, as the commanders filter out, is where a Dothraki guides Lord Edmure Tully to meet them.
Dany can see Sansa in him, and even a little bit of Arya too, around the nose and chin. His hair is dark red, the same shade as Bran’s, and his eyes a deep, river blue. He bows to Dany, stiffly, and turns to address his own king and goodnephew.
“Jon Snow.” Edmure levels a steady, penetrating gaze at Jon. Daenerys knew there was enmity between the Tullys and Jon Snow, on behalf of Sansa’s mother. She did not know how poorly that relationship would be in the future with him as their king, but Catelyn’s daughter as their queen. Finally, Lord Tully nods deferentially. “My liege, before we left we received word from Winterfell. You are to be a father.”
Her heart drops in her throat. Another child. A challenger to her babe’s throne? Or an ally? Perhaps we can unite Westeros once again by uniting the children in marriage, as was our family’s custom. She wonders how Jon would think of that. How Sansa would. Dany tugs at her sleeve, setting aside the urge to cover her pained belly with her palm. Instead, she turns to Jon with a steely blank face, honing Sansa’s wall of ice. “Congratulations are in order. This is no little news. May Queen Sansa deliver of her child safely, with you by her side once this war is done.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Jon’s eyes are wide, accepting the news with all the grace he can muster. “Is there anything else?”
Edmure holds out a roll of parchment. “This came for you, as well.”
Jon takes it, his eyes greedily reading every word from his wife.
“Congratulations on the birth of your own heir, Lord Tully.” Dany says. “Have you named the child?”
“He’s a hale and healthy son, named Brynden for my uncle, who was called the Blackfish.” Edmure eyes Dany, assessing her bearing. Noticing his gaze, she straightens her back and pushes back her shoulders, hoping the motion makes her look more regal on her horse. “Have you heard of him, during your time in Essos?”
Dany thinks back to everything she knew about House Tully. Viserys called all the lords who fought against their father the Usurper’s Dogs, but even then he mostly talked of Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark and the Kingslayer, not House Tully. Of them, he rarely spoke at all. Luckily, Sansa has shared some of her knowledge.
“Only that he was a great knight who distinguished himself in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and died protecting your castle from Lannister men.” Dany nods her head. “My condolences for his loss. Later, you must regale me with your recollection of his heroics and what it was like to know such an impressive man.”
“Thank you, your grace.” Something sparkles in Edmure’s eyes. He smiles slightly at the queen and departs to go help set up his men’s tents.
“What writes Sansa?” Dany asks, turning towards Jon. “Is she well?”
“Yes, your grace.” A slap. Jon continues to read. “She wants to name a girl Rhaella, by your leave.”
“After my mother?”
“Aye. And my grandmother.” Jon smiles at the paper, but the joy disappears when he looks up at Dany’s face. Another slap. “Your grace,” he begins, looking around. The formality in his address is like a stab through her heart. “We cannot continue like this. I cannot keep hurting the woman who is about to be mother to my child. Even if she does not know of our indiscretion, if she were to find out . . . I cannot continue down a path that might bring her such pain.”
Daenerys swallows. “I never meant to hurt her. Neither of us did.”
“I know.”
Water wells in the corner of Jon’s weary eyes but it disappears with a blink. He carefully folds the letter and only speaks when he has gathered himself.
“Even if I was not truly Lord Stark’s child, Catelyn Stark spent all her marriage thinking her husband had shamed her.” Jon sighs. “Lady Catelyn loved her husband and she loved her children. She did not love me. She should not have treated me as she did, for it was cruel and cold, but neither should my father have let her live with that false belief. I cannot let this continue, Daenerys. I cannot keep trying to love you, when knowing the betrayal could tear Sansa apart.”
What of the ways you are tearing me apart? We have a child together, too. Dany thinks, jealousy and grief and dragonfire dancing in her heart. The answer to all this pain is simple: marry me. She is sure they can make Sansa an equal in their marriage if they tried, to keep her from being the Visenya to her Rhaenys, the Aemma to her Alicent. Dany feels deeply for Sansa, and she thinks the feelings are the same, remembering their kisses together. How right it felt to sleep in a bed with the both of them, not just Jon. She would insist that Jon give Sansa the love she deserves, or if not, then find her a lover who can love her properly.
But she will not distract Jon with this news, not after holding the secret in her heart for so many months already.
“As you wish.” Dany says, and kicks the side of her horse to gallop down towards the camp. The plan will stay the same. First: the city. Then, I tell him my long-withheld truth. She can only hope that he will understand. And if he does not, she will make him.
She takes her dinner by the fire with Missandei and a few quiet Unsullied, Lord Varys watching from the edges of the fire. He does not take his eyes off her while she eats and drinks and tries to laugh among her supporting men. He even pours her more mulled cider when she rises to fill her tankard herself, bringing the pitcher and pouring until the vessel in her hand overflows. But there is something suspicious about his eerie gaze, the way he picks at his own food like a little bird and does not drink more than a few sips of his beer, even when he is laughing along with her and her men.
Daenerys does not trust the man, no matter how useful he has been with her pains, and finding a role for him in her small council does not bring her the hope it should. The Queen’s Small Council should be filled with heroes and intellects, the best of the kingdom, those who want what is best and understand how to do that with the least harm. But she thinks he might sacrifice them all, no matter the cost, to enact whatever his own twisted vision is.
The fish stew, fresh caught in the Green Fork, gives her a stomachache, though, and so Daenerys crawls into her own cot tiredly, calling for some of Varys' herbal remedy to hopefully help. A heat spikes her forehead, unusual when the world is so cold and her own body so happy in the heat of even a fire. After drinking the cider, she tries to think herself to sleep with happier visions, imaging Jon and Sansa besides her, but it brings nothing but more heat and aches and pain.
When she dreams for true, it is in flashes of her history. Visenya flying the last King Arryn . . . Alysanne, so loved by Jaehaerys . . . Alyssa flying with her children . . . Daena the Defiant gone and forgotten . . . Naerys sacrificing for the throne to have another heir . . . Daella dying in the birthing bed . . . Rhaella dying in the birthing bed . . . Rhaenys plummeting from Meraxes’ back into the pits of Hellholt . . . Aelora killing the twin she loved in tragic accident . . . Rhaenyra eaten alive by Sunfyre, her own brother’s dragon . . . Drogon breathing fire onto his mother . . . fire licking at her skin . . . fire on her back. . . fire . . . fire . . . Fire.
She wakes with a start, bolting up in her bed as steady morning sunlight pours in through the canvas of the tent. Dany sets a hand across her abdomen, feeling the pulsing, pounding sensation there. She throws back her sheets, terrified of what she expects to see.
What she does see.
A stain of sticky scarlet blood across her bed, where once a child had grown.
When you bear a living child. Mirri Maz Duur had said. Of course. A living child.
The witch cursed Dany with more pain than just with barrenness. But also with the pain of wishes for children that could never come, and the empty hope they would survive.
Notes:
For the inevitable question, yes, I have written Sansa with miscarriages, in Be My Flame In This Cold, Dark Place. Also recently wrote some Jonerys fluff in
Meeting the Family recently if you'd like to see some happy!Dany.Let me know what you think, then come hangout on tumblr to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my ask box.
Chapter 27: CERSEI I
Summary:
Cersei Lannister treats with her enemy; Euron finds a way to even the odds against the Dragon Queen.
(This was supposed to be after the next Sansa chapter, but I finished this one first so here ya go).
Notes:
I would like to extend my deep and sincere apologies to anyone who was hurt by the timing of my posting for the last chapter. It was careless and inappropriate to post a chapter with a miscarriage on Mother's Day. The day is not one that my family makes a deal of, and I honest-to-god thought it was a Thursday. I do not offer this as an excuse for my decision, but I do hope it serves as an explanation.
- This is an OT3, not a love triangle. People keep saying in the comments that “Sansa has three kids before Dany has one” when OT3 has their children together. Dany is just as much the children's mother as Sansa and anyone in the family who were to say otherwise or refuse to acknowledge their mother/muna would be disciplined. If you aren’t ready to recognize that there is love and respect in true polyamorous relationships, this is not the fic for you. And that’s not to say that there is love and respect yet, because there isn’t and they have a lot to work through. But comments keep trying to have some suffrage olympics in the comments between Sansa and Dany and it’s unnecessary. Dany lost a child. Sansa’s husband didn’t come into the marriage fully hers. Jon kinda got pressured into this. They’re all carrying their own burdens and struggles.
Sansa, Dany, Jon, and Arya are all dealing with their own kinds of angst. While Sansa seems to "get the guy," she also is actively aware he loved two other people (Ygritte & Dany) before their marriage when she's only ever had abuse and rape in her romances. Dany lost her love but got a kingdom, but she also lost her child. Jon is torn between these two women he loves dearly and just figuring out his life post-War for the Dawn. Arya feels secondary next to the heroes and royals in her family (she didn't kill the Night's King in this, remember) and doesn't know what her place is. They all have their own problems and are all dealing with A Lot. Just because someone else has it easy in a realm someone else struggles with doesn't mean their life is perfect.- I am constantly working to balance how Dany and Sansa are treated in this narrative. The comments frequently have Sansa defenders who think she is being treated unfairly, and the same from Dany defenders. I admit to having a bias for Sansa because she is my favorite ASOIAF character. Through comments, I have found ways to deal with the balance. Jon has a wake up call in his next chapter about his treatment of Dany and serve as a kick in the right direction to getting over his bastard mentality. It probably should have come on the Kingsroad journey, but it was one of these comments that helped me realize how much more frequently people are approaching Jon about Sansa. Hopefully it serves to sufficiently give Dany the justice she deserves.
- Jon needs to learn to love both the women in his life, just as much as Sansa needs to learn it’s okay to be bi. If he married Dany because she had his child, it would invalidate the entire basis of his marriage with Sansa. She already came into a crowded marriage, much as her mother did with Jon's mother's ghost between her and Ned. Having a another wife immediately would not give her and Jon the chance to build a love between them, because she would always feel secondary to the other woman. It took time for Ned and Cat to learn love and trust between them. Dany, Sansa, and Jon need to come into this marriage equally, as full partners, so all three of them recognize can find their happiness.
- Finally, child death is an issue generally in Westeros and an especially major problem in the Targaryen family.
I didn’t just pull this plot point out of nowhere. Dany herself has already had a stillbirth with Rhaego and very likely had a miscarriage in her last chapter of A Dance with Dragons. R haella had three miscarriages, two stillbirths, and at least two cradle deaths. Alysanne had three sons die young, Alyssa died in childbirth with Prince Aegon, Aemma Arryn lost a son in infancy and had problems conceiving, Rhaenyra's daughter was stilborn, Maegor's wives had several stillbirths and miscarriages, Naerys had several stillbirths and miscarriages, and Valarr Targaryen's wife had two stillbirths.I hope this has served to clarify and respond to people's questions, concerns, and comments. If there are any specific instances where the narrative seems especially unfair to someone in particular, I am open to suggestions that I may implement if I believe it can be changed without affecting the plot while still shaping characterizations, dynamics, and relationships.
Thank you if you've read this far, and thank you if you choose to read on.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cersei Lannister swirls her golden goblet of purple grape juice and glares at the iridescent water that shines below her balcony. The cold breeze off Blackwater Bay does not do anything for her mood. Neither do the ships that sail in a long blockade line across the Bay’s opening, keeping the Ironborn from leaving and any more help from arriving.
She would much rather be draped in light, loose-fitting silks, showing off her baby bump for all the world to see. She would also prefer to be drinking wine right now, but her child demands the greatest care for her health possible. This babe will be golden-haired and emerald-eyed, the heir to an entire kingdom.
But first she must win this war.
Turing back to her devilishly terrible husband, Cersei drains the cup of juice over the railing. “This has no taste. Dorcus, fetch me some of that spiced orange drink from Dorne. The one my lord husband captured from the dragon queen’s hold.”
Euron Greyjoy smiles like a snake, whether pleased that she called him lord husband or that she enjoys his treasures, Cersei doesn’t know. She swears, the man preens whenever she offers even a modicum of praise. Cersei knows she’s wonderful, but he’s been awfully annoying with his agreement.
“How is my son today? Did he sleep well, my queen? Did you?” Euron steps closer and sets an unwanted hand upon her bulging belly.
She tries not to let her reaction show, lest he take her shivers as a sign of pleasure at his touch. They were married in a quiet ceremony not three days after she told Tyrion of her pregnancy. After only a few nights in her bed, he left to fetch her the Golden Company. And after that, upon Euron’s return seven weeks later, she told him she carried their heir. The unpleasantness of his return had been overwhelmed by the darkness that settled soon after and rose after weeks, and then the scouts report’s that the dragons came southward for what should be the final battle in this war.
“He is restless. I think he may come early.” Cersei sets a hand on top of Euron’s, holding it in place. He has a disgusting habit of rubbing circles on her skin, like he is trying to be loving or something. She’s seen his mongrel brats, the one he rips the tongues from. Cersei has plenty love for the child inside her. Euron has no love for anyone. “Although it could still be a girl. What would you think of a daughter?”
“It’s a boy. Why else would your belly be so big?” Euron laughs like a hyena, a sound that frightens Cersei. With all the power her throne affords her, she cannot protect herself or this babe from the monster that is him. Somethings she is sure that he is more dangerous than even Daenerys. “A prince we shall name Euron.”
“And if it’s a girl?”
“Why, then we’ll have more fodder for the catapults to launch at the Dragon Whore when she comes.”
Cersei’s skin turns to ice. Thankfully, Dorcus chooses that moment to return with the spiced orange juice. She shakily pours herself a goblet, not offering Euron one.
She will not let this baby die.
This baby is hers and Jaime’s, their last chance to find their happy ending. He may have abandoned her, but she can still hold onto the love between them with the birth of this child. Girl or boy, she will love it. Girl or boy, she will make it her heir and leave it all of Westeros.
And, girl or boy, she will never name it Euron.
“Tell me more about this blockade. Where did it come from? They don’t look like your traitor niece’s ships.” She sips her juice and looks back out at the bay. The taste is warm, not sugary sweet but bitter like the grape juice. It reminds her of the happier days of her youth, running through Casterly Rock with her twin.
“They aren’t Ironborn make, that’s for certain. I think they’re Essosi. They fly the Targaryen flag.” Euron explains, slicking back his greasy hair with one hand. “I thought to take them on, but somehow they covered my ships in pitch and set them on fire. We lost seven last night alone.”
“What?” Cersei glares daggers at him. “We cannot lose your ships. Those are our greatest force at this point.”
She paces back to the pitcher and pours herself another glass. After thinking for a moment, she turns back to Euron. “Send a messenger to their flagship. I want to treat with them. Perhaps we can buy off whatever mercenaries the whore has bought herself.”
Euron smiles and steps to her. He kisses her hard and long with a mouth that tastes like dirt and lips like worms. Then, Euron backs off the balcony. “It will be as my queen commands. And after the meeting, I have a secret to tell you.”
His grin makes her shudder. The smile, no matter how wild, has never reached his eyes.
“Thank you, my king.” She bows her head. The minute he is gone, she spits up in a flowerpot. Cersei needs him and she needs his men. To win this battle she must use that force. But once the whore queen and traitorous Starks are killed, Cersei will make her move and kill him too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The man who stands before the Iron Throne is as gaudy as any Tyroshi Cersei has ever seen. Thin and muscular, his bright blue eyes sparkle at her even at a distance, like there’s some joke only he is aware of. His three-pronged beard is dyed red, the same color as the Targaryen sigil. Cersei squeezes the sides of the Iron Throne harder, trying not to let her anger show. Will he dye it yellow-gold if she buys him off? Or is he a devout worshiper of Daenerys Targaryen’s cunt?
“Thank you for seeing me, Captain. May I ask your name?”
“I am Daario Naharis, Captain of the Stormcrows and Second Sons, and representative of the Queen of Westeros.” He flourishes a bow, his yellow cape billowing behind him with the motion. At his side, his captains and lieutenants also bow, but suspicion lurks upon their faces.
Cersei leans forward in the throne, gripping its armrests to keep from letting her anger appear on her face. “Which queen would that be?”
“The one true queen, of course. Daenerys Targaryen.” He smiles, a gold tooth in his mouth glinting in the firelight thrown from the braziers. Cersei glances to the side at her advisors and the few lords who watch her motions. Euron looks ready to pounce at any moment, but there is a reason she handles politics and he handles war.
“And how much is she paying you for your loyalty and allegiance?”
“Nothing that you could match, my queen.” Daario responds and sets a hand upon his sword, its handle a woman with large breasts. Seeing Cersei’s gaze, he cocks a smirk. “Do you have the terms of your surrender prepared?”
“Are you sure we cannot convince you to switch sides?” Cersei smiles tightly. “I have all the gold of Casterly Rock and Highgarden at my disposal. I’m sure we could come to an agreement that will see you and your men richly rewarded.”
“Casterly Rock rightfully belongs to Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen. I doubt he would appreciate my men pillaging his castle.”
Anger simmers in Cersei like a kettle about to steam. Who does this sellsword think he is? She purses her lips before responding. “It seems you are not familiar with the customs of Westeros. Even if the Imp were not a fugitive of law for his role in the death of King Joffrey Baratheon, Casterly Rock would still be in my name as Tywin Lannister’s eldest child.
“But that is besides the point.” Cersei sweeps her eyes across Daario Naharis’ men, holding each man’s case. “Are your captains so willing to eschew my generous offer? There would be gold and glory for you all, a lordship for you, and knighthoods for your captains. Perhaps even marriages to heiresses that would make them lords as well.”
Whispers roll over the gathered group of men. Cersei smirks. It is just as she intended the words to be met.
“Queen Daenerys will reward us for our leal service plenty upon her arrival and the conquest of this city.” Daario says in full confidence. But the looks on his captains faces suggest they are not in the same vein of thinking. “Besides, how are you to face down a dragon, when it’s already destroyed your armies once along the gold road?”
“We have our ways. I am confident that we can defeat the Targaryen girl. Your help is not necessary to achieve victory, but it would still be a beneficial partnership.” Cersei leans back in her throne, thinking of Qyburn’s scorpions. At her side, Euron chuckles. A dozen have been completed already and are prepared to be raised along the walls of the city. Another dozen will be finished before the armies walking through the riverlands have arrived. “I will give you seven days to consider this offer before it is rescinded. I hope you choose correctly, Daario Naharis.”
Cersei flicks her hands and the sellswords make hasty bows before letting Lady Taena Merriweather guide them out. The woman flashes her winning smile as she takes them to the door of the Great Hall, where they will be met by guards to see them safely out of the city.
“Qyburn, arrange for a few kegs of ale and several of Chataya’s girls to go see the captains tonight and the nights to follow. See if they can gather any information for us on the captains and convince them of the city’s worth.”
“And if they will not go?”
Cersei glances towards her skeletal kingsguard. She will need to appoint four more knights after the battle is over. If any one else defects or dies, that number will be more. “Bring the Mountain along. If your gold cannot convince the sluts, I’m sure after one of them spends some time locked in a room with him it will convince the others.”
Euron offers a hand to help her down from the throne, a glass of spiced orange juice in his hand. His constant attention does have some benefits, she thinks. But those benefits won’t save his life.
“You’re a wonder to watch, wife.” He says. “I’m sure some of the men will be ours before the night is through.”
“Thank you. What was the secret that you wanted to share with me, my love?” Cersei asks, stepping away from Euron and beginning the walk down the hall towards her personal chambers. The laughter that follows would be diabolical, if it weren’t so high-pitched and giggly. She turns back towards him, trying not to show her annoyance at his presence.
He holds up a simple horn in his hands, connected by a cord to his belt.
“A horn?” Cersei raises a slim eyebrow, trying not to laugh herself. “What am I do to with a horn?”
“It’s not just any horn, my queen.” Euron steps closer so she can see it in the sunday’s that pour through the window shaft. Nearer, she can see the horn better, from the bronze lining on its mouthpiece and edge, to the etchings. Her lip raises in a distasteful sneer. The horn is etched with dancing dragons, their fire colored scarlet with precise, ancient painting.
“A dragon horn?”
“Have you not heard the myths of Valyria, how the ancient dragonriders caught their mounts?” He says gleefully. Cersei steps back in disbelief as her eyes widen. He actually believes those myths. He actually believes - “This isn’t just any horn, my sweet queen. It’s a dragonbinder.”
Chapter 28: SANSA VII
Summary:
Sansa makes changes to the North; a Lord confronts her about their alliance with Daenerys. Bran offers advice of the heart.
Notes:
Some updates and changes (Cue someone in the comments getting mad about something in the changes. Again.):
- I updated the line where Jon thinks Dany will buy his silence. I think people read to much into it, but I can see how. So now, it’s “Winterfell belongs to my sister - my cousin Sansa. He will remind Dany, if she offers Winterfell in return for his silence. It would be a sane political choice, one many the Northern lords would even support considering how they made him king over Sansa despite her own impact on the Battle of the Bastards and retaking of the keep.” There’s some additional exposition in the next paragraph after the Sansa appreciation, saying “Jon will serve the North in anyway he can, but it will be Sansa's, or Arya's, or Bran's. It was never meant to be his and should not be now. He will find some other way to make Dany cognizant of his fealty and desire to protect the secret without endangering the other part of his family. Somehow.” I’m sure someone will pick this over, but hopefully it corrects the main concerns about the line.
- Added a line in Dany II about how the marriage proposal works and directly having Sansa unworried about sending adult children away for a destiny.
- Working on a new Jon II where they announce the marriage proposal. Summary is: northern lords are happy; some gathered Stormlords are not for Reasons and Varys does a side eye for Reasons(things related to the sequel). Jon also addresses the “Dany never made me bend the knee, I chose to” thing. I think I said this in the comments way way way back, but I just hand waved it off screen earlier. Adding it hopefully addresses some other mentioned issues. Also specifically recognizes Dany as the one who killed the NK.
ALSO, I started another side/future fic (yes, this is getting out of control). The Price of a Princess is about a marriage agreement with Queen Asha/Yara Greyjoy and her heir, Prince Harwyn, and the some of the tumultuous outcomes of that agreement.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Gifts have begun to arrive from every corner of the North.
As the smallfolk and nobility alike returned to their homes, they brought with them word that Sansa was expecting her first child. And somehow even in their impoverished and slow recovery, the Northerns still deliver congratulations worthy of an heir to their throne.
For every gift received, Sansa sends out what they can spare from their stores, based on what her advisors tell her the villages might need. Tools and supplies, young calves and swine to raise for meat, seeds and grain to feed their children. When a gift pleases her particularly well, she sends the giver back a scarf or hat or gloves made by her own hand.
The presentation of well-traveled petitioners is her favorite time in her long morning council meetings, for everyone in the Great Hall can agree that her pregnancy is a happy occasion. They agree less on every other part of her rule.
“And should she lose to Cersei Lannister, why should we welcome back Lady Targaryen and her defeated forces?” Cley Cerwyn asks, when the time for gifts is done and missives from the Riverlands have been read announcing the joining of Lord Tully’s forces with Jon and Daenerys. “Do we even have enough grain to feed the army of horsemen and eunuchs again?”
As men around the room cheer, he smirks at the other lords. Across the chamber, Lord Templeton nods his head in agreement.
Sansa tightens her grip on her chair before them, resisting the urge to set a hand upon her swelling belly. Almost four months along and likely conceived in the earliest days of her marriage, she fears that the femininity of her state will be just another reason for these men to challenge her. The lords surely make enough surly remarks on the Lannister Lioness to reveal their true thoughts on her gender.
“Even if we did, why should we?” Lord Galbert Glover responds. “Turn them away and starve them out and the dragons will never be turned against us!”
More men across the hall cheer, despite the stern look upon their queen’s face as she analyzes the quiet alliance forming in her hall.
The fools are too old to march South and challenge Cersei, or so they claimed, yet they are willing enough to disparage Daenerys for not giving up in the ceasing march of battle against their foe. But really Sansa assumes they remained in the North to challenge her fresh rule. It was the same when Jon left her to oversee preparations for the coming of the Others. Lords challenged her at every moment, considering her lesser because she was a woman.
And what an example of feminine leadership Cersei has set, bringing back a man from the dead, blowing up the Great Sept and even, some say, murdering her own son. If that was the only woman out there, Sansa would almost not blame them for their challenge. The world has has enough of Cerseis and Lyannas and Rhaenyras. But they had Visenya and Rhaenys and Nymeria. And now Daenerys, too.
Breathing deeply and trying to rein in some of Dany’s dragonfire, Sansa rears her own head. “Why would we not, my lord? Have you a good reason to suggest turning our backs on the ally who killed the Night King, besides your fear of her foreign followers?”
Lord Cerwyn stutters at that. “My queen, she knows nothing of our ways.”
“Neither did King Aegon, and he claimed rule over the North rather than granting it self-determination.” Sansa holds up a hand as he moves to speak again. “Unless you have any true complaints against Queen Daenerys, I will not hear anything more.”
“But Queen Sansa - ”
“Nothing more, my lord.” She says, her voice darkening. Sansa sweeps her icy gaze across the room. After a chilling moment of silence, she stands. “I have spent time studying the many lords and ladies of the realm who are here, and consulted you on the ones who are not. With this in mind, it is time for me to name members to my council.”
“You would have us turn into a Southern court?” Lyanna Mormont stands without a look back at her advisor. “Why should we have a small council when the North has never been ruled by one before? Do you disdain ruling so little?”
Sansa levies a hard gaze at Lady Lyanna and clasps her hands before her. “My lady, I do not mean to establish a council to take my place as queen, but to assist me in governing fairly.
“Based on a suggestion of my lady sister, there will not just be one small council but a great council and a privy council. The great council will include the privy council, four appointed wardens, and five elected representatives of the various regions of my Kingdom.” She turns to the man who is constantly at her side. “First, I appoint Lord Royce as Hand of the Queen. My lord, will you serve this realm faithfully and true?”
Lord Royce falls to his knees, somehow surprised by her pronouncement, and murmurs his acceptance. The others watch carefully as she makes her other careful appointments. Lord Blackwood’s third son Hoster was already northward to serve as Master of Laws; he was a distant cousin through both her Whent Blackwood ancestors and she knew him from her captivity in King’s Landing. Hoster had been a bookish boy and reports suggested he was a bookish man who favored reading and understanding to plots and schemes.
Sansa announces Lady Wynafryd Manderly’s uncle, Marlon, as Master of Ships. Upon his return from the field of battle, she will instruct him to build a fleet for either side of their kingdoms. The Master of Coin would be Lord Torhenn Stane and Commander of her Queensguard would be Ser Harrold Hardyng of the Vale, also away on the march to King’s Landing.
“Has Ser Harry consented to this appointment?” Lord Templeton asks, eyeing her with suspicion.
“My lord, the Queensguard shall no longer be a lifetime appointment.” She surveys the room, locking eyes with Ser Beron Tallhart, who has agreed to a role in the Queensguard. “After discussion with Queen Daenerys, I have chosen to follow her own example in the plans for her own Queensguard. Twenty years of leal service shall lead to the honorable discharge and end of their service. The knight shall be granted lands and a keep in a region of his choosing, to give him income throughout his life. If he marries, his eldest child shall inherit the keep. Ser Hardyng is a distinguished knight with little chance of advancement because he is a son of a minor, landless line.”
“I am sure my cousin will be glad to accept such an honor from his queen.” Sweetrobin calls out in his low voice. He has grown much in the years since they first met and while she will not count on him as a confidant or friend, Sansa knows she is a better ally than his mother would be.
“I will wait on the matter of a Master of Whispers and on our Wardens and Electors until my husband and our other lords are returned from the southern war.” She scans the room. Her small council includes a riverlander, two Valemen, and two Northerners. As balanced as she can be, considering the many parties who name her as their queen. How much easier it would have been with Arya or even Jon to help her make decisions and relay them to her people. How can Dany manage this all alone? “Are there any additional orders of business or shall we depart for the day?”
The nobles murmur and bow as Sansa sweeps from the room, but as she turns down a dark hall towards the training yard she is stopped by an arm on her elbow.
“My queen, may we speak?” Lord Templeton asks.
Sansa narrows her eyes at him, wondering what additional challenges he has to her own throne. But she must be ever courteous and ever careful to determine what her lords conspire. “Of course, my lord. Walk with me.”
“How goes your pregnancy?” He asks with a smile, offering his arm. “My wife Alys troubled deeply with her first birth, but then the rest of our children arrived as simply as as a prayer.”
“I fare well, as does my babe. How many children have you and your lady?” Sansa asks, trying to think what she recalls of Lady Alys Templeton. She is a daughter or sister of the current Lord Swygert, a proud man who fought with Stannis Baratheon at the Battle of the Blackwater and eventually bowed to Joffrey.
“Seven, your grace, although two died from childhood illness and our eldest son died fighting Lord Ramsey.” Lord Templeton says, although there seems no malice in his eyes. He holds the door open for her as they reach the bridge that overlooks the training ground where she will watch Lyessa in her bow lessons. “It’s horrible, to see bastards raised as lords and kings, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sansa steps away from him as if she has been scalded. “Only when they seize what isn’t theirs and rule unjustly, my lord.” She hardens her gaze. “Luckily my husband is neither unjust nor a bastard so there is nothing to worry on.”
“Another husband could be found for you, my lady. A different, nobler man, with truer blood. If you choose to stand against Jon Snow and his dragon whore - ”
Sansa holds up a hand, stopping his thoughts before they are spoken. “You speak treason towards your king. I will give you this one warning, my lord, but no more.”
“You do know they’ve had their way with one another.” Lord Templeton sneers at her, stepping close and speaking low. “You sit here, pregnant with his incestuous spawn, and your brother shares a bed with his aunt in a war camp loud enough that every common soldier can hear their flesh meet and their screams of pleasure.”
Sansa quivers. Long has she wondered when exactly Jon and Dany would have their pleasure together. She knew their joining would happen, she told them to both take what they would as they would, and yet . . . Why does my heart ache so, when the man I love is happy?
“You didn’t know?” He laughs, cruelly, loudly, and Sansa vows she will have his head someday. “You defend that Targaryen bitch and yet she fucks your husband. Do you imagine he loves you, your grace? It’s hard to think that when his cock is in some other woman on the warpath to claim her crown when you are so . . . defenseless here, alone with a babe in your womb.”
He may not love me or ever come to love me, but Jon will love our children. This Sansa knows for certain, just as she knows that neither of them meant her ill by whatever goes on between them. She unconsciously sets a hand upon her belly, fearing what Lord Templeton might do. There are people down below; certainly he will not try anything where there are witnesses, but still she shakes and swallows back a fearful sob. Please gods, protect my child.
“I know you wanted to be a queen when you were just a girl. Even in the Vale, there was much excitement to think Ned Stark’s precious daughter could be the queen on the Iron Throne. How would you like to rule all Westeros as you were meant to?” Lord Templeton strokes her cheek with a rough, callused finger. She refuses to shudder at his touch, though his smile sends shivers up her spine. It lacks the gentleness that Jon has shown her, even with his own hands chapped from years of labor and sword fighting.
“I have a home here and already have my own husband and king.” She swallows. “Besides, how could I be queen to Daenerys? Such things are not done.” As much as I may want to know her in that way. She thinks and blinks back in her own shocked surprise. Lord Templeton narrows his gaze at her.
“A stag for your thoughts, my lady. Are you reconsidering what I have said? A child conceived can be a child removed, you know.”
“No my lord. Although surely Queen Daenerys may need a prince consort. I am sure your advice would be welcome to make her a match, since you somehow still have thoughts about the throne in another realm.”
“Lady Sansa!” Down below, Lyessa has spotted her. Sansa glances over the railing to see the flaxen-haired girl waving up with the end of her bow. Sansa raises her own hand to wave, using the motion to clam her face and the rapid beating her her heart.
“It would be such a shame if something were to happen to that little girl. She seems so sweet. Innocent. Perhaps she may even marry the son of a lord someday, or one of your queensguard knights.” Lord Templeton muses, the threat gentle wind against the shell of her ear. “Think of what I’ve said, what my many friends in Winterfell have said at all your meetings. You might be better off with a different lord to call you his queen.”
She remembers how he proposed that embarrassing encounter with Daenerys watching as her and Jon made love. How many allies does he have, here in her own castle? Will she ever be safe? “Thank you for your advice, my lord. I will take it under consideration.”
Satisfied with her response for now, he backs away and bows. “Until tomorrow, then, my queen.”
Sansa looks down at Lyessa, at the happy children shooting bows and throwing balls in the snow. When was I last so happy and carefree? She glances at the sky and the drifting snowflakes and bites her lip. Sansa wonders if there will ever be peace or if she will always be prone to the manipulations of lesser men than Jon.
Their agreement with Daenerys is tenuous at best, held together by watery blood and thin, angsted love. If only I were a man and could have married her. Sansa thinks. She knows her feelings for Daenerys are beyond what one woman should feel for another, different from the bonds of friendship she shared with Jeyne Poole and Margaery Tyrell. If only there had been time to discern what those feelings meant, and time to make them useful before Jon and Dany took their march south and left her alone.
“May I make an inquiry of you, Bran?” Sansa says, a fortnight later as she sits before the fire in her solar with her brother. An hour before, she had set Lyessa to sleep with Ghost in her own bed. They have kept this ritual, sitting in the warmth of the hearth before Sansa walks Bran and his chair down the hall and to his room. It is not the way they have always known each other and they rarely say anything, but it is a reminder that family exists. That once, they were one.
She sees the forbidding look in her brother’s eyes, but pushes on. “Not about the present, but about the past.”
He nods sagely, folding his hands in his lap. “You may.”
“Did Prince Rhaegar ever think to keep both Elia and Lyanna as his wives? To have two queens and not just one?” The question has been in her mind since she had her thoughts the other day, about Dany and Jon and her. Could it have been an option, to save the realm from all its sorrows then? Could it be one, now?
“He thought of it, yes. Even made the suggestion to Mad Aerys.” Bran shrugs. “But he consulted the Grandmaester and High Septon and both told him it could not be. That it was against the rules of gods and men. Rhaegar answered to them and set aside his wife.”
“He didn’t just set her aside. He left Elia to die, because of what he wanted.” Sansa huffs, reaching for her mug of tea. “He thought with his manhood and not his mind.”
“It wasn’t just lust that drove him to Aunt Lyanna, but prophecy. The savior of the world would be born of ice and fire.” Bran says. “He couldn’t have known what would happen to the children.”
“He should have expected it. But men can be stupid.” Her hand curls defensively around her belly. Unborn, and already she would do anything for this babe. If Jon left her to die, she might forgive him in the seven heavens. But to betray their child . . . it would be unforgivable. “Did Elia know what he did?”
“No. She was a victim of his conniving and manipulation. As much as Aunt Lyanna.”
“I thought you said they loved each other.”
“They did. But Rhaegar cared more for destiny than any of his wives or children, in the end.”
Sansa turns back to the embroidery she’s working on, a wolf and dragon playing in the snow. It will be a chemise for the baby, when she is done with the piece. She stabs her white thread through the grey cloth, pondering all she has learned.
Rhaegar’s prophecies weren’t even all that right. The world wasn’t saved by his progeny, but by his destined sister. Daenerys was the one who melted the Night King in her fire, even if Jon did slay his fair share of White Walkers. It was selfish and cruel, to set aside one woman for another, on the word of ancient prophecy alone.
Stab.
Especially when Elia already gave him two hale and hearty babes. What difference did it make, that she failed to give him any more? She loved him, or so the singers said. And he left her for dead.
Stab.
A marriage of three could only be worthwhile if there was equality, or at least understanding between the parties. Daenerys had been married to a man in Meereen, but she had a lover too. There was understanding though, of who would father her children (neither), who would rule her city (the now-dead husband), and who would have her heart (the lover, for a time). But Rhaegar had no understanding, and Elia did not consent to share her titles or her crown or her husband.
Stab.
Sansa might consent to share hers, though, if Jon would consent to share Daenerys with her too. But what would their people say? The independence of the North would be shot, gone to the winds. They already doubted the power of a woman to lead and all would turn to Jon instead of Dany, instead of accepting the rightful queen on either throne. They already challenge Sansa enough and she is Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter, not the child of a mad Targaryen. They would devour Dany if given the chance.
Stab.
And who is to say that Dany would even want Sansa? Their kisses have been nothing more than Dany sharing with Sansa, consoling her. Sansa wants to laugh. Surely another woman would not want her, not something so ungodly. They say that Aegon spent ten nights with Rhaenys to everyone with Visenya, but they never say the sisters spent any time in each others beds. Two separate wives, two separate women, and never the two shall meet in such an unnatural fashion.
Stab.
“I’m sorry for what I said the other day.” Bran breaks her angered silence. Sansa startles and glances up from her sewing hoop with a creased brow. Bran closes the book in his lap. “I shouldn’t have let on that I knew about your child. It’s just . . . the rules of my powers are so strange and sometimes I forget how to be human.”
She smiles sadly and sets a hand on her growing belly. “You startled me, is all, when I thought it was my news to share.”
“There’s so much I learned before I started understanding how to block out information.” Bran admits, fumbling for an explanation. “I saw Rickon die, even though I wasn’t there. I not only know your child’s sex, but what name you will choose. I’ve known for months, since even before you got married.”
She can’t imagine what it’s like, to know everything in the world. “How did you find out?”
“I can control them best when I’m awake, which is why I’m not constantly Seeing. But the visions used to come even when I was asleep.” Bran gazes hollowly into the fire. “I’m working with Sam to research a mixture that could help block the visions whenever I want to, but he’s so busy teaching the children and helping you, it’s been slow going.”
He looks back up. “I’d like to get better, Sansa. I’d like to help protect our family and be a good brother. But I don’t know how.”
She sighs a heavy breath. This is the closest Bran has come to sounding like the brother she once knew, even if he is more dejected then she could imagine. She wonders if he was like this, after his fall, when all his dreams were crushed along with his legs. What brought him hope then? “Is there anyone that could help you, besides Sam? Shall we send for another maester to assist you?”
“There is someone, but I don’t know if she would come . . .”
Sansa remembers a girl coming through Winterfell’s gates with him, back when he arrived a. “Lady Reed?”
“Yes, that’s her.” Bran smiles fondly. “Meera.”
“I will send for her, then.” Sansa says. “Perhaps as one of the ladies of the court; at the least a report of how the crannogmen are fairing this winter will be necessary.”
She takes his hand in hers and squeezes. She cannot help herself, with all the politics and strife of the heart, but at least she may be able to help her brother.
Chapter 29: ARYA VI
Summary:
Arya and Daenerys converse with a lot of subtext; Jaime loses his face.
Notes:
Finished and posted a new JON II with the announcement of the marriage agreement and addressing of the Battle of Winterfell’s results. Check it out!
Also, I did a reread and realized that a) I killed Lord Manderly but then forgot so last chapter now says “Lady Wynafryd Manderly’s uncle, Marlon.” Also added a note of her arriving in Winterfell from White Harbor and a mention of the battle in White Harbor (in JON II), with some added mentions of her in ARYA II. And b) I said Arya’s back was frostbitten but never addressed it so I added in a few mentions Gendry kissing away the hurt in ARYA II.
JON I - added a lil speech addressing/inspiring/leading people that also credits Dany for the Night King’s destruction; added some exposition for the “unrestrained awe” comment about Sansa that’s gotten some people upset. Pretty much, Sansa hasn’t slept in several days cause she’s been taking care of people. Despite this, she still found time to calculate rations and figure out how to stretch their stores for several months, plus the backup plan. If people still don’t find this worthy of being impressed, I give up.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
She is sneaking back to her own tent from Gendry’s on their first night outside King's Landing when she hears the soft sobbing coming from the the Dothraki stables on the edge of the encampment. Arya edges closer, curious despite her better thoughts. The Dothraki are a fierce, loud people who seem to take their problems straight on. Arya knows little of them but in the doldrums of cold travel through the Neck and Riverlands, she befriended a few of their women and younger riders. She taught them words of Common and in exchange, they taught her some of their tongue. It wasn’t much, but they were at least able to communicate with more than swords during their sparring practice.
But Arya does not expect them to cry, even alone in the hour of the wolf. So it comes as only a little surprise when she sneaks closer and sees that the crying person is the Dragon Queen, tears glistening in her violet eyes as she strokes a silver-maned horse.
“Your Majesty, is anything amiss?”
She doesn’t know what compelled her to call out in the queen’s native Valyrian. Or what compels her to follow after the words and step into the makeshift stable-tent.
Daenerys startles and turns, disappointment writ clear on her face. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Yes. Me.” Was she expecting Jon? Arya pushes the thought away from her mind. “I only wanted to see what was the matter. I can leave -”
“No, no it’s fine.” Daenerys smiles softly and sniffles. She indicates the grey mare. “This is my silver. She was a wedding gift from my first husband.”
Excellent. More talk of husbands. Arya sighs. Gendry had made some joke earlier that night, about running away to live as husband and wife in Braavos. He mentions the future more and more. But the frequenter he does, the less she wants to talk of it. “How many husband have you had?”
“Just two, though Drogo is the only one I loved. I thought . . .” Daenerys shakes her head. “Well never mind what I thought.”
Arya’s heart breaks for the queen, despite knowing what she has done. These tears are certainly shed for the future Daenerys thought to have with Jon. The future she gave to Sansa instead.
She steps further into the stable-tent and approaches the queen. Gently, Arya sets a hand on Daenerys’ shoulder. Her childhood with Sansa was never easy, and yet they’ve grown and forgiven and been forgiven in turn. Mayhaps she could forgive Daenerys someday, too, when the anger is not so fresh. “Dreams keep us young. They keep us human.”
Daenerys sniffs again, surprised by Arya’s touch. “I dreamed of dragons, before I hatched them.”
“Is it true you walked into flames and came out with them alive?” Arya asks. She heard the rumors in Braavos, but they seemed too surreal to be truth. Daenerys nods, as if its the simplest fact, like it’s just the sky is blue.
“It was Drogo’s funeral pyre. Ser Jorah thought me mad, but I knew . . . I knew my dreams would come true.”
Arya tries to hold back her awe at the courage that must have taken. The nerve. Greatness or insanity? Surely it must be greatness, since the queen is now here after everything. “I dream of wolves, sometimes.” She hasn’t talked about the wolf dreams with Sansa or Bran or even Jon. But it doesn’t seem so strange, after hearing of the Dragon Queen’s dragon dreams. “I had a wolf, once. A direwolf, named Nymeria. I had to trace her away along the Trident, because Joffrey and Cersei would have had her killed.”
“The first direwolf to come that far south in a hundred of years. I’m sure she’s a fearsome creature.” Daenerys smiles. “Jon told me.”
She jerks her hand away from Daenerys’ shoulder, sure the steel at her hip is gleaming in her eye. “They killed Sansa’s wolf instead and later our entire household. I only lived because I escaped through the tunnels beneath the city. Both wolves would still live, if not for Cersei. My father would still live, if not for Joffrey.”
“And we will avenge the wolf and your family. Together.” Daenerys surprises her when she grabs her hands and squeezes. “Missandei told me you asked if she had ridden a dragon. Would you like to, when this is all through?”
Stunned, Arya nods. Daenerys seems so desperate for her approval, to even offer this. But it’s more than that, she realizes. Daenerys is looking for friendship, when she’s rarely ever had any. It’s too late at night and her head is already brimming with the plans to take King’s Landing and Gendry’s hints at a future together. She cannot bear the burden of comforting Daenerys more than she already has. “Yes, your grace. But I must be off. It’s late, you know. Good night.”
And before the queen can respond, Arya has disappeared into the darkness beyond the tent.
Arya stands before Jaime Lannister, a vicious glint in her eyes as she unsheathes the strange dagger she stole from the House of Black and White. The shiny black stone glints sinisterly in the torchlight. The Kingslayer sits tied to a stake in the center of his prison tent, eying her suspiciously as she approaches.
“Why have you been told about our plans to take the city, Kingslayer?” She asks. Others may have forgiven him for what he’s done, trying to kill her brother and standing by while her sister was brutalized and fucking his own sister and throwing the realm into chaos with their incestual spawn.
But Arya hasn’t.
“No one tells me much.” He shrugs, indifferent to whatever’s going on in the grander scheme. Has anyone who cares come to see him since they entered the Crownlands? Briefly, she thinks of Lady Brienne trying to come visit him, skirting around the edges of his guards. Daenerys and Jon commanded she be allowed in, but she still has never entered.
On Sansa and Brienne’s word, Daenerys pardoned Jaime all those months ago at Winterfell and he prove himself in the Battle for the Dawn. But for Cersei to believe this ploy, she must think her brother an unwilling prisoner. His breakout - Arya’s breakout - must seem true.
“We’re in the Crownlands and will reach the outskirts of King’s Landing today or the day after.” Arya says. “I’ll use your face to escape and find Cersei. And then I’ll kill her, like your son killed my father, and your father killed my brother.”
“You’d kill a pregnant woman?” The first flash of fear appears in the Kingslayer’s eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.
“To stop a war? I might.” Arya bends down next to Jaime. “Lucky for you, your brother pled very prettily for the babe’s life. It’s to come be our ward at Winterfell with you, once the fighting’s over.”
Jaime’s shoulders sag, perhaps in relief. “So what are you doing here then, Princess Murder?”
Arya glares at him. She doesn’t care if her brother was a king before, and her sister and brother are king and queen now. She likes being called Princess even less than being called My Lady.
“I told you.” She says, twirling the black knife in her hands again. “I’m going to take your face.”
Then, Jaime Lannister begins to scream.
When Arya exits the tent with Jaime Lannister’s face, she has an audience. Brienne, Podrick, and Tyrion stand outside the Targaryen-black tent staring with expressions of terror, although Tyrion looks a bit curious as well.
“My Lady -” Brienne begins, straightening her shoulders and trying to blank her features.
“Please don’t call me that. I’ve told you, Arya is fine.” It’s one thing for the lords to bow and scrape to her. It does their egos some good, to supplicate to a small girl with wild hair and wild eyes. But Brienne is a sparring partner, and maybe even a friend, with too much humility.
She smiles a little. “Arya, the war council is convening. Your presence has been specifically requested.”
“Thank you.” Arya looks over her shoulder. “Will you talk to him? We send him to the rearguard tomorrow morning.”
Brienne blinks in consideration. As much as Arya doesn't care for the Kingslayer, the process of taking a face from a living person is not a pleasant one. He could use the company of a reliable presence like Brienne as he processes what just happened to hi. “I believe I will. Briefly.”
“Lord Tyrion, will you walk with me?” Arya says, summoning the energy of her mother and sister. She hates these talks, but it is a good skill to know how to speak politically. Politely.
“I was hoping for a moment with my brother.”
“You can see him after the council, surely?” Arya asks. “A true lord wouldn’t leave a lady unattended in a war camp, would he?”
“I’m as much a true lord as your sister is a Silk Street whore.” He laughs, although his face falls when he realizes Arya doesn’t join him. Tyrion clears his throat. “Of course, Lady Arya. Should I offer you my arm?”
His raised elbow does manage to draw a half-smile from the stoic warrior. “No. Your company is all I require.”
They walk silently through the forest-enclosed tents, past the camp followers that gathered through the Riverlands and men practicing with their arms. She keeps thinking of the southern queen the night before, so soft and sad and vulnerable on her own. And her sister, vulnerable and alone far to the north in Winterfell. Finally, as they reach the outskirts towards the war tents, Arya sighs in resignation.
“I meant to do this tactfully, but that’s Sansa, not me. We need to keep Jon and your queen apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are rumors, all over the camp.” Arya explains. “Surely you’ve heard them.” His tent is near Daenerys’ tent. Surely he’s heard them, too.
“Ah. That.” He holds his hands together. “But what can I do about rumors?”
“Make sure they don’t spread.” Arya stops and crosses her arm. The bag with Jaime Lannister’s face bounces helplessly against her side. She wonders if using it would make this conversation any less uncomfortable. “These rumors aren’t just hurting my sister, you know. They hurt the queen’s credibility.”
“I agree. I can talk to Varys . . .”
“No.” Arya narrows her eyes, thinking back to a time long ago in the shadows of the dragons of the Red Keep. The dead ones in the tunnels, their skulls as big as carriages. “I don’t trust the Spider and I don’t want him or his birds involved. We can stop this better by talking to them. I to Jon and you to her.”
Tyrion shakes his head. “Varys is a friend to me, and to the queen.”
“Not to us. Not to Starks.” He could have stopped my father’s death, somehow. But he chose not to and let the realm fall into chaos.
“Then what will you have me do?”
“Just talk to Daenerys, alright? She trusts you, for whatever reason. Make her see what a bad idea their late-night meetings are.” Arya says, stepping close and speaking low so only the southern Hand can hear her words. This isn’t just for Sansa, she realizes, though she is loathe to admit it. Daenerys cannot be forgiven quite yet, but the fault lies with Jon. He is the one playing both queens for fools when they are so much more. “Or else it could destabilize all of Westeros. Too much rests on a peaceful alliance and the North and Vale are proud people. How will they react when they learn it’s truth, that their king has frolicked off with the southern queen while his wife was pregnant? The same wife upon whom his claim relies? And how will the south feel when their queen has a relationship with a man not her husband, with whom they may someday go to war? This is an ember of rumor now. Let’s not let it burn all of Westeros again.”
Arya storms off without giving him a chance to speak. She’s still seething with anger at the whole affair, moreso now that she’s had this conversation. But she won’t let it disgruntle her into a vengeful, angry passion like she may have when she was younger. So she straightens her back and strides past the Unsullied guards to throw back the flap and enter the war tent.
Inside, the councilors and commanders discuss plans. Arya takes her spot at Jon’s right.
The Spider titters as they discuss how best to take the city. “My little birds tell me that a sellsword captain named Daario Naharis has arrived from the Bay of Dragons. They cannot tell whose side he has come for, and I am not aware that we have paid for any men.”
“The Stormcrows are my men. Daario has long been a leal commander to my cause.” Daenerys says, something warm flashing in her eyes. She even smiles. Arya tries to ignore the way Jon stiffens at the expression. An old lover coming back into the scene may be just what is needed to end his stupidity for good.
“My little birds also tell me that Cersei has ordered the peasants into the Red Keep’s courtyards.”
Arya tightens her jaw, mad as seven hells that Cersei would use innocent people as a human shield, but unsurprised. There’s a reason the soldiers from the Riverlands have taken to calling her Cersei the Cruel. Will that make Daenerys Aegon the Uncrowned, or Good Queen Alysanne? For all their sakes, Arya hopes that Daenerys takes more after her direct ancestor than Alyanne’s older brother.
Arya crosses her arms and studies the men instead of paying the attention. This is, in theory, a backup plan. And if it does become the real plan, she’ll probably be dead in Jaime Lannister’s body before it’s carried out. The only people who know the true plan are Arya herself, Sansa, Jon, Dany, Tyrion, and the little she told Jaime. Even Varys’ little birds don’t know that. Gendry, too, but she does not count him as one of the true leaders, seeing as he is not even the representative of the Stormlands here.
Those lords are the most grumbling of them all, which is saying something considering how much Uncle Edmure raises complaints and concerns about the plot. But most of them are about the care and protection for the smallfolk inside the walls so Arya doesn’t begrudge him much.
Daenerys calls on Arya once or twice for her thoughts of the city, particularly for her thoughts on Varys’ map of tunnels beneath the city since she mentioned the tunnels the night before. But soon enough the meeting is over and all but those who actually matter have disappeared.
Chapter 30: DANY VIII
Summary:
Dany meets with Varys and her war council; Tyrion gives her a warning; Daario arrives.
Notes:
Dany DOES mention some feelings for Daario in this. She also flirts back, because it’s Daario and she’s comfortable. The end is still Sansa/Dany/Jon, but Dany has these old feelings and she’s lost right now ‘cause Jon is being, well, Jon. There isn’t going to be much, if any, of her acting on those feelings. Hopefully I wrote this in a way that shows that confusion and tumult of feelings, but if not I’m open to critiques that she seems cold or distant where she shouldn’t, or perhaps too comfortable, or whatever else.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It is their second day outside King’s Landing’s walls and Dany is already tired of the city. Plans brim in her head for its improvement, from fixing the ductwork built by one of her ancestors to building more homes of brick and stone rather than the smelly wooden hovels that she hears crowds its impoverished areas. Orphanages and houses of learning, programs to ensure the people live happily instead of in misery.
But first she must win the city.
She arrived to her war tent early in the morning, unable to sleep after so much stress in the last few days. Daenerys is so close to claiming her throne, to having her birthright, to being able to build the better world she wants to take so dearly. But war is not easily won and involves more paperwork and less fighting than she ever expected.
Instead she takes meeting after meeting with her advisors and lords. She handles everything from distributing extra horses to the Dothraki to settling disputes about who had claims to a camp follower. The Vale soldiers look horrified and confused when she asks the woman who she would have warm her bed, and they get even more surprised when the woman admits to another, preferred lover. After that dispute, Dany calls for lunch, a stew of horse jerky and beans from the Riverlands’ supply brought with Lord Tully.
She begins individual meetings, first with a discussion with her kos about their role in the theoretical battle and then with Lord Tully about the flank he will command in it. It all feels like some farce, but they must be prepared in case the true plan does not work. The night before, she set final plans with Arya and the rest for the negotiations and Arya’s infiltration of the Red Keep. After their siege weapons are fully in place, they will wave a flag of truce to over negotiations with Cersei. And two days after, they will send in Brienne and Arya to handle Cersei with the strike force.
Lord Tully surprises her by asking after the peasants in the Red Keep. “Will any harm befall them? They have no stake in this except the unpleasant straw they’ve drawn to seek Cersei’s protection.”
“What do you mean, Lord Tully?”
“Only . . .” He tilts his head. Something about his gaze suggests that this next question will determine the foundation of their diplomatic relations for many years to come. “Were some of the Westerosi soldiers to arrive their first, I fear for the smallfolk safety. Hopefully it is not to bold, but I would ask that the Unsullied be responsible for taking the keep. They will not harm the smallfolk unless given that direct command.”
It surprises her to find this lord who cares for the peasants and would seek to help them. He is correct: the Unsullied will not harm children or women or any enemy unless given the command. Even freedom has not turned them into the bloodthirsty savages that roamed the Riverlands after the War of the Five Kings. Daenerys smiles at his care. “I will select two centuries specifically for the task and command them to ensure the people’s safety. I am grateful you care about them. So few lords do.”
“Is it not our duty to, your grace? As their rulers?”
Daenerys nods, finding herself surprisingly fond of Sansa’s uncle. With a smile, she agrees. “It is our duty and our calling. A queen is nothing is she cannot improve the lives of the people in her realm.”
Lord Tully bows again before Varys comes in for a meeting and exchange of new information. After the bowing and pleasantries, she offers him a seat.
“How are you feeling, your grace?” Varys asks, tilting his head as he takes it. For a moment, it almost looks as if there is real concern on the eunuch’s face. “You’ve seemed unwell these last few days.”
“I’m quite healthy, Lord Varys, but thank you for your concern. Perhaps it is the coldness that seems to have followed us south.” Daenerys wonders if he has been shrewd enough to realize her condition, to know that she was pregnant and that now she is not. But she does not want to linger on what her Lord of Whispers knows about her. Instead, she wants to know what his little birds have learned and how he thinks it may be of use to their siege. “I believe you have a report for me?”
“I do. It seems there are several ballistae being raised up around the walls, an improvement on the Dornish variety that felled Queen Rhaenys.” Varys tells her. “I hear they are called scorpions.”
Ice runs through her veins. Dany will not endanger her children. “How dangerous do they seem?”
“I believe with strong flying maneuvers you could dodge them. But destroying them will be difficult.”
“And you have suggestions, or is this a question to put another commander t otask on?”
“You have asked me to provide my advise to help you win the throne.” Lord Varys says, words quiet. “I tell you now, you can end this war in one day. Thousands of lives could be spared if only you mounted your dragon.”
“I will not burn King’s Landing. I aim to be a better king than my father.”
He frowns. “You burned Astapor easy enough, and the Yunkai’i at your gates in Meereen.”
“That was different.” Daenerys says, tightening her calves to keep from stamping her foot. He claims to care about the realm so much, but she would see its people burned. How is that caring? “The smallfolk of King’s Landing do not deserve my fire. They have not asked for it.”
“How was the Bay of Dragons any different?” His face twists into almost a snarl.
“The Astapori were slavers who trained children to fight from their birth.”
Varys shrugs, all malevolence suddenly gone from his face. “They trained soldiers.”
“The Unsullied, good as an army as they are, will never exist again. I will not raise more of their soldiers. Do you know what their training was?” Before he can answer, she tells him anyway. At the most, it will be an education. At the least, it will be a necessary reminder. ”They must raise a puppy with their own hearts and energy, then kill it. They must suppress all emotion, thought, and feeling. For their final test, they must kill a slave babe in front of its mother. That is the brutality that I burned Astapor for. For every Unsullied soldier they dehumanized, for every child and dog slain in the name of the Masters.”
“And the Yunkai’i?”
‘They were enemies who tried to destroy my city.” Daenerys says, voice cold and unforgiving. “But now I come as a conqueror to these gates. The people of King’s Landing are innocent. I will not burn them for the crime of being ruled by a cruel woman who calls herself their queen. Nor will I burn them for being rightfully scared of my dragons. I mean to prove that I will be a better ruler than they have had, not a worse one.”
Varys stares at her, his bald head shinning, his eyes filled with something she cannot place. Finally, he bows. “I understand, your grace.”
As Varys sweeps from her tent, a Riverlander messenger enters. “A man from the barricade has come to see you. Daario Naharis.”
Dany cannot help the young girl’s smile that blooms on her face. “Excellent. Collect the war council. I will have them all hear his report.”
Varys seems less than enthused to be called back in so soon after their tense conversation, and Daenerys chooses not to speak to him until the rest are present. And even then, she finds out Missandei and whispers in the corner with her.
“Daario is come to us at last.”
“That’s good news, is it not?” Missandei asks. “Surely he is your most ardent admirer and a strong support.”
“I would like to think so, but I fear how he may act.” She admits, glancing over her shoulder to wear Jon stands in the corner, studying the map on the work table that shows the landscapes and has figures representing their troops. She never thought the two would meet, and Daario’s record of behavior around her other lovers has been questionable at best. “I only hope he is reproachful and respectful. The Westerosi may be a less forgiving lot than even the Meereenese.”
Missandei smiles secretively at Dany, a look she knows well. They’re in agreement on Westerosi clinging to their ancient customs and courtly rules, even if they act differently in the shadows. Daenerys thinks for a moment on her great-grandfather, Aegon the Fifth, who championed the small folk despite protests from his lords. He faced rebellion because of it and nearly lost his kingdoms. She has one difference though, one threat to hold though she is loath to use it. Dragons.
Once all the lords and captains are gathered, Daario is sent for so that he may join them. Her captain comes to her carrying a bouquet of roses that match his freshly blue-dyed beard. With an overdramatic, sweeping bow, he presents Dany with the flowers. She smiles as she accepts the gift, although her lips are tight. It may be the kindest act anyone has shown her since Sansa presented her with a sewn sampler with the emblems of the chief Westerosi houses.
“Please accept these flowers as an auspicious sign, my queen. These winter petals were freshly blossomed the day I first stepped upon your kingdom’s shore, with beauty only outdone by your royal presence.” It seems Daario has not learned since their days in Meereen, when she told him to calm down his flirtations and boasts in open court before sending him out for weeks on end to patrol in the hills after her second wedding. Sweet words are lovely, but they are not what she needs right now.
“Thank you, Captain Naharis.” Daenerys nods her head in gratitude before handing the flowers off to Missandei. “How long have you been in Westeros?”
“A fortnight, your grace.” He says, eyes trained solely on her.
“And what can you report?” Tyrion speaks next. “Can you draw us maps of their troops, their guard posts and the like?”
“I can. And there is more. I met with the pretender queen, this Cersei Lannister, in hopes of brokering her surrender before you appeared.”
“Oh?” Varys says, his voice dry. “Is the city ours, then? Huzzah.”
“No. She asked us to betray our queen, but the Stormcrows and Second Sons have mostly held true to their vows to you.”
“Mostly?” Jon questions, suspicion in his gaze. “How many men have you lost before the battle has even begun?”
Daario pauses and sets a hand upon his blade’s breasted-lady pommel. He sighs and admits, “Half a hundred fighters and two ships with a hundred oarsmen each. She wooed them with promises of gold and knighthood and even a lordship. Before their betrayal, we took down seven Ironborn ships. After, we have only managed five.”
Daenerys sucks in a breath through her teeth, the noise audible to the entire table. That’s ten percent of there fighters, a company she was relying on for their extra support. She lost many Dothraki and Unsullied in the Northern fight - too many. Even with the reinforcements from the Riverlands, and the men she hears march up the southern kingsroad from Dorne, she fears it may not be enough to win the battle. Daenerys looks up from their table map to see the quick, calculating look exchanged between Varys and Tyrion. “No.”
“The dragons - ”
“No.” She will not use dragonfire, not on the city that is to be hers. Not if she can avoid it. “I’ve read what dragonfire can do to a city. Lady Arya has told me of Harrenhal, or what remains. I will not burn King’s Landing to the ground before it is even mine. How could the people accept me as their queen, if I burn their children to win my crown?”
“Your grace, you have a weapon that can win this war quite quickly.” Lord Varys advises in that high-and-mighty voice of his, likely only he knows the truth of a situation and only his advice is worthwhile. “It would be imprudent to not use it.”
“What crimes have the people of King’s Landing committed, to be burned at the first instigation?” Daario surprised her by speaking directly to Lord Varys. She does not recall them ever speaking in Meereen, only returning from Vaes Dothrak to have Varys appearing with ships to take her to Westeros. Then, he said her people needed her. Now, he wants her to kill those same people.
“They are in the city of our enemy.” Lord Varys says, as if the statement is plain and simple as unsweetened porridge.
“I would be the first to advocate for violence. There is nothing I love more than playing a symphony with my blades.” Daario says proudly. As he speaks, he draws one of his ladies and turning it over his hand before stabbing the point into the table. Dany smiles, amusement dancing in her eyes and Arya whistles in appreciation as he spins the other one three times and does the same. The king at her side looks less impressed. “But brutality must still be necessary. This is a war fought in the name of the Breaker of Chains. She does not break chains by burning the people in them.”
“No, but she did burn those who oppressed them and there are plenty oppressors in the city.” Tyrion muses.
“I agree with the captain.” Jon says, although his jaw is locked tight when he closes it. “Evil men must die, but this city is full of women, children, and the elderly. There is no cause to harm them.”
Arya nods at her brother’s side.
“And no reason to put the dragons in harm’s way. Cersei has raised ballistae around the walls.” Arya mentions, leveling a glare at Varys in particular. “I saw them from atop a hill this morning. Perhaps a dozen or a few more, but they look strong enough to put a bolt through a dragon’s wing. It’s not worth taking a risk to lose a dragon when we could win this war without one.” She turns her grey gaze to Daenerys, the implication clear: let me go into the city. Soon. Before something dangerous happens. Before Dany’s hand is forced by Cersei to do something she doesn’t want to. At their meeting the day before, Arya had been loath to wait for the siege weapons to be raised in full, though Jon insisted as a secondary plan. But Dany understands her desire to have this war ended. Gods know Dany feels the same
“I had planned to approach and treat with emissaries in a few days, once the siege weapons were finally constructed and prepared.” Daenerys states, the cogs in her mind rotating slowly as she came up with ways to amend their plan without endangering Arya. A few days would surely make no difference, not if she is successful. “Instead, let’s send a party in the morning. Lady Arya, Lord Tyrion, would you go to represent your kingdoms?”
Arya looks startled to be selected, blinking in surprise. Sansa is the diplomatic sister, but Arya can handle herself well with lords when she wants to. Jon told her as much and Dany has seen it herself, in the many meetings since she first arrived at Winterfell. The only problem is that Arya frequently does not want to care about the lords when she is busy at the defense of others with less power.
“Of course, your grace.” Arya and Tyrion both say, bowing their heads as Daenerys bows hers back.
Most of the battle commanders are sent away to their normal tasks, preparing the siege weapons and drilling their troops. Daenerys’ small council stays, with Jon, Arya, and Edmure Tully. As she watches Daario disappear among them, she feels many things. Loss and love and longing, all at once, for that which they once had. Relief, that he survived Meereen and the Long Night and the Blackwater Blockade.
But mostly despair, as her mind briefly wondered what it would be like if she had never left Meereen. Viserion and Grey Worm still alive, Sansa and Jon likely dead.
But she saw the Others. If they won at Winterfell, they would have come for everyone else, eventually.
In the war tent, the remainder discuss the offer to Cersei, what they will give, how they will extend it. Missandei makes the excellent suggestion that Cersei and Jaime be offered a yearly stipend, something small and generous to support the pair, and that their child be allowed to return after their deaths. Surely it will convince a reasonable person to leave the city compared to the dragons and death that await them. And it will show the lords and ladies that support Cersei still that Daenerys offered her fairness and she still chose fire.
As noon turns to evening, there seem to finally be no more plans to be making. The company leaves slowly until Daenerys is left alone with Tyrion and Missandei.
“May I have a word?” Tyrion bows his head.
Daenerys bites her lip and nods. “What is it?” Her words bite harsher than she means them too. She is annoyed with him, though she doesn’t quite know why. Perhaps the way Varys has tried to push their friendship against her positions and how Tyrion has nearly let him work it in that way.
“There are some . . . rumors round the common camp fires.” He says, somehow uncomfortable in this of all things. He means about me and Jon. He has said many crass things before her, and yet when it is about her he pauses. Tyrion walks to the little table in the back of the tent and pours himself a goblet of wine. Dany feels like she can feel every drop falling from the pitcher, his pour is so slow.
Missandei looks at her and tilts her own head in concern. She mouths a word. Jon?
Dany nods and bites her lip when Missandei smiles. Dany shakes her head. No. It is not a happy thing, his callous cruelty. Her own self-centered desires.
What must Sansa think of me? She wonders. Rushing off in my support of Arya’s plan, not waiting to hear what else can be said about it . . . It almost reminds Dany of the wineseller’s daughters, tortured sharply before their father. But they at least were aware of the Green Grace’s deceit and eventually shared with Ser Barristan the identity of Harpy. They knew why they suffered. Here, Sansa does not understand why Dany rushed off, what Dany sought to protect. What she always sought to protect.
My children. She thinks mournfully. Dany looks to the ceiling, imagining Rhaegal and Drogon playing in the clouds high above.
“What is it you mean to say, Tyrion?” She snaps, not wanting to linger on that conversation. Not wanting to think of the cruelties she has shown and the ones the world has shown to her. Missandei seems to sense her unease and sorrow and takes Dany’s hand, giving her a quick squeeze in support.
Tyrion offers her a goblet when he comes back over, quaffing his own quickly before slamming it on the part of the table map that represents the dragonpit. “It has been suggested to me that I press upon you what a bad idea your late-night social engagements have been. The healing wounds in Westeros are still shallow and scabbed, like to rip open at the most minor offense.”
“The wounds of the rebellion that happened before I was even born, you mean.”
“Yes.” Tyrion looks at her, and in his eyes she sees the care and concern that led her to name him Hand of the Queen. “You are a wise queen, but you have a gentle, romantic heart. I will not tell you what to do. My role is only to advise you. But I would ask that you remember your duty when you consider who you love.”
“Thank you, Tyrion. I will take your counsel under advisement.” Dany says. As he finally leaves, she collapses into the straight-backed chair at the head of the table, the one she has stood in front of for hours, and bows her head in her hands. Missandei takes the chair to her right and together they sit in silence.
“It is strange to me, that the Westerosi do not take more than one wife or lover.” Missandei admits. “In Essos, it is normal for men to have concubines in their households with their wives. But here, loving more than one person is frowned upon.”
“The Faith preaches certain values. It’s why no king after Maegor took a second wife, or so I’ve read. Loving anyone who isn’t the opposite gender is derided.” Dany says. “But it’s worse, because not only is the man I love married, but I find myself feeling things for his wife as well.”
“Perhaps the arrival of Daario will be a good thing, then? To bring you some happiness on this cursed continent.”
She had loved Daario once. Perhaps she loved him still. Dany had even considered marrying the sellsword, making him and Jorah the two heads of the dragon. He was a safer lover than taking a lord or married king to her bed, with only a few hundred swords and riders beneath his command should he turn against her. Dany wonders who the heads were in all of this, although it makes no matter. Not now, when the wall is collapsed and the Night King gone.
“I’ve had happiness but now I must set it aside for my crown.” Dany sighs and stands. “I’m going to go take the dragons for a flight and see what I can spot from the sky. How shall you spend your evening?”
“Some houses of the crownlands have sent soldiers to our cause. I need to settle the knights and their men in the campsite.”
Daenerys smiles. Missandei has put her head for numbers, organization, and communication to use as a sort-of camp leader, mediating disputes between the various groups of fighters and serving as a liaison for those who do not speak the common tongue. “Shall we meet for dinner later then?”
They say their farewells and Missandei leaves, Dany lingering to study the siege map for a few more minutes. As she leaves the tent, there is a brightly-dressed man who has seemingly been waiting for her this entire time.
Daario Naharis smiles, his gold tooth flashing in the waning sun as he boldly takes her hand and kisses it. “Most beautiful queen, could I have the honor of a moment of your time?”
Chapter 31: JON VII
Summary:
Jon tries to find Dany and have a chat. He ends up doing some self reflection instead.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Is Daenerys available?” Jon asks, when he finds Missandei sitting at the queen’s desk in the meeting tent. He had hoped to find her here, for she has not been anywhere else. The dragons are asleep, her personal tent is empty, and none of her kos, captains, or Bloodriders have seen her. “I haven’t been able to find her anywhere.”
Missandei levels her molten-gold gaze at him, pushing aside a stack of papers. Something in her eyes tells him that she knows, all his problems and all his flaws. Everything wrong he’s done in this world, but most of all to Dany. “I have not.”
Pity, that’s what it is, he realizes at her light, distant tone and the way she tilts her head. Pity, that he has messed up so badly.
It says more about Missandei than him, that she still has the compassion to feel pity for him, when the old gods and the new all know he doesn’t deserve it.
“Thank you.” He says, stilted and awkward. She turns back to her letters or ledgers, her falcon feather quill moving across the page with unmatched elegance. Jon stands there, wondering is he should wait. Wondering what he should do.
Ever since coming back from the dead, he has felt lost and purposeless when there was no one else to guide him. And now, more than ever, with the Night King and the White Walkers dead, Jon feels like a ship without a rudder, a horse running without reins. But even that horse has the freedom to run, that ship has the freedom to follow the path of the tides. But Jon is still tied down by honor and duty, not knowing what decision to make to keep those things he holds dearest. To keep the people he holds dearest.
When he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he knew what his purpose was: to save humanity from the Darkness. But they killed him, for trying to do that when he brought the Free Folk across.
Then Sansa appeared like a guiding light, his rising star. We have to get our home back, she’d told him. And with his men and hers, they had.
That fight with Ramsey told him he wanted to live. To live for her, for Winterfell, for whatever came next. But he still felt like he was walking through the motions in the dark as they prepared Winterfell and the North for the fight of their lives.
Sansa showed him he wanted to live and Daenerys showed him what it was to be alive.
Jon chokes back a laugh, thinking of these two women who have made him want to live with their own fight and drive and perseverance. Challenging him, both of them, in ways no one else dared to challenge a Lord Commander or a King.
Gods, he wanted to right by them both, but he knows he has done right by neither.
“Yes?” Missandei says, raising a brown eyebrow at him. “Can I help you with something else, your grace?”
“I um, er —” Jon swallows. He should have left, but that would take more direction in him than he has. “Did you know two of the Targaryen kings were named Aenys? I’ve been thinking of what Sansa might name our child and just remembered. Aenys would be a poor name to curse a boy with, don’t you think?”
Something flashes in Missandei’s eyes. Not pain or judgment or pity, but something else he cannot read. “Yes,” she says, slowly, deliberately. “It would.”
“Would you have any suggestions?” Jon asks, not wanting to leave, not wanting to stay. Just wanting to talk to someone, about something normal. Something not about queens or thrones or battles or wars.
She sets down her quill. “Of Targaryen names, Aemma and Elaena have been favorites of mine. But of Northern ones I know little. Perhaps Lyarra, after your great-grandmother?”
Jon’s brow creases. “You know her name?”
“On the ship from Meereen, I took the took the time to study the family trees of the Seven Kingdoms with Lord Varys. I can name each lord and lady of every major house dating back to the time of the Conqueror, including the Nymeros Martells and the Hightowers. And their sigils.” Missandei says this with humility, as if it is a normal skill to have, but the only other person with such a talent that he’s ever met was Sansa.
“You have a wonderful talent for information, my lady.” Jon notes, bowing his head in respect.
“And a better head for languages, which is also quite impressive.” Daenerys announces, flourishing open the red flaps to the tent as she steps in. A moment later, Daario Naharis appears on her tail.
“Dan - Daenerys. I’ve been looking for you.” Jon says, smiling genuinely despite the sellsword hovering in their midst. Naharis bows his head, not so low as he should for a king, and his smirk suggests the move was sarcastic.
“We’ve been away, on a long, slow walk.” Daario says, stepping a little closer to Dany’s side. “The queen was showing me the parts of her kingdom.”
There is an innuendo there that Jon does not like, and from Dany’s scowl she does not either.
“What is it, your grace?” She asks. “Do you have any additions to our plan from today’s meeting?”
“No. I was hoping to speak with you in private.” He admits. Dany shoots Jon a look.
“I have other issues I must attend to that cover tomorrow’s deliberations. Your conversation with me will have to wait until this battle is through, my lord.” Dany says, voice like ice and knives and death.
She has been cold and distant, since that disastrous night in his tent. But he thought she understood his position, the difficult place she and Sansa chose to thrust him into. And this is different, even more than usual. Is it because her sellsword captain is here?
“But you still have time for our private meeting, don’t you?” Daario asks.
Suddenly, Jon is overwhelmed with the desire to hit the other man until he’s a bloody, soaking pulp, more indistinguishable than Ramsey Bolton beneath all the blood and gore.
“Yes, captain.” Daenerys says, with her darker, deeper queen’s voice. Jon barely notices when she rolls her eyes and he’s certain the sellsword doesn’t notice at all. “I want to hear more details of your meeting with Cersei, what you saw in the city, and why your men have deserted us.”
“When will we meet? Perhaps for dessert after dinner, in my cabin on my ship?”
Dany crosses her arms. “You will meet me in two hours, back in this tent.” She turns to Missandei, the fire in her eyes warming at the only person she seemed not to be mad at in this suddenly-stifling tent. “Do you have the new report from Meereen? Lord Varys earlier mentioned something about another Essosi threat out of Volantis. I wanted to read the letters before I go to meet with him.”
“Yes, your grace. I’ve translated it to High Valyrian.” Missandei holds up a stack of papers tied together with a black ribbon.
Dany nods. “Thank you. I’ll read these and take my meeting with Lord Varys in my tent, if you need anything else of me.”
Without a second look at Jon or Daario, she swept out of the tent. Missandei rose as well, sweeping her papers and materials into a scribe’s box and following after without another word to the two men.
Daario’s eyes danced as he turned to Jon, sizing him up. “You are shorter than I thought you would be. The man who has taken my place in her bed. But I am back now, so you are no longer needed.”
“I am her nephew and heir, lord of three other realms. I will always be needed.” Jon says, bristling under the other man’s words.
“Yes, but not by her.” Daario says, his eyes suddenly sad. “She perhaps doesn’t need anyone, though she does want some. And by some, I mean me.” He smirks again, an insufferable thing that Jon knows ladies must love. “But no matter what she wants or needs or loves, you will never be good enough to fuck her properly.”
Jon’s hand shoots out before he thinks, crashing into Daario’s face. Daario stumbles back, grinning as blood slides down his nose. Jon slams another fist into the man’s cheek, but Daario knocks it away with his forearms.
Daario wipes the blood from his face and steps back toward the tent flaps.
“You hit like a little girl.” He taunts, obviously never having been hit by a young Arya. “She deserves a king, not a bastard.”
The sniveling man disappears out the door, leaving Jon behind as he stands and breaths heavily and thinks what a waste of time this visit to find Dany has been.
Chapter 32: TYRION I
Summary:
Tyrion and Arya treat with Qyburn, Tyrion chats with Varys, and then shares an uncomfortable conversation with his brother.
Notes:
Tyrion and Arya are honestly a really fun pair to write together. I don't think they ever interacted in canon, which might be why I like them interacting here. IDK. Anyway, the next chapter is going to be REALLY SHORT, and then I have to stop putting it off and write the action sequences that have been in my head since this thing started.
Chapter Text
On the third morning of the Siege of King’s Landing, the Targaryen-Strak alliance raises a flag of truce and sends a pair of emissaries to attempt negotiations with Cersei Lannister. Tyrion and Arya Stark make the offer than Sansa proposed all those weeks ago at Winterfell: in exchange for her surrender, Cersei will be given Jaime, a ship, and a chest of gold and gems to make a new life across the sea in Essos.
“You would have the rightful queen abandon her throne and in exchange give her back the brother who betrayed her?” Qyburn scoffs, the Hand badge on his chest tilting to the side as his shoulders rise and fall. “You ask too much. Instead, here is our offer: give us Daenerys’ head and all rebelling families must bow and swear fealty to Queen Cersei. The marriage between Sansa Stark and the bastard Jon Snow will be dissolved, the cripple will be made Lord of Winterfell, and every family must send their hir to be a ward of the crown. Then the realm will be at peace so long as they remain the crown’s leal, faithful subjects.
“If you do not accept, except all of you to die a traitor’s death as Lord Stark and many others have. This city is well-supplied and the queen’s supporters will rise up if you dare attack.”
“If we dare attack, need I remind you we have two dragons?” Arya fires back with a voice like death, hand resting on her empty scabbard. They left all weapons behind as a sign of good faith, but Tyrion gets the feeling she could kill both him and Qyburn with her bare hands if she so chose. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to dislike him. That’s more than Tyrion can say about Arya’s views towards many other lords, especially Varys.
Qyburn’s smile is like two thin worms on his face. “We are well aware of your dragons. The offer is still too little for such a great prize as giving up her kingdoms to a foreigner and a traitor.”
“Bring the offer back to my dear sister.” Tyrion says. “Ask her what life would be like for the child she carries, if it grows up in a world without her if she burns like Queen Rhaenyra.” Of course, that queen wasn’t just burned, she was eaten. Qyburn should know the history well enough, and understand the implied threat of Tyrion’s words. “And if she does not agree, we will burn Ser Jaime at the gate.”
“Ser Jaime is a traitor.” Qyburn reminds them, as if Tyrion does not know. But he also knows Cersei and who she loves. No one but herself, her children, and Jaime. “We will not take him back.”
“Let your queen be the determiner of that.” Arya reminds him, a hint of a smile in her eyes. “Send her his love . . . and this.”
A ostentatious, but worn, thread-of-gold handkerchief lands in the dirt between them, clearly sewn with lions in red thread. Cersei’s favor. Tyrion realizes. He remembers she gave it to Jaime all those years ago, at Harrenhal. Before he became a knight of the Kingsguard and was draped in the white cape. He carries it even still, decades later.
“Two days, my lord. We will expect your answer.” Arya nods at them both and pivots, Tyrion following after.
“Your sister would be proud.” He notes as the two of them make the long march back to their camp. “That move was inspired.”
“It wasn’t me that suggested it, though I would like to take credit. It was your brother’s idea, to send it to her.”
“Well you still carried it out quite well. The message will get through to Cersei.” Tyrion says. Or perhaps he’s just hoping to much, that Cersei sees reason for once. He cannot believe that her love for Jaime is so gone that she will let him burn in her enemy’s clutches. She will not accept a full surrender, but mayhaps a counteroffer will come. More jewels, more ships, maybe a city in the south. He might even be willing to give her Casterly Rock, if she promises never to leave its walls.
And then Jaime would be near, and he might continue to see his brother. Perhaps even chaperone a visit with Jaime and Cersei’s newest child, when it is old enough and the realms stable enough that the babe can leave Winterfell’s walls.
He had seen Jaime yesterday evening, shaken but alive, bloody around the edges of his face from razor-thin cuts that perfectly traced his jaw, cheeks, and forehead. In the dark of night, soldiers hooded Jaime and shoved him into a supply wagon for transport to the rear of the rearguard. He wasn’t even allowed to clean off the blood before he was moved, but now he is away and safe.
And once they return to the camp, Arya Stark will take Jaime’s place.
He sneaks a look at her, wondering how she will convince his sister that she is Cersei’s twin.
“I always thought she seemed misunderstood, when our maester taught us about her.” Arya comments, catching Tyrion’s gaze. The trek out of the shadow of the city’s walls is long and boring, but he hadn’t expected her to speak. Already, she has been polite enough to match her pace to his.
“Cersei?” Tyrion shakes his head, confused and lost in his own thoughts.
“Rhaenyra.” Arya says. “She didn’t seem mad. Maybe not even misunderstood, but the throne was promised to her from birth, even after she had a brother. Of course she would expect the lords to uphold their vows.”
“But she was a poor ruler, who cared naught for the suffering of the peasants or even her allies.”
Arya raises an eyebrow. “And Aegon did?”
“Point taken.”
“This is the problem that comes with giving unlimited rule to one person. Yes, the lords control the produce and their own peasant fighters, but what good is that when their leaders have dragons or even direwolves?” Arya sounds serious now. “A leader’s worst tendencies could be held back by the people, if the people had a voice. But they don’t, and so the realm burns for one madwoman.”
Tyrion stops for a moment, studying her. “Have you spoken to Daenerys of these thoughts?”
“No. I’ve not spoken them aloud before.” Arya shrugs. “I lived among the smallfolk during the War of the Five Kings. Despite her wisdom and grace, your queen can’t know what it was like in a war that happened while she was a continent away.”
“You should mention the ideas you have had. It may surprise you that she’s quite a good listener.” Tyrion doesn’t know if he agrees with Arya Stark, but surely Daenerys will. And as a good advisor, it is his duty to bring good ideas to her attention.
Upon his return to the camp, Tyrion finds Varys looking at the sky, worry writ plain across his features: his eyes full of it, his lips pursed, his crinkled brow filled with wrinkles. Daenerys their queen flies above a thousand feet her more in the cloudy sky, she on Drogon, with Rhaegal following after. Jon does not fly with her on the reconnaissance mission, instead going over their battle plans with her war commanders and those of the North, Trident, and Vale. Hopefully, Daenerys will note some weakness in the walls, some place with less scorpions, and it will help them frame the attack on King’s Landing.
Tyrion, too, is worried, but not so much he would let passing by soldiers see his fear. Varys is normally better than this, but it seems he has let himself get attached to the Dragon Queen at last. He drinks watered-down wine from his flask. “Queen Daenerys has flown agains the White Walkers twice, and greater enemies than Cersei. She will be fine.”
A few scorpion bolts might unleash from the city walls, although they are officially at a ceasefire. They have seen the things in action, monstrous bolts shot from afar when they first arrived in the city. But dragons are smart creatures, more like cats and humans than anything else, and knew intuitively to avoid the great killing machines. And the bolts that exist are hard enough to aim and fire, thrown easily off by any wind, and especially the heavy winds off the Blackwater.
“What do you think would happen to her dragons, if she were to fall?” Varys asks, not taking his eyes off Daenerys. The question startles Tyrion; apparently he misread Varys.
“She won’t so I doubt it matters.”
“Perhaps Rhaegal stays with Jon, since they are bonded, but what of Drogon?” Varys shields his forehead with his hand. “Gods forbid we were to lose her. We would have a creature on our hands that is a danger greater than the threat Cersei will ever possess.”
“Yes, well.” Tyrion sighs and gives a little shrug. “You very much doubt my sister.”
“I’m not so sure I do. Your family isn’t known for burning cities or madness turned to greatness.”
Not quite, Tyrion thinks to himself. There were the Tyrells. And me. He thinks again of Jaime and their parting yesterday. His brother swore he had to see Cersei, that only Jaime could save her, all because of some strange dream he had of her and their child. A girl, bleeding and squalling. Jaime swore. She is a girl, and she will be a queen, and her name is Joanna. It must be Joanna. While he loved Jaime, Tyrion does not trust him in this, does not trust that when he is behind the walls of the Red Keep with Cersei and the babe, that he would ever come out again.
Or that Cersei would let the realm bleed before she gave it up, so long as they were safe together for a little while.
Deciding he can strategize with Varys and Daenerys after she finishes her flight and shaken by the the memory of Jaime’s words, he goes to visit his ‘brother’ once more.
The tent is dark, with Jaime Lannister tied to the pole in the middle.
“Jaime?” He gasps, as the head raises to show him emerald eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a pale face free of blood and little cuts.
“My sister’s little husband.” The voice is cocky and self-assured, and so is the blossoming smirk, but the words are not ones Jaime would say. Tyrion swears.
“That’s most people’s reaction when they realize.” Arya Stark says, voice still deep and gravely. Somehow her strange magic has even made the little woman inches taller. “Why are you here? Has she somehow agreed to take her beloved and flee?”
Tyrion shakes his head. “No, but . . .” Suddenly, he feels foolish in a way he never has before. Magic is not his field, though it has always fascinated him. He’s pissed from the highest point in the world, but staring at a Faceless Man playing at his brother is somehow too much. “Jaime said something yesterday, something mad, but it could be useful.”
“The potion I gave him may have caused some fever dreams. It happens, when the face-bearer is meant to stay alive. Since I didn’t kill him outright, it may have been that.”
“He said his daughter would be queen.”
“A daughter?” Arya-as-Jaime smiles in a contemplative way that is wholly her own look. Jaime doesn’t look like that, not ever. Not even during lessons in their youth. “Cersei would be mad enough to crown her child co-ruler.”
“If the child is born while you are there, Cersei may ask you for a name.” Tyrion says, voice soft. “And if it’s a girl, as Jaime claims, would you suggest Joanna?”
“Joanna.” She whispers, Jaime’s brow wrinkling. “Your mother, yes?”
Tyrion nods.
“And if it’s a boy?”
He thinks of his favorite Lannisters, and their conversation earlier about the Dance of the Dragons. “Loreon, although Cersei may want to call him Tywin for my father. Don’t let her though, or I may have to kill both of you.”
"Agreed, it is not a name I would choose." Arya laughs, although it is Jaime’s sound. “Although I might, for that reaction. I’d like to see you try, Hand.” She raises Jaime’s golden hand and guffaws again.
The noise is somehow more unsettling than Jaime’s voice on her lips or his face on her head. Warily, his piece said, Tyrion backs away ever-so-slowly and leaves not-his-brother alone in the dark.
Chapter 33: CERSEI II
Summary:
A war council meets; Cersei's time comes.
Notes:
Shorter than normal, but there wasn't much to say. Everyone's making plans, but they're about to be turned on their heads. I've got the next chapter almost all written (including, finally some sword action!!) and so expect that soonish.
Chapter Text
The corridors of the Red Keep came alive with noise, soft songs and whimpered prayers, anxious chattering and screaming babes.
Cersei hates the noise, but the castle is packed to the brim for her own protection. Her hand rests idly on her overly-plump belly, swollen round with a child bound to come any day now. For your protection. She had balked, when Qyburn made the suggestion that she let the smallfolk fill her halls and courtyards. Cersei has reveled in the silence since the worst of the preening courtiers disappeared, leaving her with only the strong. Even their numbers had dwindled though.
It took convincing, but when Euron and Harry Strickland, captain of the Golden Company, managed to agree on some proposal, she had bowed her head in agreement. Those two were imbecilic wretches, more fit to plan a ball than a siege defense, but they were the commanders she had.
Them, and Jokin, the gaunt, sour-faced man who commands the factions of the Stormcrows who have come over to her side. Little pleases him and he pleases her little, but at least they can agree on their hatred for Daenerys Targaryen, and that if he survives the battle he will his pick of lordships and wives, as she promised Daario Naharis.
He had grinned wickedly when agreeing Qyburns’ proposal to fill the castle with a human shield, she’s sure because he’s come to favor a certain whore from the Street of Silks. Cersei trusts neither of them and will likely have the bitch killed, but for now it keeps the fool of a man busy.
Cersei looks up at her small council table and the thread-of-gold handkerchief that she once lovingly embroidered with red lions and her house words: Hear Me Roar. Oh, the Dragon Queen would hear them roar.
“I do not care that they have Jaime. He is a traitor, and he can die a traitor’s death at our enemies hands.” She announces. Euron’s face bursts into what one might call a radiant smile, if he were someone with a sunny disposition. Instead, she thinks it must have curdled all the milk in the Red Keep.
“Excellent, my queen.” He sweeps his arm across the room. “Would you have us kill him with a shot from the walls, to end his misery? The ballistae are almost all ready if you would like to make a statement, or we can have some archer shoot him.”
Though it turns her stomach and sends pains jolting through her body, Cersei shakes her head. “No. Let him burn.”
Such a tenuous, tricky game she is playing.
“As you command.” Euron sweeps into an over-exaggerated bow.
“How much longer until the ballistae are all ready?” Jokin asks, crossing his arms and staring at the table. “And how many do we have at our disposal?”
“A dozen are arisen, six more have been put in place today.” Qyburn states. Though Euron knows the answers, he does not trifle with the lower-level administration of defenses because he thinks himself too important. The only man in the room that Cersei can stand is Qyburn, and maybe Ser Strickland. “Six more will arise tomorrow and then we will be ready.”
“Very good.” Cersei nods. “And how goes the siege at sea?”
“Daario Naharis has sunk five of your ships, your graces. But two more ships of my men have come over to your side today, with sixty-five bowmen and two hundred oarsmen. It seems they needed a reminder of the cruelty of dragons.” Jokin announces with a smile. He took an executed prisoner from the black cells the night past and burned the body, leaving the charred remains on a beach where the ships could see it. His cleverness scares her almost as much as his cruelty.
“And what do they want of us?” She asks, leaning back in her high-backed chair as her body spasms again. Cersei’s gaze flashes to Qyburn and she raises the hand on her belly. Understanding, he slips out the door as Jokin rambles on about the prizes for his men: three captains into knights with marriages to pretty heiresses since she has enough empty castles to give away, and another dozen lieutenants knighted and in the service of the captains.
She traces the outline of one of her favor’s red lions before wadding it up into her hand. “Very well. Ser Strickland, have your men prepared to defend the Dragon Gate and the King's Gate, it is where we expect the greatest push of their forces to come. And send a discreet rider to your camp in the south. I want those elephants ready for battle by dusk tomorrow.”
Cersei thinks before issuing another set of commands. “Euron, my love, you know best for the wall defense. Place the Stormcrows where they can best serve us. For now, go about your tasks to defend the city. I will have more words with Qyburn about the smallfolk in our care.”
She smiles congenially, thinking of the simpering queen they all so desperately wish her to be. Euron stops to press his hand against her round belly and press a slobbering kiss against against her forehead as if they are truly lovers. Cersei pushes down her revulsion and the shudder that wants to wrack her body, and almost sags in relief when Qyburn appears at the doorway again with a vial of medicine and spiced fruit juice in hand.
He offers it to her and she gulps it down in what should have been a pristine motion but is not.
“My queen, what are your commands?” He asks, voice a whisper. “I assume you don’t actually want your brother dead?”
“You are bold, my lord.” She says, but smiles. “But you assume correctly.”
They have come to an agreement between them, working toward their best interests together. Qyburn wants to perform his experiments, and she wants someone at her side who is only on her side. No one else would approve of the work that had him removed from the Citadel, so it behooves him to keep her in power and on this throne.
“Is the taskforce prepared?”
“Yes, your grace. Your leal man is ready to earn his gold.”
“Tomorrow night, launch our forces as we planned. Until then, send a messenger begging for two more days to consider the offer.”
Qyburn nods and offers an arm. Cersei has become unable to move of late, but the only people she allows to help her are Qyburn and Dorcus. The others she does not trust to see her at her weakest state.
As another spasm shoots through her abdomen, Cersei wonders how much longer she will be like this. How much longer she must wait to greet her youngest child. She has been banged with phantom pains before all her other pregnancies and should likely take her confinement soon. But there is so much to do, and a siege is not a convenient setting for childbirth.
Smiling, she takes Qyburn’s offered arm and together they lift her from her chair.
“Oh.” Qyburn says as she smooths over her blood-red dress. “Your grace, I believe you should take to your bed.”
“What? The sun is still high and has hours before setting.” She responds, astonished until she turns and sees a few spots of blood on the chair. Another pain shoots through her body, clearer this time. She cannot look here, but Cersei is certain her time has come when she needs it the least.
Turning to Qyburn with eyes that blaze like wildfire, her words come out in almost a scream. “Forget sending an answer for more time. Summon the company. I need Jaime NOW.”
Chapter 34: JON VIII
Summary:
The Siege of King's Landing begins and Jon is not prepared for what has come.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jon walks along the river line north of the city as lights from the camp bonfires flicker in the grassy hills along the Blackwater. Snow is melting, and unlike the Trident there is no ice on the Blackwater, although the river is freezing cold. Ser Davos stalks quietly at his side, with his hands behind his back and his face blank of feeling.
A purse full of pebbles bounces on Jon’s hip, collected on this walk. Every few steps he absentmindedly throws one into the water and watches as it skids or sinks. More often than not, the pebbles fall. It’s only when he cares enough to throw them right that they sail across the water.
Problem is, he doesn’t care to nurture stones.
Another pebble disappears beneath the Blackwater when Jon stops in his steps.
“I spoke privately with Captain Naharis today.” Jon mentions, though he doesn’t know why. He’s rarely spoken to Davos about private, personal matters. Not without the other, older man bringing it up first, or something else causing the conversation.
“What did the captain have to say, my lord?” Davos asks, his voice judgment-free.
“That Daenerys deserves a king, not a bastard.” Jon says, tossing another pebble. He offers one to Davos, although the man shakes his head. “The way it was said, Daario Naharis does not think I comport myself as a king.”
Jon turns away from the water, staring up at the flickering fires along the hills and plains before the city. “The thing is, I asked around amongst his men, quietly, and they told me that he was born a whore’s bastard.”
“What must you think of me, Ser Davos, for being so angry over this sellsword when my own wife is pregnant with my child in Winterfell?” He collapses against a nearby rock jutting out of the sands of the shore.
“I think you’re confused, Jon, and thinking with the clarity of the mist off the narrow sea.” Ser Davos studies Jon, watching as he runs a hand through his mess of black curls. “May I speak plainly, my lord?”
“Always.” Jon says. When this is over, he means to give Ser Davos a true keep of his own, and somehow find the gold to defend and man it. To bring his wife and three sons from their home on Cape Wrath and find positions for the boys. It is the least he and Sansa can do for all Davos’s leal years to the Northern cause, and his service to the greater realm.
“It’s clear you love Queen Daenerys. You’ve said it yourself, time and time again, that she has a good heart.” Davos rocks on his heels and clasps his hands in front of him. “But a woman with a good heart is not a good enough reason to be unfaithful and ruin your own kingdom before it’s been built. You’re a king now, Jon. You need to act like one.”
He stares out at the darkness of Blackwater Bay, wondering what terrors and enemies wait beyond that roiling mist. “Easier said than done, when one loves two women.”
“Perhaps you can think of it this way.” Davos suggests. “Queen Daenerys may be a dragon by blood and name and crown, but she’s also got a bit of a wolf in her. We heard tales of it, when she burned the dissenters at the Gold Road. She said the sentence, and swung the metaphorical sword herself.
“But she’s also a wolf in that she loves her pack and her family. It just so happens that her family are two scaly, oversized lizard-beasts, and you.” Davos pauses, leveling his steady, grim gaze at Jon. “By continuing on this path you’ve set down, you risk dishonoring both your queens and yourself. But Daenerys can still be part of your pack, if you turn back. If not, you may drive her away, make a lone wolf of her and that could cause chaos for your marriage, your life, and both the kingdoms.”
Jon runs a hand over his head. It was easier to deal with coming back from the dead than it was to deal with these women. He dishonored his wife while she was carrying his child. Jon always wanted to be like his father, but not like this. What everyone judged Ned Stark for, was a lie he embraced for years.
But for Jon, it was true.
And just as awful, he dishonored the queen he choose, the woman who would risk her armies and her dragons and her own life for the rest of them, for something that mattered beyond her aspirations for the Iron Throne.
One king came calling, when the Watch wrote out to five in hopes for some salvation at the wall. And Jon is somewhat glad, that Stannis is long dead, because he fears who he would have chosen between that king and this queen.
But for all his admiration of stoic, steady Stannis, Jon thinks he would have chosen Daenerys. That he will always choose Daenerys, just as he will always choose Sansa. They are both more important than he can ever begin to explain to anyone, even Davos, who has been with . Unlike Stannis, Daenerys came north not for destiny or glory or the lords’ support, but because she saw into the heart of winter and knew to fear the world to come if it was not a battle that humanity won.
Screams fill the crisp night air before Jon breaks his thoughts to respond.
Screams, and flashes of fire.
Jon’s hand finds the hilt of his sword and Longclaw is drawn from its sheath before the second fireball can land among their tents. He barks at Davos,“To the camp. Now!” and together they run away from the shores of the Blackwater with weapons out.
The guards part to let them through, standing on edge with wide eyes as they watch the fireballs split the sky from catapults along the walls of King’s Landing. Jon points at them both, two unfamiliar men in Lord Royce’s colors. “You, go gather men. Anyone you can find, we will need her at the water’s edge.”
The neat rows of Northern tents are burning, but there is no sign of any attackers on the grounds of their campsite in chaos. Jon stands in the middle of the intersection, gaze turning between the walls of the city and the dark Dothraki tents further back. A screaming, burning man runs out of a tent for the Blackwater, collapsing before he reaches the water’s edge.
Water, Jon thinks. He turns to Davos, grabbing the arm of the nearest soldier running by. The Riverlands man tries to throw him off, before realizing the man grabbing him is his king.
“Go to the Dothraki. Find one of the captains who speaks common and tell them to bring men and buckets here. Go.”
The man hesitates before Davos prods him with his stumpy fingers. “Your king has given you a command, man. Go!”
As he runs off, Jon turns to his advisor. “Start organizing the men here, anyone who you can find. Get a line going to pass the water along.”
“Yes, your grace.” Davos says, nodding his head before he leaves and begins shouting commands at anyone who can hear him.
The imminent threat taken care of, Jon spins Longclaw in his hands and focuses on what else he can notice. More fire is falling, but it seems set at the same targets with no adjustment. And only a few spots on the wall seem to be catapulting into the inky black of night.
Jon blinks, for the move seeming familiar. It’s a distraction, he realizes. But from what?
Suddenly, the sound of clashing steel comes from his right, towards the southern ring of commander and noble tents. Men are in the camp, then. But there is steel to his left too, but no target he can think of. He hears a roar, loud and distinct enough that it must be Gendry Baratheon.
Daenerys.
Jon stops his stalling and thinking and bolts towards the command ring, feet falling heavy on the muddy ground. Davos and his runners have gotten the word out, but Jon ignores the men around him, streaming away from the fire with buckets in their hands. One man tries to stop him and Jon just points to the river. “Ser Davos has your commands.”
Impatient and worried, he pushes past.
The ring of tents is not on fire, but it is just as much of a mess. He adjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword and lunges for the nearest man dressed all in black. Their swords clash in a resonating clang, but Jon is stronger, his Valyrian steel stronger still than the other man’s blade. He pushes it to the ground, sweeps behind his opponent’s ankle, sending him falling to the ground, Jon’s sword following to land in his heart.
He heard correctly and Gendry is wrapped in a close fight with two blood-splattered figures, Gendry’s familiar bull-helm and all their dark bodies illuminated by the firepit in the center of the tent circle and the blaze of the fireballs still raining from above. More dead men, dressed all in the black, are scattered around the enclosure. Two Dothraki guards are fighting two more men, and the Hound is fighting a giant, helmed figure that can only be the Mountain. But someone is missing, someone who should be out here fighting —
Jon rushes to Qhono where he leans against a torch between two tents, the Dothraki bloodrider clutching at a gaping, bleeding wound in his side.
“Inside . . . he’s with . . .” Qhono strains, pointing with his free hand to another tent. The direction makes Jon’s blood run cold as the Night King’s must have. “Khaleesi.”
“No.” Jon whispers, standing.
Gendry’s two attackers have fallen, and Jon calls his name and points towards Qhono. The man will live, but he is in need of help. Gendry passes Jon, or someone does.
Jon does not notice as he crosses the enclosure, strides straight through the still-burning fire pit, tongues of flame licking at his trousers and throws back the tent flap to enter the red-and-black command tent.
A man lies dead or dying at her feet, a stab wound leaking from his throat. The bloody dagger that ended him is in Dany’s trembling hands as she faces the two men from across their table. Missandei is in one of their arms, a knife to her throat, but her captor’s grasp relaxes for a brief moment as the two attackers turn to face the unexpected guest.
Missandei bolts from the attackers and jumps inelegantly across the table. It doesn’t matter what her fleeing looked like, only that he doesn’t have to worry about her safety as she ducks behind Daenerys’ arm.
Jon’s sword flashes like a star in the sky as he slashes for one man’s head. It comes off and the force of the beheading sends it flying across the tent and splatters blood across most of the already-red figures on the table that represent Cersei’s forces.
The other man does not end so easily.
He dodges Jon’s first attack and strikes back before Jon can recover. Longclaw clashes with the other man’s blade above their heads. Jon pushes, trying to force the other man to stumble, but he lacks the brute strength in his tall, muscular opponent.
The other man swings his sword and charges at Jon, forcing him on the offensive with a series of strikes and slashes. Jon may be smaller and slimmer than the other man, but there’s a reason some have called him the best sword in the North.
Their blades meet above their heads and Jon slams back against the other man with all the force he can muster. Swinging Longclaw, Jon cuts through the mans leathers. Blood seeps from the wound in his side and Jon readies in a defensive stance.
Before he can render his opponent’s end, a blade cuts through the canvas side of the tent and rips through to the ground. Jon turns to estimate the newest opponent, but it’s only Daario Naharis and his blue beard.
He turns barely in time to meet the sword aimed for his head, but misses the dagger stab in his side. He grunts in pain as the blade digs deep in his thigh. Pulling up the last of his fraught energy, Jon twists and the tip of Longclaw goes to the other man’s neck.
With a decisive, punishing motion, Longclaw severs the a bulging vein and more. The man is forced back by the strength of Jon’s attack and collapses, never to rise again.
The cut to his thigh is deep and must have severed something important because it is a struggle to stand, especially with the rushing loss of his adrenaline. In the middle of the dead and dying men, Jon stumbles for the war table but does not make it.
He glances across the tent, meeting Daario’s eyes. “Is that all of them?”
The other man for once does not respond with some jape, but nods firmly. Missandei is in the protective embrace of one of Daario’s arms with Daenerys pushed behind him, but they both break away from his grasp to rush to Jon’s side.
Clever Missandei immediately applies pressure to Jon’s thigh wound and orders the captain to bring her the medical kit on the other side of the tent.
But despite the sudden pain as Missandei applies a stinging alcohol against his wound, Jon’s focus is all on Dany. She moves to sit beside him and sets his head in her own lap, gently stroking his matted hair back from his forehead. It might be a trick of the flickering lantern light, but Jon swears there are tears glittering in her eyes and on her cheeks.
“Oh Jon,” she whispers, “I thought I would lose you. You cannot die now. You must promise me not to die.”
Jon smiles faintly. “Of course I won’t die.”
“I’d never forgive you if you did.” She sniffs, then laughs sadly and gently stroke his hair again. “And neither would Sansa.”
His smile nearly fades, but he won’t let the thought of his complications and the mess he’s made ruin the quiet peace of this moment. Instead he tries to close his eyes, but is jolted back by Dany’s gentle slap against his shoulder.
“No, Jon. You mustn’t sleep. That could lead to you fading away and we need you here.”
There is a commotion above - outside - and he means to rise to see it but Dany and Missandei both push him down.
“I’ll see to it.” Daario says, but before he can exit through the proper way or his stupid, did-nothing-but-ruin-the-tent hole, someone comes in.
“Your graces,” Davos says. “The fireballs have stopped, but there was a second attack on the camp.”
“Who did they go for?” Jon speaks, just as Dany asks, “Is Tyrion safe?”
“They were after a different Lannister, your grace.” He knows Davos well enough to know that he will be shaking his head as he speaks. “And they escaped with Jaime.”
Jon gasps and scrambles to sit up, processing what this means, even as Dany tries to steady him while rising to her feet. He has done the one thing he promised not to do. Jon meets Dany’s violet eyes, filled with nearly as much guilt as his own must be. Even loving her is not so bad, because Sansa has allowed it. But he has gone and let their sister into danger, unguarded and unprotected.
He has lost Arya.
Notes:
Please, share your feedback!! Especially about the fight scene, I'm not sure how I feel about it.
Chapter 35: ARYA VII
Summary:
Arya receives a rescue she did not expect or want.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Racing down a dark, uneven path cut into the bedrock of King’s Landing, chasing a rogue knight she’s heard of but never met, and in disguise as the false queen’s twin brother, Arya Stark considers how, exactly, she will emerge unscathed from this catastrophe.
She had been in the prisoner tent under heavy guard, bored out of her mind and wondering how much she could endure, when Ser Bronn of the Blackwater appeared in front of her and expected Jaime Lannister to remember him, and disrupting the plan so carefully set by the queen and king and their small, small council.
“We only have a few moments before the assassins arrive to kill the Dragon Bitch.” Bronn had said, immediately going to free Jaime. He was a short, thin man with fading hairline and hollow, angry eyes like the world should give him more. He expressed no concern that the ties binding her were fraying hemp rope, chosen so it would be easy for Brienne of Tarth to free Arya. She had been chosen to lead this mission because her fondness for Jaime was known and because her oath of service to the Stark sisters meant she could be of additional use to Arya when she was inside the Red Keep.
As they run, Bronn explains more in mumbled words: Cersei’s baby is coming, she wants Jaime at her side when the heir is born, and assassins have been sent after Daenerys as a distraction from their escape. Arya does not have time to pray for the queen or the rest because she is too busy counting her loses and looking for an out.
Her guards are truly dead, although their fate was to be knocked out by sleeping powder in their meals. The entire group of breakaways meant to guide her were actually agents chosen for loyalty to their House and throne, but what luck was that, now that she was running through the tunnels with Ser Bronn and several loyal Lannister men, all dressed in blacks and dark browns.
Bronn does not seem to suspect anything is amiss with Arya, and why would he? She is Jaime, after all.
A thrill runs up Arya’s spin, despite the dire circumstances. She expected to kill Cersei Lannister soon, but not so soon. Arya holds back her desire to smile and dance and scream because she doesn’t want to have to explain off Jaime’s unexpected wild glee.
Although, soon enough it will be hers.
That thought sobers her, because she only has a few hours until her own face will appear again.
The normal potion of the Faceless Men is a tart-flavored mixture mixed with the assassin’s blood to attach a face to their own. To make it was easy enough, but it usually worked best with a dead face. Jaime Lannister is still very much alive, and so the potion had to be adjusted to keep him that way. One large dosage could have kept the face on her for a week or longer, plenty of time to kill or capture Cersei and cede the city.
But Arya opted for a dosage of potion that had to be drunk more frequently, used for short-term contracts and simpler disguises. Neither of those circumstances apply here, of course, but Arya still has a vengeful spirit, and she wants her face to be the last one Cersei Lannister sees before she fades away forever.
She fumbles for her pocket, checking for the vial, and curses in Jaime Lannister’s deep voice.
It’s empty.
“What’s wrong, Ser Jaime?” Bronn calls back to her, not stopping his rapid march.
Arya is lost for allies, lost for her potion, and lost for time. She has mere hours before she becomes Arya Stark again and before the ruse is found out.
“I tripped.” She says to Bronn and strides up to stand beside him. “Now hurry faster and take me to her. She’ll need me now.”
There is real worry in Jaime’s voice, but it is not for Cersei Lannister. Arya’s thoughts flash to all the people in the camps, the northern soldiers she has marched alongside these long months, the Vale knights who have spared with her and taught her to tilt, even the Dothraki and Unsullied and Riverlanders who she knows less well.
A list of names repeats in her head as they climb a stair out of the deep, dark tunnel and into the light above, a different one than the list she’s said the last many, many years: Gendry Baratheon, Jon Snow, Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Torren and Beron of Barrowton, Donnel Locke, Missandei of Naath, Sandor Clegane, Edmure Tully, Daenerys Targaryen. All the people she wants watched over today and now, more than ever. Even Daenerys, of whom her thoughts are more complicated than Arya would like, but she can tell that Jon, Sansa, and all of Westeros need the queen and the power and stability she can provide to the ravaged southern kingdoms.
More names to fill her thoughts, all the people she has loved and lost and all those she still has to protect. Eddard and Catelyn, Robb and Rickon, Bran and Sansa and the babe in Winterfell.
Gods forbid she loses Gendry or Jon in the crosshairs of this fight, but she will not let her thoughts wander that far.
And finally, the names she wants to read to Cersei, all the lives that Cersei has taken and ruined and will pay for with her own life. Micah, the Butcher’s Boy. Lommy. Lady. Jory Cassel, Jeyne and Vayon Poole, Septa Mordane, Robb and Talisa. Catelyn Stark.
Bronn pushes against a cracked wall of stone and falls into a round, light-filled tower. He holds back the door for Arya Stark to step inside the chambers.
Cersei waits in the rooms that were always hers, not having taken the king’s as was her right by conquest and killing. But instead of a screaming woman, she is silent.
When she looks up, it is not with the angry hatred she once leveled upon Arya. Cersei looks happy enough to almost be human, but Arya knows better. She knows the evil that this woman has wrought, and that soon she will get the joy of slicing her throat. Cersei Lannister is many things, woman, queen, Lannister, but above all she is a devil, and devils should die.
Even when suckling at that devil’s teat, is a chubby, tow-headed baby.
Notes:
In hindsight, the random names I threw into her list would've been more powerful if I showed her making those relationships with northern soldiers on the march south instead of just getting confused over Dany/Jon/Sansa and angsting over Gendry.
Anyway, this chapter was the shortest yet and the next few are going to be this length or a bit longer since everything is moving faster. I'm still moving chess pieces in my head. Despite how much shorter these are, they're definitely harder to write since I have to plan out the battle. I'm looking forward to everyone's predictions (if you have them), since things won't be able to change much after the next chapter is posted.
I also take prompts on tumblr if you want to suggest anything.
Chapter 36: TYRION II
Summary:
Plans are made and alliances are challenged.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion curses under his breath as he is awoken from his slight moment of sleep by screaming and the sounds of battle.
A battle that, despite all the dragonwolf alliance’s careful planning, has arrived sooner than expected. He blinks himself awake and upright and reaches for his breastplate, cursing again that he has failed to hire another squire despite having the funds and position to do so.
Tyrion offered to take Podrick on again, but the boy insisted he would learn more about being a true squire from Lady Brienne. True as that might be, it still hurt Tyrion’s lion pride, and upset his desire to have someone to boss about and have care for him.
Once he’s fixed the straps of his armor and located his uncared-for sword, Tyrion is outside his tent and trying to gauge the mess of their campsite.
For all the screaming before and the fires burning sporadically throughout, the camp is calmer than he expected. Lines of Dothraki, Rivermen, and other soldiers pass buckets of water between them, up and down the tidy rows of tents.
A Unsullied messenger, one of the young boys Daenerys bought from the men of Astapor and freed immediately, runs up to him. The messenger is familiar, young enough to remember his own name and have used it.
The boy bends over to catch his breath, but Tyrion has no time for that. He demands, “What is it, Miknis?”
“Men have taken your brother, Lord Hand, and fled back into the red city.” he says in impeccable Common. “Queen Daenerys summons you to the war tent immediately.”
A rush of fear runs through him before he remembers that Jaime is really Arya Stark, but then another, different kind of fear goes through him. “Have you been sent for others as well?”
“Not yet, my lord.”
Tyrion will not undermine Daenerys by summon those she doesn’t want, but there are a few commanders who should be prepared for orders. “Go find Lord Edmure and tell him to gather his captains and prepare for further instructions. Bring the same message to Lord Gilwood Hunter, who commands the Knights of the Vale, and Lord Androw Morrigen, who commands the Stormlands.” He assume that Jon and the men who command the Dothraki and Unsullied will be at the tent. If not, then they can send another messenger.
Inside Daenerys’ war tent, the carpets on the ground are seeped in someone’s blood and Missandei works with a Dothraki woman to sew a large cut in the red fabric of a tent panel. There’s blood on the table and a Dothraki healer tends to a large gash on King Jon’s stitched-up, nearly-naked thigh, wrapping bandages around it. At his side, Daenerys stands and clutches his hand.
Something awful has occurred, but those gathered around the war table seem quite still, as if that awfulness is expected.
“What’s happened here?” Tyrion asks, approaching Gendry Baratheon, who is more likely to speak truthful and quick with him than Ser Brienne, Lord Edmure, Daario, or the Essosi commanders. Gendry explains quickly: Daenerys was attacked as a distraction for the kidnapping of Jaime, and Jon was hurt in the attempt to save the queen.
Missandei sends the Dothraki woman and healer away after the tent is properly closed and approaches the table. Shortly after, Lords Gilwood and Morrigen enter, followed by Varys. She announces, “Everyone is here. Shall we begin, your grace?”
Daenerys steps away from Jon’s side, dropping his hand, and nods. At least all the lords will see no more flagrant disregard for Queen Sansa tonight.
“Wait.” Lord Edmure holds up a hand and looks at the faces around the table. “Where is my niece? Where is Lady Arya?”
Jon’s eyes flash to Tyrion, who raises his eyebrows. This is not his question to answer. Jon looks up at Daenerys and nods firmly.
“She’s been taken.” Daenerys says, her voice steady and solemn.
“My sister can wear faces, after training with the House of Black and White.” Jon admits. “She went in place of Ser Jaime.”
Edmure Tully bulks, ruddy face somehow reddening more. “We must send after her at once!”
Tyrion shakes his head. “Her face will keep for a week, she’s Jaime, she’ll be safe for now. We have more pressing concerns.”
Jon surges up, wincing in pain at the cut on his leg. “Arya is only safe so long as Euron doesn’t decide to kill his only rival for Cersei’s affections. Her safety must be a priority.”
“We knew this could happen, your grace.” Missandei says softly, understanding and compassionate but firm. “This was an accepted outcome when the plan was enacted.”
“I can go after Lady Arya.” Brienne says, resting a hand on her sword. “She would command me entry if I can get to the gates of the Red Keep.”
Daenerys shakes her head. “No. We don’t know if that is possible and it is not yet worth risking your life for something with such a low chance of success.”
Jon glances at her, some unspoken words passing before them. Daenerys tilts her head, waits and when Jon doesn’t say anything, she continues, “We must take the city before anything further can go wrong. Now is not the time for underhanded tactics and secret meetings. Tell me how we can best free King’s Landing. When that plan is set, we will find the best way to rescue Lady Stark.”
Words fly fast, everyone evaluating the best way to use the dragons and their forces and how to best breach the city walls. As dawn finally peeks over the distant horizon and reflects off the blackwater, and the alliance has its plan of action. It is a bold plan but it will work, because it has to.
As the commanders filter out to order their captains and prepare for the assault of King’s Landing, Brienne hovers behind. “And Lady Arya, your grace?”
“You will stay by my side and when we breach the walls we will both head for the city as fast as our steeds can take us.” Jon says, offering his arm. Ser Brienne clasps it hard and nods firmly, then departs with Jon so they can prepare their mounts. Before exiting the tent, the king looks back once more over his shoulder and takes in all of his queen’s battle-hardened glory and the tent flap falls shut behind him.
Missandei has left to prepare Daenerys’ armor, leaving only the queen and her Hand in the tent.
“Your grace,” Tyrion says, heaving a breath. “I know this might not be the best time to say this, but I must in case I die this day.”
“You weren’t even so grim before the Battle of the Dawn.” She jokes, although the humor doesn’t reach her voice and the half-smile fails to fill her eyes. “What is it, Tyrion?”
“King Jon.” He says, and her face falls. She knows what he will say. "You must put your people first, your grace."
“I know.” Daenerys admits, pursing her lips. “I should not have held his hand, but . . . he nearly died saving us, Tyrion. How could I not offer him that comfort?”
“You are a queen, your grace. Matters of the heart must come second to matters of politics, no matter how alone one might feel.” Tyrion swallows. “Love affairs have weakened the seven kingdoms for the last decades and surely the smallfolk will no longer think of them as songs.” She looks at him questionly, and Tyrion explains, “Rhaegar and Lyanna, Jaime and Cersei. Do not follow that example, I implore you.”
“But can’t love also be our strength?” She raises a hand as he goes to speak. “I know. He is not mine to love.”
“Once this day is done, he will return to Queen Sansa and you will remain here.” Tyrion reminds her gently, his heart aching for Daenerys and how sad and small she suddenly looks.
“I will be more careful in the future.” She says, rising from her seat. The young woman’s sorrow is gone, replaced entirely by the dragon in the liberating queen’s eyes. “Now, let’s win our kingdoms from your tyrant sister.”
Notes:
Still playing with what goes in which chapter, I swear it hasn't just doubled in size. The next chapter is almost entirely written and it's like 700 words. There'll be a few short chapters similar to that.
Chapter 37: DANY IX
Chapter Text
“Now comes Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Daenerys and her allies come not to conquer, but to free you from Cersei the Cruel!” Missandei’s sweet voice rings out across the open ground before King’s Landing. “You will have heard lies from the false queen, who burned so many innocents in the Sept of Baelor and slays her enemies when they would have helped her people!”
Daenerys settles on Drogon’s back, hovering in the sky above her armies. At Daenerys’ side, Rhaegal swoops and dives, the green dragon less contained without his rider. Instead of flying, Jon sits on his horse with their commanders, overseeing the troops that march on the ground. The sun rises in the distance, blinding her as it reflects against the shining metal of their armor. The Battle for the Dawn was fought in darkness, but the Battle of King’s Landing will be fought in the dawn they have all brought back together.
Below, the city stands still. Across its red rooves, the armies of Dorne, the Stormlands, and her Reach allies assemble to face off against the Golden Company's grey beasts. The sellswords have avoided bringing the elephants to the side of King's Landing that harbors dragons, but Drogon still seems to have his eye set on a snack for later. The flags of her allies beat proudly in the wind - House Martell, Estermont, Tarth, Tarly, Baratheon, and more that she cannot name from so high up.
Missandei continues, “Daenerys does not come here to listen to Cersei the Cruel, but to liberate this city and to help its people.”
For the Westerosi might not be enslaved, but they are still oppressed in the face of tyranny. And it is her destiny to free them from it. Yet Tyrion’s words still ring in her ears. Love affairs have weakened the seven kingdoms. Is that the price Daenerys must pay, to save these people from Cersei? Cersei, who put her lust for her lover above the importance of her position, with no one noticing or putting a grip against her powers.
Daenerys shakes her head. She cannot be distracted by matters of the heart or of the head, not before battles of the field are resolved.
Missandei has finished her precise, practiced words, letting the final ones ring out across the emptiness before the city that will soon be their home. “We are not here to harm you, but to bring peace, justice, and freedom once again!”
Glancing down at her loyal men below, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen drops her arm and leans into the back of her dragon. She whispers, “Dracarys!” and Drogon raises his head, roars, spits a stream of fire.
Below, the men shout and cheer, surging forward towards the city that will soon be theirs.
And so the battle begins.
Chapter 38: CERSEI III
Summary:
Cersei and Jaime name their daughter; the walls are breached; Cersei suffers complications.
Chapter Text
Cersei nearly dies of relief when she sees Jaime climbing out of the grate in her bedroom’s fireplace, joy leaping so high in her chest it dulls the pain between her thighs and nearly chases her headache away. The sellsword guides her brother, rugged and unkempt. Though worn by months away and dirt-streaked from the imprisonment at the hands of those he betrayed her for, she does not think Jaime has ever looked so handsome. Cersei tries to sit up higher in the bed, but the midwife pushes her down.
“Your grace, you are unwell. You must stay rested.” The woman chides, and it is good for the midwife that Cersei is in a light-hearted mood from Jaime’s sight, and that the words are meant for her well-being, or else the woman could have expected to end up on Qyburn’s tables for the impertinence.
“Jaime.” She breathes, his name a sigh as soft as any kiss. He hesitates in front of the fireplace, taking her in, from the sweat on her forehead and the bloody splotch on the nightrail between her thighs. Something dark is in his eyes, dangerous and deadly as the Mountain outside her door. But he blinks and rushes to her side, and the look that filled his eyes before is all gone.
She prises their daughter from her nipple and Jaime takes her hand. “I thought you wanted me dead. Lord Qyburn said I was a traitor and you would not take me back.”
The others in the room - the midwife and sellsword, Dorcus and Cersei’s little maid who tends the fire - they all seem to disappear as she focuses on the beauty of Jaime’s face, the darkness and disappointment clouding the love in her gaze.
“Oh Jaime, it was all politics, I swear.” She murmurs, adjusting the swaddling on their daughter’s body. Cersei holds her out so that Jaime can see the soft, rounded face, her golden hair, the bluish eyes already settling into green. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Jaime blinks, a distant look in his eyes, then smiles. “Yes. Yes, she is, just like her mother.”
“Why don’t you hold her?” She says, leaning against the pile of pillows at her back. While she loathes the midwife and her attention, the woman is right. Although their daughter came quickly, Cersei is tired, more tired than she was after any of her other births. Jaime opens his arms awkwardly and she slips the babe into them. This is the first time he’s held one of their children and been able to acknowledge it as his.
Or almost been able to. Euron has not been informed that the babe is coming or here, but she expects he will appear soon.
“Have you named her yet?” He says, gazing in awe at the little bundle as she smacks her lips contentedly in his arms.
“No.” Cersei shakes her head, heaving a breath. Cersei had not expected a girl. It is as if all of Casterly Rock sits on her chest and each breath is laborious. But the Rock is hers, and her daughter will have more than just the Rock. She will have seven kingdoms.
A rush of fear pulses through her veins, her heart beating rapidly as she remembers her husband’s threats. What will Euron do to my daughter? But Jaime is here now, Cersei reminds herself. Jaime will protect her. He will protect us both.
“How about Joanna?” Jaime suggests.
“For our mother?”
He nods. “A lion of the Rock, and a lion of all Westeros.”
Cersei considers it, contemplates the appearance of the name. She had thought of it for her firstborn, dead daughter. But Myrcella was a safer name, than one that would draw attention to her and Jaime’s closeness through their mother. It was used in the Crownlands and the Westerlands, even a few noble houses in the Stormlands had named their daughters Myrcella.
Joanna is a declaration, that this child is hers. Hers, and Jaime’s. She watches him as he cradles their baby, their new little daughter. But something is still dark and distant about her mirror, she can tell something is off, he isn’t the same. Where is his joy for this moment? What did the Starks do to him?
“Joanna is perfect, darling.” Cersei wants to give it to him, wants to make a smile that reaches Jaime’s eyes. “And once this war is won and Euron taken care of, I want to recognize her as yours, publicly.”
Jaime turns and stares at her, as if the world has stopped. A roar pierces the air in the hazy distance. A lion, it must be, proclaiming all that Cersei knows about this moment.
“Joanna Lannister, not Greyjoy. Heir to Westeros. You will marry me in the sept and all will be as it should have been since the beginning. You can recognize her. This child we can do right by. She’s all ours.” She says through heavy breaths and reaches a hand for him. “But first we must kill the dragon bitch and rid ourselves of Euron.”
A contraction rips through her stomach as if emphasizing the nastiness of their list of goals. Cersei sets a hand on her belly. She commands her servant, “Bring me that ginger tea.” Another contraction hits her, harder than the last. “And send for Qyburn.”
“Do as the queen says!” Dorcus shouts at the little maid. “Go get the Hand!”
The midwife bustles over to Cersei’s side, pushing past Jaime. He steps aside without so much as a word, dropping her hand as if it is poisonous to touch, and pushing their little princess into Dorcus’s arms. “It seems the afterbirth is finally coming, your grace.”
“Goodness.” She says, swallowing and trying to maintain her composure. There is relief in her declaration though, relief that the afterbirth stuck inside her will soon be removed. The midwife is helping Cersei flatten when the door to her chambers bursts open. It’s not the only face she wants to see, Qyburn with his remedies, but the sour-faced squire to Ser Harry Strickland.
“Who are you?” Jaime says, stepping the between them. Her heart speeds up, nearly as fast as her breathing.
“Watkyn, ser. I’ve brought a message for her Grace.” The squire turns and bows to his queen. “The rebel army has breached the city at the Dragon Gate, the Gate of the Gods, and the Iron Gate.”
“What of it?” Jaimes asks, so nonchalant despite the fear pulsing in Cersei’s veins. “I heard the dragon roar before.”
“No,” she murmurs, “it was a lion, a lion for the future queen.”
There is clashing, metallic and distant as the stars. Shouting in the streets.
The lion’s roar pierces the world again, louder, closer.
Cersei turns her head to see it, to see this happy omen, the great shadow darkening the roof of the Red Keep outside her window. But as more pain pulses through her abdomen and she sucks for breath, a great green dragon lands atop the tower outside Cersei’s window, and roars.
Notes:
Thoughts on what comes next? Next chapter in these interactions will probably give us Arya/Jaime's POV on the birth and battle.
Chapter 39: DANY X
Summary:
Daenerys makes a discovery during the battle.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Daenerys leans into the rushing wind, clutching the horn of Drogon’s saddle. At his every breath of flaming fire, worry mounts in her belly like so many honeyfingers eaten at market.
She’s fought from dragonback before, but that was different than this battle. The Yunkai’i soldiers and men on the Gold Road fought for her enemy, had killed her allies. The Night King was an enemy to them all.
But here, in the Battle for King’s Landing, any misplaced strike of fire could harm an innocent woman or child, someone who didn’t carry a spear or armament, someone who only had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Daenerys only whispers Dracarys when she is sure the target is military, the ships and their catapults disintegrating into orange-and-blue flame as she passes over them.
In the distance, she sees Rhaegal flying over King’s Landing, a great bulk of shadow over its red-tinged buildings. He swerves and dives, artfully dodging the scorpion bolts pointed at him. More worry pulls through her, both out of love for him and out of concern. Rhaegal has no rider, what if he burns something he should not? What if some scorpion shoots through him and ends his life?
But the scorpions must be heavy things, not used to swiveling as quickly as a dragon flies, for many bolts shoot into the spectre of a dragon, where Drogon once lingered but no longer does.
Rhaegal lands on a spire of the Red Keep, dangerous and deadly, and roars across the city.
“Dracarys!” She commands, sending another ship of Euron Greyjoy’s fleet into flames. Six ships are sinking now, certainly enough that she can turn her attentions elsewhere and join her other child.
Finally, Daenerys can attack the walls of King’s Landing now that the fleet is too busy to send extra soldiers to the city. This might be a battle with firepower in the skies, but the real fight is on the ground, among her men from across Essos and Westeros, with Jon and Tyrion leading them in the charge. Glancing down, she sees the men wheeling forward their battering rams at the Iron Gate.
It’s time.
She nudges Drogon forward, guiding him towards the city’s walls. “Dracarys!”
A scorpion goes up in flames, scattering debris and pieces sky high. Daenerys doesn’t notice, though; she’s already flying for the next one, honing in on the men and bolts lined up on the otherwise-empty platform.
She guides Drogon out, flying over the city, hoping to come from an angle so the extra flames go across the water and not her people’s homes.
Dracarys!” She cries as they sweep over the battle station.
With that singing command, Drogon shatters the next scorpion. And the next one as she repeats the same maneuver.
The Blackwater rushes to the east of the wall, filled with burning ships, her Dothraki are screaming war cries to the north as the battering ram pulverizes the Dragon Gate, and Daenerys feels the rush of conquest. Was it so easy, for the Conqueror and his sisters? Did cities fall for them like this?
But she knows her history, flew to Harrenhal for a day on the march through the Riverlands. There was more resistance, even though many a king and queen bowed before Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys. Surely Cersei knows this, has some plan up her sleeve. But what?
The though niggles in Daenerys’ mind, but she is in battle and the battle must be won. Her men are at risk from the scorpions too, not just her children, and she must destroy them as planned.
The fourth scorpion she approaches is organized in a separate way, as if the battle station’s commander had different instructions or went rogue from Cersei’s commands. Closed barrels line the platform, more barrels than bolts. Have they been drinking? It almost feels a crime to attack men like that, but drunk or not, they are still swerving the scorpion, ever-so-slowly, trying to attack her.
“Dracarys!” She commands, the word a song in her mother tongue, the taste of freedom on her lips. Drogon roars and begins his descent, fire bright and orange as its sparks across his tongue-
And a blast of green explodes with such force that Drogon is thrust back across the sky from its momentum.
Green? She thinks, whirling through the sky, Dragon’s body going vertical as a tree sapling. Why was it green? The only fire that burns green is —
Oh no. Tyrion has mentioned this, said the wildfire was under parts of the city. But he and the Kingslayer mentioned the Alchemist’s Guild, the Red Keep and Dragonpit, the homes and taverns. Parts of the walls, they knew, maybe the gates.
But no one thought Cersei mad or cruel enough to place it on the scorpions with her own loyal men.
Drogon makes a sound she’s never heard from him before. Daenerys urges him to sweep around the still-fiery battle station. A bolt zings by from another scorpion and while he swerves, it is not so fast as before.
Again he makes the noise, soft and deep in his throat, rumbling through him as he dodges and swoops.
A whimper? She wonders, horrified. How badly has this fire hurt him?
She urges him to the camp, pushing to get to safety. She can feel him fighting, feel the pull against her touch. He wants revenge and so does she, but first she wants to ensure that there is nothing fatally wrong, that he can be saved. Fire cannot kill a dragon. Fire must not kill this dragon.
Daenerys wins with her prodding heels digging into Drogon's side, her harsh words spat out in Valyrian, no longer a song but a queen's command. He flaps his wings, whimpering and whining and grumbling, but turns to leave the city's sky space and head for the camp that is their own.
Glancing over her shoulder, Daenerys sees Rhaegal rushing towards them, as if he wants to see what is wrong, clearly avoiding the smoldering mess of green flames and smoke rising from where the scorpion once sat.
They land in an inelegant clatter, but she does not care. As Drogon flaps his slow descent, Daenerys is pulling at the ropes and binds of her saddle, ripping herself out and sliding to the ground before he’s fully landed.
The moment she is off his back, Drogon rolls to his side, resting on his massive wings and exposing his singed underbelly, barely noticable black smudges on black skin and scales. He is hurt, yes, but he has been hurt before. Just never by fire. She worries, swallowing her anxiety and turning to the nearest attendant behind her. "Bring cooling balm, now, barrels of it. He must be tended too."
The attendant's eyes widen, but he rushes off. No one else can get so near to Drogon as to put it on, no one but her and Missandei. Daenerys sends another attendant guard to find her advisor, then turns back to study Drogon further. What has happened, what will happen now?
If the wildfire can so damage Drogon, what if Cersei sets it alight against the armies entering her city?
Her dragon is burnt by Cersei’s wildfire flames, whimpering still as Rhaegal lands in a massive wind of brimstone and char.
The Dragon Queen’s dragon is burnt and she can take to the skies no more, unless she wants to turn her people to ash, too.
Notes:
Honestly, this isn't how my outline had the chapter ending. I was going to have Dany hovering over the city in alarm, realizing she was in danger and couldn't fight, but this made more sense because she'd want to get herself and her children out of harm's way.
While she's grounded, Dany is far from useless, so she'll still be doing important Queen Things for the rest of the battle, don't worry.
Chapter 40: JON IX
Summary:
Jon enters the fray but is diverted by peasants and flames.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as Missandei’s sweet voice stops speaking, the men shout and cheer.
Regardless of their homelands, there is something finite and inspiring about this attack. For Daenerys’ loyal Unsullied and Dothraki, it is the last battle in the name of their queen, the last battle before her reign is finalized and legitimate on every throne she claims. Perhaps the Siege of King’s Landing is most personal for the Westerosi-born, the Northmen and Riverlanders and Vale knights. Lords have marched their dwindled forces, killed by wars unending and winter’s cruel grasp, from the Reach, the Stormlands, even some as far as the shattered realm of Dorne. Many have claims against the pretender queen, and all are here to see them answered.
Cersei Lannister will be held responsible for her family’s crimes. The Sack of the Riverlands, the Red Wedding, the death of Jon Arryn. The mission is to capture her alive, to face trial, but many of their advisors suspect she will not choose to go easily. Many more suspect she will not be taken by anyone without some grudge.
“Attention!” Jon shouts to his men, quieting them as he rides along the width of the column and Drogon’s flame spews above. “Attention!”
At the sharp pain in his leg, he wants to wince, wants to scream, wants to lay down and not get up for a fortnight.
But his sister needs him. He has failed her once already. He will not fail her again.
Arya needed him in the heat of the failed attack the night previous and instead of going to save his little sister, he rushed to the side of his former lover, a queen with guards aplenty and weapons in her own reach. But Arya had nothing, her hands literally tied. What if her face fell, the strange, dark power of hers failing?
How could I let her down, let Sansa down in my vow to keep Arya safe? Jon curses himself as he turns to his men, steadily beating their spears on the ground and their swords against their shields. He agonizes, Where is she now?
But there is no time for what ifs. Daenerys is safe now and Arya will be, as soon as these walls are breached and the castle reached. She must be safe, or Sansa will never forgive me.
“We are men of the North! But this is still our fight.” He calls, words spilling from his lips because he needs to hear them just as much as his men do. “We are owned by the Lannister pretender, and they say a Lannister always pays their debts. What does she owe us for, you say? Who killed my uncle, the Lord Ned Stark?”
“Cersei Lannister!” The men shout back.
“Who killed his mentor and my namesake, the Lord Jon Arryn?” Jon shouts, though he knows that Baelish has confessed and been tried. It is still a popular rumor that Cersei killed Jon Arryn to hide her incest and betrayal of King Robert, and rumor will do much to awaken their bloodlust and anger in this fight.
“Cersei Lannister!”
“Who betrayed her husband and our sworn king, lying with her own brother?”
“Cersei Lannister!”
“What family sacked the Riverlands and killed Robb, King of the North and the Trident, even as he broke bread and ate salt at his ally’s table?”
“The Lannisters!”
He asks one last question, “Who will pay their debts today?”
“The Lannisters!” The men are screaming, angrier and ready for the battle.
“Do no harm to the residents of this city, for they are not your enemy.” Jon commands, hoping it will be enough. “We have faced death, not to kill inoccent children and rape defenseless women, but to build a better Westeros, a better world. Do honorably by your countrymen and by your king!”
Another burst of flame crosses the walls of King’s Landing, licking at the walls and nearing a scorpion before Drogon is guided out towards sea, where the Iron Fleet and its catapults lay in wait for some attack.
“Archers, ready!” Jon commands. “Battering ram, approach!”
The battering ram is wheeled out by two score of northmen, efficient and quick. Shields appear above their heads just in time to defend against the first barrage of arrows from above. Jon nods at the nearest set of archer captains. “Have your men fire at your commands.”
He nudges his mount over towards his own group of fighters, selected as a kind of kingsguard from amongst the best warriors of the northern sons. Jon once heard that Robb had a similar collective around him, and a few of these warriors may have been amongst them. What do they think, seeing him as king in Robb’s stead, with Robb’s sister in his bed? Jon shakes his head. Now isn’t the time for such thoughts. He nods at them, bringing his horse besides Brienne of Tarth.
“Ser Brienne,” Jon greets her, hoping for something in return.
“Your grace.” She replies back, words stiff as her straight back. Brienne is not friendly with him, likely because of her bond with Sansa, more likely still because she knows how badly he has failed his wife and his sister. She does not even bother to glance his way with her greeting.
Brienne looks restless, staring at the walls as if she wishes she were Rhaegal, flying with wings widespread and casting shadows over the sea and city. Jon cannot blame her. He wishes he could fly to the Red Keep himself, had argued that he should fly straight there. It was his uncle-by-law, Edmure Tully, who pointed out that he was in no condition to fly and Jaremy Rosby, a fast and ardent supporter of the Targaryen claim, who bristled and said, “the only person who should be flying a dragon in this particular battle, if ever, should be the trueborn heir to the Iron Throne.”
Despite the insult felt in the words, Jon knew they were both right. So he is to lead the charge and, as soon as he can, enter the Red Keep with Ser Brienne, or at least see her safely there so she can find “Jaime.”
Jon stares and watches, perturbed and anxious as his shifting men. After what feels like an eternity, the Iron Gate shatters and his men roar. Quickly, he gives the commmand for messengers to go out so that the assault might begin at the Gate of the Gods and Dragon Gates. Turning to his men, nodding at his guard, he calls out, “Charge!”
Their horses begin to trot, then canter, then full-on gallop towards the gate. The men already there part the way quickly, the smashed gate already pushed all the way open for the surge of soldiers pouring through like a collapsing dam. Jon cuts down a few men in his way, soldiers attempting to knock him from his horse, then follows after Brienne to race up the way of Aegon’s Hill, heading for the Red Keep and his sister. The hard pace hurts his newly-sewed stitches, but he can recover in later time, so he gallops onward.
Behind them, above them, comes a magnificent roar. The battering rams have approached the other gates and Daenerys is flying with the dragons to begin her assault against the scorpions. Careful, careful, he murmurs in his heart for her. She did not wish to use any dragon fire this day, but the scorpions will be dangerous even against horses and men. Daenerys will hover around the city’s edge, avoiding the populated parts as much as possible but assisting in their efforts. When the time comes, a flag will be raised and the queen will alight, triumphant, in the courtyard of the palace that is to be hers.
Ahead, a peasants’ blockade of overturned tables, chairs, and scraps of wood blocks how far they may go. The tips of sharp objects appear above it, spears and table legs and pitchforks. Fire flickers slowly in their upraised torches. An arrow shot goes out in warning, but the aim is untested and flies the opposite of true, landing twenty feet in front of Jon’s horse.
His guarding nobles look at him, waiting to see his command. Brandon Norrey, younger brother of Owen who served amongst Robb’s personal guard and died at the Red Wedding, raises a crossbow and takes aim at a head half-hidden in the mess. “Your grace, will you permit me?”
“No,” Jon says, holding up his hands. “We come in peace. Let us pass and you will not be harmed.”
“A dragon’s peace is no peace of ours!” Someone shouts from behind the cluster. A feminine voice, young and quivering.
“And a lion’s peace?” He calls back. “What has Cersei Lannister done to earn your love and affection? To have such devotion that you protect her?”
“We must protect our children, milord!”
“By morning, wains of grain from the Riverlands and Reach will be entering the city, if there is peace and Cersei Lannister in chains. Let us through so we can accomplish this task and you will be fed and cared for by Queen Daenerys.”
“Who are you to make such promises?” A second voice demands, older than the first but still suggesting to be owned by a woman. In the distance, a great booming roar pierces the air. Jon does not turn to look, although one amongst his men is cursing.
“You address a king, not just any lord.” Brandon calls back, his crossbow lowering. “The realms will have peace with Cersei’s capture, which will be much protection for your children.”
Jon nods in appreciation at the man. He grips the hilt of Longclaw beneath his leather glove.
“King Jon,” another man whispers, a second son of a House who was once a third or fourth. “The smoke behind is green.”
His eyes widen, but he dares not look to show any confusion or concern. Not when it is so close to the people lowering their weapons in a way Dany would want, voluntarily and seizing their own freedom from Cersei. Instead, he says back to the smallfolk, “You have my solemn vow as King in the North, sworn upon my blade and by my crown.”
A few of the raised spears and pitchforks dip, and loud, angry whispers fill the air enough that Jon can hear them far away. More spears dip, a table is pushed away. A young, trembling woman with mousy brown hair and scared brown eyes, too thin for her age, looks up at him. “And what of your soldiers, my lord? What of protection from them?”
He adds some more, though it pains him to take someone from the search for his sister, “Lord Norrey will stay with you, to ensure that you are protected.”
She tightens the grip on her wooden pitchfork, squares her jaw, and nods. “Break it down, let them pass.”
He nearly sags in relief or from exhaustion - it’s hard to know - but instead confronts the newest problem as a marked messenger comes galloping up on horseback. He barely slows before he is speaking. “Your grace, the Lord Hand summons you at once. There’s been an explosion of wildfire on the walls. There might be more, he says, as tactic by his sister the pretender. Your expertise is needed in the war tent to plan a counter offense and defense and to protect you from the flame.”
Jon considers what this means. The green smoke . . . His brow furrows. “Is Queen Daenerys alright?”
“Yes, although,” the messenger side-eyes his companions and leans in, “although she nearly fell off her Drogon when the wildfire exploded.”
He curses loud, looking at his men, staring at Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne at her side. “Ser Brienne is in charge. You,” he says, pointing at the man who reported the sighting of green smoke, “will come with me. As for the rest, listen to her commands in all. I have no time to explain the true mission of this charge, but you will be rewarded for your valor if Ser Brienne extends commendations for it to be so.”
He reaches out an arm to Brienne, clasps it and leans in. He curses himself for turning his back on Arya again, but knows that he must. Too much in this world depends on his own safety and too many more are at risk from the threat of the wildfire flames. “You know what to do. Bring my sister home and do what must be done. Cut down any man in your way. I don’t care what badge he wears.”
Notes:
Note: I’ve been considering starting another long fic based around the Rebellion happening a generation later. I’m still playing around with ideas, but wanted to gauge interest. The basic premise is that Aerys dies (either at a later-than-canon Duskendale, natural causes/in his sleep, or the throne kills him. Maybe something like Jaime Kingslaying, but less so that) and Rhaegar becomes king. Depending on details, Rhaegar might end up being Dany’s father instead of brother. A prologue will probably explain all the canon timeline changes and then the story will start when Prince Aegon runs away with or kidnaps Arya. He’ll already be married to someone (Rhaenys, Dany, or Margaery), somehow Robb and the Lord of Winterfell (probably Brandon) dying, the war starts and is shortly followed by a Jon/Sansa union. The details on this plan are so incredibly vague right now, but I’m imaging Dany flees to Essos for her own safety (with her children if she’s married) and eventually it will be Jon/Sansa/Dany. The plot would take on elements of both the Rebellion and the War of the Five Kings (Jon as KitN and Trident?) but I’m still trying to figure out who all is married, their children, etc. for the start. My biggest hold up is whether or not Jon is a Targaryen and also the Lannisters. I have zero idea who would marry Cersei if Rhaegar wasn’t a viable option. My biggest choices are Edmure or Viserys, both of which have large age gaps and different implications for the plot. I was also considering the Hightowers as a potential match but need to look into it.
Would anyone be interested in something like this? It would be less angsty and faster paced than BGS (no seven chapter slog through the Riverlands!). Let me know below, and if you have any thoughts on the many, many questions I’m still grappling with.
Chapter 41: CERSEI IV
Summary:
Cersei gets a surprise (but not the one Jaime expected).
Notes:
I'm in the middle of bar prep so writing is either going to be more consistent as I avoid things and de-stress with it, or I might fall off the face of the planet for the next two months. We shall see.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The afterbirth is painful, more painful than any child Cersei Lannister has borne before. Her midwife tells her to push, that its coming, her baby is here, but all she wants to do is rest because the aching pain in her belly and her mind is worse and worse. I am a queen, she thinks, Why should my body not heed my will as seven kingdoms do?
Outside, the lion in the streets is roaring, bells are roaring for the birth of her baby. Bells ring for good news. They rang when she bore her dead children, and when her oafish husband died. But they rang too when Joffrey died, her sweet little prince and a monstrous, precious king. And after the Sept of Baelor blew apart, no one thought to ring the bells, not even for poor, dead Tommen.
The midwife screams at her, filthy, dirty peasant woman. Who is she to scream at a queen? “Push, your grace, the baby is almost here?”
“Joanna?” Cersei asks, looking up at Jaime, glancing at the divan where Dorcus has set and swaddled her daughter. She’s still there, sitting alone as Dorcus rushes forward with hot water and towels. “My baby is already here.”
“The other one, your grace.” The midwife says, eyes wide and scared as if she knows the fate Cersei had planned for her earlier. The midwife glances at Jaime - her Jaime, not for the midwife to love. He could never love anyone as he loves Cersei, can he?
“Damnit, Cersei! She’s too muddled to understand. The birth’s done something to her.” Jaime says, cursing at her, grabbing her hand and speaking softly in a way he hasn’t in so many, many years. “You have twins, my sweet, my dearheart. Our twins. Yours and mine. But the other’s in you still, ready to come out, but first you need to PUSH!”
Cersei screams as she understands, reaching for something until Qyburn is suddenly at her side and holding her other hand. And with their help she pushes, harder, screaming so loud she drowns out the lion and the damned bells.
She feels the baby leave her, but even before she feels herself shaking, shaking, shaking. When she settles, the world clear and sparkling around her, Cersei looks to Jaime. His face is scared, eyes wide and smile slack.
The midwife presses the baby into her arms, just as she can hear shouting in the halls. Cersei looks up at Jaime, Qyburn, feeling lost for all that she is a queen and this is not her place to be lost in, not anymore when she is in charge. “What is it? Has he come for my baby? Don’t let him take our babies, Jaime.”
“Robert Strong is in the hallway, your grace.” Qyburn says, voice soft and reassuring. “No man can make it through.”
She wants to nod in agreement, but Jaime looks unconvinced. “Get me a sword, someone.” He barks, glaring at the little maid who tends Cersei’s fire. She blinks back, no sword to be seen and not risking leaving the room for the sounds of clashing in the hall. “Is there a servant’s exit?” The little girl nods, shivering as much as Cersei. “Go, now, and bring back a blade!”
While the girl is disappearing behind a tapestry in a way Cersei didn’t know she could, Jaime is inspecting the situation around him, every inch the battle commander she loves.
“Do we have a name for the boy?” Jaime ask, tenderness gone, replaced by only frank contemplation.
“Tywin.” She smiles, fighting back the pain. “Tywin and Joanna. They can be happy, like we never were. Together.”
Cersei swears Jaime makes a face as he takes their baby from her. She thinks it is to take a moment and hold Tywin, admire the heir to their kingdoms who will make their daughter a queen, but Jaime thrusts her son into Dorcus’ hands. “Take the baby down the grate in the fireplace. Go no further than the dragon mural in the tunnels or you could be lost forever and I will not be able to save either of you.”
“Don’t take my baby!” Cersei begs, so unqueenlike she wants to retch. “What’s going on?”
“Jaime, what are you doing?” Cersei screams, but no one is listening. He holds back the grate as Dorcus disappears into the fire, or at least Cersei thinks so as her vision blurs and the seizing pains rack her body again, the fear racing in her veins like lightning in a storm. “Jaime, Jaime please don’t leave me!”
“I won’t, not yet.” Jaime says. He picks up something from beside the fire, long and dark, and approaches her side. “We have matters to finish, you and I.”
Notes:
Watcha think? "Jaime" and Cersei have a reckoning coming, maybe, and I'm curious who ya'll think is outside the door. Let me know!
Chapter 42: BRIENNE I
Summary:
Brienne takes over Jon's mission; Euron Greyjoy blocks the path.
Notes:
Guys I am SOOOOO sorry for how long this fic took to write. In my defense, I took the bar in July and am currently dealing with the stress of finding a permanent job, working a temporary one, and waiting for results. Writing fight scenes is not my forte, but this is even more fight intense than Jon VIII. It might also be the hardest chapter I've written, as you may get from the plot and pacing. Hopefully I do Brienne justice and hopefully it all makes sense!
----
Please note I just remembered that I promised elephants so I went back and added a line of, Dany seeing them from dragonback and Drogon eyeing them as a snack. Also I retconned a mention of House Tarly fighting for Dany at the siege (and some others I mentioned before but forgot, like her Dornish allies aka Princess Arianne Martell) because that plot in season 7-8 was poorly written and I at least sort of started this as a show-world fix it fic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As Jon Stark trots away on the messenger’s horse, two men follow after him: the messenger and Ser Donnel Locke, who saw the green smoke rising over the city. The remaining men, nearly twenty knights and warriors, many with experience greater than her own, stare at Brienne Tarth and she stares back.
The king had almost insisted on walking, but the pain in his eyes from the wound in his thigh was obvious to those who knew him at all. It was Brienne who ordered the messenger to give the king his horse. The wound may chafe against the friction caused by trouser and saddle, but the horse would take him out of the wildfire-filled city, would quickly carry King Jon to the distance of the healers and war tent.
He is not a Stark that Lady Catelyn had asked her to protect, but he was a member of their family, as dear to Sansa and Arya as their remaining blood-brother, and so Brienne still sees him as part of the unit she is oath-bound to protect.
Brienne takes a deep breath, looking in the crowd of knights and taking courage from Podrick’s place besides her. During the Battle for the Dawn, she commanded the unit of men her father had sent from Tarth, two hundred of his few remaining warriors. This is a different, harder assignment, though. Some of these men likely don’t even consider her a true knight, despite the trust placed in her by their queen and king. The men of Tarth fought for her out of respect for her father, and for her as their future lady.
She holds eyes with one of those knights sworn to her father, takes faith in her hope for his confidence. “We head to the castle, doing what we must to enter the Red Keep. Our mission is to hold Cersei for the queen’s justice and retrieve Ser Jaime alive and unharmed.”
“Why wouldn’t we just kill the Kingslayer?” A voice calls, someone from Sansa’s retinue of Vale knights. After a moment, she places him as Ser Harrold Hardyng.
“Because keeping him alive is an order from our commander.” Robar Royce, a second knight of the Vale, responds, voice hard and confident. Brienne responds with a firm nod.
She sets her hand on Oathkeeper’s pommel and surveys the men. “I do not owe you an answer, but my king and Queen Daenerys want Ser Jaime alive. If anyone kills him, you will answer to the same justice as Cersei.”
Without further hesitation, she makes quick orders to reform their position to fill the gaps left by the absence of the king, Ser Locke, and Lord Norrey, who will stay with the smallfolk by Jon’s order. Brienne leads the way up the hill, no further grumbling coming from the quiet men behind her.
In the distance, she hears more dragon roars. The sound does not come from over the city, hopefully controlled by their mother and rider that they will not burn more of the wildfire caches. There is still a chance the dragons can attack the elephants that trample the Stark fighters on the ground to the city's north, or take Queen Daenerys to the Martell, Reach, and Stormlands allies gathered to its south. But the city must be off-limits for the good of them all. Green smoke blooms still from the high hill of Visenya, where once the Sept of Baelor stood. Another blow to that degree could wipe out a million people or more and neither Daenerys nor Jon are mad enough to wish all those deaths for any offense.
A group of goldcloaks meets them an intersection away from the Red Keep, swords and spears and a blockade across their path. They are unprepared for a confrontation so soon, the men scrambling from seated positions and drawing swords as the northerners approach.
Brienne calls an order to the men amongst her group who have bows drawn at the ready. “Nock your arrows, but wait for my signal.”
“We’re here to see the queen and her Lord Commander.” Brienne calls. “Tell Ser Jaime that Brienne Tarth awaits his instruction.”
A man, their captain she presumes, scoffs and stares out through his worn and dented helmet. “Ser Jaime isn’t in the castle. Your false queen threatened to burn him at our gates.”
“Are you so sure? Send a messenger to the castle, we will not attack so long as you do this.” Brienne says, wrapping her free hand behind her back and raising it. “Or fight against us and see what shall happen.”
“I can take a woman and some northern yokels.” The captain laughs. “Why would I send a messenger from the command of a slut playing as a warrior?”
Brienne tightens her fist, not letting her mind take the personal insult as anything truthful. No matter how many of the men at her back are thinking the same thought. “I give you one last chance, ser.”
She does not want violence, but remembers Jon’s words. Cut down any man in your way. I don’t care what badge he wears.
Brienne’s queen and king want their sister back safe and alive and she will do what she must to honor that wish and to rescue Arya from the clutches of the castle. No chance and no choice. Not if she would keep her oath to Lady Catelyn or Queen Sansa and King Jon.
So when the captain spits against the ground by way of response, she lets her fist fall to her side, sharp and quick, and her archers loose their arrows. The best aim amongst them is Brandon Norrey, and Brienne is sure it is his arrow that pierces through the captain’s eye.
“Hold!” Brienne calls, although she is drawing her own blade. “What say you now?”
“We will fight against the dragons and wolves alike!” Another man shouts, his captain screaming in agony on the ground.
“Loose!” Brienne commands and another volley of arrows flies at the rows of gold cloaks. As the men raise their shields in defense, Brienne commands again, “Charge!”
Her men surge forward but she makes no move to be the first. Running is not her greatest skill and at a trot she can be better fighter and commander than at a sprint.
Oathkeeper shatters the wooden shield of the first gold cloak she confronts before Brienne buries it in the belly of another. Around her, voices scream “For Lannister! For Cersei!” and she thinks they must be mad. Even she, born in the last days of Aerys the Mad and raised in the first of Robert Baratheon, can tell that Daenerys will be a better ruler than Cersei. Even the gold of Casterly Rock should not buy such devotion to one who has done little and nothing for the people.
Perhaps that is why the men give in so quickly, despite their own leader’s strangled cries of “Lannister!” even as Brienne ends his misery with a slash across his throat. After he dies, the remaining men back down and take their knees quickly, blades on the muddy streets of King’s Landing and hands in the smoky air.
A hundred gold cloaks, thirty dead in minutes, brought to their knees by wolves of the North. Brienne accepts a handkerchief from Podrick and dabs at the sweat on her brow. She risks a glance towards the city’s walls, relieved to see no more signs of green flame in the air.
As the men take the swords thrown down by the injured and surviving gold cloaks, a memory comes to her of Jaime’s story told a bathhouse so many years ago. Of dragons born from fire and ancient wildfire beneath the city. Stories of the Battle of the Blackwater and the explosions in the bay.
If Cersei has instructed the pyromancers to make more. . .
She instructs ten of the northerners to see to tying up the remaining of Cersei’s men. This city is a keg of wildfire and Brienne does not want to be here when it explodes.
Leaving the men tied up behind them, replenishing their weapons and armor for those who have worse material, the company under her command marches forward.
Ahead, the Red Keep towers before them, a monstrosity of pale red stone, its gates glimmering beneath their bronze coating. Men gaze down menacingly from above. She has no battering ram, no way with words. To enter the castle, the northmen have only grappling hooks and rope, two ladders.
She motions for the men bring forward the ladders.
“Archers, nock arrows and aim, but wait.” She commands. The fastest way in will lead to much death. But these are now her men and she must attempt to spare the lives of her own. There’s no chance here, but no choice either.
“Let us in and you will not be harmed!” Brienne calls up the wall. “I am Brienne of Tarth. You may know me as a friend of your queen’s brother. We are here to serve her.”
A few northmen look at her, confusion writ plain on their faces.
“Remember what our king said!” Harrold Hardyng hisses. “Let the lady speak, and keep your eyes on your aim!”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime will want the news I can offer from Daenerys’ camp. Open the gates so I may share it with them, and I am sure you will be rewarded. I was in the war tent when the battle plans were set.”
“What news is that, that would be so useful?”
“I know where the dragons have gone and why they are no longer in the skies.” The man who questions Brienne peers down below the wall, then gazes out at the sky, now lacking any dragon. But he does not respond.
“My vows are to Ser Jaime, who gave me the sword I wield, not this false dragon queen.” Deceit is not her way, but there is truth to her words. She spoke vows to Jaime, to find and protect Catelyn Stark’s daughters. She swore no vows to Daenerys, although by rights the Targaryen queen is her own. For emphasis, Brienne unsheathes Oathbreaker and raises it so the men might see the golden pommel, grip, and cross guard, the shine of Valyrian steel along the blade.
“I know that tale, that he gave it to some warrior maid.” Another man calls.
His comrade’s answer comes. “But there’s nothing in it for us, though we may be breaking our queen’s own command.”
Seven forgive me, but I must retrieve Lady Arya. Brienne shares her final offer. “I have gold, freely given to you should these walls open.” She points to the heavy, fat pack carried by her former squire. “This bag will all be for you and your men, once the gate is open and we are through.”
She is not sure, but she thinks his eyes widen. Again, no response, but after a tense moment there is movement atop the wall.
The bronze-and-wood gate creaks and begins to open.
“Draw your swords once we are through.” Brienne states.
“But their reward?” Harrold Hardyng asks.
“There is no gold.” Brienne shares. “He carries a grappling hook and chain, same as the other men with packs.”
His eyes widen. “Perhaps keep the archers’ arrows nocked, my lady.”
Brienne nods. The concern is good. “Command them, Ser Hardyng.”
When the gate yawns wide enough, Brienne and her companions step through. There is a captain of the castle guard awaiting them at the entry and Podrick silently steps forward to drop his heavy parcel bag at the man’s feet. As he bends over to inspect his prize with wide, greedy eyes, an arrow lodges in his throat.
Chaos erupts across the corridor of the entryway, but the fight is over soon as it starts.
Certainly other soldiers will be following after from the wall, or maybe the won’t. Brienne doesn’t care as she leads her companions up the Serpentine Stairs, taking it two at a time as they run in formation for Maegor’s holdfast.
Cersei was confident, or exceedingly foolish.
The gates of Maegor’s are unguarded except for an army of smallfolk, shuddering and curled into the sides of their loved ones. As the northern company approaches, they shriek in fear and run.
One man rushes from the crowd, a long butcher’s knife in his hand.
Ser Hardyng stabs at him and the knife goes flying. Without a second thought, the man is on the ground with a sword at his neck. “Stand down, ser. We mean you people no harm.”
“You mean our queen harm. You would rather have the dragon bitch in her place, though she burns men.”
“On battlefields, not for pleasure. Not in septs.” On the road, Ser Harrold had revealed himself to be a most noble knight, more fond of the Seven than would be expected from a man with two bastards. But he takes his faith seriously, and the death of the Tyrells in the Great Sept of Baelor is considered a grave offense to any true believers.
“Better to die in the sept than live beneath a dragon.”
Though he is not sworn to Daenerys, Ser Harrold ends the man’s life for the insult. Other smallfolk are looking at them, considering the small band that has closed around Brienne as Harry dealt with the attacker.
“Onward, into Maegor’s.” She commands, not wanting to linger. “We must continue onward.”
The serpentine stairs rise above the courtyard, following Aegon’s Hill to Maegor’s Holdfast at its peak. Seemingly impenetrable, yet Brienne and her companions must find a way in. She stares at the walls as they ascend the winding steps, deliberating and pondering. But she does not need to find an answer as the massive drawbridge comes creaking down, landing in place as the company arrives.
A boy in a gold cloak emerges, the brown scruff of his beard and roundness of his cheeks indicating that he is of a tender age. As Brienne approaches, he falls to a knee and holds up his sword. “I surrender the castle. Don’t let us burn, please.”
Behind him, the few guards holding the way are also kneeling, their swords on the ground before them.
“You will not die, ser. Tell me your name.”
“Garse, my lady. Garse Flowers. My father was Lord Garth Tyrell, uncle to Lord Mace.”
“Yet you serve Cersei Lannister, who killed them?”
“I had no choice. Her swornshield killed any men who tried to leave. The castle is now yours, the city too I am sure. My men have only done what they must to stay alive.”
She nods. “You have my promise that they will not be punished unjustly and that I will speak of your surrender before Queen Daenerys. Now, leave your weapons here and descend the steps to the courtyard.” Brienne assigned four men to hold the gate before ordering the rest to spread out through the keep. “Find Jaime Lannister and his sister. Neither is to be harmed, on pain of death. Cersei is with child and the royals wish for the babe to live.”
Brienne herself heads into the throne room to use the back door from there to enter the royal apartments. She walks up the great stairs and into the long, dark hall. It is different from when she was last here. Empty and without any guards or courtiers, with fires burning in open vessels along the path to the Iron Throne. The stained-glass window behind it is no longer dedicated to the Faith of the Seven but is a full display of Lannister authority and power, a roaring lion on full display. Brienne shakes her head, sure it will soon be replaced by a dragon as it was once long ago.
But most different is the man sitting on the throne. Brienne has only seen him once but recognizes instantly from his unkempt looks and the wild look in his single, black eye: Euron Greyjoy. At his belt dangles a long, black horn carved in silver with unfamiliar shining runes. One hand rests on the black horn and the other rests on the longsword across his lap.
The Crow’s Eye should be dealt with now, likely here to guard the life of the child that he believes to be his. “Our quarrel is not with you, Lord Greyjoy. Surrender and you might be spared.” Brienne doubts it, though it is possible. Most likely, he will be turned over to his niece to let the Ironborn decide his fate and give him their own justice.
“If your quarrel is not with me, why do my ships burn beneath the dragons?” Says the Crow’s Eye, stepping down from the throne and approaching her.
“Because your ships serve our enemy.”
“Then am I not also your enemy?” Euron says mildly.
Brienne increases her pace until she is three quarters of the way to the dias, and stops. Euron is still descending the steps, his pace slow as molasses. “Not if you surrender.”
“Hear my words, little girl. You play at being a knight, but I do not play at being a captain and a king. I have sailed farther than any of my ancestors or any other reaver. Only one living kraken has never known defeat. Only one has never bent his knee. Only one has sailed to Asshai by the Shadow, and seen wonders and terrors beyond imagining. This horn I found amongst the smoking ruins that were Valyria, where no man has dared to walk but me. You feel its power, don’t you? It is a dragon horn, bound with bands of Valyrian steel graven with enchantments. The dragonlords of Ancient Valyria sounded such horns to gain their power, before the Doom devoured them. With this horn, little girl, I can bind dragons to my will."
Euron stands across from Brienne now, black eye meeting her blue ones. A dragon horn. She doesn’t want to believe it, but energy emanates from him, dark and ethereal, sending shivers up Brienne’s spine. Arya is important, but if Euron Greyjoy gets ahold of even one dragon . . .
She does not wait to hear another word, though Euron is still talking. Brienne lunges.
Euron catches her blade with his own, pushing with an unnatural force, even for a man of his size. Their blades are locked and yet she tries to push him back. As she raises her blade to try another attack, Euron slashes out with a sudden fierceness and sends Oathkeeper arcing above them. It lands with a resounding clash against the melted swords of the Iron Throne. “Kneel, so you might live.”
Brienne shakes her head, glaring at him. She withdraws the dagger in her belt. Euron is her new priority. Surely Queen Sansa and Jon will understand. There is no chance to pass him, perhaps no chance to defeat him. But Euron cannot have the dragons. She has no chance and no choice, but she drives for his unarmored side all the same.
Her dagger buries in the flesh of his thigh, but Euron Greyjoy does not react as a normal man would.
Instead, he laughs manically, the sound bouncing off the cavernous walls of the chamber. He runs a hand across his face as he pushes her back with his sword arm. Brienne pulls back her dagger, the metal barely bloody. His eyepatch falls away, discarded and she stares in horror at what remains.
A red eye stares out with the same malice as an Other, red with hatred and fire like the Others’ eyes were blue with the cold.
“They will stop you.”
“You cannot stop the storm.” Euron grins. “And I am the storm.”
His sword slices down, landing a blow against her shoulder. Brienne lunges in to stab him in the side again, but Euron catches her in the tender flesh between the armor of her forearm.
Again and again she lunges, but again and again he cuts and slices at her skin.
A blow catches her cheek, slicing it open, then another hits her free arm, across her belly, the back of her leg.
Brienne can feel the blood sliding down her skin, leaking from her body. No chance and no choice. She attacks again, aiming for his eye.
But Euron knocks her down with a blow across the forehead. Red, red blood fills her vision as she falls to the ground.
He laughs again but shorter. Another sound fills the hall, deep and resonating.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
No chance and no choice. Brienne struggles to stay conscious, crawling for the dias and Othekeeper. Forgive me, Lady Stark.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
She stretches out, lifting herself feebly off the stairs. Forgive me, Sansa, Arya. Brienne’s strength falters, the whole world is red and black and blood and pain.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
Forgive me.
The dragon horn has been blown.
Notes:
Well, what ya think? Brienne's a good fighter for sure, but she's also younger than Euron and not dark magicked. I think it would make sense that he'd beat her, and I needed it to happen here for reasons related to the Cersei/Arya/Jaime scenario.
The three horn blows made the most sense to me sine three blows = the Others are coming. I love the theories about how Euron is going to get a dragon through dark magic and that he's going to take down the wall or do some deep, Eldritch-level craziness, so I'm incorporating parts of that for the closing here since the show was not nearly as cool as book Euron. I hate him, but in the way you hate a character that's well written, ya know?
The next few chapters should be out sooner than this last wait. I'm hoping for a Sunday release date, but will post when they're done.
Finally, I will probably be starting another long-fic soon, based off my previously-mentioned ideas. Sort of. It will not take priority, but I have a few scenes already written. The plot is veryyyy vague right now, but the general gist is that all of Rhaella's children survive but are born slightly earlier. Aerys dies at Duskendale and Rhaegar becomes king early. It will be set closer to the canon timeline, probably around 300. The real plot will kick-off with several scandalous events, potentially including: the breaking of at least one royal betrothal; a prince seeming to kidnap a Stark girl; a parentage reveal (not the one you think!); an attack and death in the royal family; a power-hungry player claiming the throne; and a call for independence in a troubled region. I've got some other things planned with it, but it's been fun to speculate about so be on the lookout for whenever I get the opening finalized and posted.
Chapter 43: TYRION III
Summary:
Jon, Dany, and their advisors plan for the worst; the horn blasts are felt in the siege camp.
Notes:
This chapter was so so so much fun to write, once I finally had the battle plotted out. Hopefully ya'll like it as much as I liked writing it!!! Let me know your thoughts below when you're done
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tyrion meets Jon as the northern king skids to a halt before Queen Daenerys’ war tent and leaps off his horse, clouds of dust still hovering in the air from the trail that Jon galloped through the war camp, paying no heed to the few scurrying warriors and camp followers in his way.
“Was that —”
“Wildfire? Yes. Predictable? No.” Tyrion says, clasping his hands behind his back as he studies the other man. Jon’s gaze flashes briefly to the dragons coiled beside the war tent. Drogon lays prone on his belly and Rhaegal, Jon’s bonded mount, shifts defensively besides his brother. Some of the Dothraki and Unsullied, Daenerys’ appointed but untrained dragonkeepers, are unsuccessfully trying to approach to care for Drogon’s open red wounds.
A young page in service to Daenerys runs up and accepts the reins to Jon’s steed. Though he wears the colors of the queen, Tyrion believes the child is one of the many Tyrell cousins that she took into her service when she aligned herself with Lady Olenna.
“I didn’t know it was possible for a dragon to burn.” Jon’s voice is soft and low.
“Wildfire burns nearly as hot as dragonfire, and they say only a dragon can kill a dragon. Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised.”
Unlike the dragon, thankfully no fresh injuries seem to mar Jon’s visage, though he is flush red from his gallop through the capital and the camp. It would not serve for Daenerys to be distracted by her lover’s wounds. However, the man is leaning on the leg opposite the injury he acquired the night before and is obviously in great pain from it.
“Give me a report. Do we know how much there is, where it is?” Jon asks through gasps of breath. “I thought you said it was all used in the explosion of the Great Sept.”
“I believed it had been and Varys’ birds reported the same.” Tyrion says, swelling with guilt at his own calculations though he still knows what happened. Jon frowns at him. He waddles after Jon as the other man stalks towards the war tent. “The amount it would take to explode the Sept of Baelor, without anyone in the city knowing . . . I was sure that Cersei had used the remainder of the Mad King’s supply. I had used some of his vessels in the Battle of the Blackwater, though we also used more that was fresh. I would assume that my sister, darling that she is, ordered the pyromancers to make her more.”
“Fuck.” Jon says. Tyrion isn’t sure if the reaction is at the pain the king feels or at Tyrion’s surmised statement, but either way he agrees.
“There’s no way to use the dragons unless we would prefer to appear conquerors rather than liberators. I’ve already stopped the catapults from launching fireballs or stones so they won’t explode any hapless citizens or unassuming soldiers who don’t know what they stand besides.”
“Good.” Jon passes the four Unsullied standing guard outside the war tent and pulls back the flap, Tyrion following behind him. He stares a moment after they enter, studying the organized chaos that Daenerys has ordered around here.
“Tell the captains that any true fighter surrendering is to be taken to the Dragonpit and put under guard. True fighters, mind you, make that very clear to the captains. This isn’t smallfolk with pitchforks and hammers, but men in gold cloaks, Lannister colors. Soldiers with training. The smallfolk are to be protected and reasoned with unless they attack. Only then are the captains to order anything, and it should be defensive.” Daenerys commands, voice clear and crisp. She wears a bandage across her shoulder where she scraped herself against Drogon’s scales when she fell off after landing. A thick cotton blanket wraps around her body tokar-style to allow for it to be checked later .There is a hollow look in her eyes but she has somehow managed to push past her grief and concern over the incident with Drogon to take command of the situation tent. Surely if anything is a sign that she will be a good queen for Westeros, it is this.
A messenger pushes past them, not even stopping to bow to the king. Three others quickly follow behind, likely dispatched to different parts of the city. There are other messengers in the room, and Missandei and Davos and Varys, but still Jon rushes to her side. The remaining messengers part to let him through. “Daenerys, are you alright?”
“No, though it hardly matters now. Cersei has deigned to trap the entire city as my father once did before the Sack of King’s Landing.”
“What can be done?” Jon asks. “Have the dragons stayed away?”
“I brought back Drogon and thankfully Rhaegal followed.”
Ser Davos Seaworth steps forward to his king’s side. “We must prepare the offensive to free the city without any fire, before we can see to them.”
Tyrion doesn’t fail to notice how Jon’s hands twitch, as if he means to pull Daenerys into a comforting embrace. Though mostly thick-skulled, Jon seems to have the sense that now is not the time or place. Instead, he turns to the map of King’s Landing diligently spread out and marked with the current movements of the troops involved in this siege.
Daenerys turns to the next set of messengers while Jon studies the map. “You, go to the commander of the Martell men. Tell Lord Gerold that he is not to take the King’s Gate or River Gate until I send the next messenger. Guard them, but it is not the time yet to take them. You, bring the same message to Lord Fossoway, and you, go to Lord Garon Penrose. Give them the same message. Guard the gates and roads, do not let anyone else leave or enter the city unless they are accepting a surrender. But wait for us to determine what the solution is for the wildfire before they attack.”
The messengers nod and run off to take the prepared mounts to the lords on the other side of the city. Daenerys frowns. “Will they think me weak, for holding back?”
“If they know anything of wildfire, your grace, they will think you wise. And if they think you weak, they are the fools.” Varys responds. “Though finding a solution for it might be difficult until we know the reports of what transpires in the Red Keep.”
“Have you any news?” Jon asks, leaning against the table with a grimace. Tyrion steps up to it and glances at Missandei. She catches his look and swiftly moves to set a chair behind the king. He takes it with a grateful smile.
“It seems that Cersei has gone into labor. Besides that, none besides what we already know.”
“That explains why she sent for Jaime.” Jon says and runs a hand across his face. Tyrion wonders what it is like to be worried about a sister, to love her. Cersei has never been more than his tormentor. Even when they were allies as Regent and Hand to Joffrey at least part of him wanted her dead. A wish he is likely to get to witness soon, once this battle is over. That is, if he survives it. Jon continues, “I left Brienne in charge of my men with the command to retrieve her. Hopefully they will break through the gates and win the battle inside it for us.”
“If they do, perhaps we can return to the scheduled siege?” Tyrion asks, more hopeful than helpful he knows. Daenerys and Jon both shake their hands without verbally responding.
“How did you not know about this, Lord Varys? Surely your birds saw the wildfire since it was out and in the open.”
“I heard nothing from them, your grace. No reports or word of wildfire being produced in the pyromancers’ guild.” Varys lowers his head, though Daenerys’ lips are pursed. “My messengers within the city are not as many as they once were. Qyburn has killed or converted many of the children.”
Tyrion isn’t quite sure he believes the truth that none of them saw the wildfire, that no word was carried, but that is beyond the cause of this meeting. Perhaps Varys did not think it would come to this, that Cersei would trap her own men with such a volatile substance. His former wife is right, however. Too many of them have underestimated Cersei too many times.
“Perhaps we wait until nightfall to send men to dispose of the wildfire.” Missandei suggests.
Ser Davos divests her of that plan before the others can. “What do you know of wildfire, my lady? Anyone except experts disposing it is more likely to explode those people than diffuse the liquid. It doesn’t need a flame to fire, though that is preferred. Too much heat or even the spark from wool can unleash its power.”
The other advisor’s eyes go wide. “Truly?”
“I saw it consume my sons at the Battle of the Blackwater. The entire Rush alight, from one flaming arrow.” Ser Davos stares at Tyrion with glassy, distant eyes. Tyrion gulps. Surely the other man is remembering when they were both Hands for kings standing on different sides of a war. “I read up on it afterwards, back in the library on Dragonstone. I did not want to be taken unawares by it again.”
“What else can you tell us, Ser Davos?” Daenerys asks. “How does the wildfire become rendered useless?”
“Cold is known to thicken it and make it harder to catch. Snow has been used, though sand is the most effective deterrent.”
“Do you think the Dornish brought any with them?” Tyrion cannot help the jape that spills from his lips. Every pair of eyes in the war tent turns to him with intense glares. Before Tyrion can make his next suggestion, a true one for using dirt to bury the jars and move it, another young messenger runs into the tent. Daenerys nods at the boy for him to speak.
“The ships in the harbor were defeating th Iron Fleet. But many of the Greyjoy ships - Euron’s, that is, not Queen Yara’s - the ships have broken away and are sailing south, away from the city.”
Missandei hands the messenger a flask of water flavored with lemon. Tyrion’s brow creases. “It’s not like the Ironborn to flee from a battle.”
“That’s correct. Although Euron’s men aren’t the usual Ironborn.” Varys says, moving some of the ship figurines on the map with a long stick.
“They’re fiercer, based on what Theon Greyjoy told us after they captured his ship. They wouldn’t escape unless they had good cause.” Jon says. “What is Euron planning?”
“And does Cersei know?” Missandei wonders aloud. Tyrion glances at her. No, I do not think my sister knows what this is. Because Cersei would not approve of any kind of retreat, especially when this is so clearly the final battle of this fight. The others must think the same for all eyes are now turned to the map.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
A loud, dark horn pierces their quiet contemplation of the map.
“What was that?” Daenerys asks, head turned towards the door. Another messenger runs in. “The ships — they’re all leaving! Every single one that isn’t ours!”
Tyrion, standing closest to the tent flap, rushes outside. From the low, rolling hill on which the war tent sits, he can glance towards the city and the bay. Both messengers spoke true. Euron’s ships, their sails bearing the golden kraken on a field of black, are pulling away from the Targaryen ships and those with Yara’s symbol, a crowned golden kraken holding another, red kraken on field of black as well. The ships head out to sea, away from the city.
Behind him, a dragon roars.
Tyrion turns his gaze to Drogon and Rhaegal. Both dragons eyes are slitted deep black across an iris of red as blood. Rhaegal rears, flames cascading over the war tent. Drogon’s wings flap but his face contorts in anger and . . . pain? A different kind of pain then the dragon showed at his wounds. The dragonkeepers are trying to tame the dragons with fresh steaks sliced from sheep carcasses, throwing it before the dragon.
One dragonkeeper calls out to the Hand. “We need Daenerys! Where is the queen?”
A few dragon unravel chains and ropes and haphazardly throw them across Rhaegal’s back. Rhaegal leaps off the ground, breaking through the chains and flaps his wings. Tyrion stares helplessly as Drogon resists the pull of the skies even as his own body tries to pull away. An Unsullied guard comes running from the tent, the queen and council in tow behind him.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
The horn blows again, sending the dragons even more berserk.
Drogon’s black head perks as if he has caught an updraft. Steam curls from his nostrils, heavier than normal. He raises himself up on his red-black hind legs.
At the same time, Jon rushes forward, trying to mount Rhaegal’s back and gain control of the unwieldy beast. Rhaegal rears again, throwing Jon to the ground. The dragon flaps his wings, raising himself up, hovering in the sky above the the gathered onlookers, council and messengers staring up at the flying dragon.
Jon grimaces in pain as he jumps to avoid Drogon’s flailing black tail. It sweeps across the ground, stirring dirt and sending loose stones flying. Ignoring the bruising swell of his face, Jon rushes back to Daenerys’ side, calling to her. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t! It’s like Rhaegal can’t tell who I am!”
Drogon’s eyes face towards King’s Landing, set on the Red Keep with fiery determination. Tyrion does not like this, not one bit. Jon’s face is concerned too as he watches. This is not the dragon he is bound to, not the dragon he understands. That one is unmanageable already, but Drogon is the Black Dread reborn. If Jon cannot control Rhaegal, does Daenerys stand a chance of controlling Drogon?
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
A massive blaze of dragonfire sets the war tent and all its contents aflame. Tyrion is not able to contemplate this third horn blast as he is sent dodging to the side.
He struggles to gain his composure from his position, prone against the cold, hard ground. His vision is crowded with red and orange fire, with grey and black smoke. But he is relieved to count all the advisors outside the tent, staring at the crazed, enraged dragons.
Tyrion’s gaze goes to the city of red and its red castle, to the dark, decrepit dragonpit and the still-smoking remains of the great sept. Horror washes over him as he watches the newest sight of the King’s Landing skyline: a dragon flying through the smoke of the camp, sailing above the city, massive wings flapping as it crosses in seconds and sets alight on the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast.
Notes:
For plot continuity reasons, please note I took away Jaime’s sword that I had mentioned in the opening lines of Cersei III. You will see why in the next chapter, which is already written. I’m not going to set any goals as to when it’s going to be edited + posted, though it will be sometime this week. I will say that comments will help get that result quicker than silence but no pressure :)
And yes, that is a mention of Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, Lord of High Hermitage who has entered the scene as Commander of the Dornish troops. I care nothing for show canon at this point so my favorite emo lord is back in action. Arianne Martell is their princess, a distant, unrelated cousin of the Sandsnakes and Doran. Maybe her father is the castellan Manfryd Martell, idk. She will probably not make much of an appearance but at least she exists.
Chapter 44: ARYA VIII
Summary:
Arya has a conversation with Cersei, but it's not the one she wants. Then, an unexpected visitor.
Notes:
A LOT happens in this chapter, I explain some of my plot decisions in the end note. Euron Greyjoy is still not as scary as waiting for bar results, though.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There is too much blood.
Arya does not know much of the woman’s role, of childbirth or rearing, but she learned enough in the Riverlands and the Faceless Men to identify the pool of scarlet blossoming between Cersei’s thighs as Too. Much. Blood.
As Cersei convulses again, perhaps shocked in by the blossoming green explosion outside the window, Arya takes the queen’s hand in her own. Her fist clutches the fire poker in her hand, taken as Cersei’s lady’s maid escaped into the fireplace with the baby boy, but Arya stares instead of stabs. She glances along the body, to the swollen feet and the red stickiness between Cersei’s legs.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
In the distance, the sounds of war rage louder than she’s ever heard it. The raging storm of dragons, the twang of firing of catapults has all ceased for some reason. But a horn sounds from deep inside Maegor’s Holdfast and the clash of steel on steel is in the hall outside. The war horn surprises her, but what is it to do with Arya’s present reality?
She stares down at the golden queen, who looks up at Arya’s mask with so much hopeful love. Horror and sorrow and fear and anguish and many other emotions roil in her stomach. It was not supposed to be like this. Cersei Lannister is supposed to die screaming, not because she is a woman but because her awful actions have led to her demise. She is supposed to die knowing that her pain is because of all the pain and death that she has caused.
Arya still wants to kill Cersei, but not like this.
“Do something!” She shouts, much like the Kingslayer would if he were here. But the midwife’s eyes reflect Arya’s own suspicions about the situation, and Qyburn confirms it.
“There is nothing even I can do, your grace. Not now.”
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
The war horn rages again. Who is sounding it? Arya wonders, a shudder rolling through her whole being at the dark and terrifying sound. It isn’t just a war horn, though she does not know what other kind of death knell it could be.
“I want our babies to live.” Tears crowd Cersei’s piercing green eyes as she stares at Arya. “I want our babies to live. I want to see the grow and marry and have children.” Cersei grabs at Arya’s hand, clutching it hard as a vise. “I want our babies to live. I want to live.”
Arya should be telling Cersei to go fuck herself, listing all the crimes she has committed. The names are burned into the back of her throat. Micah, the Butcher’s Boy. Lommy. Lady. Robb and Talisa. Catelyn Stark. Arya imagined listing the names in Jaime’s deadpan, pulling back her face for a last second reveal before plunging her Valyrian steel dagger into Cersei’s heart.
She holds herself back.
Arya Stark will not kill Cersei Lannister, because Cersei’s body is already killing her itself.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
“Please don’t let me die, Jaime. The dragons — the horn — don’t let me die, Jaime. Not like this. Not like this. Jaime, not like this —”
Instead, she drops the iron poker, pushes Cersei’s short hair back from her face and kisses her forehead. What would the Kingslayer tell her? “It’s alright. Just look - look at me.” She takes the weeping woman’s hand and squeezes, cups her face and strokes her thumb along the side. “Look at me.”
A dragon’s roar sounds outside for the first time in moments, a shriek of anger Arya is sure can be heard throughout all of Westeros. As if triggered by the deathly noise, Cersei’s body convulses again, the weeping stopping as her body shakes and shivers. Tears fly from her face as her head rolls back and forth on the pillow.
Arya refuses to shirk back, to let her revulsion show as she presses her lips gently to Cersei’s forehead again. Outside, someone pounds against the door, an inconsistent set of thumps. She shakes her head at Qyburn and the midwife, who runs to Joanna’s cradle as the girl starts to scream. Arya focuses her gaze on Cersei. “Just look at me. Nothing else matters. Only us.”
Cersei’s shaking settles just as the heavy oak door bursts open. Arya looks back, at an Ironborn man with an eyepatch who looks like he just stepped onto a harbor. A dark horn is on his belt, with a dagger and thick spools of rope. The Valyrian steel sword in his hand drips black blood and his face is splattered with red. In the entryway behind him, a massive body lies dead.
The man tosses a huge head onto the bed at Cersei’s feet. Qyburn flinches. Seeing it, Arya realizes with horror that the man has managed to decapitated Cersei’s monstrous Mountain. Another glance sends more terror in her. The dripping sword he carries is familiar to her, Brienne Tarth’s Oathkeeper. How did he get that blade? That isn’t his to have. The man addresses the midwife, ignoring the rest of them in the queen’s chamber. “Where is my son? Is that him?”
Euron Greyjoy, then. Arya thinks, watching as the situation spirals more and more beyond what was planned for, what was anticipated. Euron is just a man, though, and surely he will die like any other. Arya squeezes Cersei’s hand, drawing the dagger with the left. How lucky is it for her, that the Kingslayer fights with his left hand since he turned his right to a gold one?
“It’s your daughter, your grace —” Qyburn speaks stiffly. Euron drives his sword through the unmaester’s chest, not giving him the chance to scream as his life is ended.
Watching Qyburn fall on the floor is almost enough of a distraction from the next dragon’s roar, angry and loud and near. Arya does not look out Cersei’s balcony. If Daenerys decides to burn them all it would hardly matter now, faced as she is with this newest monster that Cersei Lannister has empowered, who may terrify Arya more than Cersei’s son or the White Walkers ever did.
Cersei whimpers at Arya’s side, a pitiful sound. “Jaime, the babies - don’t let my babies die. Lions like dragons . . . do not listen to the sheep. Betroth them, let them have the happiness we could not, promise me.” She thinks of her sister, far away, pregnant and alone in Winterfell, and her Aunt Lyanna, who perished while birthing Jon. This is no way for anyone to die. Not even her. “Promise me, please. Promise me, Jaime. It’s your throne now, you must promise me . . . ”
She nods to Cersei, barely paying attention the dying woman’s words.
“Jaime - the children. Protect my children!” Cersei cries, her body wracked in another seizure.
“I will.” Arya says, for herself and for Jaime. And she means it. Too many children have died for their parents wars, from Rhaegar’s babes to Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon to the slave children of Meereen.
“Jaimeee. . . I love —”
And then, suddenly, Cersei’s hand slips from Arya’s and her body stiffens like so many bodies have stiffened before.
Cersei Lannister is dead.
Something outside lands heavy, like a newly-shot rock from a catapult. The entire room shakes and quakes with the force, so hard that Arya does not need to look to know it is there is a dragon alight on the queen’s balcony. But she looks anyway, hoping to confirm that Jon or Daenerys has come to her rescue. And surely it is a dragon but it has no rider and looks wrong, with eyes darkened red, scarlet as blood, when both the dragons she has seen had eyes black as dragonglass.
“Where is my son?” Euron demands again, a wicked grin on his lips as he pays the dragon no heed. “The bitch queen has died, so was she at least good enough to give me a boy along with this future whore?”
Arya steps away from Cersei’s body, shaking as she reaches for the iron poker. She had not expected Cersei to go into labor before she arrived, and she certainly did not expect to fight a wild Greyjoy. There is something unnatural about Euron Greyjoy. She heard stories, of him sailing into the smoking ruins of Valyria and sailing out like no other man has done. Of his ship, the Silence, and the many mute sailors whose tongues he removed when they joined into his service. A darkness emanates from his being that is greater than any of these stories.
“I will enjoy killing you, sisterfucker.” Euron Greyjoy cackles. Something wild and dangerous is in his dark eye. But it narrows and he raises the eyepatch over the other. He stares with his eyepatch raised, his cruel red eye exposed and shining as he studies the room: Cersei’s dead body, the child in the cradle . . . and as his gaze alights about Arya, he begins to laugh. Truly laugh, not his crazed cackle, as if he is amused for the first time in his life. “What a glorious fool you were, my queen. Well, you aren’t Jaime Lannister, are you?” Arya realizes then: he knows. But how? “You’re much more useful than the one-handed cunt, aren’t you, princess?”
“What —” The midwife says, but Arya waves a hand at her.
“Leave. Now.”
“I mean to kill the girl. She’s not useful.” Euron swings his sword around and takes a step towards the cradle. The midwife shirks back against the tapestry-covered wall. “But you, you can still be useful wolf-girl.”
“Not if I kill you first.” Arya states, raising her shoulders and holding out the iron poker. “Leave the girl around. Your daughter never wronged you.”
“She isn’t mine. A boy would be. A son and heir. But a girl? Psh. I would not create something so useless.” He scoffs. “Midwife, give her to me and I may let you live.”
Arya drops the iron poker and jumps on Euron before the midwife can make a foolish decision. “RUN!”
She grabs around his neck, stabbing for it but sinking the dagger into his neck. Euron hisses as she lands a blow and drops his sword, but it isn’t enough. He reels back, slamming Arya into the stone wall. Pain shoots up her spine and neck. Arya pulls out the dagger to stab again. Drops of black ink drip from it and onto Euron’s black doublet. As she clutches against him with one hand, he slams her back against the wall once more. Euron uses his sword hand to wrench her arm from around his neck. He flips Arya over his shoulders and slams her again into the rushes-laden ground. Something cracks in Arya’s right arm, more pain shooting through her body.
He clutches at his injured shoulder and grins. “You’re a clever little thing, aren’t you. Maybe I was wrong to want a son with a Lannister. You have old blood. Let me make you queen of everything, girl.”
“No.” Arya shoots back, trying to prop herself off the ground with her injured arm to no avail. She is sure it is broken in at least one place, if not more. Euron’s attacks have done the trick and weakened her, pain spreading across her entire body like it hasn’t since the days she slept on the forest floor in the Riverlands. She glances over. At least her distraction has worked and the midwife and child are gone, through the same servant’s exit that the chambermaid has taken. Arya shakes her head, grey eyes glinting in cold, stark defiance. “Never.”
Euron kicks her dagger from her hand, not out of reach but far enough that he grabs it before she does. “I’ll be your king, either way. And I will make you my queen, whether you want it or not.”
“I know no king but the king in the north.” She murmurs, a rallying cry she heard while returning home to Winterfell. It makes her feel stronger than she is in her current form, bladeless and on the ground. “And his queen, whose name is Stark. Not Greyjoy.”
Euron shrugs and bends down over her. The dagger comes close to her face and Arya is sure this is her end —
And then she is screaming as her mask is removed, not by fire or potion as she has been trained to do, but by the cruel, cold touch of Valyrian steel. Euron throws off Jaime’s face so it flops unnaturally against Qyburn’s head. The golden hand is wrenched from her grip and added to the pile like trash, though it is worth more than most smallfolk will see in their lifetime.
Arya has returned to her usual size, gasping in pain as she feels blood trickle down her face. Euron lifts her as if she is nothing more than a rag doll and throws her over his shoulder. “Yes, you will do very nicely as mother to the son of sacrifice.”
The dragon on the balcony has stood their dociley throughout their entire fight, through Cersei’s death and the midwife’s exit. And now he stalks towards it as if it is nothing more than a horse waiting to be ridden away from the city.
She struggles against the pain across her body and the blood dripping from her face, but Euron’s grip is strong as iron as they approach the waiting dragon. Arya would rather die than go wherever this deranged man is taking her, so she hopefully screams, “DRACARYS!”
The dragon does not even puff a little bit of smoke from its nostrils, though it lowers its neck before them both. Arya struggles harder as Euron throws her across the dragon’s body. Its spikes and scales dig into her through the clothes that are too large on Arya’s frame, taken from Jaime Lannister’s supply. She struggles harder, clawing to be off its mass, but Euron digs a hand into her back as he swings in behind her and holds her down in front of him.
“You are not its rider girl, though the effort is well thought out.” Euron states, lashing Arya to him with rope from his belt. “It is better that you learn now that you are no longer in control. You never have been and never will be again. For it is time to call the storm I have waited all my life to unleash, and you will be there to watch it all.”
He pulls the horn off his belt and blows again, the same roaring, keening sound she heard what seems like hours ago but must only have been half an hour.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
The blast is not so loud as before, but it is loud enough.
With its massive claws, the dragon pushes off from Cersei’s balcony. Stone pieces of the holdfast crumble from the force but Arya does not notice. She is too fixated on the dark, pushing wings as she is finally flying.
Notes:
Yes, I did rip Cersei’s dying words pretty much straight from the show. But I didn't hate it, it was very on brand for her imo, so I changed it a bit for the circumstances.
So, a few questions I think people may have, and my answers:
1) why didn't Cersei get killed by someone?
I know that was the plan, but I kept thinking: what would GRRM do in a situation like the one the show wound up in? I'm strongly of the opinion that Cersei dies early in TWOW and is not poised as the Final Boss (I also don't think Dany is the Final Boss, or will be a fake-out villain. It's clearly supposed to be the Others vs. Humanity). And while Cersei is a villain in so many character's plots (Sansa, Arya, sort of Dany and others), her own worst enemy isn't any of those people. Even if Dany/Sansa/Arianne/Margaery is the younger, more beautiful queen, I don't think it matters. The YMBQ won't cause Cersei's end, but her own paranoia will. I wanted to stay true to that theory of Cersei Lannister. While there's not quite the paranoia in GOT, show!Cersei still was a vengeful creature who considered herself better than everyone else. Death-by-childbirth is a much more human way to go and imo there's enough concern with Euron entering the room, the dragons and soldiers outside, and uncertainty about her children and Jaime that it wasn't an easy, painless death.
2) why didn't Arya get to murder Cersei?
I don't believe in murder baby Arya. Canon Arya is a child soldier with major ptsd and depression, on the verge of giving up her self identity to the House of Black and White so she can bury all that trauma. The show decided to go "A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell and she is going home," but then never had her reclaiming any of the traits that make people love Arya. She's incredibly loving and protective of her family, even when she's angry at them. Think of her wishing that the Blackwater would drown everyone in King's Landing, until she remembers Sansa is there. But she also cares about people besides her family, like Micah the Butcher's Boy and Gendry and that little baby girl they meet on the road. She's willful and bold, but still kind and caring and things "the woman is important too!" The show erased Arya in favor of the Faceless murderer. I wanted an event that gave her a shock back to who she should be. Something that made her feel like many of us did at Joffrey's death. At least in the books, he's still a 13-year-old child who is murdered horribly at a wedding, coming very close to making us all feel sympathetic for a character we despise. That same feeling is what I wanted for Arya at this death scene, something that shocks her into seeing the humanity in even Cersei Lannister, rather than seeing killing as the only solution to the problem.3) why haven't you told us what dragon Euron has?
I know which one it is, but I want the reaction to be from Dany's perspective. They're her children and losing either one in any way is awful. I really want to get in Dany's head in the way the show never really did when the others died. She comments on Viserion's death once or twice, but her pain at that is never really visited. Viserion's death was overshadowed drastically by the awful, stupid ending the show gave Missandei, and I don't think Dany ever even said anything about it. While I'm comparing this to dragons dying, neither dragon is dead, but it is away. I'll handle it in the next chapter or two, from their mother's perspective, because I want Dany to have that voice that was denied her. There may be an interlude at Winterfell, but I'm still tbd on that.4) does this story need a rape warning for the future Arya / Euron scenes?
No. Things aren't going to be great for her for a bit, but it's not going to get that far.5) will we ever see anything happy ever again?
I know these last few chapters have been intense, but this was the original climax of the political plot line. There's still the conclusion of handling Euron to come, but for the most part King's Landing will have falling action. I'm playing with some details, but Jon/Dany should hopefully be getting a bittersweet-but-mostly-sweet scene in Dany's next chapter and someone should be reuniting with Sansa soon. We're not going to get the OT3 back until the last bit, but I promise to build some happy into that, and maybe even some fluff, too.
Thanks for reading this horrifyingly long note, if you did, and drop a comment if there's any other questions, concerns, or reactions!!!!!
Chapter 45: SANSA VIII - Part I
Chapter Text
The Starks in Winterfell have taken to having their dinner in the evenings in small, private gatherings of their closest confidantes, advisors, and friends. Sansa shows her face as Queen in the North once a sennight, or for the first night of a visiting lord or his representative, but even while she is gone Bran still eats his meal with their little coterie in her solar and Sansa has joined after the politics and show are complete.
It is always her and Bran, Sam Tarly and Gilly, Lyessa and Little Sam. But others join, sometimes Alys Karstark or Tormund Giantsbane or Lyessa’s little friends or members of the household. She remembers her father holding court and inviting Jory Cassel, Hullen, Gage, Old Nan, or any of the others to sit at his side and discuss the needs of the castle.
But tonight it is only their usual company and one more, Meera Reed having just only arrived that afternoon from the swamps of the Neck that her family calls home.
As the group gathered for dinner in Sansa's solar, the air was warm with the scent of pine, as the rushes on her floor had just been re-laid that day. It was a simple luxury that reminded her of the days of her youth, and the first little thing she had allowed herself to indulge in since the war had ended.
Meera Reed is a curious woman, and Sansa can understand how she came to be so admired by Bran. She dresses as a crannogman, a sight not unfamiliar to Sansa, but also not so familiar as to be normal to her. She is short and slim, with a distant darkess in her green eyes. She arrived with a spear strapped to her back and still sits at the table with a long bronze knife at her hip. Sansa thinks that Arya would like her something fierce, especially with her talk of spearing fish and fighting with net and spear.
As they begin their meal, Meera shares stories of her journey, the smallfolk and merchants she met along the way, and answers Gilly, Sam, and Lyessa’s curious questions about the people and climate of the Neck. Eventually, Sansa joins but is less interested in this moment in the generalities of Neck life and more concerned for the needs of her people now, and the war to the south.
“Lady Reed,” Sansa speaks softly, her voice carrying a tone of curiosity. "What news do you bring from the Neck?"
At Bran’s side, Meera provides an update. “Our recovery from the winter goes slowly, although we did not suffer the rising of the dead in the same way as the rest of the north. But there is always damage from the cold winds and the snow, and the food reserves were depleted as we tended to the fleeing refugees from both the War of the Five Kings and the Battle of the Dawn.”
“And what of your father? I know he was a close friend of my own. I should have summoned him north with you as well. I’m sure his wisdom would be helpful now.”
“My father passed, your grace. Not too long before the Battle of the Dawn, or else he would have answered the call then.”
Sansa bows her head. “I will pray to the old gods for him. My father always spoke fondly of Lord Howland. It would have been a pleasure to know him, but at least we know the daughter he raised.”
“Is there news of the soldiers heading south with King Jon’s army?” Sam asks, even as he tries to feed Little Sam pease porridge. He makes little noises at his adopted son, pretending the spoon is a dragon before flying it into his mouth with a triumphant smile. “Did you pass them on your way?”
“No, though some of the smallfolk told me he and the Dragon Queen passed a few moons before I met them on the King’s Road.”
“That aligns with what we know of their movements, though I know not yet how far south they have moved.” Sansa offers a smile to Meera as the other lady covers her mouth with a hand to hide her yawn. “Is there anything else I can offer you for your comfort?”
“No, although I believe it is time for me to make my excuses and sleep, your grace.” Meera rises and dips her head in an imitation of a bow.
“Please, call me Sansa.” She offers. “And sleep well.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Sansa.” Meera smiles and Bran wheels after her, asking for a conversation. Lyessa, surely disappointed to see them both go, pushes her plate away and walks over to play with Ghost by the fire. As the door closes behind them, Sam looks up across the table.
“A letter arrived this morn, Sansa.” Sam smiles with the success of getting the spoon into Little Sam’s mouth again. “Jon remains steadfast in his assurances. The armies have surrounded King’s Landing. Jon longs to be by your side, especially with the babe's impending arrival. But the situation in the south is dire, as there are bolts along the walls and the Iron Fleet barricades Blackwater Bay.”
“Do you think he may be here for the birth?” She asks, though she knows the answer is likely no.
Gilly says, “isn’t that far? All the way in the south would be a long way to travel.”
Sam says, “He might make it if he flies. But the King’s Road is still a long journey, even on his own.”
Sansa sets a hand on her belly, full and round with the child she carries, the future of the North. The news of the south worries her, but she’d like to keep the conversation light in this moment. “What names do you think Jon might like for the babe? We never did discuss it.”
Sams cheeks pinker in the nervous way of his. “Perhaps Joramun or Bael, for the Kings Beyond the Wall? A fitting name, for a King Beyond the Neck?”
Sansa chuckles, though she hopes for something a little less northern than beyond the wall. She thinks of the names of her family gone, but the pain is too fresh for an Eddard or a Robb or a Rickon. “And what for a girl, would you suggest? It could be the child is the future Queen in the North.”
“I think its a girl, from the way you’re carrying.” Gilly responds, a smile on her face. She bounces her leg for Little Sam, who is falling quietly asleep in his mother’s arms. “What about Ygritte?”
“Shush!” Sam’s head whips round and his gaze sharpens on Gilly. “Nevermind her. That’s a poor name to suggest.”
Sansa frowns. Why is he reacting thusly? She levels her gaze on Gilly. “What makes the name so ill?”
“It’s nothing, your grace.” Sam stammers. “Nothing at all.”
“I’ve told you to call me Sansa in private, Sam.” Sansa reminds him, still perplexed from his reaction. She looks at Gilly, hoping for some honestly from the Free Folk woman that Sam may not be inclined to provide.
“She was his first love.” Gilly’s voice is soft when she responds after a long, drawn out moment. “Even before Queen Daenerys, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Sansa’s brow furrows in surprise at Gilly’s revelation. She knew of his feelings for the dragon queen, of course, as conflicted as they are with her own feelings for Dany. But she cannot remember a fondness he’d had for any maid as a youth, or any stories he’d shared of a lover at the wall. She casts a sidelong glance at Sam, who shifts uncomfortably at the conversation’s turn.
“Ygritte . . .” Sansa murmurs the name, so low she’s not sure if the other two would hear her if they weren’t staring at her. It’s a harsh name, but somehow pretty. Like the North. But she couldn’t quite suppress the twinge of jealousy it ignites in her stomach.
"Forgive me, Sansa," Gilly says softly, her gaze falling to her son. "I meant no disrespect."
Sansa manages a reassuring smile, though her thoughts were swirling with a mixture of emotions. "No, Gilly, you need not apologize. I'm grateful for your candor."
She glances at the fireplace, where Lyessa has fallen asleep. Little Sam was similarly drifting to sleep in his mother’s arms, so Sansa stands. There is little distance to push back from the table because of the size of her belly. “I believe its time to put the children in their beds.”
Sam smiles in thanks. They may have grown close since they were left in charge of Winterfell together, but there are some topics she does not need to broach with her husband’s best friend. Or at least, with this one of her husband’s best friends.
Sansa taps on Lyessa’s shoulder, waking the girl and taking her hand to lead her to Sansa’s chamber. She tucks her ward into the bed and kisses her gently before bidding her goodnight.
Restless, she lips out the sturdy door of the lord’s chamber and wanders through the castle as the winter night envelopes Winterfell. Her thoughts linger on the shifting tides of the south and her feet, somewhat unbidden, lead her to the godswood.
The ancient trees loomed tall and serene as she approached the heart tree. Moonlight filtered through the branches, casting a silvery glow upon the snow-covered earth.
Kneeling before the weirwood, Sansa closed her eyes, allowing her prayers to take form in silent whispers. Her thoughts wandered, straying to the complexities of Jon's past, his former loves, and the uncertain ties that might bind him in the turmoil of war. She couldn't help but wonder about Dany - her safety, her heart, her future.
If Dany remains in the south, who would her allies be? Lord Gendry, who she legitimized and gave a kingdom, and Lord Tyrion, but the rest who swore to her cause are dead or now sworn to Winterfell.
She begs watch over Jon and Dany, to guide them in their endeavor to remove Cersei and bring peace to the realm. They are both wise and strong, dragon riders and proven leaders, but will it be enough?
The rustling of leaves echoed her prayers, as if the trees themselves were whispering ancient assurances. Sansa bowed her head in reverence, her mind flitting from one concern to another. She prayed not just for Jon and Daenerys but for Brienne, Arya, and all those who fought alongside them in the turbulent South.
Chapter 46: SANSA VIII - Part II
Summary:
Sansa does politics.
Notes:
Ironically this was supposed to be a light, smutty break where Sansa had some ~feelings~ about Jon and Dany and took care of her own needs. I decided to add some politics and it turned into the longest chapter so far.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Early the next day, Sansa stands on the balcony over the practice yard, watching Alys and Tormund sparring. The two look happy together, her straight red braid whipping behind her as she spins to dodge his onslaught before surprising him with a wooden blade to the back. Tormund overcomes Alys, knocking the practice sword sideways and out of her hands, then falling back with enough force that she too is knocked into the feathery snow.
She wonders if there is an alliance to be made between their peoples, as Alys pushes Tormund off. The lady is laughing as he rolls over and away. Tormund attacks with a fistful of snow. She meets him with a pile in the face before rising and offering him an arm.
Sansa taps a finger on her chin. Perhaps there is something there. Alys looks a wilding woman in her battle leathers and Tormund looks a northern man in his furs. Or, perhaps, there is just a friendship blooming that can still tie them together through goodwill, trade, and opportunity.
“Well met, Tormund!” She calls down, waving at the pair. Their battle seems to be over, or at least this round, as they focus on dusting off the snow that covers their clothing. Sansa descends the stairs into the yard. “Hello, Lady Alys!”
Tormund waves back and Alys dips into a partial bow, more appropriate for her trousers than a curtsy. They chatter politely for a time, before Sansa asks Tormund to walk with her. He looks at her oddly, head tilted to the side as they step into the forest of the godswood. “What need have you of my counsel?”
“I have much need of your advice, but not at this moment. For now I have a question I believe only you can truly answer: who was Ygritte?”
A knowing smirk spreads across his face. “A Free Folk warrior and shield-maiden, with a fire-kissed head.”
Sansa’s brow furrows. He responds to the unasked question. “It means her hair was fire-red, and that bright color is lucky to my people. Not quite the shine of your copper curls, but similar all the same.”
“What happened to her?” Sansa asks, afraid of the answer. What if this woman is still alive? What if Ygritte is among the Free Folk settling in the winter town? Has Jon been hiding that much from her?
“She died, shot by an arrow the night we fought to take the wall at Castle Black.”
“Jon said he wanted to be a Free Folk, to eschew the black and join the ranks of Mance Rayder’s fighters. But yer husband is bad at making personal decisions, conflicted as he is between love and duty, freedom and commitment. It’s how I knew he was still a southerner in his heart.” Tormund chuckles, probably at the way Sansa bristles to be called a southerner. “Since he came back from the dead, he’s been worse at knowing what he wants. Duty and honor were never good to him, yet he tried to fulfill them. It got Ygritte killed, or so he thinks. I’d wager he thinks he’ll get you or the silver queen killed.”
“And you think his desires should be clearer to him?”
“You southerners say that he’s a wolf, he’s a dragon, he’s a bastard, he’s a king. I say what does it matter? The Free Folk chose to fight for Jon because of who he is, not for the animal on his banner of the colors of his cloak. And I’d like to think we taught him something beyond the wall. Among the Free Folk our way simpler than you kneelers: if you want something, or someone, you just need to take it.”
Sansa blushes at his straightforward words.
Tormund chuckled heartily at Sansa's blush, seemingly amused by her reaction. "Aye, that’s what I hate about you lot in the South—so shy and proper. Even your ladies, though our own Free Folk princess is almost shield-maiden.“ His laughter rumbled through the peaceful glade of the godswood. Sansa has not yet met this wildling princess, the sister of Mance Rayder’s wife. She has stayed to the wildling camps without involving herself in the northerner’s war.
Sansa's cheeks reddened further, but she held her composure. “Thank you Tormund. I shall keep this in mind.”
The walk silently side-by-side to the castle courtyard, where the servants and builders go about their daily tasks.
Sansa asks, “Will you join us in the great hall for the meeting later today?”
“Yes.” Tormunds face darkens. “Today’s discussion will likely involve my people. I should be there, though I hate your stuffy halls.”
“I understand. I’ll see you then, Lord Giantsbane.” Sansa nods, concerned as she has not yet had her morning meeting with Lord Royce, and even more concerned because Tormund does not give the hearty chuckle that normally follows her jokingly referring to him with southern titles.
Above, a raven crosses the yard. Dark wings, dark words, she thinks, before rushing into the warmth of the cold castle.
—
Sansa sits at the high seat of her father, clearly aware of the empty spaces at her side more than she has on the other days since Jon and Dany left Winterfell. After her conversation with Tormund, Lord Royce presented her with a report of the growing unrest in the winter town. Disputes between the Freefolk and smallfolk had been escalating, and more and more they had come seeking her decision and ruling in these matters. But last night, a dispute had turned violent when one of her own men-at-arms had tried to woo a spearwife and been injured by the Free Folk woman and her sister when he tried to persist. The assault had not just been on the perpetrator as others fell in to fight, spilling into the streets and being pulled apart by armed guard.
Now, the jail of Winterfell spills over with men and several women and the smallfolk in the winter town were rumbling, wanting their new neighbors gone.
The Free Folk are Jon’s people more than her own, and she is unsure how to keep the peace in the winter town while they remain here. Their customs are different, their women more independent, their people apart from the northern smallfolk as they are keen enough to consider themselves equal with all, lords and lesser alike.
Her hall is crowded with lords and smallfolk waiting to be heard. And for the first time since Jon’s departure, so gathered too are some of the leaders of the Free Folk, not just Tormund.
Lord Mors Umber, inherited of the title since the treason and demise of his brother Smalljon and nephew Ned, stands before her now. When she asks for the first petitioner to approach, he peeled away from Lord Templeton’s side.
Sansa restrains herself from speaking against Lord Templeton’s arrogant smirk, or the way he’s surround himself with lesser lords, knights, and masters from the Vale and North alike.
“Queen Stark,” Lord Mors begins, his voice cold and hard, “for many moons now have we entertained the notion that these wildlings can live peacefully in the North. But time and time again, they have proven themselves to be violent and unwilling to live harmoniously. If this is how they behave even in the winter town before your family seat, how will they ever be trusted when they settle in the gift?”
Sansa regarded the lord with a measured gaze, her posture unwavering despite the tension through the hall. She addresses him calmly. “Lord Mors, pray tell me how the Free Folk have been distrustful, and I will see the issue resolved.”
“The skirmish last night in the winter town, for one.”
Lord Templeton steps forward and flourishes a bow, overly frivolous as alway. Though he would deny it, there is an air of mockery about his actions as well. “This was not the first fight caused by the actions of these ruffians from beyond the wall, your grace. While you may not have heard of all these fights as they have not previously harmed members of your own household, a few of my own men have been attacked by wildlings as well.”
Sansa raises her hand to silence him. “My man-at-arms believed himself entitled to the touch of a woman in a way that she did not feel entitled to give to him. That woman was not his wife or a prostitute who had accepted his payment, so he was not entitled to her affections. As he is a member of my own household, I will see him punished according to the laws of the realm.”
Lord Mors challenges, “The wildlings should have summoned help, not tried to enact their own justice.”
“Has a woman not the right to defend herself?” Sansa leans forward, setting her elbow on her armrest and her chin resting on her fingers. “Sometimes justice requires an individual to enforce it.”
“But not in this instance.” Lord Templeton states. “For these wildlings to do so is treason against the lawful authority of the crown, my queen.”
“Some would say it was treason when I fled my husband Lord Ramsay and worked with King Jon to overthrow the Boltons and crown Jon as king.” She reminds them, leveling her steely blue gaze at each of the lords before her. There is a warning in her voice. “Lord Mors, I believe you were at my wedding to Lord Ramsay. Was the way he treated me as his wife appropriate, and thus was it treason when I enacted my justice and fed him to his hounds?”
“You are Queen in the North, your grace, the firstborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Not some trull from beyond the wall. This is a different matter.”
Shouts erupt from Tormund’s faction and to her chagrin, the Giantsbane is egging on the dispute rather than attempting to quell his people.
Sansa stands, her pregnant belly round beneath her thick wool dress. As much as she would like to hold her babe, she will not. At her side, Ghost rumbles in a growl. The noise lends her strength and she lifts her chin.
Lord Mors falls to his knees. She does not think he is quite trembling, but they both know what Grey Wind did do the Greatjon’s fingers without its master’s command. Ghost is not hers, but he knows in the way only a direwolf can know that she is still his to protect, if only for the child in her belly.
There is much to be done to bring peace between the Free Folk and northerners. Lord Mors was rightly suspicious, as one of the lord with lands closest to the gift and most susceptible historically to Free Folk raids. Something needs to be done to build trust between their peoples. Thinking again of Alys Karstark and Tormund that morning, she knows that friendship between their peoples was possible. She wonders if any maids of the Free Folk could stomach being Lady Umber, and if Lord Mors would allow the crown to create such a match. But for now, the immediate issue needs to be addressed.
She walks forward and stands before Lord Mors Umber. “Hear me now, in case it was not clear: women in these kingdoms do not owe their bodies to a man, not to their husband, not to their lord on the first night of their marriage, and certainly not to some random man in a tavern. The fight last night escalated unnecessarily because of mistrust between our peoples, northern men and Free Folk. But the original assault against my man-at-arms was just and done in self-defense.
“The two women of the Free Folk will be released from the jail with haste back to their chief. The man-at-arms will spend the next seven days in the jail, with six hours a day in a stockade so others may know his shame. Once he is released, he will spend another fourteen days on latrine and stable duty.”
“And the other men from last night’s fight?” Lord Mors asks, daring to lift his gaze up her form and to her eyes. “What of them?”
“Another night in the jail will do them good, Free Folk and northerners both. Before they are released, I will speak to them and explain how we expect them to behave.”
“So you will allow the disruptions of the peace to continue?” Lord Templeton’s face contorts with indignation. “They must face consequences for their actions!”
“And they shall.” Sansa’s voice resonates with authority and finality. “But as queen, my duty is to seek justice, not vengeance. The Free Folk were the first to answer the call when the Starks reclaimed our home. House Umber and many others stayed at the side of House Bolton, and yet House Stark has not forsaken them and has forgiven their treason. Things must change, but it will require change from us all. It would be inhumane to send them back beyond the wall, unless that is their desire, and the lands of the Gift are empty when once they were replete with settlements. The Free Folk will be at home in those lands and make better use of it than ever we northerners have.”
Tormund does not bow or take a knee. It is not his way. But he does hold a fist over his heart and wink when she catches his gaze. “We thank you, Queen Sansa, for recognizing and remembering the promises of your husband.”
“The North remembers and rewards its allies.” She states, taking her seat again. The room is still. “Now, are there any other issues that demand my attention while we are here?”
After several more disputes, unrelated to the wildling and Northerner tension, the session is at an end for the day. Sansa rises and her lords follow suit. They begin to exit the great hall, but she is not ready to let one of them go. “Lord Umber, if you would join me for a cup of tea in my solar?”
He turns and bows, bewilderment writ clear on his features. “Of course, my lady.”
She does not miss the snub, but forgives it. The second son of House Umber is not one she expects to be well-skilled in the courtly arts, and she believes it was unconscious.
They walk in silence, though he wrings his fingers before him as he trails a step behind on one side. Ghost walks close to her on the other. The tea is already waiting for her by the fire with several pretty cups that were found in the storage of Winterfell, somehow undamaged, though they are mismatched. Her cup of tea after meetings with her lords has become a ritual of sorts, a way to clear her mind of the politics before she turns to the more immediate needs of rebuilding her home. As is his way, Ghost goes to sit beside the fire and is immediately curling up to chase after sleep.
Sansa makes a show of spreading her skirts as she sits before indicating for him to join her beside the roaring fire.
“I believe you have two baseborn daughters, Lord Mors?”
“I do,” he says.
“Milk?” She asks, pouring it for him after he nods. She stirs her own tea. “Tell me of your girls.”
“Arga is five, your grace, and her sister Larra is three. They are here in the castle and have been since we fled the white walkers. They’re my delight and joy, though Arga is giving her mother more trouble by the day and keeps escaping to the kennels to play with the hounds.”
She laughs at the antics of children and takes a sip from her cup. Lord Mors finishes his own in one great gulp.
“I would like to take them into my care, if that would be suitable to you.” Sansa levels her gaze over her cup at Lord Mors so that he understands this is not a lady’s request, but a royal command. “I have another ward who is of their age, though she is common-born. I believe they would be good companions for her.”
A passing darkness flits through his eyes but he blinks it away. “Of course your grace, this is an honor I would not expect for my Snow children.”
“Being a Snow should not define a child’s outcome.” Sansa says, and takes another sip of tea. “Just like having some traitors should not effect a house’s whole family.”
Lord Mors shifts uncomfortably. “Your grace, was that all you summoned me here for?”
“No.” Sansa pours more hot water into his cup. “You are unmarried and unpledged, correct?”
“Yes. I always though my brother would carry on the family name, and his Ned after him. Ned’s death took me by surprise.”
“Lord Ned’s death was a tragedy, especially given his young age.” She agrees. “But it is time you married and continued the legacy of House Umber. I would like to oversee the arrangements and select your bride.”
“I would be honored, my lady.” Lord Mors says, lifting his tea cup. “Do you have a bride in mind?”
Sansa smiles secretively. She has a plan to identify a woman, but the proposal would have to wait for a less hostile time. As a lord so close to the Gift, Lord Mors was the optimal lord to marry a woman of the Free Folk. However, the right bride would have to be selected so as to not offend him. “I have several options that must be pondered over. But I will present you with a match soon enough.”
They make polite small talk for a few minutes more before Sansa exuses him and summons her cousin and Lord Royce to her sunlit solar to share another cup of tea. She would call for desserts to be served as well, but of late the only desserts to be had stir her stomach and even the idea of lemon cakes leaves her retching, so it is a good thing they cannot find any lemons in the North.
The scent of freshly brewing tea mingles with the gentle warmth of the hearth, as Bronze Yohn and Robin settle into her plush chairs. They exchange pleasantries and discuss Robin’s lessons, sword practice, and the warming weather. The time together is more pleasant than her tense meeting with Lord Mors earlier that afternoon, and she is loath to end it. However, she has at least one more meeting before she can retire and she is tired from the day’s machinations.
Eventually, Sansa steers the conversation to the earlier meeting in the great hall. Bronze Yohn agrees to oversee conversations between the winter town residents and the interviews of the men in the jails, before Robin asks if he can be of service.
“Robin, I think it’s time you prepare to take your men south and return to your seat at the Gates of the Moon.”
“Are you sure you do not yet need my protection?”
“I appreciate your support, cousin, but your own people need you more than I do.”
“Surely my regent is sufficiently handling the Vale. Lady Waynwood is a leal vassal and capable administrator.”
“Yes, but it is time you manage your own lands. My brother Robb was a year younger than you now when they crowned him king. I know you will do well.” Seeing how hesitant Robin still looks, Sansa sighs and leans forward, her voice dropping though it is just the three of them. “And you must ensure that Lord Templeton goes with you, whatever it takes. He has threatened my ward and my own child, and challenged my marriage and the authority of our king.”
This is the true reason she is sending Robin away, for she does appreciate him as an ally. He has grown in the years without his mother, but is a great lord himself and does not need to stay in the North in perpetuity. His people need him, need to see him and be seen by him. The respect for Lord Arryn is great amongst the Valemen and it is high time he be seen in his own home.
Bronze Yohn bristles at this statement, his hand falling to his sword. Robin stands, as if to go gut his vassal himself. “He dares - ”
“We cannot afford to make enemies, not now when we have barely had peace for a few months, and then only in the North. Take him home and distract him with his wife and children and repairing lands ravaged by the cold and wars. He will have less time for scheming when he is an attendant at your court and under your watchful eye, rather than hanging on my cloaktrain in Winterfell where he does not belong.”
Once Robin and Bronze Yohn have left, she next summons Lord Templeton to her solar for yet another cup. Her stomach is heavy with the stuff, but she expects this final meeting to be short enough. One of the two guards at her door is instructed to summon Tormund, for no other purpose than she would like the meeting over with as soon as possible. Outside her windows, the sun is setting.
As the heavy door swings open nd he was announced, Lord Templeton enters with his unearned confidence. By the fire, Ghost chases deer through the wolf wood in his sleep.
“My queen,” he says, falling into a flowery bow, “you honor me with your invitation.”
“Have a seat.” She says, voice terse. The tea sits before him and she pours it. “I’d like to discuss your position in the North.”
A snake-like smile slithers across his face. “Oh, your grace?”
“You told me that four children remain to you and Lady Alys, yes? I believe one of those is a daughter.”
“My eldest living child, yes, Teora.”
“And your heir’s name?”
“Symond.”
“Named for his father, I see.” Sansa smiles. “I’d like for you to send Teora to the North, to serve as a lady in my company.”
Lord Templeton’s face falls. “Send her, your grace? Do you mean send for her?”
“No.” Sansa shakes her head. “My cousin intends to return to the Vale soon. Upon your arrival, I’d like you to send your daughter to Winterfell.”
“But surely my presence is required here, your grace. Perhaps on the small council?” He states, . “As we previously discussed, my allies . . .”
Sansa sips her tea. “I know you have allies. So do I. Yours may have many knights, but mine have dragons. Tell me, will those warriors win a battle against a flying, fire-breathing creature?”
“You dare threaten -” Lord Templeton rises from his plush chair with such force that it tilts back, nearly falling. The action of its return hits the table, sending some of her mismatched tea cups clattering to the ground. Tea spills across the splinters of pottery and the noise wakes up the direwolf at their feet.
“Unlike you, I do not threaten. I promise.” Sansa sets her hands in her lap, a cold, bored look on her face. Ghost stalks a few steps and stands between them, growling. She runs a hand through his fur. It does little to quiet him, but it comforts her. “As I said earlier in the great hall, the North remembers. I will reward my allies and I will forgive some treason. But you have threatened my ward, threatened my heir, and threatened my husband. This demonstration today in the great hall was just the final straw. You will not work against me in my own home and not fear the consequences.”
“I know not what you mean you -”
“Do not insult your own intelligence, and do not insult me. Surely we are both above these games?” Sansa stands, letting go of Ghost. He takes one more step towards Lord Templeton. “On the morrow, Lord Arryn will announce his intention to return to the Vale now that winter has retreated and the pass is well cleared. You will volunteer for the vanguard to prepare the way for the lord’s return. Upon arrival in the Vale, you will send Lady Teora to Winterfell to enter my service. She will stay here indefinitely. She will also be joined by young Symond, who will serve as my cupbearer until King Jon returns, at which point he will become his page. If you defy my order, my husband will visit to personally escort the children here.”
“I will not stand for this injustice!” The lord’s eyes widen and his voice raises. “You dare treat me like a common pawn? You dare demand my family, you -”
Ghost lunges, his teeth latching around Lord Templeton’s raised hand as he tackles him to the ground. The lord screams in a most unmanly fashion as his right hand disappears. Ghost stands and growls over him, his maw bloody and dripping.
He keeps screaming, even as the guard bursts in with Tormund steps behind.
Sansa dusts off the front of her dress, noting a little spill of tea. “Ah, Tormund. I was just hoping to go find you for a discussion. But first perhaps we should send my guard for the maester?”
The Free Folk warrior takes in the scene before him, growling direwolf and dainty queen, and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
Notes:
Next up, we return to Dany and Jon and the Battle of King's Landing.
Chapter 47: DANY XI
Summary:
Back to the Battle.
Notes:
I didn't anticipate getting this chapter out so quickly, but after writing the last one I wanted to at least start. This just came out very, very fast, so I figured why not give it to the people? For the few of you still reading this, you've spent over a year, maybe two, waiting to find out what happened to Dany's dragons, and which one of them Euron ended up with. So, now ya know!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Daenerys hates herself for the relief that fills her heart as she briefly glances at Drogon, standing at the ready nearby, his long, large neck angled towards the sky as Rhaegal flies towards the castle.
The bit of relief, that she is not the grounded dragon rider, is soon overcome by the stab of sadness and fear. Who has summoned her dragon, her child, to them? And perhaps even more importantly, how?
Her eyes widen as she looks towards Maegor’s Keep, the royal red castle that so often filled her childhood dreams. She wanted to return to it, but this was not how she imagined it. Not on dragonback, not in the middle of a battle. But how else?
There is shouting around her, but it barely registers for Dany as she strides to Drogon. Jon is at her side, grabbing at her sleeve.
“Your grace, your grace - Dany!” He says, and it is finally her nickname on her lips that stops her. She whips around, eyes meeting his. “What are you doing?”
“I need to - I need to go see what’s going on. What’s happened to him.” She tries to explain the churn of fear, horror, concern in her belly. But words can neither fill the void inside her, nor can they explain it. “Don’t tell me not to go,” she adds as he opens his mouth.
Jon shuts his lips and drops his hand, but only for a moment. As she turns to mount the dragon, Jon turns her around. “At least take some protection. Wait one moment.”
One moment might not be enough time, might take the dragon entirely away from her, but she acquiesces as she sees the pain in his eyes. Jon will not stop her, though she is sure he thinks her foolhardy, but he still will do his best to protect her in the endeavor.
She whispers, so only he can hear, “Thank you.”
One moment is all Jon needs to make an Unsullied soldier remove his leather breast plate and belt and slip it over her head, ensuring that the short sword is on her side. She barely know how to use a sword, but she also doesn’t have any idea how to fight a dragon. Only to fight on a dragon, but not against.
Horror dawns, and Dany wants to retch. Will she be able to kill Rhaegal, if it came to it? She is unsure, and she buries the thought. She will not confront that now. All she can do now is everything she can to keep his fire from descending on the city and its caches of wildfire.
“Go, now. I know I cannot stop you.” Jon says.
There are people around them, so many people, and what she wants more than anything is to pull him onto Drogon’s back with her, to pull him against her, to kiss him and be kissed in return, and told that everything will be alright.
But with this audience, they cannot do what she wants, so instead she wraps him in a quick embrace and says, “I’ll be back.”
She only hopes the words are true.
Dany scrambles on top of Drogon’s back, her most inelegant mounting since she first took to the skies in the pits of Meereen. He roars as he leaps into the sky, the noise reverberating through the chaos below. She grasps onto his scales. The air is thick with the acrid scent of burning wreckage from the city and it smolders with green smoke.
They fly across the expanse of King’s Landing. She is a petite speck of a woman against the massive, dark form of Drogon’s back. The dragon shifts beneath her, sensing both her urgency and the worry in the air.
Dany cannot look below, to see the suffering she has accidentally wrought. Her gaze, her only focus, is on Rhaegal. She cannot let him burn more of the city she wishes to conquer but not destroy.
Drogon understands her desires more clearly than even she does. In only moments, they are at the keep.
But even that arrival is too late.
Cleary, so clearly, she sees that Euron Greyjoy is the one who has ensorcelled her child. A twisted smirk fills his face as he mounts Rhaegal’s back, a bundle clutched in one hand as he grasps on with the other.
But he is not the only one. There is a form, in baggy clothes, with short brown hair - she gasps in horror as Drogon dives at his sibling, nipping at the green dragon’s tail as it springs into the air and away from them.
Dany is sure as certain. The other person with Euron is Arya Stark.
She cannot let them escape, cannot let Arya remain in the captivity of that monster.
Dany urges Drogon into pursuit, her heart pounding. Rhaegal does not turn to face them, but heads up, up, up into the thick white clouds above.
Drogon flies upward, spiraling fast. The sword in its scabbard at her side rattles with the dragon’s every move and she holds on with desperation. The wind is fast and wet and she is chilled to the bone by their ascent. Her silver hair whips around her, strands blown out of her tight coiled braids by the force of the wind and speed of their flying.
A puff of fire singes her side as Drogon rolls to avoid it.
“DRACARYS!” She screams, tears blurring her vision. The dragon responds with fire. She just hopes it doesn’t continue with blood. She cannot hurt Arya, but she too cannot afford to die. She can only hope that Drogon will not hurt his brother, can only hope -
They are above the clouds, above everything and everyone that ever existed.
The world is quiet here, so quiet, and she cannot believe that below, a battle rages. Dany urges Drogon into a wide circle, searching and searching.
But nowhere around her does she see a sign of Rhaegal or Euron or Arya. In frustration, she screams. Drogon mirrors her cry with a roar of his own, splitting the silence of the sky. Yet another sound joins theirs.
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
No. It can’t be. The same eery noise that punctured the battle before, bringing Rhaegal to Euron’s side.
She urges Drogon into a descent, veering through the clouds in pursuit of wherever Euron Greyjoy may have disappeared. Dany cannot let that noise be unleashed again, cannot let Drogon be stolen from beneath her . . .
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
She is frantic now, and Drogon is in noticeable distressed. He shakes his neck back and forth, as if trying to chase something out of his head. He throws his back and whips his tail. The motion nearly bucks her off him, but Dany clenches with her thighs and squeezes with her hands.
They are descending, are they - are they falling? Drogon has lost control of his wings, thrashing about and more focused on the ringing, lingering noise than in his own flight . . .
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
The sound pierces the air again, setting Drogon into an even more frenzied state. Where is it coming from? Dany has never been so frightened around a dragon, these creatures that she always felt she understood so well, suddenly beyond her comprehension what is happening. She does not have time to look around, to identify where Euron and Rhaegal may be. Even if she did, she does not have the same control of her bond with Drogon as she always has.
Lights flicker in her periphery, flashing intentionally across Drogon’s back. He screams and thrashes still, somehow with more control. The lights are in his eyes, she sees, blinding him.
His wings flare out, flapping wildly and lifting them both in the air. Drogon’s had slows its motions and he growls. The wingbeats slow. She looks below, removed from her panic by the frantic screaming of the smallfolk.
They hover only yards above the people of King’s Landing, Drogon’s sudden movements having just stopped them both from meeting their end like Prince Joffrey in the Dance of the Dragons.
Dany clings on, unsure of her next move now that she has barely survived death. The lights flicker across the back of Drogon again. She bites her lip and turns towards it and sees a small form flashing something her way just outside the walls of King’s Landing. Tyrion, she recognizes.
Surely he could make sense of what has occurred. She glances around one final, solemn time, trying to find Arya, and failing.
In a test of her faith, she urges Drogon towards the light signals.
And Drogon listens.
Notes:
If you need an explanation: Euron ensorcelled Rhaegal with the Dragonsbane horn. He then tried to use it to capture Drogon as well, but at least in this fic, the horn can only be used by one person, on one dragon at a time. The next chapter will be Jon during Dany's sky battle and the one after that will include Dany, Jon, and company trying to figure out wtf just happened and what their next steps will be.
Chapter 48: JON X
Summary:
Jon brings the battle to an end; Daenerys take her throne.
Notes:
This is probably the longest single chapter I've written for this fic. Wanted to split it into two but couldn't find a good break point, so here ya go.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Pain again shoots through Jon’s leg as he watches Daenerys fly off on Drogon’s back. Would that he could join her, to follow her, to fight by her side, to protect her flank. But Rhaegal is taken.
He can feel the loss of that bond in his heart, in his mind, in his soul. The bond is not all gone, but it is darkened, almost hidden. Jon did not even know that he had felt the connection with Rhaegal, it had been added to his being so easily from their first flight together. Simple and easy as a babe’s first breath. But now that he has felt that bond, and felt its dampening, he does not feel whole. He cannot feel whole again, not until Rhaegal is returned. What is the pain, to lose a dragon?
Jon shields his worried grey eyes with his hands to watch Dany soaring high above them, Drogon looming dark and dangerous above the city.
I will not lose a dragon today. Neither of mine. He does not mean Drogon.
Looking towards the gathered men, he knows it is time to claim the castle of his father’s family. Dany’s page holds the reins for a fresh horse, quickly exchanged for the one he already rode into battle. He limps over, doing his best to stand straight before his queen’s warriors. They respect strength, he knows, these Dothraki warriors. He remembers a story Dany told, on the boat to White Harbor, about her brother Viserys and the shame of riding in a cart instead of on horseback.
The page steps forward to offer Jon assistance, but he waves the boy off and swings himself into the horse’s saddle. He looks up, towards Maegor’s Keep. Dany and Drogon are at the walls, facing Rhaegal. Arya is in that castle, his little sister, beset by enemies on all sides, except for a dragon above and Brienne somewhere.
Tyrion calls to him, “King Jon, what are you doing?”
“Send word to the Darkstar to send the Dornish men in. It’s time to take the King’s Gate and River Gate.” He says. “I’m taking the remaining companies northerners forward. Make the necessary commands of the queen’s soldiers. The city must be ours by the time Daenerys returns. This ends now.”
Jon doesn’t wait for a reply from Dany’s Hand. Tyrion defended this city admirably during the Battle of the Blackwater, but he is a strategist, not a soldier. Jon is. He knows the heat of battle, the feel of a sword cutting down an enemy. It is time that he remind those of his foes that he fought Mance Rayder, Ramsey Bolton, and the Night King, and lived to tell the tale.
He rides to his northern men, those waiting to follow the vanguard. Among them are Knights of the Vale and Riverlanders, experienced fighters. They have spent most of the last decade fighting. Jon swears to himself this will be their last battle, their last siege, for many, many years.
“Riders, to me!” He calls, and those on horseback nudge their mounts forward. “All of you, let this be our time! Defend yourselves, but any who surrender should be taken into custody!”
There is chanting, rhythmic and steady. The sound comes from the Riverlanders. He looks over, and at their helm is Lord Edmure Tully. The chant the lord leads is his name, “King Jon! King Jon!”
Others slap their shields with their swords, but he has no more time to bask in their adulation. Not when he has a war to win, a sister to save, a lover to protect, a wife and child to return to.
He hoists up his sword, Longclaw glinting in the sunlight. In the distance from the castle, he hears dragon roars.
Jon roars in response and brings his horse into a gallop. There is pain in his side, but what does it matter? Pain can be treated, but dead loved ones cannot be returned.
The Lannister men made no attempts to reclaim the Iron Gate. Why would they? Their ruler is in a keep, outnumbered, and according to rumor has killed their comrades for the slight of looking at her. As he passes through, Jon sees some tied up to each other at the side of the gate. They scramble against the gatehouse walls to avoid being crushed by horses hooves.
He flies through the narrow streets of King’s Landing, riding for Aegon’s High Hill and the castle at its peak. His men charge through the city behind him, roaring in their might. The peasants’ barriers have been emptied some, broken down enough for him to gallop through and launch over whatever remains.
Some remaining Lannister soldiers attempt futilely to attack at Jon and his mount. He swings Longclaw as if the sword is weightless, cutting down a man on one side of him and then the other. They scream and fall, an enemy after another.
Jon charges through the open Red Keep’s gate. What a farce this siege is, if even the guards of the keep will not do their duty. They may live, but they must be replaced for Dany’s safety once she is the queen in residence.
His horse slows to take the Serpentine steps, into the castle. As they climb, Jon glances up. Shock and concern reverberate like a Dothraki gong in his body. Dany and Drogon are gone, as is Rhaegal? Where are they?
He dismounts halfway through, unsure of his next destination. Jon has never been in the Red Keep and has only ever studied the maps and sketches provided by Tyrion sparingly. It was never his intention to take the castle by storm, and yet now it is a necessity.
He wants to find the queen’s chambers, where “Jaime” would surely have been taken. He thinks that is where Rhaegal had alighted on the walls as well, but the castle is designed to be an impenetrable labyrinth, by his many-times great uncle.
A figure is slumped before the dais, in beautiful, but bloody armor. Jon recognizes her, and rushes forward. The knights with him are entering now, slightly slower than their king. At the direction of his hand signals, they take up positions across the empty hall, most of them still mounted.
Brienne of Tarth breaths shallowly. Her wounds are cuts, except for the bleeding bump on her head.
“Lady Stark?” She whispers, looking up at him through blurry, glassy eyes. She blinks, but her vision still does not seem to focus. “My lord?”
Jon calls out for a pair of knights to attend her. He gives commands for them to see to her needs. He growls at Ser Hardyng, “If she dies before receiving treatment, I will hold you responsible.”
“We will see her cared for, my liege.” The man holds a fist above his heart and bows his head. A handful of Vale knights respond to his commands. Jon orders another man, this one a Riverlander, to secure the rest of the castle, then turns back to his next issue, the most important one.
A maid runs through the great hall and balks at him and his men. Her eyes go wide as plates as she takes them in and drops the set of golden candelabra in the hands. She pivots, but not before Jon has run forward and grabbed her arm.
“Please, ser, don’t, I’m a maiden -” She pleads, and he feels some pity beneath his icy, determined facade.
Jon grasps her arm tighter. “I don’t care. Take me to the usurper’s chambers. Now.”
She sobs. But he doesn’t care. Arya needs him, Dany needs him. So much is going on, his dragon is gone, but in this way he can be useful. Cersei must be dealt with and the city secured. This task is his and his alone.
The girl guides him to a back door behind the dais, and through a dark hall. They climb up stairs before arriving at an opulent doorway, two huge doors of shining wood. A monstrously large dead body in kingsguard armor is slumped before the door. He recognizes the size of the man as Cersei’s undead protector.
Jon enters the open doors and horror at the sight fills him. Cersei Lannister lays dead in a deep pool of her own blood. Her eyes are closed and her face is twisted. By the fireplace, a face hangs limp and bloody, cut in pieces but still recognizable. Jaime Lannister’s face. A massive head lies bleeding nearby. Another body, her arch maester Qyburn, has been run through by a sword.
But if Jaime’s face is here, where is his sister? A grate in the fireplace is ajar and a servant’s exit door hangs open. Where would Arya have gone? Hsi guide hides in the doorway, pale round face peering at him as he surveys the surroundings. What next?
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
That noise again. No! It cannot claim Drogon, not while Dany is on his back, not ever, not so long as the dragon’s capture would hurt Dany twice so much as that of Rhaegal.
As Jon rushes to the window, looking towards the sky, the maid cries out.
He ignores her, looking up to the thick clouds in the blue sky. The cries grow louder, sobs. Why has the maid not run?
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
Drogon plummets from the cloud cover, falling so fast. He sees the white speck of Daenerys hair and releases a gasp of air he didn’t know he held. But the maid’s crying has grown stronger and Jon realizes it is not the maid. It is a child, a babe. But he cannot look away, not as a woman he loves is falling, falling, falling . . .
Uuuuuuuhoooooooooo.
Drogon’s plummet continues, he thrashes over the streets of Flea Bottom. Jon grasps the edge of Cersei’s balcony, leans forward and knocks over a half-full goblet on its edge. He does not look at it, or at the screaming child behind him. He does not want to watch but he cannot look away, not from Dany, not ever . . . He thinks, I will not lose a dragon today!
At the last possible moment, Drogon’s wings catch the air. He hovers above the city’s rooves and streets, but he is not splattered across them. Jon releases his grasp. The dragon cannot be in Euron’s control, not if he is so wild in his movement, not with Dany on his back . . . can he?
Jon sighs as the dragon and queen veer back towards the siege camp. She is safe. Dany is safe. He will not have to explain her loss to himself, or to Sansa who loves her well. Jon stops himself at that thought, unsure what he could mean. He shoves it down, to be pondered in the quiet after the chaos, but turns back to this task.
The maid has entered the room and somehow, so too has another woman, clasping a child to her bosom. A child that is screaming, with a red face and his parents’ golden hair.
“My lord?” The new woman asks, her voice strong. She is less frazzled more coherent than the other maid, who is still watching him as if sure he will rape and ravage her any moment. “Where is Ser Jaime?”
“In the siege camp.” Jon says, no reason to continue their absurd farce. Sansa was right; this entire plan to end Cersei’s reign was a disaster from the beginning. He should have listened to her, understood that she had some wisdom of this enemy that no one else did. Who else knew Cersei so well, besides her lover? Not even Tyrion could predict her half so well as Sansa.
But Cersei is dead, it is clear to see. Cersei is dead and his sister is gone.
“Where do you think he went?”
“He meant to fight King Euron.” The woman says. “I was left in care of Prince Tywin, in the space beneath the fireplace. There was another babe that came, I believe I heard her say it was a girl.”
“The child’s name is not Tywin.” Jon says, the first thought that forms from the swirl of many in his mind. The child is not a prince and he will not ever let anyone be named after Tywin Lannister, not if he can help it. But the child’s fate is for later. For now . . .
If Jaime’s face is gone, then Arya must also be gone. The other child is gone, who knows where. Are they together? Euron Greyjoy has a dragon, Jon’s dragon, Rhaegal. A pang in his heart, a pang in his injured leg. He can feel the wound seeping blood, reopened by the intensity and flurry rush of activity he has just put it through.
Jon steels his spine and straightens. “Tend to the usurper’s body. The babe is not to leave this room. I will send a guard to see to anything you may need. When the castle is secured, we will speak further about the boy.”
He steps back to the balcony and looks out at the sparkling dark water. In the distance, peals of bells ring across the city. The Ironborn with Euron’s flag sail south, just as had been reported in the war camp. Will Yara pursue, he wonders, or will she secure the Blackwater?
Jon wants to collapse in abject failure. He is in pain, he has lost so much. Can Sansa ever trust him again, when he has lost the most important person to her?
But he has too much to do to mourn, because he must fulfill their promises to Dany and to their people. King’s Landing must be at peace.
He exits the royal chambers and finds his own way back to the great throne hall. Brienne of Tarth is gone, as is Ser Hardyng who had charge of her care. Jon can only hope that the man follows through on his task, or it will be somewhat embarrassing when Jon makes the formal announcement that he is to be Captain of the Queensguard, a request Sansa had conveyed by letter but he hoped to offer as a reward after the battle.
As promised, he sends a man to watch Cersei Lannister’s child, the boy so important for the future. He sends another to bring word to Dany that the castle is taken, and to request Jaime Lannister be brought to the keep. Because while Jon hates the man, he will be a sufficient guardian of his child for the time being, until the next steps for Jaime Lannister can be determined.
All ruling seems to be is identifying next steps, dividing and delegating. He wants to rush to Dany’s side, but the wiser part of him knows he must secure the city for her arrival.
The knights and soldiers in his company secure the castle. It was left mostly undefended, but they have rounded up the few goldcloaks and Lannister redcloaks that remain. They are locked in the black cells, to be dealt with by the queen.
Jon’s injury is too strained for him to ride out into the city, and it would be unbecoming of him as a king to deal with minor miscreants and rebels. So he summons for a chair to be brought from the small council room and a table, along with parchment and ink, and sits beneath Daenerys’ throne to send out word and commands as the trouble in the city is quelled.
Chief among his concerns is rounding up the pyromancers and ensuring that the wildfire is dealt with. The men are rounded up and it is here that Ser Davos Seaworth finds him, what feels like hours later.
“Jon, have you eaten since this morning?” The man asks as they take a moment, passing him a slice of bread because Davos knows the answer.
“How is the sun not yet set?” Jon bites into the bread, trying not to appear as famished as he feels. He rolls his shoulders, his spine and bones cracking with the sudden movement.
“The battle was finished by midday, except for some stragglers. Once the dragons left the sky, and Euron’s men retreated, the smallfolk were much calmer and responded well enough to the soldiers.”
There is silence as Jon finishes the bread. Davos asks, “How are you, your grace?”
“We have the city and I lost my sister.” He says. “I promised Sansa I would bring her back and that was all a lie. We don’t even know where she is.”
“I will be with you until she is found. I promise all will be well.” Jon looks at him, conveying a burning question without words. Davos’ voice drops low. “Queen Daenerys is shaken by the morning’s events, but uninjured. I believe she intends to ride to the castle soon.”
He nods. Part of him wants to escape. What will it be, to see one of his queens in such an official procession? He swallows at that thought - his queens, as if he can have them both. As if he is anything but theirs.
Will she be same as she rides through a war-torn city? A city she nearly set alight, albeit accidentally? Will the people see her as the one who freed them, or another persecuting tyrant?
More than his concern about Queen Daenerys’s presentation to her people, Jon wants to see Dany. The one he knows when no one else but a select few are watching. Her heart must hurt for Rhaegal, and he would soothe those aches and pains caused by the battle.
Nothing he wants to do can be done before a crowd.
Many of the things cannot be done before any audience.
Jon orders his table taken away and sends for some pages or servants to clear up the leavings of the horses who were previously stationed throughout the room. While he has not previously seen its insides, the throne room seems to have been forgone for cleaning by the little staff that remained in service to Cersei Lannister.
Little can be done to prepare the room for the true queen’s homecoming, and of that fact he is disappointed. Dany deserves more than a dusty chamber with a Lannister sigil on the great glass window behind her throne, but with the remnants of the battle for her capital barely tended to, he cannot provide much more.
When a messenger arrives to announce it is time, Jon joins Davos and other knights in a sort of honor guard. They ride their horses down to the courtyard of the keep and he ascends the guardhouse tower to watch from the walls as she enters the city.
From high on Aegon’s Hill, he can see it all.
Daenerys rides side saddle on a silver horse. While dust from the battle still holds to her face and tight braided silver hair, and a cut still bleeds on her cheek, she wears perhaps the most resplendent gown he’s ever seen her in.
She does not wear the airy, thick silks of Meereen that he saw a few times on Dragonstone, and gone are the dark colors and sharp angles of her wardrobe in Winterfell and beyond the wall.
This dress is Westerosi, Jon knows, even without Sansa’s understanding of clothing and the styles of courtiers. She has taken care to wear something that seems emblematic of all her peoples: a high collar, like he so often saw on Queen Seryse Baratheon, that plunges into a narrow V that teases the swell of her breasts, like the ladies he met while crossing the Crownlands towards King’s Landing. The bodice is tight and the skirt is narrow, clutching the curves of her wide hips like a Reacher woman. His breeches strain at the sight of her; even from afar she is so tempting, so beautiful, so queenly. Jon isn’t sure, but the multi-chained copper belt around her waist seems similar to the other metals that adorned Dornish who joined their company. The whole dress is shining cloth-of-gold, surely supplied by the Lannister lord who is her Hand.
He swallows to settle the feelings arising in his stomach and clutches his hands, hoping to still the quick beating of his heart to a rhythm more appropriate for an allied queen.
The people of the city have a similar reaction to her, slowly coming out of their homes and hideaways as she rides her horse slowly up the great road. Jon does not worry as much for her safety. While she has the trappings of a Westerosi queen, Dany’s Dothraki bloodriders ride behind her along with a complement of knights in shining armor.
“” There are faint cheers from the crowds, not too great, but her unfamiliar name is shouted out by a few. “Queen Daenerys! Queen Daenerys!”
As she disappears from his view in a turn in the road, Jon sucks in a breath as a wagon rolls into site. A reacher in Tyrell colors guides the mules that lead it, and an Unsullied soldier walks on either side. The soldiers hand out grain, loaves of bread, root vegetables; whatever has been provided by the Reach allies or bought with the coin of Meereen.
Shouts rise up in truth now, smallfolk cheering for the woman who is feeding them.
He watches in amazement as wain after wain rolls up in Daenerys’ trail. Her first priority, even in this, the moment of her greatest triumph, is caring for her people. People who haven’t embraced her yet, and she is seeing them fed and attended to.
Even as Daenerys re-emerges below the open gate and makes her way towards her castle, his eyes are on the people and the wagons. More is handed out, what looks like clothing, and he wonders at her awe-inspiring dedication to their care.
Jon descends the steps of the tower and waits for Daenerys to cross the threshold. She stands there, having dismounted from her silver mare, staring up at the Red Keep. A crowd has gathered before her and her voice is low, so low that only Jon can hear her. “Is this real?”
“It is. You’ve survived so much to be here.” He whispers back, before calling out much louder so the crowd can hear, “King’s Landing is yours, your grace!”
Jon stops for just a moment to let her pass him and take the lead up the Serpentine steps. She motions for some of the crowd to join, and though Jon would object for her safety, it is her kingdom and her rules.
A little child runs up to her, more courageous than the rest of the staring smallfolk. The child asks, “Is that your real hair color?”
“It is, little one. Will you join me?” Dany asks, her voice full of heartbreak and regret in a way he cannot comprehend, even moreso than the time he first discussed her inability to have children with her.
The little girl takes her queen’s hand and together they lead the way. The path up is lined with knights and Unsullied and the pace set is slow enough that Jon barely feels it in his hurt leg. There are nobles and smallfolk in this crowd and more nobles and castle servants have entered the great hall. Jon slips away from Dany to walk behind the crowd and join the others of her commanders and closest allies, who have gathered along the dais’ edge beneath the Iron Throne.
She approaches the Iron Throne with steady steps. Her allies and lords line the way, coming to their knees one by one.
As Dany passes him, Jon bows his head, one ruler to another. Looking at the hems of her dress, he notices little embroidered designs that feature the emblems of the Great Houses she rules, sewn with such grace he knows it is the same hand that stitched the wolf upon his cloak.
There is baited breath of those gathered in the great hall, commoners, soldiers, and nobility alike.
Unworthy kings - and a queen - have been rejected by this throne.
Queen Daenerys sets a hand upon the misshapen, mottled metal. Her finger touches the sharp tip of a sword, pushing hard onto it as if she is unsure it is real. When she pulls her finger away, Jon nearly gasps. The white of her skin is red, but red with pressure from the push, not blood from what he is sure should have sliced her open.
The Iron Throne has not harmed her.
He expects her to take her seat, to rise up and sit herself upon her forefather’s throne.
Daenerys does not.
She turns, and calls, out, “Lord Gendry?”
“Yes, my queen?” The Baratheon lord responds, stepping forward and bowing his head.
“You were a blacksmith once, yes?”
“Only an apprentice, your grace.” He says humbly.
“Many have spoken to me of your skill. May I make a request of you?” Jon wonders if she will add swords to the throne, demand that Brienne of Tarth’s sword be added, as the remnant of the sword that so shortly was House Lannister’s. But for longer it was his father’s sword, and his father’s, and Daenerys knows this and surely would not bring such an end to such a storied blade.
“Yes?”
“Melt it down.” She commands, with that fierce determination that have made so many love her. Including him. “Melt all the swords away, however long it may take.
“King Aegon the First and his sisters came here as conquerors.” Queen Daenerys says, her voice as regal as he’s ever heard it as she turns back to the gathered crowd. “But for too long the Iron Throne has been the seat of cruel overlords, from Maegor to Aegon the Fourth to Cersei Lannister. Today marks a new era, where the crown will serve the people, not pillage them. When Westerosi will know the difference between a queen and a tyrant. And it starts with the end of the Iron Throne.”
The cheers that respond to this declaration are deafening as again and again Daenerys’ people call her name.
Notes:
Note: Arya is now an unreliable narrator for one specific fact. In-universe explanation is because things were moving fast and confusingly during the fight with Euron. Euron took Joanna because while he is an idiot, he’s not stupid. She has a claim through Cersei and is publicly claimed as his, so he’s taking her. Real explanation is it’s a bit of a retcon but relevant, I swear, and I don't feel like rewriting the last Arya chapter.
Chapter 49: SANSA IX
Summary:
Sansa misses Dany and Jon.
Notes:
This is pretty much an outtake from Sansa XIII, which was supposed to be smutty until I decided to address more northern politics instead. I decided to bring it back as an interlude because of some of the comments on the last few chapters. This is 90% smut, 9% feelings, 1% percent plot. You have been warned.
Chapter Text
The Queen in the North waits until the hours is late, her thighs rubbing together with the fierce, needy desire she has felt for hours. But she has never done this before, never even thought to do this before, and what if someone finds out? A servant comes into her room with some urgent, late-night missive, and finds her in an indelicate position, like a common whore? Or someone passes in the hall and hears a noise she doesn’t intend to make, thinking she has a lover?
She left Lyessa sleeping in her bed, sneaking away to Jon’s empty chambers where she hopes no one will think to find her. The sheets still smell of him, the manly musk of northern pine forests and snow.
Even once alone inside Jon’s room, she draws the curtains around the bed, shutting out the dim light from the lantern she brought along. Thankfully, Ghost has disappeared outside the castle for a hunt and was unable to follow her here. She hears wolves howling in the distance, wondering if his with them. She would die if the direwolf saw her like this, perhaps even moreso than a person. Especially if what Arya and Bran have said is true, and her brother-cousin-husband is able to watch her through Ghost’s eyes.
That thought is mortifying.
She pulls the blankets and furs around her body, like a rabbit in its burrow, comfortable in the surrounding scent of him. She even thinks there might be a lingering scent of Dany, the burnt dragon fire smell, as one of the last ones who slept in this bed. Once she feels as protected as she can be without Jon or Dany by her side, Sansa finally pulls up the edge of her long nightrail and sets her cold hands upon her thighs. She is startled by how warm it is in the juncture between her own legs, but glad of it as her fingers warm. Cold fingers inside her would surely be unpleasant.
She blushes at these thoughts she is thinking, and bites her lip. She wonders where to start, what one is supposed to do with ones own body. Her heart is beating wildly inside her chest, and she decides that she should just start.
Sansa rubs her finger around the little nub between her legs, recalling the way Jon looks at her as he thrusts inside her, even when she was laying flat and feigning disinterest. She planned on this forbidden contact, and so she wears no small clothes beneath, just as she came to him their second night together.
It is just her fingers and her own skin tonight. She slowly circles around her entrance. Her cunt clenches involuntarily with the anticipation of her own soft touch. She had been so mad at Jon for his machinations, for acting like a king and putting their people first, and yet he still at looked at her with such devotion in his eyes and an expression of unwavering commitment to their bed and heirs. She should have recognized his wisdom, and Arya’s own independent ability to agree to that plan. If she had been less stubborn, she could have had more pleasure, more joy, more love in her husband’s touch in the short time they were able to share.
She remembers the rough callus of her husband’s fingers and wonders how softness might compare. If Dany’s fingers are soft, or if something with the dragonriding has turned them stronger, with hard little callus pads that might dance against her skin with more skill than a man’s ever could. . .
There will be more time for Jon and her, she swears, chasing the thought of further couplings as she increases the pressure on her clit to something real, besides her soft little strokes. Sansa will apologize on his return, and show him how much she is pleased to have him in her bed and in her life.
Her cunt dampens, she can feel the slick building up against her fingers as she alternates between rubbing her nub and circling her own entrance. It is not close, not so much aching desire fulfilled as she has felt between her thighs when Dany holds her close or Jon touches her just so.
The friction of her circling is not enough. She strokes along her folds with her whole hand, slippery and damp and wet, as her thumb keeps rubbing at her clit. The new sensation is lovely, like a lover’s kiss deepening, and a new flutter builds inside her belly as images come to mind that inspire her to stroke with a faster pace.
She imagines the fierceness of Dany’s kiss again, how in control and in command the queen always is. Sansa is the same, at least with Jon, though each kiss has her melting into Dany and yielding up her own control in a way she never expected to again.
She thinks to when Dany and she and Jon shared a bed, and the warmth between her thighs when she woke up the next morning. She recalls Dany kissing Jon for Sansa’s instruction, the demonstration slow and soft, nipping his lip. Sansa imagines her kisses with Dany, and what it might be like to have the silver queen bite her lip again, like she did in the side hall as she escaped away from Jon’s bed.
She bites her own lip, thinking of Jon’s reaction if they had gone further that night in this very bed. If Jon would have balked to be commanded at once by both his queens, the only people who manage to get a rise out of him in all the seven kingdoms.
There are so many things she wants to feel from her husband again.Jon’s powerful thrusts, his strong, muscled thighs, his tongue licking on her neck, her lips, her nipples.
She remembers Jon using his lips on her breast, how wonderful that felt. What it would be like to take Dany’s lips again into her own mouth, to suck and kiss them? To kiss bruises along her neck and breasts? Has Jon done that to Dany before, or since? What would have happened the first time she kissed Dany, if Arya had not interrupted? Would the two of them have escaped Sansa’s wedding and flown away on dragon back, like she used to dream of Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight doing?
The thoughts of breasts have become too much for Sansa. Using her other hand, Sansa reaches for her own breast, heavier now with the onset of her pregnancy, and squeezes. She gasps a little at how sensitive her nipples have become, even over her nightshift. She sucks on her finger then swirls it around her nipple, which pebbles from the contact.
It’s not the same as when Jon has touched her, or how she imagines it would feel beneath Dany’s hand. But it is additional contact, and it is something, and she has a great building want inside her that grows, and grow as she rubs her quim and squeezes her own breast.
Finally, the need inside her is unbearable. She thrust her finger in, bucking her hips up to her own touch. Inside her cunt is warm and wet and soft. She imagines Dany in her husband’s place, and then Jon with Dany instead of herself. She moves her finger in and out of herself, lifting her lips off the bed to change the angle every few thrusts. Dany beneath Jon, receiving his attentions, receiving pleasure at his skilled fingers. Jon beneath Dany, her bouncing on his cock as Sansa did their last morning together, Dany’s hips riding him as artfully as she rides a dragon.
Sansa’s cheeks heat more, and so does her core. She adds another finger into her cunt, stretching herself in a way she hasn’t felt since Jon’s cock was last inside her. But it is not enough. The third finger she adds is not enough, either, but it is something still better than nothing.
She switches hands, using the one wet with her own slick to fondle her other breast and circle and pinch her nipple. With her new fingers, Sansa speeds up her little thrusts, timing the outward motion with each squeeze of her breast. She remembers her hips on Dany’s as the rocked against each other, Dany’s hand grasping her rump, that night before her wedding. She lifts her hips in time to the rocking in her memory, dreaming of that pleasure again.
The pressure coils in her stomach, and she whimpers. She chases the pressure with frantic movements, rubbing and thrusting and squeezing at her own body, wishing so much that it was Jon’s cock or Dany’s lips instead of her own fingers. The feelings are too great, too much, building up inside her like water behind a damn, and then suddenly it is not just her belly, it is everywhere, warmth and heat and pleasure flooding across the entirety of her being. Sansa bites her lip, stymying the moan she so desperately wants to release as she has her release.
Her whole body shakes with the force of her peak, a shocking, incredible intensity. Sansa shouts out, just the once, before turning over and burying her face in the pillows that smelled of Jon and Dany so she can release her moans and whimpers.
As she came down from her peak, Sansa feels a bit of disappointment from the feelings. Her fingers were deft, albeit unskilled, but she truly wants Jon. Or Dany, though that forbidden desire is one she will likely never be able to indulge.
She wipes the wet from her thighs and cunt, debating if she will return to her own bed. But it is warm here, and smells of protection and home. Sansa rises and blows out the candlelight in her lantern, now a very small stub, before climbing back into Jon’s bed.
She holds her pregnant belly, and whispers to her child as she has taken to doing before finding her sleep. “Your father will be home soon, as well as your aunt the queen. She’ll love you just as much as he will, I just know it. If only for love of us.”
That night, she dreams of both the people she loves the most, happy and safe and returned to her side.
Chapter 50: DANY XII
Notes:
Would Dany start the meeting with the most important information / issue? Probably. Does it work for the flow of this conversation? IMO, no. So this is what we’re doing instead.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Because she does not want to be called Daenerys the Mad, she sleeps in the queen’s chambers of Maegor’s Holdfast. If Dany sleeps as she would, the smallfolk would surely think her insane as her father Aerys. The king’s chambers were cleared by her second night in the Red Keep, all the trapping of House Lannister removed and the blood of Cersei’s childbirth scrubbed clean. Dany ordered the mattress burnt, for who would want such a cursed bed as their own, no matter how fine the silk or soft the stuffing?
She has spent so long in war camps that the softness of a down mattress keeps her restless, that first night. She would almost rather be in a camp bed, or even upon the floor. But Dany is a queen now, in truth, and must act as one.
So is it that after her third night of less than restful sleep, she rises early to sup in solitude with Missandei and Lady Lollys Lothston who has arrived at the capital and suggested for her service by Lord Tyrion. Lollys is overweight and clearly simple, but she is sweet company and seems well enough to be left alone to her own devices. Her husband is a former sellsword who once served Tyrion, and happy enough to oblige clearing the city and goldcloaks of Cersei’s servicemen.
Missandei helps Dany don a Crownlands-style dress in black velvet, the neckline exposing her pale collarbones and the sleeves slashed with red. Its unusual, after so long in the airy fabrics and styles of Essos, but designed for the chilly weather that still lingers outside. Together, they walk to the small council chambers with her blood riders on guard. She is overly proud of herself for not getting lost in the labrinthine halls.
“So, what news today?” Dany asks, sweeping into the small council chambers to take her place at the head of the table where all await her presence. The stood upon her entry and sit upon her own seating. King Jon sits at the foot, with his advisors filling the seats to his left: Lord Davos Seaworth and Lord Tully. Brienne of Tarth is on perpetual bedrest, lingering on death’s door and his sister is still in the clutches of Euron Greyjoy. On Dany’s right is her Hand, Lord Tyrion, and beside him is Lord Varys. Missandei takes the open seat to Dany’s left, besides Captains Bronn and Naharis.
Around the room, other lords and ladies sit in chairs. While they have no official places yet on her council, Dany has extended them an invitation to attend. In part because she wants her reign to be open, to let all who have opinions share them with confidence they will be heard. But also to see who does not appear among her purported allies. Gendry Baratheon sits there, quietly tapping his foot, and at his side is Gerold Dayne, the representative of Princess Arianne Martell and commander of her forces.
Tyrion begins, voice deep and dour as he describes the banditry from a group of Stormcrows, split off from her other sellsword companies and marauding through the kingswood.
“They’re sellswords, Lord Hand. The coin has not been steady and will certainly end now that the queen’s throne is won.”
“It matters not why they do it, only that they must stop.” Her eyes lock on Daario, who stares brazenly back at his queen. His blue hair and trim beard catches the sunlight as he cocks his head. “Bring them to heel, captain. Or I will.”
“How am I meant to do so?”
She barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes. Ever loyal, ever dedicated, but ever at a lack for any original thought except how to fight a battle or duel or war. “Send a messenger. They will be forgiven if they bend the knee, but I will not be so forgiving if they do not. If they do not turn in their swords by sunset tomorrow, a company of Unsullied and twenty Dothraki will be dispatched to end their pillaging. Any left alive will be hung until dead.”
“And what then, your grace?” This time it is not Daario with the retort, but Sansa’s nervous, war-hardened uncle Brynden Tully. “What are your plans for your armies?”
“Fear not. The North and its lands are not mine, as sworn before the old gods and the new at Winterfell.” Dany lifts her chin. “I set out to break the wheel of oppression. My sights turned first to Westeros, yes, but here the smallfolk have at least some freedoms. My concern is for their stability, safety, and peace, but I have promises to keep to the slaves of Essos.”
Missandei’s eyes snap to Dany. They have spoken on this dream, but she has not yet been told of Dany’s plan to free the people across the Narrow Sea. And she means to, once this season is done.
Daario bows, though she knows him well enough to see the sarcasm in his sweeping arm. “I will end the chaos in your name, Queen Daenerys.”
“Let it be done swiftly.” Dany moves next to Daario, turning to Lord Bronn. “And what of my city, captain? I hear riots from my bedchamber.”
“Would you like me to silence the smallfolk, your grace? It would bring me great pleasure for my own wife cannot sleep through the noise as well.” Bronn says, a lighthearted laugh on his lips. She notices Tyrion’s sharp glare.
“No. I’d like them settled, not silenced. What is their issue, pray tell?”
“If I may be blunt, they do not like to see the foreign men prowling through their streets.” Bronn shrugs. “The Dothraki screamers and Unsullied fighters are welcome, but they make the peasants afeared of rape and pillaging.”
Her ko tightens his grip on his arakh behind her, clearly offended at the words. She holds up a hand to steady his reaction.
“Your grace, if I may?” A voice says from the wall.
“Yes, Lord Dayne?”
“My Dornishmen may be disliked by the smallfolk here, but not so much as your Essosi allies. Perhaps we may be rotated into the city patrols, leaving your Dothraki to the outskirts which are more fit for their horses, and the Unsullied to the walls?”
“A fair proposal. Please see it done.”
And so her first small council meeting goes, with issues rising to debate and comment from all. Except for Jon and her other Northern allies, who mostly remain silent and observed.
A maester provides updates on the wounded, including Ser Brienne. Her wounds are not quite deadly, though he believes there may be poison in her veins as she burns with fever. He has sent to the Citadel in Oldtown for assistance. Noble lords throughout the Crownlands offer up their own maesters for assistance, not just for Ser Brienne but for all the wounded.
Tyrion mentions the caches of wildfire that have been found throughout the city, as he jokingly says, “My sister’s last gift to us.” On her command, he is set to round up the remaining pyromancers and anyone else that may know where Cersei has placed the wildfire. Her gaze is dragon-fierce when she declares, “My city will not burn, sers.”
On Cersei’s reign, more is mentioned. Little Tywin Waters, the son that Cersei gave her brother, remains with a wet-nurse in a noble nursery. Not one would dare to suggest he belongs in the royal characters On this, Jon shares a loud opinion which all seem to agree - the name Tywin will not be the boys for long. Missandei judiciously suggests that Ser Jaime be allowed to choose another. When brought before the council, not in chains but still under guard, he suggest Loreon after a Lannister ancestor before being led back to his place of captivity at Ser Brienne’s side.
Lord Bronn shares word of a septa preaching that the end times are near, and that Dany and Drogon will burn all sinners. She tenses at this, but no one else seems to think it difficult. This rumor leads to an animated conversation about Drogon, who circles the city and has, from time to time, alighted upon the very walls of King’s Landing. It is agreed by all present that Dany should fly Drogon out a ways, so that the peasants perhaps do not seem so frightened of the dragon or his queen.
And then the discussion turns to the largest issue of their governance, the reason the northmen are still at her table: the kidnap of Princess Arya and the disappearance of Rhaegal under command of Euron Greyjoy’s Dragonbinder. Dany shares the news from the south, arrived by raven only that morning: the Stormlands are burning.
And Rhaegal is the cause.
“Perhaps a show of strength might quell the small folk’s fear, your grace?”
“And what would you suggest, Lord Varys?”
“You could alight the pyre of the usurper and her men outside the city walls, using Drogon?”
Missandei’s eyes darken. “And how would that cure their fears, when the dragon alights such feelings in them? Queen Daenerys is here to protect, not to harm.”
“I would take my sister’s body to the Rock, your grace. Or at least her ashes, if that is what you wish. She may have been a tyrant, but she is still a Lannister.” Tyrion says softly. In private, he has already asked for custody of the little children his sister birthed, including the babe taken by Euron. But that is a matter Dany has not yet decided on.
“Lady Missandei is correct.” Jon says, and sets his hand on the table. “More displays of Drogon’s might will not win fearful people to our cause. For that, we must stop the forces to the south and Euron’s onslaught.”
Dany looks at Jon, studies the way Ser Davos shifts at his side. “What do you propose, your grace?”
“A strike force proceeds to the Stormlands in haste. Euron must needs land, and when he does, we will create his end.”
“I can take command of this force, with my men to take on the One Eye. We are less battle-weary than the rest.
She barely notices the way Jon stiffens, but she does see it. He is unable to keep jealousy from spilling into his tone. “Princess Arya is my sister, a woman of the North. I am capable enough.”
“Shall I join you?” Her voice quiets and she looks down at her clasped hands. “I should be there, to stop Rhaegal, or to save him.”
“No, you grace.” Tyrion says. “What if the dragonbinder can be used again? Drogon cannot be ensnarled by by Euron’s dark spells.”
Would that Arya were here, to offer her own words of wisdom, Dany thinks, remembering the stories Arya has told of the Faceless Men and their own dark magic.
The discussion as to how to implement such a plan lasts well into the afternoon. Dany calls for a small meal to be served, but they break for only a short while before the conversation continues. The lords come and go. Maps are carried in and spread across the table. They discuss the topography of the Stormlands, the weather, the patterns of the Ironborn. Until at last it is time to call a break until the next morning.
As their advisors disperse, Jon Stark lingers behind. Dany whispers quietly with Missandei for a moment before sending her on her way and turning to her greatest ally.
She studies him, the cane he leans his weight upon, the tired, haggard look in his grey eyes.
He stares out the leaded window towards the Blackwater, a faraway look in his eyes as he gazes at the setting sun glancing off the water in dark red ripples. He has seemed more lost than normal, since Rhaegal was taken. There was a moment, after the assassins entered her tent, where he seemed complete, as he fell asleep in her arms. But now, ever since the battle . .
“What if we ran away together?” Jon interrupts her own brooding thoughts, his voice distant.
“And Sansa? Would you leave your lady wife so easily? That does not sounds like the dutiful King Jon I know.”
He glances north across the bay, and she wonders if he thinks of Winterfell. She takes his hand in hers and leans her head against his shoulder, staring with him. North and north and north again, where the beautiful redhead waits for him with his child and his future. That is his future, not hers, and the thought sends pangs of sadness through her. Soon enough, Jon will be gone to his wife and life and Dany will be here alone in King’s Landing.
“Sansa will come with us, of course.”
“It’s a happy thought. The three of us together, adventuring across Essos and beyond. Without care or responsibility.” Dany sighs. “But it’s not a real one, not for us.”
“I know.” He whispers. Jon turns his head ever so slightly and kisses the top of her hair, hanging in loose silver waves down her back. “I can’t keep going on like this, Dany.”
She bites her lip, worrying at his words. Does he mean what she thinks? Her eyebrows crease, forming a silver line across her violet eyes. She drops his hand and steps away. “Like what?”
“Dreaming of you both. Wanting you both.” The look on his face is heartbroken, and it breaks her heart too.
“Jon . . .”
“I shouldn’t have said what I just did. It’s unfair to us both. How many harms have I done to you, thinking I could love too women?”
“The conqueror did. He loved Visenya and Rhaenys both, albeit in different ways.” Dany says. Sansa understands him loving two women. Dany understands too, is willing to share him with someone she loves well, if only so as not to lose him entirely. “Like him, we have dragons.”
“We have one dragon right now, one we cannot even keep from harm’s way.” Jon cradles her cheek in his hand and sets his forehead against hers. Dany’s eyes close at the tender touch, something she needed desperately in that war tent but had no one to ask it of.
“You must leave me.”
Dany startles away from the harsh words and tries to drop his hand. As if understanding her reaction, Jon does not let go and pulls her back in.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to you.” Jon whispers, his breath warm against her face. “I would be lost without you, Dany.” His voice drops even lower, barely able to be heard. But still she hears. “We both would.”
“What do you want from me, Jon?” She asks, her voice a sad gasp. “Just say it clearly.”
“Please, go north where you will be safe and far away from Euron and his dark magic.”
“Abandon my people?” Daenerys the queen asks, eyes blazing with rage and strength despite the terrible losses she has faced. “Where are they meant to flee? Or do you mean for me to abandon my child? Only a dragon can stop a dragon, or else the scorpions would not have burnt so easily.”
Jon adjusts his arm on the crutch that supports his weight, but the implication of his wound does not seem to cow her. “I mean for you to survive, your grace.”
“Save your people. Save yourself. If Euron captures Drogon’s mind, everything we have worked for would collapse. If I die, not all is lost. But if you do . . .” Jon pulls away now, leans his arm against a column and stares into the dark distance of the unlit small council chambers. “Join Sansa. In Winterfell, you are far enough that Drogon cannot be used against us. I will take my men as we discussed, and we will destroy the horn and protect all our people from his corrupted dragon. I will rescue my sister and slay Euron, or die in the attempt.”
“Jon . . . I won’t abandon you. I need you.” Dany cannot find the words, but she is lost without him. She knows Sansa would say the same. “Sansa needs you.”
He turns and takes her head between his two hands, his calloused thumbs stroking her cheeks so gently she can hardly think straight. “Help her with the babe. Raise the child alongside her, for if she only has one, then surely it is meant to unite all the lands again.” He levels his steady gaze at her, away from her lips and to her eyes. “I have failed you both in so many ways. As a lover, as an ally, as your family, as a man. But in this, I can protect you. Let the walls of my home shield you. It is somewhere where Euron Greyjoy cannot find you.”
Dany shakes her head and grabs his hands. That is not what the northerns or rivermen or valemen want, but now is not the time for such quibbles. “You promised to come back to Sansa. Now you must promise to return to us both.”
“I swear it. By all the gods, old and new and red, I will return. But I must know you are safe during the battle to come.”
Dany squeezes his hands back as he makes his vow.
“I will think on it.” She promises, knowing her mind is already made up.
—
Early the next morning, Dany calls her small council to a sudden meeting to announce her departure. The rest of the lords are not included, bar Jon himself.
“I do not like this, but I must do what is best for my people. Leaving Drogon outside the city walls is enough to assuage some of their fears, but what do their fear matters if Euron One-Eye returns and claims Drogon’s mind?”
“This is wise, your grace.” Jon says, nodding his head in deference. As if this were not his idea, but the origins of it do not matter. Not for him.
But Dany being her own independent queen, and proving to the lords of the south that she is for them and not herself, and to the smallfolk that they are just as much a priority as her foreign armies - for Dany, that is everything.
“Where will you go?” Tyrion asks, stroking his beard. “The location matters much, I think.”
Across the table, Jon swallows hard. He catches her eye, and she subtly nods. “North. To Winterfell. The queen will be safe and far from the seas in the castle.”
“I do not like how it looks,” says Missandei. “Our queen should be with her people, and there is little chance that Euron Greyjoy can simply return to King’s Landing without being seen.”
“The North allies with you, and will be the home of your grace’s heir someday.” Jon responds, turning to Daenerys. “Surely it is expected that you will visit your northern kin as my child grows. What difference now, to attend the birth of their elder sibling? Should you need a reason for the public, that is clear enough.”
“And what of you, my lord?” Daario asks, eyes narrowed as if inspecting Jon for some ulterior motive.
Jon stares at Dany, all but ignoring the sellsword he so clearly disdains. “By your leave, I would request your permission to still remain in the South and fetch my sister Arya home.”
“I agree with the king,” Varys announces, voice louder than normal. He finally rips his gaze from Jon to meet Daenerys’ contemplative purple eyes. “He should follow Rhaegal and Euron south. It is his dragon, after all.”
“Thank you, Lord Varys.” She says, not sure of this sudden outburst. Normally, he is quite quiet during these meeting. She purses her lips. “Rhaegal may be bonded with Jon, but he is my child.”
“Of course, your grace.” Varys bows his head deferentially. “But it is King Jon’s sister that is kidnapped, though the realm needs not know that.
“Moreover, the North has its keeper should he die, with an heir on the way. But if we lose you . . .”
“If we lose you, we lose everything.” Jon finishes, turning to her. She reads his eyes, the adamancy in these thoughts. He has no ill intentions, no wicked schemes. He just wants to keep her safe in a way he cannot until he has destroyed that damned horn.
At her side, Tyrion leans in and speaks softly. “I pled with you once not to leave. I was wrong then, but they are not wrong now. This time, there truly is the power to destroy you. Go North. Sansa and the many walls of Winterfell can shelter you, until the Iron Throne is secured in truth.”
“Winterfell it shall be.” She agrees. “King Jon, your wish is granted. I only have one request in return.”
“Anything you ask, Queen Daenerys.”
“The head of Euron Greyjoy. Kill him and bring my dragon home.”
“Of course.”
“It is settled, then.” Daenerys says, folding her hands on the table. “My regent shall give you any assistance you require.”
Ser Davos Seaworth speaks up next, although she is sure the dance steps have been well-taught to him by his king.
“Pardon me, but who will that be, your grace?”
“Lord Hand Lannister shall have control of King’s Landing.” Dany says. “And in matters of war, he will heed my captains and King Jon’s advice.”
“Of course, your grace.” Tyrion replies with a bowed head. “As you will it, so it will be done.”
Daario commands her guard that evening as she goes to Drogon on the city’s limits, where she left him that morning. She stands in the dragon’s shadow, staring at his massive bulk.
Dany turns to see the city behind her and takes a deep, calming breath.
“You are as fierce as Visenya and Rhaenys combined, my queen.” Daario says, his voice low and sultry.
“I can only hope my great grandmothers are in my appearance.” She responds dryly.
“You love him, don’t you?” Daario asks suddenly. She does not dignify his question with a response. But still, he brazenly continues. “I awakes knew you would marry some lord. I didn’t conceive you would love someone you couldn’t marry. Someone who wasn’t me.”
Dany bites her lip and shakes her head. “It matters naught what my heart says, but only what my people need.”
“You are ever so strong for them.” He steps closer. “But who is strong for you?”
Sansa, she thinks. But how could Daario begin to understand that deep want in her? She shakes her head. No, Daario has never tried to understand her, though he tries to support and crown her. To him, those are the same action.
He must take her head shake as a no, because he responds again. “When your folly of fancy is over, my heart and sword will still be yours.”
Daario pulls her into his chest. Soft, gentle tears fell down her cheeks like little streams as she holds onto him.
He would be much easier to love. Her heart would be less heavy, if only she could make it love someone who cares for her so readily, so easily.
But Daario is not one of the ones she wants, not any longer. She would always be his dragon queen, but never Dany.
She cups his cheek in her hand. “Thank you, Daario Naharis. For everything you have and will do, I thank you from my heart. But I cannot love you as you want me to. Not anymore.”
“I understand, my queen.” His eyes burn with a fiery passion, but he is ever her smirking captain and that smile creeps up again. “Even so, I will be here ready for your return.”
Dany says naught more.
Queen Daenerys ascends to her saddle. As she commands Drogon into the sky, she does not glance back at the men left behind.
The city of her ancestors gets smaller and smaller below her, the tell-tale smell disappearing as she reaches into the fresh, lowhanging clouds. The surge of unlimited power fills her as she clutches onto Drogon’s back horn, her silver braid snaps in a breeze harsher than any hurricane.
Here in the sky, she is unbridled by politics or power-hungry lords. Sansa awaits her and will welcome her, or so Dany hopes.
She glances north and north, to the place she last felt comfort.
To Winterfell.
To Sansa.
And, perhaps, to home.
Notes:
Honestly I don't love this chapter but I'm rusty at writing political councils so at least it's done.
Chapter 51: SANSA X
Notes:
ya'll this might be the softest chapter I've written for this angsty af story
Chapter Text
The still, quiet peace of the queen’s solar is broken when a pageboy of House Manderly bursts past her guards to inform her that the speck of a dragon has been spotted soaring through the misty southeastern horizon. Sansa has just sat down for a short respite with the children in her care and the sighting startles her. Lyessa looks up with wide eyes and little Larra bursts into tears at the sudden disruption. Sansa is relieved when Arga and Lyessa begin to soothe their youngest companion, and herself turns to the page.
I was not expecting them with no forewarning, she thinks as a nursemaid assists her from her plush chair. “How far away did they appear?”
“Perhaps two hours flight, your grace.” The Manderly page mumbles. “But it was only the one dragon. We could not tell which.”
Her heart stops in her chest, and if it were not for her bulging belly she would sprint in a most unladylike fashion to the ramparts to watch the dragon’s arrival until she knew who returns to her. Sansa cannot let herself think of the options, not even think their names, because only one returning is a circumstance she refuses to consider.
Instead, she straightens her back and heaves a breath to calm her nerves. Her heart stutters, she swears, but it goes on with rapid beats that might break her chest. “Fetch Lord Royce and Lord Tarly. Have them both meet me on the wall above the south gate. Give instructions to the castellan to begin preparations on a guest chamber, and to heat water for a bath. We will wait on where the water is to be brought.”
Perhaps she should have the king’s chamber prepared, as a suitable guest chamber, or for his own care, but that . . . the meaning may be lost, to turn over the sheets and open the dark drapes enclosing the room. She shakes her head and turns care of Lyella, Arga, and Larra over to their nursemaid.
Each step outside her solar is guarded and set at a slow pace, for running will not help Sansa now. The time for her confinement has gone and past, but she has insisted on continuing her duties until the babe comes despite the protests of her advisors and the ladies who have arrived to serve as companions to their queen. Lord Templeton and his entourage are left, and followed after by Robin Arryn not some sennight past. She is left to rule the North alone until her family is returned to her. She will be seen, and she will rule, no matter the pain, because she will not let the nobles and their politics see her falter. Not now, not ever.
Sansa stares up at the stairs to the battlements, wondering if they have always been so steep. Her paranoia has set in with the onset of the last days of her pregnancy, and she cannot ascend these slippery, sloped stairs alone. There are so few people she can trust in this world, and those she trusts most of all are far away, in the South . . . except for the approaching dragon rider.
With some help from Lord Tarly upon his arrival, she ascends the stairs slowly but surely. For while it is a danger, for her own selfish heart she must know; she must see the dragon with her own eyes.
They stare out together across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell. She holds a hand above her eyes, shading them to help her see. The scales do not gleam for a silent while as the clouds cover the sun, but before long she can tell true: the dragon is dark as night and so are its features.
“Its the queen.” She says, her first words breathless as Lord Royce joins their company.
“Why would she travel here alone?” Lord Royce asks, stroking his beard. Sansa does not answer, cannot answer.
Drogon lands alone not too long later, as she was advised he would, and no other dragon swirls in the clouds behind or above him. A fist clenches in her chest and does not let go, even as she is helped down the stairs to join the rest of her royal household.
Daenerys’ hollow, haunted expression as she strides through the gate alone confirms Sansa’s suspicions that something is deeply, deeply wrong. The grasping hand in her chest tightens into a fist.
“Welcome, your grace.” Sansa says, voice ringing across the courtyard as she bows her head with just enough respect for an equal monarch. Her courtiers, retainers, knights, and servants dip into curtsies or bend to their knees.
Last time she welcomed Daenerys here, she did not bow and her people did not follow suit. There was nothing between them, no trust or respect. But now, there is more. Trust and respect aplenty, but friendship also. A shared loved for Jon, and a longing for . . . Sansa doesn’t know and her heart is too heavy from holding back grief she does not yet know how to direct.
Where is Jon? She wants to ask. In equal measure, she wants to rush forwards and embrace Dany in relief, to check her body for any harm besides the few visible, healing scrapes along her face.
But instead she says simply, “It is good to see you.”
“Thank you for your sudden hospitality, Queen Sansa.” Daenerys says. Her gloved hand reaches out to grab Sansa’s with an iron-tight grip. “We have much to discuss.”
“Of course. We have a chamber waiting for you, if you would follow me?” Sansa gestures with her free arm.
The gathered household rises as the pair of queens walk past. Dany does not drop her hand, despite the questioning look in the lords and peasants eyes alike. This might make Sansa’s heart beat pitter patter, but instead of fluttering in her chest it is a solemn march as if they walk to the crypt of Winterfell and not the secure walls of the inner castle.
—
“So the South won only in name, after all that has been given.” Sansa says. She steeples her fingers and glances out the window of her study. Beneath the table, Ghost’s tail wags against the edge of her dress even as he sniffs at Dany’s riding boots. He had been waiting in the solar, where she had left him with the children, and nearly knocked Dany over with his joy to see her once again. Sansa agrees with the direwolf. The room feels warmer with Dany in it, but Sansa herself feels so, so cold.
Her greatest enemy is dead, but at what cost? Jon is injured as is Ser Brienne, her sworn shield. Cersei Lannister can no longer hunt her down or harm her, but her sister is lost to Euron Greyjoy’s cruel and unpredictable actions. Thousands of northmen, rivernmen, and more lay dead. The city streets of King’s Landing smolder from the deployment of wildfire, the most deadly of human-forged weapons.
Across the table from Sansa, Daenerys blinks back delicate tears with her silvery eyelashes. “I wanted to go after Arya myself, I swear to you—”
“It would not have helped, not if there is any chance Drogon could become enthralled as you.” Sansa responds. One hand grasps Dany’s across the table, even the other falls to her belly. She remembers when they first touched like this, in the library of Winterfell, and shivers run up her spine.
Dany seems to read that incorrectly. “I’m so sorry Sansa, for everything —”
“What happened is not your fault.” Sansa says and squeezes Dany’s hand. “My sister is her own person. For all that Jon and I would shield her from the world, how can we? When so much of the world she has seen that we can only imagine? She was in the Riverlands among the small folk during the war of the five kings and saw the worst of men then. I suffered many cruelties in Joffrey’s court, but I did not ever wonder when my next meal would be, or shiver in the cold night with nothing but my cloak for comfort.
“Arya chose her role in this battle and while it was not the choice I would wish for her, I understand better now that she had to make it for herself.” Sansa bites her lip. “Jon’s suggestion was wise. I could not bare to lose the both of you. We must trust in him to bring Arya and Rhaegal home, and bring an end to Euron Greyjoy.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, you are welcome in my halls. You will always have a home with us, Dany.”
There is a pregnant pause as their eyes meet, and Dany responds with a soft smile. She looks ten years younger, more beautiful than Sansa has ever seen her.
“Now, why don’t we go find some super?” Sansa moves to rise, but struggles without assistance. The babe will come any day now. While she wanted Jon home by now, she is glad to have Dany. Sansa drops back into the chair, giving up. “Will you go fetch a guard from the hall? It seems I can’t manage even this myself.”
“There’s no need.” Dany murmurs and comes to Sansa’s side. She offers her arm in support to lift Sansa from the chair and her hand caresses Sansa’s lower back as she assists her in rising.
As Sansa turns to slip from in front of the seat, she stumbles into Dany’s arms. Dany is physically stronger than she knew, perhaps from all the dragon riding, and Sansa finds herself staring at the purple of her eyes. She had not spent enough time committing them to memory before, and she would learn them now on this visit so she can better know them in her dreams.
But as Sansa studies Dany, Dany studies her. A look of wonder crosses her face and she strokes the bulge of Sansa’s belly.
“Yes?” Sansa asks, feeling silly as the word leaves her lips. She was so enraptured in the look of Dany that she missed the gentle kick of her babe inside her beneath Dany’s touch. She whispers gently, “The child knows you.”
Dany’s fingers caress Sansa’s skin again. “You think so?”
“I know so.” She smiles at the delight in Dany’s eyes as the babe kicks again, harder this time. Sansa sets her hand besides Dany’s. “They haven’t reacted for anyone so much. Not even Bran or Ghost.”
Dany surprises her by crouching down and whispering to her belly. “It’s your aunt Daenerys, little dragon. We will have many adventures to come, I promise.”
Sansa swears she feels the burn of Dany’s lips against her skin as she kisses the belly, even through her layers of clothing. She takes Dany’s hand in hers once more before they take off to find the small evening meal set out for them in Sansa’s solar.
There is more to know and more to plan, considerations to be had for battles far away and sisters lost. But for now, at least one of those she loves has returned to her. That is more than most of the heroes in the songs.
In the morning, Dany will share her tidings with the northern council but for now it is just the two of them. She expresses delight to learn of the bath waiting in her chambers, but it goes forgotten as the pair retire to the plush couch besides Sansa’s fire to discuss more of the details of the journey south and the battle that followed.
It is there the next morning that Bran and Meera find them, with Sansa’s head on Dany’s shoulder and their fingers still intertwined above the baby that unites their kingdoms.
Chapter 52: JON XI
Summary:
The calm before the storm.
Chapter Text
He is so tired of war.
I would grow old in peace, Jon thinks as pain fills his leg with each stride of his horse, if only the gods will allow it.
Daenerys had been gone for but a day when the raven arrived from Lord Ralph Buckler of Bronzegate, bearing word that Euron Greyjoy and Rhaegal have conquered Storm’s End. Not even time enough to truly form a plan for the rescue of his sister and already their list of problems grows.
Cersei had her scorpions along the walls and her wildfire buried in the sewers throughout the city. The scorpions were not enough to take down Drogon or Rhaegal before, and the wildfire was more a barrier to Daenerys’ kind heart than the dragons. But it still remains buried throughout the city, a more pressing thorn in their side than the rebellion that broke across the Westerlands as news was learned of Cersei’s death.
But those were problems for Tyrion and not for him, at least. The dwarf remains in charge of the city, while Jon leads the men to rescue Arya and the dragon and Jaime Lannister’s other child. Even now, Tyrion oversees careful crews in deconstructing the pyromancer’s substance across King’s Landing, searching ever home and hovel, every warehouse and winesink. The presence of the green burner’s delight was enough for Dany to retreat. But it certainly won’t be the same inspiration for a man as mad as Euron Greyjoy, if he turns his one eye back towards Daenerys’ city.
Tyrion has a skill for governance, one that Jon has grown but does not yet have in the same bounty. It was Tyrion who set the steps for their departure and commanded Lord Edmure to stay back and help with the city’s defenses as Jon and Sansa’s representative, sensing that the riverlord’s pride would be insulted when Jon told him that he preferred Davos Seaworth as his second-in-command.
Jon is tired of governing too, governing and politics, but mostly the governing that comes with war. He has had little experience with anything else but his father - his uncle - made the governance of peacetime seem so simple. And he gave those words of wisdom to his sons. Listen to your men, and heed their advice for they know things you do not. Advice given to all of them, even though they all understood from the time they were old enough too that Jon Snow would have nothing of his own to rule, unless Lord Stark gave him a keep where he could serve as castellan.
But his brothers are dead by war or distant through magic, and now the only Starks left to govern are Jon and Sansa.
And Arya too, once we have reclaimed her. He reminds himself. Arya might not have the calm head for politics, but she is swift with numbers and knows well the hearts of people. They will need her in the future he and Sansa intend to build for the North.
The troupe of northmen who march behind Jon in two short columns all believe in Arya Stark. Jon asked for volunteers among the northmen. If he is tired of war so too must they be and they were only commanded to march to free King’s Landing of a maniacal tyrant. Some of these men even fought besides Robb in the riverlands campaign. Most have not seen home nor family in years.
He thought at first they only volunteered for gold or glory or Ned Stark’s girl. He would have more formidable knights with him if he could, but Ser Brienne is on bedrest from her injuries. Though Jaime Lannister volunteered, Tyrion and Jon agreed it would not do for Jon to steal away Dany’s prisoner even if she would likely have approved his service. It is his daughter who is also kidnapped, after all.
It was a young boy, younger than Jon was when he left home for the wall, who made him see it differently. As they shared a fire the first night outside of King’s Landing, Theo told a story of Arya in the practice yards. After a training session with Ser Brienne, Arya took time to correct Theo’s form and showed him ways of using his smaller size to his advantage in a fight. Apparently, she taught a score of younger children, boys and girls alike, the practice she calls water dancing. Theo and others credit her lessons with their still living.
The next night, an old graybeard tells Jon, “When I found myself unable to continue during the Battle of the Long Night, she slayed the ice spider above me and pressed her own warm water into my hands. Princess Arya saved my life. That’s why I will fight for her now and always.”
On and on the stories came as they marched through the kingswood and then through the Stormlands. The pace was faster, once they were no longer on the watch for Daario’s lost brigands. But throughout all his conversations, Jon comes to understand that this may be a tired, but tried, band of warriors, but rarely has there been a battalion so determined and dedicated to save the young woman in the tower.
Night nears, and soon enough he will be at his men’s campfires hearing more tales of Arya and her time amongst them and at their sides. But for now, Jon thinks of another woman waiting in a tower as he rides at the top of their column. As he sent Dany off, Jon thought of throwing responsibility to the wind and sitting on Drogon’s back behind her.
Surely she will be with Sansa by now. Surely she will be at her side and keep her from the Stranger’s door from the birth of his child. Their child. Boy or girl, he knows the babe will be loved, by Sansa and Bran and the whole of the North. By Daenerys and Brienne and all the ones who fought to save the world for this babe and every babe in Westeros.
It will be loved, Jon assures himself. Even if I do not survive to meet it.
Jon also knows he can never face Sansa again if he doesn’t bring Arya back alive. The one thing he promised her and himself. He will die to bring her home, if he must. The one thing he must do before he can return to his sister.
To his wife.
Jon shudders and at his side, Davos laughs. “Surely it’s not so cold, my king. I swear the weather has warmed ever since we left King’s Landing.”
“I only caught a passing breeze.” Jon says. “How much further until Storm’s End?”
“A few more days march.” Davos responds. “And then?”
“And then your expertise on the castle will be much appreciated.” Jon says with a sad, determined smile.
He knows in his heart and soul and mind, they cannot face another dragon at war. Drogon and Rhaegal are well-matched, for the larger of the pair is still in Daenerys’ control and custody. But if that were to reverse, or if, old gods and new forbid, both dragons were to come under the thrall of the dragon binder . . .
Even with Drogon removed, this paltry force of strong northmen is not meant to die in dragonfire. Jon owes them too much to let them be fodder for something foolish.
Luckily for him, Jon has learned that there is always another way.
Only one man alive knows the way through Shipbreaker Bay in a storm. Famously so, for that knowledge is the reason he is a lord of the realm and a joint shorter on each finger of his left hand. That man barks a laugh at Jon’s side and raises his stumpy fingers to call the halt to the soldiers marching behind them.
There is always another way, and this time Jon is ready to consider it.
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