Chapter Text
Winterfell, 129 AC
Sansa could see Prince Aemond’s demeanor change, as soon as the word dragon had been shouted by one of the guards. Sansa watched as his arm tightened on his sword and saw his composure fade, showcasing his true nature—a warrior ready for battle at a moment’s notice. His eye, which had been cold and distant, now blazed with a fierce intensity. The calm, calculating prince was gone, replaced by a man who was prepared to unleash the fury of a dragon.
Sansa knew that the relations between Rhanerya’s sons and Prince Aemond were strained- she knew that Prince Lucerys Velaryon was the culprit behind Aemond losing his eye, and that wound was more than just physical. Sansa knew that with certainty- for she bore her scars, or did in her original body, and each bruise, each cut, shaped her into who she was. The beatings from Joffery, the abuse from Ramsey, cut away at the little girl with dreams little by little, until Sansa was no longer the naive girl who once dreamed of knights and fairytales. She assumed that Prince Aemond felt similarly, and these thoughts, while potent, made her confused, for she did not understand why she cared about what Prince Aemond thought about his nephews.
Sansa looked out to the south and spotted the dragon, with olive green scales, off in the distance. The sight of the dragon, its massive wings cutting through the sky, filled Sansa with a mix of awe and nervousness about what was to come. Having two Targaryen princes at Winterfell was already a delicate situation, but the presence of another dragon added an entirely new layer of complexity.
Sansa turned to look at Prince Aemond again, who had not taken his eye off the approaching dragon. His expression was one of intense focus, his lips pressed into a thin line as he watched.
“I need to go greet the envoy,” Sansa said quietly. Her heart pounded in her chest, both in anticipation and in nervousness of the political maneuvering and delegations that were to come. She was what one could call intelligent, and was good at political strategy, but the presence of dragons and Targaryen princes added a level of unpredictability that even she found daunting.
Prince Aemond remained quiet, and Sansa could sense the subtle shift in the air as she spoke, the tension tightening like a coiled spring. Aemond’s silence was telling, and Sansa knew that he was piecing together the truth of the situation if he had not already. The extended deliberations, the arrival of the dragon—it had all been orchestrated for this precise moment. Lord Stark had not been merely weighing his options, he had been awaiting this specific moment.
Sansa turned to leave, her steps quiet on the cold stone floor. Prince Aemond remained silent, his gaze fixed upward, as if searching the sky for answers that eluded him. The weight of unspoken words hung between them, heavy and unresolved, leaving Sansa to wonder what thoughts occupied the Prince’s mind as she walked away.
She quickly walked through the hallways, down stone steps, and past the ornate Stark emblems that adorned the walls, each step echoing off the cold stone. As Sansa emerged into the courtyard, the crisp air filled her lungs, sharpening her focus. She saw Lord Cregan Stark standing with his most trusted men, their expressions a mixture of anticipation and wariness, reflecting the gravity of the situation. Cregan himself maintained a familiar stoic look, as if nothing could shake his resolve. His gaze met Sansa’s, a silent acknowledgment passing between them, though his expression betrayed no hint of the thoughts swirling beneath.
It was no secret, at least to her, that Prince Aemond and the envoy, whether it be a prince or another representative sent by Queen Rhaenyra, were unlikely to be amicable with each other. The tension between them would be palpable, like a storm waiting to break. Sansa could already feel the undercurrents of animosity that would fill the air, knowing that any interaction between the two sides could easily ignite into something far more dangerous. She feared that the volatile mix of old wounds and new ambitions might lead to consequences none of them could control.
The gates suddenly opened, creaking as a young man entered, surrounded by guards. His brown, curly hair was tousled, likely from the winds that had whipped through it during his flight on dragonback. He was a man of small stature, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that belied his size. His gaze swept over the courtyard, taking in the scene with a wary alertness, his gait strong and proud as he
The gates suddenly opened, creaking on their hinges, and a tall young man entered, flanked by a contingent of guards in dark cloaks bearing the sigils of House Velaryon and Targaryen. His presence commanded immediate attention. His dark, shoulder-length curls were tousled by the northern wind, and a dusting of frost clung to his dragon-riding leathers. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone used to being obeyed—but there was tension in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes, that betrayed he knew this was not friendly ground.
Sansa knew him at once—Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Dragonstone, and to his mother, Queen Rhaenyra’s, claim to the Iron Throne. He was older than she expected—perhaps because the last she’d seen of him was in crumbling historical records in her past life, or perhaps because few boys became men so quickly as those who had war waiting on their doorstep. Something was striking about him. Not handsome in the way southern knights were praised to be, but there was an intensity in his gaze, a sharpness to the line of his shoulders.
His dragon, Vermax, had landed just beyond the walls—Sansa could still hear the low rumble of the beast’s growl in the distance. A northern welcome, she thought grimly.
She stepped forward, composed as ever, though her heart beat a little faster.
“Prince Jacaerys,” she said, her voice calm, practiced. “Winterfell welcomes you.”
He dipped his head slightly, respectful, but not deferential. “Lady Stark,” he said. His voice was smooth but carried steel underneath. “I come bearing my mother’s words, and her hopes for a future not written in fire and blood.”
Sansa nodded slightly. “The North has known its share of fire and blood. We do not forget easily.”
A faint smile ghosted across Jace’s lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nor should you.”
Lord Cregan stepped forward then, a solid presence at her side. He gave Jace a respectful nod, the wariness in his eyes betraying his true thoughts. “Let us speak inside. The winds are sharp, and our talk may be long.”
Sansa could feel it again—that strange shifting in the air, the way time itself seemed to slow around the choices that mattered. This was not merely a prince arriving to speak for his queen. It was a rival flame entering the wolf’s den. One prince already brooded inside the halls. Now another entered, carrying with him the hope of a different crown.
And above them, in the tallest tower, she knew Prince Aemond still watched. She could feel the weight of his gaze even from here.
Inside, the Great Hall had been prepared, though the atmosphere felt more like a battlefield awaiting its first blow. The fire crackled in the hearth, but even its warmth couldn’t melt the edge in the air.
Jacaerys shed his gloves and cloak, revealing a black scaled doublet trimmed in red—a quiet declaration of loyalty and lineage. Unlike his younger brother, Joffrey, Jace moved with the surety of his status, of his upbringing, Sansa noted.
He turned as the doors opened once more.
Prince Aemond entered, boots striking the stone with precision. The room seemed to hold its breath. His violet eye fixed on Jacaerys—and the distance between them shrank beneath the weight of memory and rivalry.
Two princes once raised beneath the same roof now stood divided by fire and blood.
Neither bowed. Neither spoke.
Then Aemond broke the silence, his voice cool, almost amused. “The prodigal heir comes to the North. Come for snow and silence, nephew, or something more?”
Jacaerys didn’t flinch. “I come offering peace. Or, failing that, to understand where Winterfell will stand when war returns.”
Sansa stepped between them before the words could sharpen further. Her voice was smooth, steady. “Then speak plainly—but not with swords drawn from tongues.”
She gestured to the long table, where firelight danced over ancient wood and northern banners.
As they sat, Sansa watched each glance, every flicker of expression. She knew wars didn’t begin with armies—they began with moments like this. With silence too long held. With old wounds reopened.
And she doubted any of them understood how close they already stood to the edge.
Cregan observed in silence, his eyes weighing both men like a smith inspecting rival blades. Finally, his voice rumbled through the hall, low and deliberate.
“Winterfell remembers. Oaths. Broken promises. And the price of choosing too early.”
The words weren’t hostile, but they lacked warmth. A reminder: the North did not forget. And it did not rush.
Jacaerys inclined his head. “My mother remembers, too. Who stood with her father. Who kept faith. She seeks allies, not vassals. Strength in unity.”
From across the hall, Aemond’s voice sliced in—silken and cold. “Your mother seeks thrones, not allies.”
Sansa turned toward him. He stood near the high window, frost curling at the panes, posture still but vigilant. His eye never left Jacaerys.
Jace didn’t rise to the bait. “She seeks what’s hers. As I imagine, do you.”
Aemond’s lips twitched—too thin for a smile. “I do not need thrones. But I won’t abide false heirs.”
The tension thickened, brittle as ice. Sansa stepped forward again before the silence snapped.
“You’re both guests in Winterfell,” she said evenly. “This is not Dragonstone, nor the Red Keep. If you’ve come to trade insults, you’ll find no audience in the North.”
Jacaerys looked her way, something flickering behind his eyes—interest, calculation.
“I didn’t come to quarrel. I came to prevent what’s coming.”
“And yet you bring a dragon,” Aemond said, stepping forward, boots echoing again. “As did I. And what do dragons bring to peace, nephew?”
Jace’s jaw tensed, but he mastered it. Sansa saw the restraint and respected it.
“We bring deterrence,” he replied. “Power that reminds others what’s at stake. This meeting, this show of strength—it’s the same on both sides.”
Cregan folded his arms. “The North isn’t swayed by pageantry. We do not fear dragons. We’ve seen winter.”
A trace of amusement passed through Aemond’s eye, but he held his tongue.
Sansa, sensing the room shift again, said, “Then let’s speak without the dragons. Let words lead.”
They sat—Jacaerys and Aemond at opposite ends of a table scored by time and history. Firelight flickered between them, casting long shadows, but no warmth passed.
Jacaerys leaned forward slightly. “I come not just as heir, but as someone who knows what war brings. Not just dragons in the sky, but fire in fields, famine,and children starved. My mother wants allies. She wants the realm to survive.”
Aemond’s reply was soft. “Yet you come north while Lucerys flies south. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
The name fell into the room like a stone. Sansa stilled, the weight of it pressing.
Jacaerys only nodded. “Luke carries our message to Storm’s End. I bring the same to Winterfell. Not demands. Not conquest. Just a warning—before the storm breaks.”
Aemond gave a short, bitter laugh. “Then we’re both messengers of fire. I wonder who brings the better bargain.”
Sansa cut him a glance, sharp as sleet. “This isn’t a contest. And Winterfell isn’t a prize.”
Aemond met her eyes. Something flickered—acknowledgment, perhaps. Or warning.
He leaned back, fingers idly drumming on the hilt of his sword.
Jacaerys finally turned to her more directly, studying her now with focused interest.
“I don’t believe I caught your name,” he said, his tone cool, his attention still weighted more toward Cregan.
Cregan caught the slight instantly.
“This is my sister,” he said, voice like ice breaking stone. “Lady Sara Stark.”
Jacaerys blinked. “Your sister?” His gaze sharpened. “I hadn’t heard of any Stark daughter involved in court diplomacy.”
Sansa offered a composed smile. “Most haven’t. That tends to work in my favor.”
Aemond let out a breath of a laugh. “A mistake many men make,” he murmured.
Jacaerys didn’t answer. He looked back at Cregan.
“I came to speak with the Lord of Winterfell,” he said, implying what he didn’t dare say outright.
Cregan’s jaw set. “Then speak. But understand this—my sister’s counsel is mine. Dismiss her, and you dismiss me.”
Sansa said nothing. She simply raised her chin, gaze steady. She had been overlooked before—by lords, kings, boys with crowns and too much pride. They all learned, in time.
Jacaerys inclined his head, the gesture polite but careful.
“I’ve come before the snows settle in for good,” he said. “And not with threats. My mother seeks unity, not submission. There is a difference.”
“Is there?” Aemond’s voice was low. “To me, it’s the same blade—only sheathed.”
Jace’s expression hardened. “You brought your dragon too, uncle. Don’t pretend yours isn’t meant to intimidate.”
“I make no such pretense,” Aemond said, eye like a shard of winter. “That’s the difference.”
Cregan raised a hand. “Enough. Words have weight here. I won’t have them flung like snowflakes in a storm.”
The silence was sudden, sharp.
Then, Sansa spoke again, her voice a calm wind over ice. “If you both claim peace, prove it. The North remembers. And we remember who broke what they vowed.”
Jacaerys looked to her once more, this time truly seeing her.
“You speak boldly, Lady Sara.”
“I speak clearly,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”
A quiet beat passed.
Cregan’s mouth twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. “You’d do well to listen when she speaks, Prince Jacaerys. The snow may seem silent—but it buries kings all the same.”
Jacaerys’s jaw tightened, the flicker of curiosity in his eyes hardening into something more resolute. He straightened in his chair, the fire casting gold and shadow across the sharp planes of his face. When he spoke, his voice was firm, not angry, but undeniably proud.
“Winterfell made an oath,” he said, gaze locking on Cregan like a blade meeting steel. “An oath to my mother. To the rightful heir. I do not come here demanding allegiance on the back of a dragon or with a sword drawn in threat. I come to remind you of honor.”
Cregan’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “And I remember every word of that oath, Prince Jacaerys. But the realm has burned before under banners held in trembling hands.”
“The North does not tremble,” Jace replied, too quickly.
“No,” Cregan said calmly. “But it does freeze. And it endures. That is what we weigh now—not just who has the better claim, but who will leave the realm standing once the war ends.”
Jacaerys leaned forward, the carved wood of the table groaning faintly beneath his weight. “Then understand this: if you choose to sit out what comes next, you aren’t choosing peace—you’re choosing silence in the face of treachery. Aegon was never named heir. My mother was. The realm may be divided, but truth is not.”
Sansa watched him carefully, noting the crack beginning to show beneath his composure. Not desperation, exactly, but frustration, pride pressed too long against steel refusal. She hadn’t spoken yet. She wanted to see what kind of man Jacaerys was when challenged—not by swords or dragons, but by doubt.
Cregan, unbothered, unfolded his arms, voice still even. “I don't doubt your conviction. Or your mother’s. But conviction alone doesn't build alliances—it doesn't feed our people, or warm them through winter, or rebuild what dragonfire destroys.”
Jacaerys exhaled, slow and measured, but his fingers curled slightly against the table. “So that’s it then? You’ll wait, measure the winds, and see which side wins before you raise your banners?”
A silence followed, brittle as ice.
Cregan didn’t answer immediately.
But Sansa did.
“We do not measure winds, Prince. We survive storms,” she said, her tone cool but clear. “And we know the difference between a righteous cause and a reckless one.”
Jacaerys turned toward her again, eyes narrowed just slightly—not in insult, but in challenge. “And you believe our cause is reckless?”
“I believe you carry it like a torch through a dry forest,” she said simply. “Bright and noble, yes—but blinding. Dangerous.”
Jacaerys’s frustration deepened as he sat back in his chair, fingers tapping against the cold wood of the table as he considered Lord Stark and his sister. He had expected more. A warm welcome, perhaps, or at least an opening for a meaningful proposal. But it was clear now that Winterfell did not care for the words he spoke. His eyes shifted over to his half-uncle. Prince Aemond, who had gone quiet, was listening intently to the discussion between him and the Northerners, a glint in his eye that Jace didn’t quite trust.
It was the kind of expression Aemond always wore when he knew something others did not, when he was playing a game the rest of them were still unaware of.
Jacaerys felt his frustration turn to something colder, more dangerous. He was not used to this kind of reception, not from his allies, not from his family, and certainly not from the North. He had hoped for a path forward—some way to solidify his mother’s vision of unity, of strength in numbers—but it seemed that hope was fading fast.
“You speak of peace,” Cregan Stark said, his voice as hard and immovable as the walls of Winterfell itself. “But peace does not come without sacrifice, Prince Jacaerys. Without a plan.”
Jacaerys straightened, his back rigid. His mother had sent him here with the expectation of allying, of reaching the North before the storm of war truly broke across the realm. And yet, here he sat, offering words to men who valued action over promises. The North would not be swayed by diplomacy alone, he knew that now.
“I came to offer support,” Jacaerys said, his voice firm despite the growing tension. “A united front against the common enemy. My mother seeks not submission, Lord Stark, but cooperation. We all stand to lose if we do not join forces.”
Cregan’s gaze never wavered. “And yet you offer us no path to that cooperation. No tangible proposal. Only words.” He paused, his voice quiet but cutting. “We do not take our oaths lightly in the North, Prince Jacaerys. And we certainly do not rush into alliances without knowing what’s truly at stake.”
Jacaerys opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. He had no immediate proposal to offer, no concrete plan that could bridge the gap between them. No, his mother was asking Winterfell to go to war, and he had no way to make that decision easier for them. He had no way to soften the blow of what was truly being asked—no way to disguise the weight of that burden.
Winterfell had seen war, seen the aftermath of bloodshed and broken promises. He could not ask them to risk everything on the hope that his mother’s vision would lead to something better. And yet, that was exactly what he had been sent here to do.
His hand clenched into a fist on the table, but he forced himself to relax, breathing slowly to push the frustration down. There was no point in anger now. No point in pushing further.
Cregan Stark's gaze was unwavering, his words measured and stern. “You may have come with good intentions, Prince Jacaerys. But good intentions alone do not turn the tide of war. The North will not move unless there is more to offer than the promise of a battle fought on uncertain ground.”
Jacaerys knew that. His mother had sent him with nothing but hope, and hope was a poor currency in Winterfell.
“I… I will have something for you tomorrow,” Jacaerys said, his voice low, his tone lacking the confidence he wished he could project. The words felt hollow even as he spoke them. What else could he offer? What could he promise beyond another meeting, another chance to convince them?
Cregan’s gaze remained steely. “Tomorrow, then,” he replied, his voice firm, not indicate that he believed Jacaerys had anything to offer that would change the outcome. “But do not mistake our willingness to listen for a readiness to act. We will confer, and we will see if your mother’s cause is one we can join.”
Lady Sara, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke. Her voice was cool, but there was a note of finality in it. “We will discuss it. Winterfell does not take its oaths lightly, and we will not act on mere assurances. Tomorrow will be the time to speak plainly.”
Jacaerys glanced at her, but the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. There would be no quick decisions here. No easy alliance.
With a sigh, Jacaerys stood. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, but he had no choice but to accept it. Tomorrow, perhaps, would bring another opportunity, another way to make them see the urgency of the situation.
He turned to Aemond, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. Aemond’s gaze met his, cold and calculating, as though he had already seen this outcome coming from the moment they walked through the door.
Without a word, the two Targaryens left the Great Hall, the heavy doors closing behind them with a resounding thud that seemed to echo through the empty chamber.
Aemond’s boots echoed in the empty corridor as he walked behind Jacaerys, the weight of the meeting still pressing down on him. His mind churned with the tension of the conversation, the subtle undercurrents of power that had been at play. Winterfell had not been swayed, and yet he knew the game was far from over. The North was slow to act, but once they did, they were difficult to turn.
He glanced at his cousin, who walked ahead, his expression drawn and frustrated. He had nothing to say to his bastard nephew, and if he could, he would slay him as he walked. Not know, he thought to himself, not on neutral territory, not when they needed Winterfell for so much. Right now, all that mattered was winning the North’s loyalty and allegiance.
As they approached the staircase leading to their chambers, Aemond’s thoughts turned back to the conversation, and more specifically to Lady Sara. The way she had spoken, so confidently, so sharply. Her words had not been grandiose, but they had carried weight, each syllable placed deliberately as though she understood the weight of every decision being made.
His mind lingered on her steady gaze, the way she had stood her ground against both Jacaerys and him. There was an intelligence in her eyes, a fire he had not expected to find in the North. And, if he were honest with himself, a quiet strength that intrigued him.
At first, Aemond had dismissed her as nothing more than the sister of Lord Stark, a woman with no real power beyond her familial ties. But now, he found himself reconsidering. There was more to her than that. It was clear she held sway over Cregan, just as much as any of the men in that room.
Aemond stopped at the top of the stairs, his gaze narrowing as he turned to look back down the hall. The bastard had already disappeared into his appointed chamber, no doubt stewing in frustration over his failed meeting. Aemond did not feel the same frustration. If Winterfell were to side with anyone, it would need more than the promise of peace—it would need something tangible, something they could hold in their hands.
That was where he could come in.
It occurred to him, with some degree of certainty, that securing provisions—food, supplies, military aid—might be enough to tip the balance in his favor. Even after giving an oath, the North would always be practical. They would not fight for a throne that was not theirs to claim. But they would fight for survival, and more importantly, their people.
And yet, a thought lingered in his mind. He had been sent to Winterfell to secure their allegiance, yes, but what if the cost was not only provisions? What if there was more at play here? He had thought he could bargain with a marriage to Lady Sara Stark, using her as a token to secure Cregan’s loyalty. But now… did they have to now?
His family, his mother and uncle would expect it to solidify the allegiance and to ensure that the North stayed loyal to Aegon’s claim to the throne. But now that Aemond knew that Winterfell needed food, water, and substances more than marriage pacts, was the marriage even needed?
He had to admit, there was something about her that was different from the women he had known. She wasn’t like the others who had fallen at his feet in hopes of winning his favor or a crown. She was something else—something more substantial.
Aemond couldn’t shake the thought of Lady Sara as he made his way down the cold corridor toward his chambers. Something about her lingered in his mind, an unwelcome distraction. She wasn’t like the other women he’d known, who had all too easily fallen at his feet, eager to gain favor or position. No, she was different—shrewd, composed, and not easily swayed. And yet, there was something else too, something more unsettling.
It was just… strange. She held his attention in a way he hadn’t expected. She commanded respect, even from Cregan Stark, who looked to her for counsel. The way she spoke—calm, precise, always one step ahead—it was as if she saw the game from a vantage point far above his own. That alone made her stand out, but Aemond was no fool. He wasn’t going to be easily distracted by some clever bastard who could string together a sentence or two.
He didn’t want to feel unsettled by her presence, but he did. And that irked him more than anything. He was used to understanding his feelings, knowing where he stood with women, with anyone. But with Sara, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.
Still, he couldn’t afford to get lost in thoughts of her, not now. His purpose here, in Winterfell, was clear. He needed their loyalty—he had to make sure of it. If it took promises of provisions, then so be it. Aemond was skilled in making promises stick, and he would use the leverage he had to win the North’s favor.
Winterfell’s loyalty was his goal.
With a sharp exhale, Aemond pushed the thought of Sara aside. He’d deal with her, or not, at another time. There was more at stake here than her intelligence or her presence.
He would secure their loyalty. One way or another, through marriage or provisions, Winterfell would bend to Aegon. He would not leave empty-handed.
Turning on his heel, he entered his chambers, the weight of his decisions settling heavily on his shoulders. Tomorrow, he would face whatever challenges Winterfell had in store. The North would be theirs.