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Chapter Text

“Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys…and I’m going to accept.” Jon holds up a hand, staving off the shouts of the men around him. “After a fashion.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open as she looks at Jon. He gazes back at her, an almost mischievous look in his eye.

What is he thinking? A fine proclamation to make after asking her to stop undermining him in front of the men. Meeting Daenerys, indeed.

“We need this dragonglass, my lords,” he calls, turning back to his men. “We know that dragonglass can destroy both white walkers and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons. But more importantly, we need allies! The Night King’s army grows larger by the day. We can’t defeat them on our own. We don’t have the numbers. Daenerys has her own army and she has dragonfire. We need to try and persuade her to fight with us.” He turns back to Sansa. “Which is why my sister and Ser Davos will ride to White Harbor and then set sail for Dragonstone.”

Happiness and terror swoop inside her at the same moment. Happiness at Jon’s trust in her, terror at being sent south to face the dragon queen.

“This could be a trap,” she says, and is relieved to hear mutters of agreement from the men.

“It could be, but I don’t believe Tyrion would do that,” Jon says patiently. “And after all--you did marry the man.”

Sansa purses her lips. She and Jon haven’t talked much about her marriage to Tyrion, in large part because there’s not much to say. He had asked once, gruffly, if Tyrion had been good to her, and she had told him that he was kind and had not harmed her. Later, she had consulted Maester Wolkan to see if her marriage to Tyrion was still binding.

“It’s a very unusual case, as it has never happened before,” Maester Wolkan had said apologetically. “Your marriage to Lord Tyrion was never consummated, yet your marriage to Ramsay Bolton was, which, I believe, invalidates the marriage to Lord Tyrion. One could argue that as the Light of the Seven is the faith of the enemy and the old gods are the faith of the North, the marriage to Tyrion Lannister is not binding under the King in the North.”

It had done nothing to answer her question.

Now, she wonders if Tyrion considers their marriage still binding--binding enough, at least, to treat with her rather than hold her hostage.

He wouldn’t do that , she tells herself. He’s not like the other Lannisters.

No, Tyrion won’t hurt her.

.

Littlefinger visits while she’s packing. Of course.

“You’ll need a trusted advisor to go with you,” he says, and it almost makes her sad, how desperate he sounds. The man who killed Lysa Arryn, who has had countless others killed, who spews so many lies that his mouth has forgotten the shape of the truth. It’s so sad, how he should be reduced to all but begging her to take him with her.

“I’ll have Ser Davos,” she says in a deeply unaffected tone.

“You’ll need someone smarter than Ser Davos.”

“Your place is here,” she reminds him, not looking up from her packing. “With the Vale army, and with Jon.”

Littlefinger is quiet for a long moment. “I fear your brother does not like me,” he says at last.

“Can’t imagine why,” she murmurs.

“Are you angry with me?”

She finally brings her eyes to his. “I would like to pack in peace.”

He bows his head. “Of course. My apologies, Lady Sansa.” He withdraws from the room almost at the same moment Brienne enters it.

“What did Littlefinger want?” she asks as soon as the door is closed.

“To come with me to Dragonstone.”

Brienne manages a dignified snort. Everything Brienne does is dignified, which is one of the reasons Sansa likes her so well. She’s glad the other woman will be accompanying her south.

“Are you packed?”

Brienne inclines her head. “Yes, my lady, as is Podrick. It was kind of you to invite him.”

“He was very fond of Lord Tyrion; I imagine they’ll be happy to see each other again.” Podrick had been one of the only people who was kind to her in King’s Landing, and it comforts her to have him around again.

“As you say.” Brienne hesitates. “Do you believe Lord Tyrion will treat with us because of your...because you were married? Or do you think this is all a trap?”

“I have no idea what to think,”  Sansa admits. “I think Jon may be right--Tyrion wouldn’t lay a trap for him. I also think the North has nothing to lose if I go in Jon’s stead, which is as it should be.”

“I won’t let any harm come to you, my lady,” Brienne says, touching her sword.

Sansa nods. “I know you won’t. I only…” She shakes her head. “Daenerys’s father ordered my uncle and grandfather to ride south, and then he had them killed. I can’t help but worry that Daenerys has inherited some of her father’s qualities. Then again, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and right now, Cersei is her biggest enemy. She’d be an invaluable ally. I have to go. And, strictly speaking, I’m a better negotiator than Jon. If he went in my stead, we could find ourselves without a king.”

.

The journey to White Harbor is spent mostly in contemplative silence. All of them, Sansa is sure, are wondering what the dragon queen will be like, and more importantly, what she’ll do when she finds out that the King in the North sent his sister in his stead.

Sansa would be lying if she said she wasn’t afraid. If Daenerys is as mad as her father, she could kill Sansa on the spot. But Tyrion is with her, and Tyrion isn’t mad. He wouldn’t side with a queen who was madder than his sister. In fact, Tyrion is one of the cleverest people Sansa has ever met; surely if he’s taken Daenerys’s side, it’s because he believes that she will be queen.

Not that it will much matter should the army of the dead win the war. Even if they lose the war, who’s to say there will be anything left of Cersei’s faction, or Daenerys’s? Who’s to say she or Jon or Winterfell itself will still be standing?

Chilled suddenly, she spurs her horse forward, eager to reach White Harbor and the ship that awaits her.

Chapter Text

The journey to Dragonstone is a long one. Shorter and safer than riding, Sansa knows, but the winter sea is choppy against the ship and it makes her belly heave. She eats little on the voyage, managing nibbles of bread and sips of wine, which are about all that she can hold down.

Brienne and Ser Davos have no such trouble. They were born and raised by the sea, and though they are kind enough not to say anything, she knows they pity her. She hates being the object of pity from anyone, even those close to her; perhaps them most of all. She had never been on a ship until Littlefinger spirited her away from King’s Landing, and she had spent all that voyage swallowing back her own bile, too.

It’s a relief when Ser Davos finds her in her cabin and informs her that they’ve arrived. A boat will ferry them from the ship to shore, and it is a testament to Sansa’s eagerness to get on land that the little boat ride does not affect her.

The men that have accompanied them hop out when the water is shallow enough and push the boat onto shore. Brienne and Ser Davos hop out before helping Sansa onto the sand.

“Careful, my lady,” Brienne murmurs.

Sansa’s legs wobble on the sand, and she grips Brienne’s hand as she tries to find her equilibrium. It feels so strange after being on a ship, so disorienting.

When she looks up, she sees a face she well remembers.

But it’s different now. Where his face had been clean-shaven before, there is a thick, brown beard there now; a stark contrast to the gold of his hair. A woman stands near him, her skin almost as dark as that of Jalabhar Xho’s, the exiled prince from the Summer Islands. Surrounding them are men with nut-brown skin and thick black hair. The Dothraki, she believes.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion says, bowing.

“Lord Tyrion,” she greets, curtsying. She’s wearing one of her mother’s dresses, a dark blue cotton. It is nowhere near as fine as the gowns she wore in King’s Landing, but that hardly matters now.

“I confess I am surprised to see you; I had written to your brother.”

“Are you not happy to see your wife, my lord?” she asks with a small smile.

Tyrion clears his throat. “Of course. However, we had expected Jon Snow to bend the knee to Queen Daenerys.”

“My brother sends his regards, and apologizes for his absence, but there were certain matters in the North he had to attend to. I will explain all to Queen Daenerys.”

Tyrion inclines his head. “As you say, my lady.” He turns to Ser Davos, extending a hand. “I’m Tyrion Lannister.”

“Davos Seaworth.”

“Ah, the Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides of the Battle of Blackwater Bay.”

“Unluckily for me,” Davos says with remarkable poise, given what he had lost at Blackwater.

“You remember Brienne of Tarth,” Sansa says, less a question than a statement as she indicates her protector.

“How could I forget.” Tyrion smiles, shaking Brienne’s hand. “Gods be good, is that Podrick ?”

The squire comes forward with a bashful smile. “It is, my lord.”

“Pod, you’ve grown! You’re a man now! You’ve got a beard coming!” Tyrion seems ecstatic to see his old squire, and Sansa cannot help but smile at the reunion.

After a few more pleasantries between the two, Tyrion turns to the woman at his side. “This is Missandei, the queen’s most trusted advisor.”

Missandei nods with a smile. “Welcome to Dragonstone,” she says in an accent Sansa has never heard before. “Our queen knows it is a long journey. She appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons.”

Davos turns to the men and motions for them to take off their weapons. They hand them over to the Dothraki, whose own curved arakhs hang from their belts. This done, some of the Dothraki carry away the boat.

“Please,” Missandei says, “this way.”

Sansa falls into step beside Tyrion, Brienne close behind her.

“Have you missed me terribly?” Tyrion jokes as they walk up the beach.

“I’ve been pining for you all this time,” Sansa teases back.

“Theon told me you were alive and well when he left you; I’m happy to see it,” he says, his tone becoming sincere.

“Theon is with you?” she asks in relief. So he had found his family after all.

“He was; at present, he’s with his sister, headed to Dorne.” Tyrion hesitates. “I am...so sorry, for what happened to you.”

Sansa feels her blood chill at the memory of Ramsay. “What’s done is done. He’s dead now.”

If Tyrion is troubled by the satisfaction in her tone, he doesn’t show it.

“At some point, I want to hear how a Night’s Watch recruit becomes King in the North.”

“As long as you tell me how a Lannister becomes Hand to Daenerys Targaryen,” she counters.

“A long and bloody tale. To be honest, I was drunk for most of it,” he admits.

“Of course.”

Tyrion glances at her as they begin ascending the steps. “Jon was wise to send you in his stead. The queen will be unhappy, but it was the wise decision.”

“We assumed as much. Stark men don’t fare well when they travel south,” she says bitterly.

“Nor do Stark women.” His eyes are gentle when he says it, and she remembers the horrible things he saw Joffrey do to her.

“No,” she agrees. “But I survived.”

“You did. And you will again.”

A sudden screech rents the air, followed by a gust of movement; Brienne pushes Sansa onto the ground, covering her body as something enormous flies overhead. Sansa peers up and sees it.

A dragon.

It’s a beautiful beast, if terrifying. Big as a ship, scaled and horned and fire made flesh. Its wings flap through the air like sails.

They’re real .

“I’d say you get used to them,” Tyrion says as he helps Sansa to her feet. “But you never really do.”

She stands rooted to the spot, watching as two dragons circle the enormous castle.

“Come,” Tyrion urges. “Their mother is waiting for you.”

Sansa glances back at Brienne and Ser Davos, who look just as nonplussed as she. Gathering her skirts, she falls in line beside Tyrion again. “So those are her dragons,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as shaken as she feels.

“They are. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. Those two are Viserion and Rhaegal; Drogon is elsewhere. Which is for the best; he’s a terrifying beast.”

“Wonderful,” Sansa mutters.

The ascent into the castle only continues to take Sansa’s breath away. The ancient castle is magnificent, older and quieter than the Red Keep. Beautiful, too, in an intimidating sort of way; not unlike the dragons.

As they enter the castle, two Dothraki swing open enormous doors, revealing a cavernous throne room. At the far end sits a throne that looks as if it was hewn out of the rock itself--and sitting on it is a silver-haired woman.

Daenerys.

Sansa comes to a halt, examining the other woman. She’s beautiful, to be sure, with the silvery hair Sansa has heard the Targaryens had. Somehow smaller than she expected, but that could be because of the enormity of the throne on which she sits. Younger, too. She wears a surprised expression--no doubt at seeing a woman in place of the King in the North.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” Missandei intones, “rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains.”

There is a long pause where they wait for Missandei to continue, but it seems she has finished.

“This is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Brienne responds. “And Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King to the King in the North. They have come with his full authority to treat with you.”

Sansa curtsies to the dragon queen.

“Thank you for traveling so far, my lady,” Daenerys says kindly. “I hope the seas weren’t too rough.”

Sansa tries not to think about how unladylike her stomach had been on the journey. “The winds were kind, Your Grace.”

“I confess I am surprised that your brother sent you in his stead,” Daenerys continues, a hint of resentment in her tone. “I had hoped he would bend the knee to me personally.”

Sansa steels herself. “I have not come to bend the knee, Your Grace.”

The benevolent smile on Daenerys’s face slips. “Oh. Well, that is unfortunate. So you have come all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Sansa says in her most courteous tone, “your father burned my grandfather alive. He burned my uncle alive. He would have burned the Seven Kingdoms--”

“My father,” Daenerys interrupts, “was an evil man.”

Sansa blinks in surprise at this admission.

“On behalf of House Targaryen,” the queen continues, “I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father. Our two houses were allies for centuries, and those were the best centuries the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Lady Sansa. Honor the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you, not your brother, Warden of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it.”

Sansa starts at this. Women are never Warden of the North; only the son of a Stark can inherit that title. But then, women have not often ruled on the Iron Throne, and here one is, claiming that throne for herself.

But what about Jon? Should he have the title of King stripped from him and never given the title of Warden because he is a bastard?

But why should I not have it, just because I am a woman? I am Eddard Stark’s trueborn daughter.

She glances at Ser Davos, who looks back at her helplessly. She glances at Brienne, who looks similarly lost.

“You’re right,” Sansa decides at last. “You’re not guilty of your father’s crimes. And neither I nor my brother are beholden to our ancestor’s vows.”

“Then why are you here?” Daenerys asks, no trace of a smile on her face now.

“Because we need your help, and you need ours.”

Daenerys trades an unamused look with Tyrion. “Did you see three dragons overhead when you arrived?”

“I did,” Sansa says, jaw stiff as she sees where this is going.

“And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?”

“I did.”

“But still. I need your help?”

“Not to defeat Cersei,” Davos interjects. “You could storm King’s Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it and we didn’t even have dragons.”

“Almost,” Tyrion mutters.

“What I am about to say will sound...odd,” Sansa admits. “I hardly believe it myself. But I must beg your trust in what I tell you.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrows, but Sansa can see the intrigued expression on her face. “Go on.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, wishing, for once, that it was Jon who had come and not her. “There is an army north of the Wall made of wights. It is led by white walkers, who kill freely and then turn the corpses into soldiers for their army. I know,” she says at the disbelieving look on the queen’s face, “I know how it sounds. I wouldn’t have believed it if Jon had not laid eyes on them and fought them himself.”

“He fought them?” Tyrion repeats.

“Jon is not a liar or a madman, my lord,” she says, pleading with the man she once called her husband. “Nor am I; you know me.”

“I do,” he agrees, licking his lips. “But...what you are saying is...ludicrous.”

“As ludicrous as dragons coming back?” she counters.

Tyrion and Daenerys contemplate this in silence.

“If the army of the dead gets through the Wall,” Sansa continues, seeing that she’s made progress, “then everyone we know will die. Who sits on the Iron Throne won’t matter because there will be no one to claim it.”

“Why should I believe you?” Daenerys asks, fingers drumming on the arm of her throne.

“For the same reason you won’t storm King’s Landing; because you care more about innocent lives than serving your own interests.”

Tyrion expels a breath, but Sansa doesn’t look at him, too intent on Daenerys. The other woman’s face is impossible to read.

“If none of it matters,” she says at last, slowly, “then why won’t your brother bend the knee?”

“He has no time.” Sansa bites down on the pleading note in her tone. “None of us have any time. He must defend the North, Your Grace, and if you care about the people you mean to rule, you must help him.”

“I must ?” Daenerys demands.

Sansa takes a step forward. “I know Cersei. I was her prisoner in King’s Landing. She is a cruel and heartless woman, and she would be queen of a graveyard if it means she’ll be queen at all.” She shakes her head. “Don’t be like her, Your Grace.”

Before Daenerys can respond, the sound of footfalls echo in the chamber. Sansa starts, for walking in is Lord Varys. So he’s turned his cloak, too. He walks up to the queen and murmurs something in her ear. She nods and then rises.

“You must forgive my manners,” Daenerys says in a neutral, toneless voice. “You’ll be tired after your long journey. We’ll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.” She turns to one of her men and gives orders in Dothraki.

“Are you going to make me your prisoner too?” Sansa asks angrily, but behind the anger is fear. What has she walked into?

Daenerys considers her. “Not yet,” she decides.

Sansa is not comforted.

Chapter Text

The bath is a sweet relief after weeks at sea. Sansa scrubs her skin until it’s pink, using oils to wash her hair.

She’d had baths and oils in King’s Landing, too. When she was Cersei’s prisoner.

The thought makes her splash angrily. Daenerys said she isn’t a prisoner--yet--but Sansa can’t help feeling that she is. The Lannisters wouldn’t have called her a prisoner, but she was one. She wasn’t allowed to leave, in any case, and she doubts very much whether Daenerys will allow her to leave.

What is she going to tell Jon?

Sighing, she gets out of the bath, drying her skin and wringing out her hair before she puts on a dressing gown and sits at the little vanity, brushing out her hair. The mirror is dusty and spotted with age, but Sansa can see through it well enough to plait her red locks.

She’s nearly finished when a knock comes on the door.

“Come in,” she says, drawing her robe closer.

It’s Tyrion. He gives a small bow, closing the door.

“I thought we might speak alone.”

Sansa waits for him to continue, curious.

“We are in a spot of trouble. Theon and his sister were escorting our Dornish allies to Sunspear when they were attacked at sea by Theon’s uncle, Euron, who’s named himself King of the Iron Isles.”

“Is Theon all right?” she asks, heart thudding at the mention of her savior.

“We don’t know. If he’s not dead, he’s most likely captured.”

She presses a hand to her heart, willing it to still. “I see.”

“This has been a great setback for us,” he says carefully. “It would be wise to...stay out of Queen Daenerys’s way for a while.”

“I have to make her hear me out,” she says, rising. “Jon sent me here to help the North, and if she won’t listen to me--”

“She will,” he soothes. “Later. Not now. She’s upset about this development, and being reminded that one of the Seven Kingdoms refuses to submit to her will only further upset her. Just...stay out of her way as much as you can.”

Sansa considers this. It’s a reasonable enough request, and one that is to her benefit. “So she doesn’t believe me about the army of the dead.”

“She believes that Jon believes in them,” Tyrion sighs.

“But you don’t.”

“I do, oddly enough.”

She sighs, sitting back at her vanity. “Well, that’s some small comfort, I suppose.”

“Jon is a good man; I’ve always liked him. The fact that both he and Lord Commander Mormont saw the white walkers...it doesn’t matter that everyone says white walkers aren’t real. What matters are that two good men both saw them, and I trust what two good men saw more than I trust what everyone says.”

“Then you’ll help me?”

“I will do what I can,” he says in a diplomatic voice. “But I can promise nothing.”

“I see.”

“Is there something I can do?” he asks with a significant look. “Some way I might be of help?”

Sansa considers him. She remembers why she came to Dragonstone in the first place, the request she was to make of Daenerys before Varys had interrupted. “There is. Dragonstone has a wealth of dragonglass--I believe the maesters call it obsidian. It’s one of the only things that destroys white walkers and their dead.”

Tyrion raises his eyebrows. “I see.”

“It’s why Jon sent me here--we need it to arm the North and defend the Seven Kingdoms,” she pleads. “Daenerys has no use for it in her war against Cersei.”

“No; I don’t suppose she does.” He nods. “All right. I’ll ask her if you may have the dragonstone. Do you know how to find it?”

“Yes.” She’d learned as much as she could about it; never let it be said she went on this mission halfheartedly.

“Good. I’ll do what I can.” He hesitates. “It’s good to see you again, Sansa.”

“You as well,” she says sincerely.

Tyrion nods and then leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Sansa sighs, leaning back in her chair. Perhaps this won’t be a complete failure after all.

.

Per Tyrion’s request, Sansa spends the next couple of days completely avoiding Daenerys. Ser Davos shows her around the castle and the island, telling her tales of the island’s former inhabitants. His adoration for Shireen Baratheon is obvious even now, long after the young girl’s passing. It was a shame what had happened to her, and even more of a shame that it was because of the woman who had brought Jon back to life.

“Why do you think she did it?” Sansa asks him. “Killed Stannis’s only heir?”

“Her god makes her do many strange things,” Davos says gruffly.

“Like bring people back from the dead.”

“M’lady, not that I’m not appreciative of what Melisandre did for your brother, but perhaps it’s best if we don’t mention it around these people,” he says in a low voice, even though there’s no one around them. “The queen already has trouble believing in the white walkers, and we don’t want to add to her disbelief.”

“No...we don’t.” He makes a fair point; if they let slip that Jon died and was brought back to life by a priestess of the Lord of Light, Daenerys is sure to think they’re mad. Best leave it alone for now. “Do you think she’ll help us?”

He shakes his head. “Hard to say. Not without seeing proof.”

“Well, how are we supposed to prove it to her without sending her north?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

There’s got to be a way. But what it is, Sansa doesn’t know.

The sun begins to slowly creep towards the horizon, casting a blue-grey light over the island. Distantly, as always, Sansa can hear the dragons screeching to each other as they circle above the sea.

Davos grips her arm, stopping her. “M’lady,” he says in a low voice, “we should turn back.”

Sansa looks down the steps they were about to descend and sees Daenerys standing there, watching her dragons. Sansa starts to move back, but something stops her. She looks at Daenerys, standing there, oddly peaceful for one waging a war. Something tells Sansa that now is the time to approach her.

“It’s all right, Ser Davos,” she says softly, pulling her arm from his grip.

“M’lady--”

“It’s all right,” she says again, descending the stairs and making her way to Daenerys.

“They’re beautiful,” she calls so as not to startle the queen.

“I named them for my brothers,” Daenerys says when she draws nearer. “Viserys and Rhaegar. They’re both gone now.” She turns to regard Sansa, who now stands mere feet from her. “You lost two brothers as well.”

Sansa thinks with a pang of Rickon, struck down by Ramsay’s arrow. Had Daenerys watched Viserys die? Does she imagine Rhaegar’s death the way Sansa so often imagines Robb’s? “Yes.”

Daenerys nods, something in her eyes softening. She really is a beautiful woman. “People thought dragons were gone forever, yet here they are. Perhaps we should all be examining what we think we know.”

Sansa’s heart leaps. “You believe me, then?”

Daenerys is quiet for a long moment, regarding her. “I don’t know.” She turns back to face the sea. “You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne.”

“Good,” Sansa says before she can quite stop herself.

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “You hate her so much?”

Sansa hesitates. She doesn’t often speak of Cersei or the other horrors she faced, but hadn’t Daenerys faced horrors too? The other woman can’t be much older than her, yet she was also sold in marriage and suffered at the hands of those who meant to use her. Yet here she is, a queen in her own right and the Mother of Dragons.

“I have lost much because of Cersei’s cruelty,” she says slowly. “My direwolf. My septa. My closest friend. My father. My mother. My brother Robb. A sister I never met, and their child who was not yet born. Even those of my family who were not killed are missing now, and I fear I shall never see them again. Jon is all I have left.” She swallows. “Cersei takes, and takes, and takes, until there is nothing left. And now she will only be worse. Before, she did everything for her family. But she has no family left. Her children are dead, her father is dead; all that remains are two brothers, one of whom has aligned himself with you. She has nothing more to lose, and it will make her more vicious than ever.” She leans in. “So when you say you won’t let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne, I can only hope you are true to your word.”

“Then bend the knee ,” Daenerys says softly, imploringly. “If you swear loyalty to me, I will bring you her head.”

Dimly, Sansa remembers that day on the ramparts with Joffrey.

“I’ll bring you his head.”

“Or maybe he’ll bring me yours.”

She shivers, imagining the dragon queen bringing her Cersei’s head, her golden locks red with blood. It nearly makes her hesitate. “Tempting as that is, Your Grace, my loyalty is all to my brother Jon.”

Daenerys curls her lip, looking ready to argue--but then she turns away. “I will allow you to mine the dragonglass and forge weapons from it. Any resources or men you need, I will provide for you.”

Sansa feels her heart leap again. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I, too, know something of monsters,” Daenerys says softly. “And I would not let you face them alone again.”

Sansa is touched by these words, and by the reminder that Daenerys has known her share of cruelty. “How did you defeat the monsters, Your Grace?”

Daenerys turns to her, smiling. “Fire and blood.”

Chapter Text

They begin searching for the dragonglass the very next morning. Sansa puts on a plain dress and boots and follows Ser Davos, Brienne, and Podrick down to the beach. Podrick carries four unlit torches, flintrock in his pouch.

“What makes you think it’s down here?” Sansa asks, her voice nearly drowned out by the cawing of the gulls wheeling overhead.

“Two things: first, I know this island like the back of my hand, and there are very few places I haven’t explored,” Davos says. “Second, mines are built into rock, and there are caves all over the beach. I never explored them myself, but if there’s dragonglass on this island, it’s bound to be in one of those caves.”

They come nearly to the shore itself when Davos leads them into the mouth of the first cave. Podrick lights the four torches, and together, the party wanders into the cave.

There’s a narrow passage inside, so narrow that they have to pass through one at a time. It opens up into a great cavern that glitters with…

“Dragonglass,” Brienne breathes.

“It’s here?” Sansa exclaims in disbelief. “We found it so easily!”

“Probably the only people who’ve been in these caves in recent years are smugglers, and they had no need or knowledge of it,” Davos says wisely. “Even if they knew what it was, it’s useless if you aren’t fighting white walkers.”

Sansa runs her hand over the wall, feeling the cold stone. “How much is here?”

“Enough to arm the North and then some, m’lady.” Davos gestures with his torch. “Shall we go deeper?”

“Yes,” Sansa breathes, awed at the sheer size of this cave. She can’t wait to write to Jon and tell him that his friend was right. She can’t wait to show Daenerys--though why, she can’t really say.

They cross the cavern into another narrow passageway, even narrower than the first. It’s shorter, too, causing all of them to duck as they move through it.

“Wasn’t there something about the Children of the Forest using dragonglass to defeat the white walkers?” Podrick asks. “This passage certainly wasn’t made for men. Or women,” he amends hastily.

“I thought they were only a story, but…” Sansa shakes her head. “The things I thought were only stories have a habit of becoming real.”

“They must have been real,” Brienne grunts from where she’s doubled over, waddling uncomfortably through the passage.

Luckily, it opens up into another cavern, this one etched with markings. Arrows and spirals, suns and moons, entire worlds of a language Sansa doesn’t understand. Her heart pounds as she tries to make sense of the ancient words, feeling that they are more important than any words she has ever read. “They were real,” she breathes. “The Children of the Forest. They lived here.”

If the others are eager to leave, they show no signs of it, allowing Sansa to pore over the symbols. Her hand touches the suns (so many suns--why?) carved into the stone.

She crosses to the other side of the cavern and sees new shapes; the outlines of people. And beneath them, bigger people, lined with armor and holding swords.

“Look,” she calls, showing the others. “It’s the Children and the First Men.”

“Fighting?” Brienne asks, squinting.

Sansa walks to the side, wondering if there’s more to their story.

There is.

On another wall are the white, skeletal figures of what Sansa can only assume are the white walkers. Their eyes are a piercing blue, their swords sharp, and on the head of the largest one is a crown.

The Night King.

“We have to show Daenerys,” she says as the others follow her, their own torches adding to her light. “This is the closest we can get to proving the existence of white walkers.”

“Fetch Queen Daenerys,” Brienne tells Podrick.

“And bring a brazier to light the cavern,” Sansa adds.

Podrick bows and scurries off to do as he’s bid.

.

By the time the other three trudge back up the beach to the castle, Podrick informs them that Queen Daenerys will join them momentarily. He and Davos carry the brazier to the cave while Sansa and Brienne wait at the foot of the stairs for Daenerys.

They do not have long to wait; soon, a silvery-gold speck walks out of the castle, followed by several black specks. As they draw nearer, Sansa sees that Daenerys is accompanied by Missandei and several Dothraki. But when she draws near, she says something in the harsh Dothraki tongue and her guards stand back. Only Missandei accompanies the queen down the steps. Sansa and Brienne lead them across the beach to the cave, where Davos and Podrick wait with lit torches.

“You found the dragonglass, then?” Daenerys asks, accepting a torch.

“That, and more,” Sansa tells her with a smile. She leads the dragon queen into the cave, the dragonglass in the stone glittering against the torchlight. Davos and Podrick have thoughtfully left the brazier in the first cavern, and the flame illuminates the seemingly endless supply of obsidian.

“This is enough to arm every man in the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa tells the queen. “Or nearly every man.”

“Impressive,” Daenerys murmurs, truly looking as if she is impressed.

Sansa takes this as a good sign, and it gives her the boldness to say, “There’s something else, Your Grace.”

She leads Daenerys through the narrow passage and into the second cavern, where the markings cover the walls of the cave.

“What is this?” Daenerys breathes, eyes wide as she takes in the spiral suns.

“The Children of the Forest made these,” Sansa says softly.

“When?”

“Before Targaryens lived here.”

“Before men?”

Sansa finds the etchings of the Children and the First Men and holds up her torch to illuminate them. “Look.”

Daenerys does. “Are they fighting?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but…” Sansa draws her to the side, revealing the white walkers. “They were fighting an enemy...together. The enemy. Despite their own conflicts with one another, they banded together to defeat the army of the dead.” She takes a deep breath. “And that is what we must do if we’re going to survive. Put aside our own conflicts and band together.”

She waits for what feels like an age before Daenerys speaks, her eyes piercing Sansa’s very soul.

“You say you need my armies and my dragons to defeat the army of the dead?”

“Yes,” Sansa says, hopeful that Daenerys has changed her mind.

The dragon queen walks closer, her eyes bright in the torchlight. She has never looked lovelier. “I will fight for you,” she says softly, and Sansa’s heart leaps. “I will fight for the North.” Her mouth hardens. “When you bend the knee.”

Sansa closes her eyes, trying not to let her disappointment show. “The Northerners won’t accept a southern ruler after choosing a King in the North.”

“They will if the last Stark of Winterfell does,” Daenerys says in a trembling voice, stepping even closer to Sansa, so close that Sansa can smell the Meereenese incense on her clothes. “The Starks have always protected the North. Protect them now by choosing a queen that will take care of them, not go to war with them.”

“I cannot bend the knee while my brother is king,” Sansa whispers.

Daenerys closes her hand around Sansa’s, her skin warm and smooth. “Convince your brother to bend the knee. Offer him the full protection of House Targaryen. Assure him that none of his people need suffer or die in the wars to come. Counsel him in this and I swear I will keep the North safe as the North has kept the Seven Kingdoms safe these hundreds of years.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. Her traitorous heart knows that Daenerys is a better queen than Jon is a king, that while he is a commander and a leader, ruling has never been nor ever will be his strength. But Daenerys…Daenerys could rule. She does rule. She ruled in Essos, in Meereen and Yunkai, and she rules the Dothraki, who have never united under one khal before, let alone a khaleesi . The Unsullied have chosen to follow her, as have the Ironborn, and the Dornish, and the Tyrells of the Reach. Why shouldn’t the North follow her, too?

Because they chose Jon as their king .

Sansa closes her eyes again, taking a deep breath. “I will write to my brother and tell him what you have told me. I can promise no more than that.”

When she opens her eyes, Daenerys is regarding her. “That will be enough. For now.”

Relieved, Sansa leads them out of the cave, their footsteps echoing off the cavern walls. Gradually, the footsteps dullen and turn to a crunching sound as the stone gives way to the sand of the beach. Davos, Brienne, and Missandei rejoin them, and as they walk out into the gray light of day, they find Tyrion and Varys waiting with grim faces.

“What is it?” Daenerys asks in an equally grim voice.

“We took Casterly Rock,” Tyrion says, the end of his sentence dropping down as if he can’t bear to finish it.

“That’s very good to hear,” Daenerys says carefully.

The two men exchange glances.

“...isn’t it?”

Tyrion swallows. “The Lannister army...wasn’t there. They’d moved east, where they captured Highgarden, and with it, the Reach. Lady Olenna...is dead. And,” he says, before Daenerys can exclaim, “Euron Greyjoy sunk our fleet, effectively stranding Grey Worm’s men in Casterly Rock.”

Sansa glances at Daenerys, whose face is contorted in rage. She gestures, hands clawing, before whirling around and storming up the beach. The others follow at a trot, legs pumping to keep up with her.

“You’ll want to discuss this amongst yourselves,” Davos starts to say, but Daenerys doesn’t let him finish.

“You will stay. All my allies are gone. They’ve been taken from me while I’ve been sitting here on this island.”

“You still have the largest armies,” Tyrion reminds her.

“Who won’t be able to eat because Cersei has taken all the food from the Reach.”

Sansa, for her part, is still reeling over the death of Lady Olenna. The Queen of Thorns had been kind to her, in her own way. Then again, had any of the Tyrells really been kind to Sansa? Or had they only wanted her for her claim to the North?

“Call Grey Worm and the Unsullied back,” Tyrion urges. “We still have enough ships to carry the Dothraki to the mainland. Commit to the blockade of King’s Landing. We have a plan, it’s still the right plan.”

“The right plan!” Daenerys explodes, wheeling around. Everyone stumbles to a halt. “Your strategy has lost us Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the Reach.”

Tyrion hangs his head. “If I have underestimated our enemies--”

“Our enemies?” she cuts him off. “Your family, you mean. Perhaps you don’t want to hurt them after all.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. She knows better than most Tyrion’s dislike of his family. Or at least, his father and sister. He had been fond of Jaime, and the children. But the children are gone now, and Jaime commands Cersei’s armies.

Daenerys turns, looking out over the horizon. “Enough with the clever plans,” she says in a calmer voice. “I have three large dragons. I’m going to fly them to the Red Keep.”

“We’ve discussed this,” Tyrion pleads.

“My enemies are in the Red Keep,” Daenerys reminds him. “What kind of a queen am I if I’m not willing to risk my life to fight them?”

A wise one , Sansa thinks.

“A smart one,” Tyrion says, echoing her thoughts.

Daenerys shakes her head...and her gaze falls on Sansa. “What do you think I should do?” she demands.

Sansa shakes her head, wanting to stay far away from Daenerys’s wrath. “I would never presume to--”

“I’m at war,” Daenerys cuts her off, her voice turning almost pleading. “I’m losing. What do you think I should do?”

Sansa takes a deep breath, her heart pounding in her ears. “Your people followed you because you freed them,” she says slowly. “They all had a choice.” She hesitates. “If you attack the city, you aren’t giving them a choice. If you intimidate them with fire and blood, they aren’t free to choose you as their queen, they must bow to you. That’s what Cersei would do. You aren’t Cersei. You’re a good queen and your people love you. Give these people the choice to do the same.”

Daenerys looks startled, yet as she glances at her dragons, her face becomes more determined. “Very well,” she says at last. “Prepare my khalasar . We ride for the Reach.”

“The Reach ?” Tyrion echoes, but Daenerys is already striding back to the castle.

“What do you think she means to do?” Brienne asks as Missandei, Tyrion, and Varys scramble after the queen.

Sansa considers what’s in the Reach--or what’s leaving it. “I think I know.”

Chapter Text

While Davos begins leading the Northmen and some of Daenerys’s Unsullied in mining the dragonglass, and while Daenerys takes her dragons, Dothraki, and Tyrion to the Reach, Sansa sits down to write to Jon. She sits at her writing desk for some time, trying to figure out how to tell him all that has transpired in enough words to fit onto a raven scroll.

I have met with Daenerys and find her a capable ruler. She has allowed us to mine the dragonglass, which we shall send to you as soon as enough has been collected. Unfortunately, she will only aid the North if you agree to bend the knee. I await your counsel.

There. That will have to do.

Because Daenerys has no maester in her retinue, Sansa gives the scroll to Varys, who will see it delivered. She doesn’t even bother sealing it, knowing the Master of Whispers is only going to read it anyway. Let him; there’s nothing in there that she wouldn’t want Daenerys to see. Sansa has learned many things from her time in King’s Landing, and one of them is to be careful choosing her words.

Varys bows when she hands him the scroll. “I shall see it delivered, my lady.”

“Thank you, Lord Varys.” She hesitates before plunging ahead. “May I ask you a question?”

His smile is knowing. “You want to know how the Master of Whispers for Robert Baratheon came to be in the company of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Yes,” she admits. “I always thought you were loyal to him, and to the Lannisters.”

“I am loyal to no king or house,” he says in a surprisingly mild tone. “I am loyal only to the people. I was one of them, you see, and I know better than anyone at court how the great folk hurt and betray the small. I supported Robert because Aerys was bad for the people. Robert, while a terrible king, did not harm the smallfolk. Joffrey did, and I knew that sweet as little Tommen might be, he would never fully rule as long as his mother was alive. It is for that reason I crossed the Narrow Sea and found a queen who freed slaves and won the loyalty of a khalasar , no mean feat for a woman, no less a foreign woman. I believe that Daenerys is a good queen; certainly better than Cersei. And if Daenerys ever fails to help the people and hurts them instead, I take no issue with finding a new queen or king to serve. So long as the people are taken care of, I am content.”

Sansa is left quite speechless by this. She always assumed Varys was a flatterer who wanted nothing more than to advance at court, but this...this is nothing like the powdered courtier she thought she knew.

“I spoke with your father before he died, you know,” he says in a softer tone. “I admired Eddard Stark because I believed he, too, would serve the people. And he would have, were it not for Cersei. I went to him in his prison cell; he was resigned to dying, but you stopped him from losing hope.”

“Me?” she says in surprise. “What did I do?”

“I told him how you appealed to Joffrey, and Cersei. He said his life was no precious thing, but when I asked about your life, I saw a change in him. Your father loved you dearly, Lady Stark, and I believe he would be proud of you if he could see you now.”

It isn’t the first time someone has voiced that sentiment to Sansa, but it never fails to make her a little emotional. Even now, even after everything, there’s a little girl inside her who longs to make her parents proud.

“Thank you, Lord Varys,” she says, her voice stiffened with restraint.

He bows again. “I shall see your letter delivered, my lady.”

She thanks him again before heading down to the cave to inspect the miners’ progress. Chunks of dragonglass litter the ground, young boys gathering them up and putting them in barrels. In the cavern, the men use pickaxes to hew the obsidian from the stone, Davos overseeing from the center. Sansa picks her way to him, raising her arm to shield her face as flecks of dragonglass shower the room.

“You shouldn’t be in here, m’lady,” he says, taking her arm and steering her into the passage.

“I wanted to see how they were doing.”

“Well, so far, but it’s early yet.” Davos looks pleased. “Should have a healthy supply in a matter of days.”

A piece of dragonglass rolls out of the cavern and hits Davos’s boot. He bends down, picking up the morsel. It’s about the size of his thumb, catching the firelight and sparkling like a flame itself.

“For you,” he says with a smile, placing the obsidian in her hand. “A keepsake, that you may always be protected.”

No one can protect me .

She forces a smile. “Thank you, Ser Davos.” She slips the dragonglass into her pocket. She hopes she will never need it.

.

Brienne and Podrick have been taking advantage of the castle’s amenities by sparring on a daily basis. Brienne has taken to doing this on the beach, the uneven ground providing a new challenge to Podrick. She’s just finished disarming him and shoving him into said sand when Sansa finds them.

“My lady,” Brienne says, bowing her head.

“Please don’t stop on my account.”

“That’s all right--I think Podrick has learned enough for one day.”

Podrick, who is covered in sand and rubbing his hip, gingerly bows to Sansa.

Brienne sheathes her sword. “How goes the mining?”

“Well; dragonglass is easy to mine, or so I’m led to believe.” Sansa withdraws the piece of obsidian Ser Davos gave her. “Here.”

Brienne examines the piece. “You should have it set--turn it into a necklace.”

“I was thinking of that. And giving it to Daenerys.”

Something in Brienne’s expressions turns almost sly. “Really, now?”

“As a way to thank her for allowing us to mine the dragonglass,” Sansa defends.

“I’m sure,” Brienne says, her voice echoing her sly smile.

“What are you getting at?”

“With respect, my lady, I think you are...taken with Queen Daenerys.”

“I am not taken with her,” Sansa says at once, cheeks reddening at the prospect. She likes Daenerys, but to be taken with her… “I...admire and respect her. She is a good queen.”

“That she is,” Brienne agrees. “She ought to sit on the Iron Throne in place of Cersei.”

“She will,” Sansa says confidently.

Brienne smiles again.

“ What ?”

“I believe your brother has unwittingly played the matchmaker,” the taller woman says, eyes sparkling. “It’s a good alliance, though it leaves the question of an heir…”

“Women can’t marry other women,” Sansa says, face as red as her hair.

“Women also haven’t sat on the Iron Throne since Rhaenyra Targaryen, and yet Cersei sits on it now and Daenerys will sit on it before long. Women cannot lead khalasars , yet Daenerys has united all the khalasars behind her banner and has brought them to Westeros, something that was never possible before. If Daenerys wants you to rule by her side, she will make it so.”

“But that’s if she wants me to rule by her side,” Sansa says quietly.

“With respect, my lady,” Podrick pipes up, eyes lowered, “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but...I do not think your feelings are...unrequited.”

“Pod!” snaps Brienne, but there’s a hint of mirth in her expression.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sansa clears her throat. “I’m still wed to Lord Tyrion. I...think.”

“I feel fairly certain that even if your marriage was still valid, Queen Daenerys would have no trouble dissolving it,” Brienne says reasonably.

Sansa puts her hands over her face. “Let’s stop talking about it.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

But Sansa has a feeling this won’t be the last she’s heard of the matter.

.

And it isn’t; she and Ser Davos are walking down to the cave to oversee the mining when he brings it up.

“What do you think of her?”

“Who?” Sansa asks, hoping dearly that Davos means Missandei, to whom he has taken a liking.

“I believe you know of whom I speak,” he says significantly.

Sansa sighs. “I think she is a wise and capable ruler. I think she will make a good queen once she takes the Iron Throne from Cersei.”

“And I think you will make a good consort to sit beside that throne.”

“Have you been talking to Brienne?” she asks, hackles raised.

Davos’s beard twitches in a smile. “Perhaps.”

“I can’t marry Daenerys; even if I wasn’t already married to Lord Tyrion, we’re both women, and she needs an heir to secure her dynasty.”

“There are more ways than one to choose an heir. She could have a child with a man and legitimize the bastard. She may not even have to legitimize them, seeing as how the Northerners chose a bastard as their king. She could choose another heir altogether, one not of her blood.”

“We don’t have the luxury to talk about what-ifs,” Sansa says testily. “The army of the dead is marching on us, remember?”

As they descend the stairs, they come across Missandei, who Davos greets warmly.

“Ser Davos, Lady Stark,” the other woman says with a polite bow. “Forgive me, but may I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Sansa says, hoping Missandei is not in on the conspiracy Brienne and Davos seem to have started.

“You are called Lady Stark, but were married to Lord Tyrion, and then wed to Ramsay Bolton...so wouldn’t you be called Lady Bolton?”

Sansa’s back stiffens. “I was married to both lords against my will,” she explains. “I am proud of my Stark heritage.”

“Which brings me to another question,” Missandei prods. “Why are you Sansa Stark but your brother is Jon Snow?”

That question is easier to answer. “Jon is a bastard.” At the confused look on Missandei’s face, Sansa clarifies, “Jon’s mother is different than mine; my father wed my mother, so their children are legitimate, but my father was not married to Jon’s mother, so he is illegitimate. A bastard. In the North, bastards are given the surname ‘Snow’.”

“Is the custom different in Naath?” Davos asks.

“We don’t have marriage in Naath, so the concept of a bastard doesn’t exist,” the adviser says, still looking confused.

“That sounds...liberating,” Davos says with a significant look at Sansa.

She chooses to ignore him. “Why did you leave your homeland?” she asks Missandei.

“I was stolen away by slavers,” the other woman says patiently, but there’s no mistaking the grief behind her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“If I may,” Davos prods, “how did a slave girl come to advise Daenerys Targaryen?”

Missandei smiles. “She bought me from my master and set me free.”

“That was good of her,” Davos says. “Of course, you’re serving her now, aren’t you?”

Missandei’s smile fades. “I serve my queen because I want to serve my queen. Because I believe in her. All of us who came from Essos believe in her. She’s not our queen because she’s the daughter of some king we never knew. She’s the queen we chose .”

“You’re not the only one,” Davos says with a sly look at Sansa.

Before she can scold him, his face changes. She and Missandei both look out to sea, where they see a ship coming into the cove. Its sail is black and covered with a gold kraken.

The Greyjoy sigil.

The three of them descend the steps to the beach, walking out to meet the boat. Some of the Dothraki accompany them, arakhs in hand should this be the wrong Greyjoy alighting from the boat.

But it isn’t. It’s Theon, looking not quite like his old self, but something like it.

“Theon!” she calls.

He looks up, eyes widening. “Sansa!”

They run to meet each other, Theon catching her in his arms and swinging her off her feet. She holds him tightly, breathing in the saltwater smell of him.

“We heard you were attacked--we thought you were dead,” she says, utterly relieved to have him here and safe in her arms. She slides down to the ground, looking at him.

His eyes are lowered. “I should be.”

“Your sister?”

“Euron has her,” he says with effort. “I came to ask the queen to help me get her back.”

“The queen isn’t here right now,” Sansa says, heart breaking a little. Poor Theon. He had only wanted to find his sister, and now she’s been taken from him. Will nothing ever go right for him?

“Where is she?”

“In the Reach. She should be back soon.” She turns to Missandei. “Surely you can extend the queen’s hospitality to her ally?”

“Of course,” Missandei says at once. “We will have baths drawn and supper made for you all.”

Sansa and Theon walk together, arms around each other.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I wish I was dead,” he says moodily. “Or in Yara’s place.”

“Don’t say that,” Sansa scolds.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, tactfully changing the subject.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

So Sansa tells him everything, all about finding Jon at the Wall, about the Battle of the Bastards and winning back Winterfell, about the army of the dead and making Jon King in the North. They’re at a table in the dining hall and supping on bread and broth by the time she finishes.

“That’s a lot to take in,” Theon murmurs.

“It is, and it seems to grow every day,” she sighs.

“At least Daenerys has given you leave to mine the dragonglass.”

“There is that,” she admits. “But dragonglass will only do so much with our numbers being what they are.”

“I wish I could help you,” Theon says, covering her hand with his.

“And I wish I could help you.”

“But we need Daenerys.”

“Yes,” she sighs. “We need her. But whether she’ll help us…”

“She will. I’m sure of it.”

“I wish I could be as sure. But some part of me fears she’ll become my enemy.”

“I’ll protect you if it comes to that,” he says, squeezing her hand. “You know I will.”

“I know,” she murmurs. “I just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

For all of Davos and Brienne’s teasing her about marrying Daenerys, there is the very real possibility that they could become enemies. Sansa doesn’t think she could bear it if that were to happen; and that’s why some part of her wishes desperately that Jon would bend the knee.

.

It’s good to have Theon around, even if he is miserable over his sister. Sansa walks with him along the beach often, glad to be in the company of someone who’s known her since childhood.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for Theon to join Davos and Brienne in teasing Sansa over Daenerys.

“But what do you call the wife of a queen? Surely not Queen Sansa, as that would confuse people, don’t you think?”

“Theon.”

“I only wonder, will that make you Queen Consort, or will we call you Princess so as to make it less confusing?”

“Theon.”

“Though Queen Sansa has a nice ring to it--”

“ Theon Greyjoy , by the old gods and the new …”

When he grins, it almost makes her feel like a child at Winterfell again.

Chapter Text

Daenerys has been gone for two weeks when a ship is spotted near the island. A boat rows to shore while Sansa is at the cave. One man alights and is promptly met by four of Daenerys’s Dothraki. To Sansa’s surprise, the man--who looks Westerosi--speaks flawless Dothraki. The five men exchange words for a long moment before the one Sansa takes to be their captain nods and takes them up the beach. The men in the boat push it back into the water and row out to the ship.

“Who do you think he is?” she asks Brienne.

“A messenger, perhaps,” the other woman speculates. “Must be Essosi.”

“Why do you say that?”

“How many Westerosi do you know who can speak Dothraki?”

She makes a fair point.

“Do you think it means more troops?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps he’s a sellsword come to aid the queen.”

Sansa bites her lip. When the time comes, will Daenerys send a sellsword army for the North?

Before she can ponder this thought too deeply, a great beating sound comes from overhead, and looking up, Sansa can see the great black dragon that Daenerys calls Drogon. His enormous wings carry him to the cliffs, where Sansa loses sight of him.

So. Daenerys has returned.

.

It doesn’t take long for Sansa to learn what happened in the Reach; it’s all anyone can talk about.

“I knew Randyll Tarly; he was a horrible man,” Brienne says tersely. “He lacked honor. I can’t say I’m sorry to hear what happened to him.”

“Still, burning his son,” Davos says uneasily. “That was a shade too far.”

“He had a choice.” Sansa has never met Dickon Tarly, but she knows from what she’s heard that he lacked wits. A smart man would have said nothing; an even smarter man would have bent the knee.

Smart, yes, but craven.

Is that what she wants Jon to do? Be a craven and bend the knee?

We won’t survive if he doesn’t . And then it won’t matter that he wasn’t a coward. Nothing will matter when they’re dead.

They need Daenerys, bent knee or no.

.

She’s down at the cave again, observing the progress of the mining, when Missandei finds her.

“Our queen requests your presence,” she informs Sansa, prim as always. “Ser Davos, as well.”

“I’m honored,” Davos says, but the look he throws Sansa tells her plainly that he doesn’t like this. Still, they follow Missandei into the castle and up to a chamber they’ve never been to.

The first thing Sansa notices about the chamber is the table. It’s an enormous, misshapen thing. There are figurines placed haphazardly on it, in the shapes of lions, wolves, dragons. When she looks closer, she sees that the table isn’t misshapen at all; it’s in the shape of Westeros, and all the figurines on it represent the different armies. At the end of the table sits Daenerys, flanked by Tyrion and Varys. Behind her stands a man Sansa does not know.

“Your Grace,” Sansa says, inclining her head. “You sent for me?”

“I did.” Daenerys waves a hand, and Varys comes forward holding out a scroll. “A raven came for you. From Winterfell.”

Sansa feels a twinge of annoyance at having to read Jon’s letter in front of an audience, but she dutifully unrolls the scroll and holds it out before her.

Sansa,

I have good news, and bad. The good is that Bran and Arya have both returned to Winterfell, alive and unharmed. The bad is that Bran has visions now, and has seen the army of the dead near Eastwatch. Come back to Winterfell and bring as much dragonglass as you can.

Jon

She stares at the words for a long moment. Bran and Arya are alive. She had hoped they would be, but she hadn’t known; she hasn’t heard from them in so long.

And Bran has visions now? How had that happened? From his fall, she wonders?

“Is everything all right?” Daenerys asks, shaking Sansa from her musing.

She shakes her head, looking up at the queen. “My brother and sister have been missing for years, and they’ve returned to Winterfell. Alive.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Daenerys says, and she truly sounds relieved for Sansa.

“It is.” Sansa swallows. “But less wonderful news is that the army of the dead was seen marching to Eastwatch.”

“The Wall will keep them out, surely?” Varys says, eyebrow raised.

“It might not.” She hesitates. “My brother wants me to come home. I fear the worst.”

“I thought you didn’t have enough men.” Daenerys sounds suspicious.

“We’ll have to make do. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t,” Daenerys says, visibly losing her patience. “Even if you did bend the knee, I can’t afford to march North and give the country to Cersei.”

“There may be a way,” Tyrion says slowly, drawing their attention, “for you to march alongside her.”

“What do you mean?” Daenerys asks, brow furrowed.

“My sister doesn’t believe in the army of the dead; she thinks they’re just stories for wet nurses to frighten children. What if we prove her wrong?”

“I don’t think she’ll march North to see the army of the dead,” Sansa begins, but Tyrion shakes his head.

“Bring the dead to her.”

“I thought that was what we were trying to avoid,” Daenerys points out.

“We don’t have to bring the whole army.” Tyrion sounds...excited. “Only one soldier. Is that possible?”

Sansa considers it. Surely one of them can be captured and transported south? “I think so.”

“Bring one of these things down to King’s Landing and show her the truth,” Tyrion urges.

“Anything you bring back will be useless unless Cersei grants us an audience and is somehow convinced not to murder us the moment we set foot in the capital,” Varys reminds them.

“The only person she listens to is Jaime. He might listen to me.”

Daenerys catches Tyrion’s look and frowns. “And how would you get into King’s Landing?”

As one, Sansa and Tyrion turn to look at the one man in the room who knows how.

“I can smuggle you in,” Davos says reluctantly, “but if the gold cloaks were to recognize you, I’m warning you, I’m not a fighter.”

“Well, it will be all for nothing if we don’t have one of these dead men,” Daenerys points out.

“Fair point.” Varys turns to Sansa. “How do you propose to find one?”

Sansa doesn’t know. Could Jon send someone to catch one?

“With the queen’s permission, I’ll go north and find one,” the man Sansa doesn’t know says. When Daenerys turns to look at him, he continues, “You asked me to find a cure so I could serve you. Allow me to serve you.”

Sansa licks her lips. “With all due respect, do you know the land beyond the Wall, Ser…?”

“Mormont. Jorah Mormont,” he says, and her eyebrows shoot towards her hairline. So this is Lord Commander Mormont’s disgraced son, the nephew of Maege Mormont and cousin to little Lyanna.

“Ser Jorah,” she amends. “Then you know the North, but have you ever been beyond the Wall?”

“I haven’t,” he admits. “I would need a guide.”

“Tormund would take him,” Sansa says, turning to Davos. “He’s at Eastwatch; if we sent Ser Jorah up by ship…”

“They could take one of the wights marching towards it,” Davos finishes. “It’s an excellent plan, my lady, but may I suggest that I accompany Ser Jorah? Tormund knows me, but he doesn’t know Ser Jorah; he might get...suspicious.”

“You are sure?” Sansa asks, concerned.

“The wildfire at Blackwater couldn’t kill me; why should the dead men beyond the Wall?”

Sansa hesitates. “Very well. I will write to my brother.” She turns back to Daenerys. “There is a wildling loyal to Jon at Eastwatch; he will take Ser Davos and Ser Jorah beyond the Wall and capture one of these wights.”

“If we can agree to get an audience with Cersei,” Varys pipes up.

Daenerys drums her fingers on the tabletop. “And if Cersei disagrees?”

“She won’t,” Tyrion says. “She’ll be too curious. Dragons, white walkers, having me in strangling distance...my sister won’t be able to resist the opportunity.”

“Then it’s settled.” Daenerys rises. “Lord Tyrion, Ser Davos, make haste to King’s Landing. Time is of the essence.” She looks at Sansa. “We can’t let anything happen to our northern friends.”

.

Sansa stands on the beach with Daenerys, watching Tyrion and Ser Davos row out to sea. It isn’t worth the effort of taking a ship, not when they’re trying to sneak into Blackwater Bay.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Daenerys asks, surprising Sansa.

She looks down at the shorter woman. “I think so. Cersei hates Tyrion, but I think she would rather see him face to face than turn him away.”

Daenerys takes a deep breath. “If she doesn’t agree to meet…”

“She will,” Sansa says firmly. “Her curiosity will get the better of her. At the very least, she’ll want the measure of you.”

“I want the measure of her myself,” the queen admits. “It’s one thing to be advised by Tyrion, who grew up with her, but to actually know her for myself…”

“She’s horrible,” Sansa says quietly.

Daenerys turns fully to her. “Will you go with me? To show her the wight?”

For some reason, this makes Sansa feel warm. “If it please Your Grace.”

“Does it please you ?” Daenerys presses.

“I don’t know,” Sansa admits. “Seeing her again will upset me, but to be by your side when I do, to show her that despite her best efforts, she hasn’t broken me...I would like that.”

Daenerys closes her hand around Sansa’s, flooding her with even more warmth. “No one could break you.”

“They tried,” she says softly. “And they almost succeeded.”

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” Daenerys’s free hand reaches up to stroke Sansa’s cheek. “You are strong, Sansa of House Stark. Stronger than anyone I know.”

Sansa’s head feels light, her tongue heavy. “Except for you,” she manages.

“We have both survived horrible things, and it has made us stronger.” Her hand falls away from Sansa’s cheek. “Winter is coming for all of us. I’m glad you will be by my side when it does.”

Sansa takes a deep breath. Yes. She will be by Daenerys’s side. Now, and always.

Chapter Text

Davos and Tyrion are only gone for a couple of days. In that time, Sansa takes it upon herself to oversee the mining. Sometimes Daenerys accompanies her, curious.

“But what does it do to them?” the queen asks. “I know it destroys them, but how?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa admits. “I’ve never seen one, let alone seen one being killed. Jon would know.”

She’d written to Jon as soon as Davos and Tyrion left, informing him of their plan. She only hopes the raven she sent will be able to survive the icy winds of the North.

“I’m curious to meet this brother of yours. Do you think he’ll come south when we meet with Cersei?”

“It’s possible, though he’ll have Ser Davos and myself to speak for the North, so he needn’t come.” She shakes her head. “But who can say? Jon has always done as he pleases, regardless of the sense it makes, and now that Bran and Arya have returned and there will be a Stark in Winterfell again, he may very well ride south.”

“He’s impulsive?” Daenerys asks with a smile.

“Just enough to be irritating,” Sansa says, smiling back.

“I’m curious--Jon is your bastard brother, but you’ve just said your trueborn brother returned. Wouldn’t that make him King in the North?”

She shakes her head. “They chose Jon because he is a warrior; a commander. It has naught to do with his birth. And anyway, Bran is crippled; the Northern lords would never want him as their king, just as they would never want a woman as their queen. Our way is the old way.”

“Does it bother you? That they chose your bastard brother over you, the trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark?”

“No,” Sansa says honestly. “As frustrating as my brother can be, the Northern lords chose him for a reason. He’s a good king, he only needs counsel.”

“He’s fortunate to receive it from you.” Daenerys smiles up at her. “I’m glad he sent you, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa’s cheeks flush for some reason. “I’m glad of it too, Your Grace.” She’s tempted, suddenly, by the mad urge to lean forward and kiss Daenerys. She could, easily. But should she? What would Daenerys do? Kiss her back?

The thought nearly makes her weak at the knees, and it’s a relief when Missandei apologetically informs Daenerys that the khals are having a dispute over horses. They head for the castle, leaving Sansa in the cave with the miners.

They’re making good progress, emptying so much space in the cavern that it looks like an entirely different place. Jon should be pleased with how much they’ve collected, all of which will be sent on the ship north to Eastwatch; Ser Jorah can take some of it for him and Tormund, and the rest can be sent to Winterfell.

“My lady,” a familiar voice calls, and when Sansa turns, she sees Ser Davos leading a young man.

“You survived King’s Landing?” she asks with a smile.

“Yet again. My lady, this is Clovis; he’s a smith headed north to the forges of Winterfell. He wanted to pay his respects.”

Sansa smiles kindly at Clovis. “Thank you, Clovis, we could always use smiths like you, especially with this.” She gestures to the cavern.

“Never worked with dragonglass before,” Clovis admits before Davos shoots him a look.

“Did Tyrion get through to Jaime Lannister?” she asks, turning her attention back to Davos.

“He did at that, and I believe Ser Jaime will be able to convince Cersei, which means we can send Ser Jorah to Eastwatch this very day.”

“With respect, milady,” Clovis says, eliciting another dark look from Davos, “I’d like to go with Ser Jorah.”

Sansa raises her eyebrows. “You told him?” she asks Davos.

“The truth is, milady, I’m not Clovis. I’m Gendry, the bastard son of Robert Baratheon.”

She sees it now, in the black hair and piercing eyes. But why the secrecy?

“He was meant to keep that to himself,” Davos snaps.

“Our fathers trusted each other,” Gendry says. “And I knew your sister. Arya.”

“Arya?” Sansa blinks. “How?”

“I was headed north for the Night’s Watch; she came along, disguised as a boy. We left the day they killed your father,” Gendry tells her. “We had many...adventures, together, but I’m sorry to say I lost her in the Riverlands.”

“She’s in Winterfell again,” Sansa assures him. “I haven’t seen her myself, but she arrived after I left.”

Gendry’s face clears. “Good, good, I’m...glad she made it home.”

“This is a touching meeting and all, but lad, you’re not going beyond the Wall,” Davos interrupts.

“Why not? I’m sure you and Ser Jorah could use the help,” Sansa says reasonably. “Can you fight?”

“I can,” Gendry confirms.

“And you know what you’ll be facing?”

“I do.”

“I don’t see the problem,” she says, turning to Davos.

“As my father used to say, ‘better be a coward for a minute than dead the rest of your life’,” Davos grumbles.

“I owe you my life,” Gendry says to him. “Twice over. But if what you told me is true about what’s up there, I can’t wait out this war.”

Davos looks imploringly at Sansa, but she says nothing; if Gendry wants to go, let him.

“Yeah, nobody mind me,” Davos grumbles. “All I’ve ever done is live to a ripe old age. Very well; let’s get you suited up. You’ll freeze to death in those clothes.”

As the two men head up to the castle, Sansa finds herself releasing a deep breath. It’s really happening. And if they succeed, they may well find Cersei Lannister on their side.

.

Davos, Gendry, Ser Jorah, and the Northmen leave that very day, taking with them a portion of dragonglass; the rest will be sent back with Sansa after they meet with Cersei.

Sansa does not fail to notice the tender goodbye that Daenerys gives Ser Jorah. Jealousy blooms inside her, making her wonder if the knight is Daenerys’s lover. Perhaps this is who Daenerys means to wed when she becomes queen. He could give her an heir. Sansa could never give her that.

It doesn’t stop her from wandering into Tyrion’s chamber that night and asking him about it over a Dornish red.

“What is Ser Jorah to the queen?”

“A trusted friend and advisor,” Tyrion says, regarding her over the rim of his goblet. He doesn’t offer her more, which means Sansa has to press deeper.

“They seem...close.”

“They are. He’s been with her since she married Khal Drogo.”

She takes a deep breath. “Are they lovers?”

“Gods, no,” Tyrion laughs. “Though I’m sure Jorah wishes they were. No, he’ll carry a torch for her as long as he lives, but he will only ever be a friend to Daenerys.”

“Not a husband? A father for her children?” she can’t stop herself from asking.

Tyrion sets down his goblet. “Daenerys cannot have children.”

Sansa’s mouth falls open. “Oh.”

He nods. “She is barren, which means she is not required to marry a man and have children...which means that she’s free to marry you.”

Sansa flushes. “Why does everyone think we’re going to get married?”

“Because we all sincerely hope you will,” he says, smiling. “You’d make quite a lovely couple, and it would be a good alliance.”

“But we’re married,” she points out.

“A sham marriage, and unconsummated,” he reminds her. “And let us not forget that you were married to Ramsay Bolton, a union which was consummated, if I heard correctly.”

She looks away.

In a gentler tone, he continues, “Even if we were still married, Daenerys would dissolve it.”

“Why?” she whispers. “Why would she do that?”

“So she can marry you.” He leans forward. “Sansa, I know you are in love with her, and I know she returns those feelings. If you would only tell her--”

“No.” She shakes her head, reaching for her wine. “I...I can’t. I’m loyal to the King in the North, and if she and Jon go to war--”

“You could stop it,” he reminds her. “Either by encouraging Jon to bend the knee or by marrying the two kingdoms. Daenerys can have no children and is the last Targaryen; there are no distant cousins for her to name her heir. But if you married her, she may name a Stark as heir to the throne. If her heir and Jon’s heir were one and the same, it would unite the North to the rest of Westeros.”

It’s a good plan, she realizes. “Jon might not agree.”

“He might not,” Tyrion allows. “But he would be a fool not to.”

It’s true. Jon would be an idiot not to see the benefits of such a marriage. But gods, Sansa wishes her marriage wasn’t up to him. As her brother, she knows he wants her to be happy and to only marry if it’s her choice...but as her king, he may have to marry her to a northern lord, or to another lord in Westeros to maintain an alliance.

But what would be a better alliance than to the Iron Throne?

It’s all ludicrous, of course; it’s assuming that Daenerys even wants to marry Sansa, which she may well not.

Tyrion seems to be reading her mind. “I think Daenerys is equally afraid you do not return her affections.”

“I think you’re seeing things, all because you want a political marriage.”

He puts a hand to his heart. “You wound me, my lady.”

Sansa is quiet for a long moment. “What if...I tell her and...she rebuffs me?” she asks at last. “What if she doesn’t return my feelings at all and is disgusted by me?”

“I doubt very much anyone could be disgusted by you,” he says mildly. “Especially the queen, what with the way she keeps looking at you.” He does his best imitation, widening his eyes and adopting a forlorn sort of look.

“Stop,” Sansa says, though she can’t help smiling.

“Talk to her. Or I will.”

.

It takes two weeks for Sansa to pluck up the courage to say anything to Daenerys. In the meantime, she avoids the dragon queen as much as possible, choosing to walk on the beach with Brienne or hide out in Theon’s chamber.

“You’ll have to tell her, you know,” he says one day when Sansa throws herself into his room after a close call.

“I won’t,” she says stubbornly.

Theon’s face cracks into a grin. “Then I will.” And with that, he opens the door and calls, “Queen Daenerys!”

“Theon!” Sansa hisses, chasing him out into the hallway, where she attempts to drag him back inside. “Theon, shut up !”

“My queen!” Theon calls again, dancing out of her grasp. She feels like they’re children at Winterfell again, Theon being his facetious self while Sansa stamped her foot in childish indignation.

“What is it?” Daenerys asks as she rounds the corner, Missandei at her side.

Sansa’s entire face reddens. “It’s--”

“Sansa has something she wants to tell you,” Theon says smugly. “Well, Sansa?”

She glares at him. “There isn’t anything--”

“Perhaps Lady Sansa would like to speak to Her Grace in private,” Missandei suggests, a barely-concealed smile on her face as she and Theon fairly flee the scene.

Missandei, you traitor .

Daenerys looks at Sansa expectantly. “What is it, Lady Sansa?”

“I…” What is she going to say? I think I’m in love with you? “I made you this,” she blurts, plunging a hand inside her pocket and withdrawing the dragonglass she’d set in wire.

Daenerys looks surprised. “You made it?”

“I only wrapped it in wire and put a string on it, but...it’s dragonglass. From the cave.” She holds it out for the queen. “I wanted to thank you for letting us mine it.”

“Sansa, this is very kind,” Daenerys says softly. “Will you put it on me?”

Sansa swallows and nods. Daenerys turns, holding her silvery hair to the side and exposing the back of her neck. Trying to restrain the trembling in her fingers, Sansa loops the necklace around Daenerys’s neck and fastens it in the back. Daenerys pulls her hair over the string, her braids cascading over her back as she does. Sansa wants to run her fingers through that hair, to braid it and weave flowers through it.

When Daenerys turns, she’s smiling, touching the dragonglass necklace. “I love it.”

“I...am glad,” Sansa manages.

Daenerys reaches up, touching Sansa’s cheek. “Sansa.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa murmurs, trembling all over.

“Do I make you nervous?”

Sansa shakes her head, but there’s no denying the way she’s trembling, the shortness of her breath.

“You make me very nervous,” Daenerys says. “You are all I can think about.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. “Your Grace--”

“Daenerys,” the other woman corrects. “You must call me Daenerys.”

“Daenerys,” Sansa whispers.

Daenerys moves closer. “Kiss me, Sansa.”

Sansa obeys, lowering her head and pressing her lips to the other woman’s.

She does not even have time to revel in the feeling, to mark how sweet her lips taste, how soft they feel, before they are interrupted.

“Your Grace I--I’m terribly sorry,” Varys says, looking uncharacteristically flustered as the two women spring apart. He averts his eyes. “Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude.”

“What do you want, Lord Varys?” Daenerys asks testily.

He holds out a scroll. “A raven came from the North--for Lady Sansa.”

Heart still beating from her kiss, Sansa reaches out to take the scroll. She breaks the wax seal and unfurls the parchment, steeling herself to see Jon’s reprimands.

Instead, she finds a message from Maester Wolkan, informing her that Jon received her message and rode with haste to Eastwatch, intending to join the wight hunt.

Sansa looks up, pale.

“What is it?” Daenerys asks.

“Jon is riding to Eastwatch--the fool ,” Sansa murmurs. “He’s going to join Davos and Ser Jorah.”

“He’s going beyond the Wall?” Daenerys asks, eyes wide. “But...he’s the King in the North!”

“That doesn’t matter; he feels...responsible. He wants to be there because he’s fought the dead before and he doesn’t want Davos and Ser Jorah to go without his help.” That’s exactly what he was thinking and she knows it. She should’ve seen this coming. She feels so stupid.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Daenerys touches her arm, her face concerned. “You’re shaking.”

“We have to stop him,” Sansa says, feeling her breath coming short. “We have to...send a raven, or follow the ship…”

“They could be beyond the Wall by now,” Varys says gently.

“He’s so stupid !” Sansa bursts. “Trotting off on a dangerous mission when he has his people to protect! If he dies, what will happen to the North? Who will lead them?”

“You will,” Daenerys says calmly.

Sansa shakes her head, and to her horror, tears spill from her eyes. “I can’t. I don’t know how to stop the army of the dead, only Jon does, and if he dies...if he dies, the North will fall to the Night King, I know they will--”

Daenerys wraps her arms around Sansa, drawing the other woman into a warm embrace. “Hush now. The North isn’t going to fall. I won’t let it. And I won’t let Jon die.”

“How?” Sansa sniffs.

Daenerys pulls back, looking her in the eye. “Because I’m going to take my dragons and fly up there.”

Chapter Text

“Lady Sansa, I beg you.”

Sansa shakes her head as she wraps her warmest furs around her. “Jon is my brother and the King in the North; I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t try to stop him.”

“Jon is his own man; he can think for himself!” Brienne protests.

“Clearly he can’t, or he wouldn’t have gone on such a foolish errand,” Sansa reminds her.

“It’s dangerous above the Wall! You’ve never been!”

“No, but I’ll have three dragons with me.” She fixes Brienne with a look. “I’m going to go. You can’t stop me.”

Brienne shakes her head. “I swore an oath to protect you--”

“And you have. But this is something I need to do. For my family. For the North. Please understand, Brienne.”

Brienne hesitates. “Please...promise you won’t leave the dragon’s back once you’ve crossed the Wall.”

“I promise.”

Brienne looks marginally relieved. “May the gods go with you.”

Sansa gives her a reassuring smile before heading down to meet Daenerys.

The queen is bedecked in white furs, ready to brave the cold. She nods at Sansa and leads the way out to her dragons.

“Your Grace!” Tyrion calls from the stairs, hurrying after them. “Your Grace, Lord Varys says you mean to fly beyond the Wall. Tell me this isn’t true!”

“It’s true,” Daenerys says without looking back.

“Sansa! Tell her this is madness!”

Sansa says nothing.

Tyrion chases them all the way out to the dragons, who wake from a nap as the humans draw near. Sansa, who has never been near the beasts, feels a flash of fear, but they regard her disinterestedly, more intent on the presence of their mother.

Tyrion puts on a spurt of speed, trying to catch up to Daenerys. “You can’t! The most important person in the world can’t fly off to the most dangerous place in the world!”

“Who else can?” she asks him.

“No one,” he admits. “They knew the risks when they left. You can’t win the throne if you’re dead. You can’t break the wheel if you’re dead.”

The largest of Daenerys’s dragons, Drogon, lowers his wing to the ground; she uses it to climb onto his back. She reaches out for Sansa, pulling the other woman up behind her.

It feels strange, to sit on a dragon; it’s like an enormous horse. There’s a rumbling beneath Sansa, though whether that’s Drogon’s breath or his heartbeat or something else entirely, she doesn’t know. She feels wobbly and uncertain and wraps her arms around Daenerys’s waist for security.

“So what would you have me do?” Daenerys asks Tyrion.

“Nothing,” he says, pained. “Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do. If you die, we’re all lost. Everyone. Everything.”

He isn’t wrong, but Daenerys will be safe from Drogon’s back--won’t she? After all, what can kill a dragon?

“You told me to do nothing before and I listened to you. I’m not doing nothing again,” Daenerys says firmly. She pats Drogon’s back. The great creature responds at once, rising onto his haunches and running for the cliff’s edge. The movement makes Sansa feel even more precarious, so she tightens her grip on Daenerys’s waist, breathing hard as Drogon tips over the cliff’s edge. She screws her eyes shut, sure she’s going to fall, but then she feels the beat of his powerful wings, carrying them up and into the air. When she opens her eyes again, she sees the sea far, far below them.

“Don’t look down,” Daenerys advises.

“Too late.”

One of Daenerys’s gloved hands squeezes hers. “We’re safe up here; Drogon has never let me down. And he won’t let you down, or Jon.”

Sansa wants to believe that.

.

The journey to Eastwatch takes three days. Sansa spends most of it clinging to Daenerys’s back, her breath forming white clouds as the air turns colder. She knows they’ve reached the North when snow and icy rain pelts them, and before long she sees the Wall looming ahead of them. She’s never seen it before, but she knows that endless block of ice is all that’s keeping Westeros safe from the army of the dead.

Drogon touches down just before the Wall. The wildlings stationed there are amazed, standing around and gawking as Davos runs out to meet them.

“Jon!” Sansa cries. “Where is he?”

“He left with the others about a week ago,” Davos says grimly. “Gendry returned last night.”

“Only Gendry?” she asks, voice rising in pitch.

“They sent him back to send a raven to you--they’re in trouble,” Davos explains quickly. “Your Grace, you need to go to them.”

Daenerys starts back for Drogon. “Stay here, Sansa.”

“No! I’m coming with you!”

“It’s dangerous for you--”

“It’s dangerous for you !” Sansa protests. “I’m not going to sit here and helplessly await whatever happens next! Jon is my brother and you…” Her voice catches. “I’m not letting you go without me.”

Daenerys nods. “Very well. Stay close to me.”

Sansa nods, clambering onto Drogon after Daenerys and wrapping her arms around the other woman’s waist. Her legs are sore from riding like this, but she forces herself to ignore the pain. Jon needs her, may very well be dead for all she knows. She has to go. She has to help him.

.

There’s ice in Sansa’s hair by the time they find Jon.

They see a black mass against the white snow, and when they fly closer, they see that the black mass is a writhing, squalling mass of corpses. In the center, standing on a rock, are a handful of men with pale faces and white furs--Jon and the others.

So, Sansa thinks with a swoop of fear--this is the army of the dead.

Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal descend on the corpses, breathing fire. Sansa has to shield her eyes, so bright are the flames; warmth floods her as Drogon conjures fire, destroying hundreds of wights in one breath. Her legs, numb with cold and pain, begin to tremble. She has never felt so powerful in all her life, and it terrifies her.

Drogon lands on the ice, incinerating every wight that comes towards them. Jon runs forward, his eyes wide.

“Sansa!”

“Jon!” she calls, reaching out a hand to help him up.

But a wight dodges Drogon’s fire and runs forward, and Jon falls back to fight it off. A familiar face carrying a covered corpse climbs aboard.

“You!” she exclaims, seeing none other than Sandor Clegane.

His eyes widen. “So, the little bird has learned to fly at last.”

There isn’t any time to wonder what the other is doing here; Tormund is scrambling up Drogon’s back, and Jon is still fighting wights.

“Jon!” Ser Jorah calls, but every time Jon cuts down one wight, two more appear in its place. Jorah and a man Sansa doesn’t know climb onto the dragon’s back, and still Jon fights.

An agonized scream from above catches their attention, and when they look up, they see Viserion falling from the sky, flames erupting out of his body. The flames suddenly extinguish, and in its place is blood.

All three dragons screech at each other, desperately trying to communicate, but it’s a lost cause; Viserion slams against the ice, slipping and sliding until it gives and he sinks into the water.

They all sit in stunned silence for a moment. What could have killed a dragon? What horrible, terrible thing could have killed such a creature?

“Go!” Jon shouts, shattering the still moment. Sansa twists around, seeing him running towards them. “Go now! Leave!”

Several wights hurtle towards him, shattering the ice beneath their feet and sinking into the water.

“Jon!” Sansa shrieks, her heart racing. She nearly climbs off the dragon, but Ser Jorah and Tormund grab her. “Don’t go, don’t go without him, don’t,” she begs, but Jon doesn’t come up.

“We have to go,” Jorah says. “My queen…”

“No, you can’t leave him, you can’t leave Jon!” Sansa protests, but even as Drogon flaps his wings, she sees the water still.

Nothing is moving beneath the surface.

She bursts into bitter tears, her eyes stinging as the cold air blows against her face.

She couldn’t save him.

.

Sansa cries until she can’t the whole way back to Eastwatch. Her legs are stiff from the cold when Drogon lands, and Tormund, exhausted as he must be, blood running from the gash on his head, has to help her hobble into the castle. He sits her by the fire and rubs her hands between his, trying to warm her.

Sansa stares dully into the flames. She’s so tired. She’s barely slept these last few days, and now that Jon is gone…

She closes her eyes, too tired even to cry. “I want to go to sleep.”

“Eat something first,” Tormund urges. “Drink some ale.”

“I don’t want any. I want sleep,” she says in the firmest voice she can manage.

“All right, lass.” It’s Davos who takes her by the arm and leads her up the winding steps of a tower, into a room that’s been lived in. It dimly occurs to her that this is Davos’s room, but she’s too tired to ask him about it. She lets him help her out of her cloak and boots, and then he’s tucking her into the bed. He covers her with furs and stokes the fire. She hears him say something, but she doesn’t register the words; as soon as she closes her eyes, she falls asleep.

.

She sleeps fitfully, plagued by dreams of Jon falling through the ice. She wakes once, only to find slim arms wrapped around her and a soft voice gently shushing her.

“It’s all right,” Daenerys says, stroking her hair. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

Sansa obeys, tucking herself into Daenerys’s warmth.

When she wakes again, Daenerys is still there, watching her intently.

“It wasn’t a dream, was it?” Sansa whispers. “He really is gone.”

Daenerys nods weakly. “I’m afraid so.”

Sansa closes her eyes, feeling them sting with tears.

“Oh, Sansa.” Daenerys draws her close, rubbing her back.

“Your dragon…”

“Viserion,” Daenerys says sadly. “Yes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry about Jon. I promised I’d save him for you, but…”

Sansa shakes her head. “You did everything you could. You did so much.” She pulls back to look at Daenerys. “Why?”

“Because.” There’s a sad smile on the other woman’s face. “I love you.”

The smallest tendril of joy unfurls inside her. “You...love me?”

“It’s mad, I know,” the dragon queen admits. “And I didn’t realize it until we were flying north. But I love you, Sansa Stark.”

“You hardly know me,” Sansa says, her mouth going dry.

“And yet, I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.” She strokes Sansa’s cheek. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way, and I know this...isn’t the right time to say it. But you asked, so…” She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. Whatever I can do...you only have to tell me.”

“Hold me,” Sansa whispers.

“I can do that.”

.

Daenerys holds her for a long time, stroking her hair and rubbing her back. Sansa can’t remember the last time someone took care of her like this, giving with no thought of taking.

She really does love me , she thinks, dazed.

She wants to be overjoyed by it, but everything in her feels so dead. Jon is dead. Viserion is dead. There is no more King in the North, and now there is one less dragon in the world. The army of the dead will defeat them all.

A knock on the door stirs them.

“Lady Sansa, are you awake?”

“Yes,” she answers, not moving from Daenerys’s embrace.

Ser Davos enters, taking in the sight of the two of them and nodding. “We’ll be heading out soon, milady. You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat,” Daenerys urges softly. “You need your strength.”

Sansa shrugs and sits up.

“We’ll be down shortly,” Daenerys informs Ser Davos.

He gives a small bow and leaves them.

“What’s the point? Jon is dead. Soon we’ll be dead too,” Sansa says dully.

Daenerys takes her hands. “Don’t talk that way. I’m not going to let the army of the dead defeat us. Not after what I’ve seen.”

“But how? They killed Viserion.”

Daenerys closes her eyes for a moment. “Yes. But I still have two dragons, and you have a mountain of dragonglass, and with them, we can defeat the army of the dead.” She kisses Sansa’s forehead. “Now please, eat something. Don’t waste away.”

Sansa lets Daenerys smooth her hair and then lead her downstairs, where the men are eating at one of the tables. They fall silent when the two women enter; Sansa ignores them, sitting obediently beside Daenerys. She eats and drinks everything they put in front of her, chewing mechanically, eyes staring at a ring on the table.

“My lady,” Davos finally says, tentative. “No one would fault you if you wanted to go home to Winterfell. We could send men to escort you back--”

“No,” she says, lifting her eyes to meet his. “I will go to King’s Landing.”

“You’ve just suffered a loss, you’ll want to be with your family--”

“I have to protect my family.” Some steel comes into her voice, making her straighten her back and hold Davos’s gaze. “Jon did not sacrifice himself so I could cower behind Winterfell’s walls. I will go to King’s Landing and represent the North.”

Davos inclines his head. “As you will, milady.”

Sandor Clegane gets up from the table. “Speaking of, we ought to head out soon. Beric, want to help me get that dead fucker?”

“Why not?” the man called Beric says in a bored tone, getting up too. Tormund goes with them, leaving Sansa with Daenerys, Ser Davos, and Ser Jorah.

“Forgive me for the...indelicacy, milady,” Davos says, clearing his throat. “But...we ought to talk about the Northern succession. Jon never named an heir…”

Sansa closes her eyes. She knows why it matters, but she can hardly think right now. “Bran.”

“Bran?” Davos repeats. “Your younger brother?”

“He’s the only surviving son of Ned Stark,” she says, her voice thick. “He should be King in the North.”

“Are you sure the Northern lords will support a boy with no experience? A boy who’s been missing these few years?”

“No,” she admits. “But what choice do we have?”

The other three are all gazing at her. It only takes her a moment to understand.

“ Me ?”

“You are wise beyond your years, able-bodied, and the eldest trueborn child of Ned Stark,” Davos points out. “Not to mention, you’ve won Daenerys Targaryen to our side, and will hopefully do the same with Cersei Lannister.”

“I think it’s time,” Daenerys says, laying her hand on Sansa’s, “that the North had a queen.”

Sansa stares at her. “I thought you wanted me to bend the knee.”

“There’s no need to bend the knee if you rule by my side,” Daenerys says softly.

Sansa can feel her heart start to thud. “Are you...are you asking me…?”

“Yes.” Daenerys smiles at her. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

Sansa can only gaze at her in shock for a long moment. So they were right--they were all right. Daenerys did want to marry her. And Sansa, if she’s being honest, wants to marry Daenerys. This woman who knows her so well, who loves her, who sacrificed one of her dragons to save her brother.

She will be Queen in the North, and she will marry Daenerys, and they will unite their kingdoms and defend Westeros from the army of the dead.

She turns to look at Davos, who’s watching with a smile. She can’t even find the words to form her question, but he nods.

“It’s a good match...Your Grace.”

Sansa turns back to Daenerys. “Yes,” she manages. “I will marry you. Nothing could make me happier.”

Daenerys swoops forward, kissing her sweetly. It ignites a fire in Sansa, makes her feel something for the first time since yesterday. She even feels... happy . She’s going to marry Daenerys. She’s going to marry Daenerys .

A horn sounds from far above them. The two women pull apart, eyes widening.

“What does that mean?” Daenerys asks.

Davos stands up. “One blast--rangers returning. But there aren’t any rangers who’ve been sent out…”

Sansa stumbles out of the room, running to the courtyard. Men are rushing past her, and a few moments later, a horse bearing a slumped-over rider enters through the tunnel.

Jon.

Chapter Text

They load Jon onto the ship, having already decided that they can’t spare the time to treat him at Eastwatch. His furs are stiff with ice, and they crack when Sansa and Davos pull them off him. They take off all his clothes, throwing them by the fire to dry before covering him with dry furs. Jon remains unconscious throughout, but thankfully alive and breathing.

“Don’t die on me again, don’t die,” Sansa whispers, touching his face. Already color has started to return to his cheeks, his skin a little less icy than it was a moment ago.

She stays with him for most of the day, holding his hand in hers and watching his chest rise and fall.

Daenerys sits patiently beside her, only speaking when Sansa speaks to her.

“Do you still want to marry me?” Sansa asks after a long time. “Now that Jon is back and I’m not Queen in the North?”

Daenerys’s eyes grow bright. “Of course I want to marry you. Nothing could stop me from wanting to marry you.”

Sansa leans forward and hesitantly brushes her lips against Daenerys’s. Daenerys encourages her, pressing her lips to Sansa’s and cupping her jaw. She feels so good, tastes so good, better than any of the kisses Sansa’s been forced to give. There is no force, no demand, no taking; only giving.

It will be like this in all things , she thinks dreamily.

For so many years, she’d thought she’d wanted a brave knight. Now, she has a brave queen.

.

They sleep in the same bed again that night, bodies curled around each other in Daenerys’s cabin. They kiss for hours, growing bolder with familiarity; Daenerys slides her tongue against Sansa’s, uses it to lick the places she scrapes with her teeth. Sansa tries to copy her movements, listening for the hums of pleasure Daenerys makes when she likes something.

“Do you want to go further?” Daenerys asks when they are both breathless and Sansa’s feeling warm and wet between her legs.

She hesitates. “Shouldn’t we...wait for the wedding night?”

Daenerys smiles. “I didn’t realize my bride was so virtuous.”

Sansa flushes. “I...you are a queen…”

“I’m not going to get you with child,” Daenerys laughs. “No one will know if we do it.”

Sansa hesitates. She’s only been with one person, and that person had been Ramsay. Daenerys isn’t Ramsay, Daenerys won’t hurt her, but...what if she sees the scars? What if she touches Sansa the wrong way? “I...not yet. Please.”

“As you wish.” Daenerys kisses her chastely.

Sansa props her head on her hand. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

Daenerys flushes a little. “In a way. I had a handmaiden who...taught me how to please my husband. I had another handmaiden who...pleasured me when I was lonely. But it was not...it wasn’t the real thing.”

“How do women...do it?” Sansa asks, flushing as well.

“With their fingers and their tongues.” Daenerys’s voice has dropped to a low murmur. “Has a man never used his fingers and tongue on you?”

Sansa closes her eyes. “No. Not to pleasure me, anyway.”

“Oh...I’m sorry.” Daenerys strokes her cheek. “Your husband…he hurt you?”

“All the time,” Sansa whispers.

“My husband hurt me too,” Daenerys admits. “He took me like an animal. It was humiliating. I cried every time. He was enormous, too, and it felt like I was being split open.”

“Really?” Sansa asks, opening her eyes.

Daenerys looks sad. “Yes. And then my handmaiden showed me how to pleasure him and myself, and things...changed. We grew fond of each other.  I believed we were in love, but...perhaps I only wanted to be in love. I was heartbroken when he died, but so much has happened since then...I’m hardly the same person.”

“I understand that,” Sansa says softly. “The person I was when I married Tyrion...even the person I was when I married Ramsay, is so different from who I am now.”

“We’re stronger for it,” Daenerys murmurs. “Never forget that.”

Sansa strokes her cheek. “How can you be so strong? You lost Viserion, your child, and all you’ve done since then is comfort me.”

“It’s easier for me to comfort than to grieve,” Daenerys says quietly. “And grieving will do me no good. The dragons are the only children I will ever have, and I must avenge my child’s death. That’s why I’m going to fight beside the North and defeat the Night King.”

“Thank you,” Sansa whispers.

Daenerys shakes her head. “Don’t thank me. Not until we win, anyway.”

“We will. I know we will.”

.

Sansa resumes her vigil by Jon’s side in the morning. Daenerys leaves them alone, for which Sansa is grateful; she wants to be alone with Jon when he wakes up.

He wakes in the afternoon, his eyes opening slowly and groggily.

“Sansa,” he says weakly.

“It’s me.” She takes his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like death,” he whispers.

“We thought you were dead.”

“I thought so too.”

“How did you survive?”

His lips twitch. “You won’t believe this, but Uncle Benjen saved me.”

“Uncle Benjen?” she repeats, confused. “How…?”

“I don’t know. But he found me, and he fended off the wights while I escaped. I tried to get him to come, but…” He shakes his head.

She feels a pang at this. She had never been particularly close to her Uncle Benjen, and she’d thought him dead for years, but the news that he’d been alive this whole time, that he’d died saving Jon...it hurts.

“What were you doing on the back of a dragon?” he asks.

“Maester Wolkan sent a raven, saying you’d gone to Eastwatch. Daenerys and I came to stop you.” She shakes her head. “Jon, I could slap you. How could you do something so stupid?”

“I’ve been beyond the Wall before, I’ve fought the wights,” he says stubbornly. “I had to go.”

“You didn’t .”

“I did.”

She shakes her head again. “We thought we were without a king. And you haven’t named a successor, so Davos elected to make me queen, and--”

“Good,” he says, surprising her. “Bran is...much changed. He doesn’t want to be my heir, or the Lord of Winterfell. I asked him. He said it ought to be you. You are my heir. If something happens to me...you will be Queen in the North.”

Sansa bites her lip. “Jon...something else happened when we thought you were dead.”

“What?” he asks, his eyes alert.

She hesitates. “Daenerys...asked me...to marry her.”

His eyes are comically wide now.

“And I accepted,” she says in a rush. “She loves me, Jon, and I...I love her.”

He’s quiet for so long she starts to get nervous.

“Jon? Are you...are you upset?”

“No,” he says at last. “I...I’m happy for you. I don’t know Daenerys, but if she brought her dragons beyond the Wall for you...she must love you deeply.”

“She does,” she says softly. “She said she’ll fight by our side.”

He closes his eyes. “Thank the gods.”

“You should get some rest,” Sansa urges, seeing the exhaustion lining his face.

He nods, eyes still closed. She leans forward, kissing his forehead, before getting up and leaving the room.

She’s exhausted too, and it wasn’t until seeing Jon fall back asleep that she realized it. She’s barely slept since she and Daenerys left Dragonstone, and now that she knows Jon is out of danger, the alertness that had kept her awake begins to fade. She makes her way back to Daenerys’s cabin, falling asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow.

.

The journey to Dragonstone goes by with aching slowness. Now that she knows Jon is safe, Sansa spends much of the journey nursing a heaving stomach, clinging to the bed in Daenerys’s cabin. The sea’s winter waves toss the ship relentlessly, and despite Daenerys’s prodding, Sansa can’t bring herself to eat more than a bite of bread here and there.

Sometimes she braves the ship’s rocking to sit with Jon.

“I like your Daenerys,” he tells her one day. “She has a good heart.”

“She does,” Sansa manages.

“Arya would like her.”

She smiles. “She would. Daenerys is the sister she’s always wanted.”

“She misses you,” he says, turning serious.

“I miss her. Even when she was being terrible. It’ll be good to see her face again. And Bran’s.”

“They’ve...changed,” he says hesitantly.

“So have I. So have you.”

“We’ve all changed,” he agrees. “But Bran...I don’t think has changed for the better.”

She furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

He hesitates. “Bran is...he’s a completely different person. He sits out in the godswood all day and stares into the fire all night. He sees...everything. I think it’s broken him.”

“Broken him?”

“You wouldn’t recognize him, Sansa. He has no...personality. He just sits there and says disturbing things.”

This troubles Sansa, especially since she’s not at Winterfell to see for herself.

“He says he doesn’t want to be Lord of Winterfell, or my heir.” Jon takes her hand. “Which means you’re still the Lady of Winterfell, and if anything should happen to me, that will make you Queen in the North.”

“I don’t want to be Queen in the North.”

“Nevertheless, if anything should happen to me--”

“Don’t talk that way,” she scolds. “We have Daenerys and her dragons on our side.”

“Aye, and the Night King knows how to kill them,” he reminds her.

She bites her lip.

“I believe we can win this war,” he says, softening. “But it won’t be easy. People will die. Many people. And if I’m one of them, it’ll be up to you to keep what remains of our people safe.”

“I don’t feel well,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’m going to lie down.”

The sea is aggravating her stomach again, but it’s more than that. She doesn’t want to imagine Jon dying for true this time. She doesn’t want to imagine anyone dying. Bran, Arya...Daenerys. Davos, Brienne, Podrick, Tyrion. Any one of them could die. And Sansa, because she’s not a warrior, will be left behind to pick up the pieces should that happen.

She stumbles in the corridor and finds a hand on her arm, steadying her. When she looks up, she sees Sandor Clegane.

“Watch yourself, little bird,” he says in that gruff voice she remembers so well.

“How did you end up beyond the Wall?” she asks, clinging to the handle of her door so as not to stumble again.

“That’s a good question.” He rubs his jaw. “It’s a long story. I ran into your sister in the Riverlands. Took her to the Twins to try and ransom her to your mother. We got there right as the Red Wedding was happening.”

Sansa’s stomach turns again.

“We headed for the Vale, where I meant to sell her to your Aunt Lysa, but at the Bloody Gate they told us Lysa Arryn was dead.”

Sansa closes her eyes. “I was there when she died.”

“Were you? Seven hells. If I’d known…”

“It was better you didn’t.” She opens her eyes. “I was there with Littlefinger, who took me north and married me to Ramsay Bolton. He would have married Arya to Ramsay if she’d been there, or married her to someone else awful. I’m glad she was with you.”

He shakes his head. “I lost her not long after that. I was near death. A septon found me and brought me back to life. Then some prick killed him. I went seeking revenge and found the Brotherhood.”

“The Brotherhood?”

“Brotherhood Without Banners; they serve this...Lord of Light. Led by Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr. Or they were, anyway. Beric and Thoros were heading north. I followed. I saw something...in the flames.”

“You saw something?” she asks, perplexed. Bran, the Hound...why is everyone suddenly seeing visions?

He shakes his head. “I can’t understand it anymore than you can. All I know is I saw the army of the dead in those flames, and that’s why I went to the Wall. Beric, Thoros, and I ran into your brother there, so we all went beyond the Wall together.” He rubs his jaw again. “I’m sorry I lost your sister.”

“It’s all right--she’s in Winterfell. She’s safe,” Sansa assures him.

He doesn’t smile, but he comes close. “Good.” The relief fades from his eyes. “And you? How did you end up on the back of a dragon?”

“That’s a long story too.” She takes a steadying breath. “After you left, Joffrey took Margaery Tyrell as his wife and I was married to Tyrion Lannister. Joffrey was poisoned at his wedding; while everyone was distracted, Littlefinger had one of his pawns take me out of the city. He took me to the Vale, where he married and then killed my Aunt Lysa.”

“ Littlefinger killed her?” he asks in disbelief.

“He pushed her through the Moon Door.” She’s never told anyone that before. It had been Littlefinger’s secret, one she had kept to use as leverage--but it’s leverage she has yet to use.

“That was a right stupid move,” Clegane mutters.

“He wanted to rule the Vale. As soon as he had control of the Vale armies, he brought me north and married me to Ramsay Bolton. He claimed my marriage to Tyrion wasn’t valid, and then he left. Ramsay was...unkind.”

Clegane’s jaw tightens. “He hurt you?”

“He was worse than Joffrey,” she admits softly. “But my father’s ward, Theon Greyjoy, was there, and he saved me. We met Brienne of Tarth, and she took me to the Wall, to my brother. Jon and I rallied what Northerners were loyal to us, and I sent for the Vale armies; Jon defeated the Bolton forces in battle, and I personally saw to Ramsay’s death.” Even now, it brings a small smile to her face. “After that, the Northern lords proclaimed Jon King in the North. When Daenerys landed at Dragonstone and bid Jon bend the knee to her, he sent me to treat with her. Dragonstone has a mine of dragonglass; Daenerys let us mine it and send it north to arm our men. When the maester at Winterfell wrote to say that Jon went to Eastwatch to meet Ser Davos, I was worried he’d get himself killed.”

“You were right to worry.”

“I know. That’s why Daenerys offered to fly her dragons north and find him.”

“And you came with her.” He shakes his head. “Always were brave, little bird.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She always thought she was a stupid little girl in King’s Landing, but the Hound thought she was brave then. Had she been brave, bearing Joffrey and Cersei’s torment? She hadn’t thought so at the time. She’d had no other choice.

Well, that wasn’t true. She could have died, at Joffrey’s hands or her own. That had always been a choice. And she’d chosen to live. Is that what makes someone brave? Doing the right thing even when it feels as if you have no other choice?

Perhaps she’s been brave all along.

Chapter Text

By the time they reach Dragonstone, Jon has fully recovered. Tyrion nearly falls on his knees when they arrive, so relieved is he to see his queen alive and well. Less relieved is he to see two dragons instead of three.

“This army of the dead is real, and it will kill everyone in Westeros if we don’t stop it,” she tells her Hand. “I’ve seen them for myself. The Night King killed Viserion. And I will not rest until I see him and his army destroyed.”

Tyrion nods. “Then we had better hope Cersei will join us.”

.

The day after they arrive on Dragonstone, they set sail again for King’s Landing. Daenerys hangs back; she will fly behind them on Drogon.

The water is calm enough that Sansa doesn’t get seasick; if anything, her queasiness can be attributed to seeing Cersei again. She manages to stay above deck, watching as the spires of the Red Keep come into view. All along the horizon are Greyjoy ships; Euron’s fleet, she knows. But she doesn’t fear Euron. She fears Cersei, and the Mountain, and what they will do if they do not agree to fight the army of the dead.

The Hound leaves, once, to go below decks and check on the wight. They’ve put the thing in a box, heavily chained and bolted.

“Is it…?” Brienne asks.

“It’s...whatever it is,” he acknowledges.

That had been an interesting reunion. There had been no animosity over their last meeting, only relief that both the Stark girls are safe.

They land on the side of the cove opposite the Red Keep, near where King Robert held the tourney in which Ser Hugh had died and the Mountain nearly killed Loras Tyrell.

Loras died anyway, and the Mountain still lives.

They’re to meet at the Dragonpit, an abandoned place now, where the Targaryens had once kept their pets.

“Why did they build it?” Missandei asks on the long walk there.

“Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t,” Ser Jorah explains. “Land, livestock, children. Letting them roam free around a city was a problem.”

“I imagine it was a sad joke at the end,” says Tyrion. “An entire arena for a few sickly creatures smaller than dogs. But in the beginning, when it was home to Balerion the Dread, it must have been the most dangerous place in the world.”

“Maybe it still is,” Davos says as they see Lannister men led by Bronn. She’d always liked Bronn; he’d been kind to her, and funny, and she’s glad to see him alive and well.

“Welcome, milords,” Bronn greets. “I’ve been sent to escort you all to the meeting.” He gestures and his men part for them. Tyrion nods at the Dothraki, who lead the way; slowly, the others follow.

“I don’t like this,” Jon murmurs to Sansa. “Where’s Cersei?”

“Waiting to make a grand entrance, I expect,” she murmurs back.

The dragonpit is a rundown arena, more ruins than anything. Steps lead up to a platform on which stand three red awnings and chairs. Lannister men are stationed all around the circle, and their armed escort falls into place as they enter the arena.

They stand around for a long time, waiting on Cersei and her retinue.

When they arrive, Sansa feels her stomach clench.

Cersei looks so different now. The golden hair of which she had once been so proud is shorn close to her head, bound by a gold circlet. Where the queen had once favored reds and pinks and greens with wide, silky sleeves, she now wears a stiff, gray dress that hugs her arms, a black overcoat completing the severe new look. Beside her walks the Mountain--or what looks like him. Beneath the helm, his face is mottled and dark.

Jaime Lannister is with her, as are a maester and a man she doesn’t know, and a whole troop of guards. They follow her up onto the dais, where she takes her seat in the centermost awning. Her eyes catch Sansa’s, once; something like a smirk crosses her face.

Sansa holds her head high, taking a seat beside Jon. Davos sits on his other side, and behind her stands Brienne. Across from them sit Tyrion, Varys, Theon, Missandei, and Ser Jorah, and behind them stand the Dothraki. The center chair under their awning waits, empty, for Daenerys.

The Hound surprises all of them by walking out to meet the Mountain. Sandor murmurs something that Sansa can’t hear, and then he turns, descending down the steps to where the box lies, waiting.

“Where is she?” Cersei asks with the same imperious tone Sansa remembers. The years may have changed her pelt, but she’s still the same lioness.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tyrion says calmly.

“Didn’t travel with you?” Cersei asks, eyes alighting with interest.

“No,” he says shortly.

Cersei looks furious at this, but it’s not as if she can do anything about it. She only taps her fingers against her chair, glancing at Jaime.

It’s a long moment before they hear the screech of Drogon and Rhaegal. Almost everyone stands up to see, but Sansa stays planted in her chair, watching Cersei. The other woman maintains a bored expression, but Sansa knows that she’s forcing her mouth not to fall open.

Drogon lowers himself to the arena, his enormous wings stirring up the dirt. He screeches once, roars, and then climbs into the arena, lowering his head so that Daenerys can dismount. As soon as she is safely on the ground, he takes off, joining his brother in the skies. Daenerys walks calmly up the platform, and Sansa is pleased to see the dismay on Cersei’s face, the realization that the dragon queen is young and beautiful and a worthy opponent.

There is a beat after Daenerys takes her seat before Cersei speaks.

“We’ve been here for some time.”

As if she hadn’t kept the others waiting.

“My apologies,” Daenerys says in a very unapologetic tone.

There’s a long pause before Tyrion slides off his chair and walks forward. “We are all facing a unique--”

“Theon!” the man with Cersei that Sansa doesn’t know shouts. So, this must be the famed Euron. “I have your sister. If you don’t submit to me here, now...I’ll kill her.”

There’s a stunned silence from everyone.

“...I think we ought to begin with larger concerns,” Tyrion says in the voice of one who realizes not everyone in the room is smart enough to appreciate the conversation.

“Then why are you talking?” Euron taunts, looking pleased with himself. “You’re the smallest concern here.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.

Tyrion turns to Theon. “Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?”

“His wasn’t even good,” Theon says, jaw stiff.

“He explained it at the end,” Tyrion agrees. “Never explain it, it always ruins it.”

“We don’t even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know?” Euron says to Tyrion. “We kill you at birth. An act of mercy for the parents.”

“Perhaps you ought to sit down,” Jaime says impatiently.

“Why?”

“Sit down or leave,” Cersei says, sounding even less patient than her brother.

With a hiss of laughter, Euron returns to his seat beside the maester.

“We are a group of people who do not like one another,” Tyrion continues. “As this recent demonstration has shown. We have suffered at each other’s hands. We have lost people we loved at each other’s hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging this war against each other without meeting face-to-face.”

“So instead we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?” Cersei sneers.

“We all know that will never happen.”

“Then why are we here?”

Jon glances at Sansa; she nods at him, and he gets up, crossing to the center of the dais. “This isn’t about living in harmony. It’s just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can’t negotiate with, an army that doesn’t leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city; they’re about to become a million more soldiers in the army of the dead.”

“I imagine for most of them, it would be an improvement,” Cersei says, amused with herself.

Jon is not amused. He walks closer, face grave. “This is serious. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t.”

“I don’t think it’s serious at all; I think it’s another bad joke,” she says coolly. “If my brother Jaime has informed me correctly, you’re asking me for a truce.”

“Yes,” Daenerys confirms. “That’s all.”

Cersei smirks. “That’s all? Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt? Or while you solidify and expand your position? Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back until you return and march on my capital with four times the men.”

“Your capital will be safe until the northern threat is dealt with.” Daenerys raises her eyebrows in challenge. “You have my word.”

“The word of a would-be usurper.”

“There is no conversation,” Tyrion says, stepping in before it can get ugly, “that will erase the last fifty years.” He looks at his sister. “We have something to show you.”

Painstakingly, Sandor Clegane comes up the steps from beneath the pit, carrying the box on his back. Everyone watches as he sets it down, cautiously unbolting the thing. At last, he pushes off the lid. Sansa tenses in her chair, waiting.

But the thing doesn’t move for a long moment, and finally, Sandor kicks the box over onto its side. At once, the wight spills out, scrambling to its feet and running straight at Cersei. All of her aplomb has fled her, her poise gone as a horrified expression crosses her face and she claws at the arms of her chair. Sandor yanks on the chain at the last moment, preventing the creature from harming her. It falls hard on its back, and wheeling around, spies Sandor as the source of its torment. It lunges for him, but it only takes one swing of Sandor’s sword to cut the beast in half.

Even still, the two halves of the copse writhe on the ground, clawing its way to Sandor. He cuts off its hand, and still the hand inches along, seeking a victim. Cersei’s face is pale and drawn; it is the most terrified Sansa’s ever seen her. The maester beside her gets out of his seat, taking the severed hand and holding it with fascination. Jon takes it from him; in his other hand, he holds a torch, which Davos lights.

“We can destroy them by burning them.” Jon demonstrates, setting the hand aflame. “And we can destroy them with dragonglass.” He holds up a dagger made of the stuff. “If we don’t win this fight, then that is the fate of every person in the world.” He lifts the wight by its still-attached hand and stabs it with the dragonglass dagger, ending its life after death.

There is a long silence as everyone waits for Cersei to speak. When she does not, Jon comes closer to her. “There is only one war that matters. The Great War. And it is here.”

“I didn’t believe it until I saw them,” Daenerys speaks up. “I saw them all.”

“How many?” Jaime Lannister asks.

“A hundred thousand at least.”

His face pales.

Euron Greyjoy gets out of his seat, leaning over to inspect the thing. “Can they swim?”

“No,” Jon tells him.

“Good.” Euron gets to his feet. “I’m taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands.”

“What are you talking about?” Cersei looks discomfited, squirming in her seat.

“I’ve been around the world. I’ve seen everything, things you couldn’t imagine, and this…” He turns, looking back at the wight. “This is the only thing I’ve ever seen that terrifies me.” He walks over to Daenerys, leaning in. “I’m going back to my island. You should go back to yours. When winter’s over, we’ll be the only ones left alive.”

Though his back is to Sansa, she doesn’t miss the leer in his voice. She grips the arms of her chair, a flash of jealousy and outrage overcoming her as she imagines this man with his hands on Daenerys. But then he leans back and walks out of the Dragonpit.

“He’s right to be afraid,” Cersei says. Her face hardens. “And a coward to run. If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing.” She nods at Daenerys. “The crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy.”

Sansa feels a surge of relief. So Cersei does see reason. And with the army of the Seven Kingdoms behind them, they are certain to defeat the army of the dead.

“In return, the King in the North will extend this truce,” Cersei continues.

Sansa’s heart sinks.

“He will remain in the North where he belongs. He will not take up arms against the Lannisters, he will not choose sides.”

“Just the King in the North?” Daenerys clarifies.

“I would never ask it of you . You would never agree to it. And if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now. I ask it only of Ned Stark’s son. I know Ned Stark’s son will be true to his word.”

Sansa and Daenerys’s eyes meet, and Sansa is relieved to see that Daenerys is thinking along the same lines as her.

Ned Stark’s son, yes. But his daughter...well, Cersei need not know about their betrothal. Not yet, anyway. And when the war is over, the war against the dead, Sansa can marry Daenerys and unite the two kingdoms.

“I am true to my word,” Jon agrees. “Or I try to be. That is why I cannot give you what you ask.”

“ Jon ,” Sansa hisses, gripping the arms of her chair. Across from her, Daenerys’s eyes widen.

“I have already agreed to marry my sister to Queen Daenerys.”

The bloody fool .

Cersei’s head snaps to regard Sansa. “Your sister ? Marry a woman ?” Her lip curls. “I never would have thought it of you, Sansa.” She turns back to Jon. “Such a union, as you must know, is impossible.”

“In the Light of the Seven, yes,” Daenerys agrees. “But I do not worship the Seven.”

“You think you can rule the Seven Kingdoms married to a woman ?”

“Married to the Lady of Winterfell and the heir to the King in the North,” Daenerys corrects crisply.

“The fact of the matter,” Jon says, “is that because of this union, I must and will fight by my good-sister’s side.”

Cersei rises. “Then there is nothing left to discuss. The dead will come north first; enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you.” She sweeps off the dais, her guards following her.

Sansa goes to Jon’s side. “What were you thinking ?”

“I was thinking that I couldn’t make a promise I can’t keep,” he says heatedly.

“Oh, and Cersei’s never done that before?” she snaps. “You know more than anyone how important winning this war is!”

Daenerys joins them. “I’m grateful for  your loyalty, but my dragon died so that we could be here. If it’s all for nothing, then he died for nothing.”

“I know,” Jon says roughly.

“I’m glad you approve of your sister’s marriage to our queen,” Tyrion says from where he’s still staring after Cersei. “I would’ve advised it, had you asked. But have you ever considered learning how to lie every now and then? Just a bit?”

Jon turns to look at him. “I’m not going to swear an oath I can’t uphold. Talk about my father if you want, tell me that’s the attitude that got him killed. But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies, and lies won’t help us in this fight.”

“That is indeed a problem,” Tyrion says, unaffected. “The more immediate problem is that we’re fucked.”

“Any ideas as to how we might change that state of affairs?” Davos asks diplomatically.

Tyrion glances down the road once more. “Only one. Everyone stays here, and I go and talk to my sister.”

“She’ll kill you,” Sansa says at once.

Daenerys crosses to him. “I didn’t come all this way to have my Hand murdered.”

“I don’t want Cersei to murder me either; I could have stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble,” he says softly.

“I did this,” Jon says, his voice heavy with regret. “I should go.”

“She’ll definitely murder you,” Tyrion scoffs. “I go see my sister alone. Or we all go home, and we’re right back where we started.” He looks at Daenerys for a moment; finally, she nods. Shoulders squared, Tyrion Lannister heads down the path to meet with his sister.

Chapter Text

They wait for a long time.

Jon wanders off to the side, too ashamed to face the others. Sansa takes pity and joins him.

“No one regrets what I did more than I do,” he grumbles.

“I know.” And she does; the pain on his face is plain to see. She doesn’t have to remind him how badly they need Cersei’s armies; he already knows.

“I know honor is what got Father and Robb killed. But maybe the answer isn’t to lie, it’s to keep remaining honorable in the face of liars and murderers.”

“I wish I could see things as you do,” she says softly.

“You spent too much time in King’s Landing. And with Littlefinger.” His face darkens. “Sansa, I don’t trust him.”

“You shouldn’t,” she says shortly.

“Then why is he in Winterfell?”

“He saved you at the Battle of the Bastards,” she reminds him. “We only have the Vale army because of him.”

“Lord Royce would follow you without hesitation; you don’t need Littlefinger to keep the Vale army.”

“We can’t risk it, not on the eve of battle with the dead.”

Jon sags. “You’re right. I only...I don’t like him being around you.”

“I don’t like it either,” she admits. “But we need him.”

“Arya’s already threatened to stab him.”

She smiles. “I believe that.”

“Who knows what she’s doing to him without me there to stop her?”

“Tormenting the man, I’d wager.”

He glances at Daenerys, who’s speaking with Missandei and Ser Jorah. “You really love her?”

“I do,” she says softly.

“Good, because as much as I hate to admit it, Cersei’s right; the Seven Kingdoms won’t take too kindly to a queen married to a woman.” He shakes his head. “I’m happy for you, Sansa, I truly am...I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“I do. I really do.” She touches his arm. “You don’t have to worry about me. I survived King’s Landing once by myself; I can survive it again, especially with Daenerys at my side.”

“I believe that,”  he says seriously. “I believe you can survive anything.”

She takes his hand. “We will survive this war. Somehow.”

He starts to answer, but then his eyes widen and his mouth parts. Sansa turns around and sees Tyrion walking down the road. As he mounts the dais, they hear the crunch of feet on the gravel, and a moment later they  see Cersei leading her retinue back to them. She mounts the dais, hands clasped in front of her.

“My armies will not stand down. I will not pull them back to the capital. I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War.”

Sansa can hardly believe what she is hearing. Was Tyrion truly that successful?

“The darkness is coming for us all,” Cersei continues. “We will face it together. And when the Great War is over, perhaps you’ll remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you. I expect not.” She turns to Jaime. “Call our banners. All of them.”

Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. But Sansa wonders...is Cersei telling the truth?

We’re all liars here , Littlefinger had said once.

And Cersei Lannister is the greatest of them all.

.

They return to Dragonstone that day. Sansa stays below decks, gripping the ropes and fighting off waves of nausea.

Jon and Daenerys seem to believe that Cersei will help them, but Sansa isn’t so certain. She knows the queen all too well, knows what a master of deceit and manipulation she is. It would be to her benefit if Daenerys and her armies went north and left the south conveniently vacated. It would also be to her benefit if most of Daenerys’s forces were killed in the Great War, leaving them too weak to take King’s Landing. Why should Cersei march north? She would only lose men, whereas if she stayed put in King’s Landing…

No, Cersei will join them. Tyrion seems sure of it, and Tyrion knows his sister better than anyone.

This is what Sansa tries to tell herself, because imagining the alternative makes her stomach heave. Imagining the alternative is not an option.

.

They’ve barely landed on Dragonstone before they’re making plans to move north. Gathered around Daenerys’s table in the shape of Westeros, Daenerys, Sansa, Jon, and their counselors make a plan of action.

“If we have the Dothraki ride hard on the kingsroad, they’ll arrive in Winterfell within the fortnight,” Jon says, tracing the path with his finger.

“And the Unsullied?” Daenerys asks.

“We can sail with them to White Harbor, meet the Dothraki here on the kingsroad, then ride together to Winterfell.” He shows her on the table.

“Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah suggests. “You have many enemies in the North; thousands fell fighting for your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow. He’ll see your silver hair on the kingsroad and know that one well-placed bolt will make him a hero. The man who killed the conqueror.”

“It is your decision,” Sansa says, eyes on Daenerys. “But I think it would send a better message if we arrived together. The sooner the kingdom sees us together, the sooner they’ll accept our marriage.”

Daenerys considers this, her eyes flickering around the room. “I’ve not come to conquer the North. I’m coming to save the North.” She looks at Sansa. “I will sail to White Harbor with my betrothed.”

Sansa smiles at her. She knows Jon and Cersei are right; it won’t be easy to convince the kingdom to accept a queen who’s married to another woman. But if Daenerys helps them win the war, the people will love her, and that will make her marriage to Sansa all the easier to swallow. It’s good that she’s coming with Sansa and Jon; just as Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya united the Seven Kingdoms into one, let Jon, Sansa, and Daenerys unite their kingdoms.

“So we know where the Dothraki and the Unsullied are going,” Ser Davos says. “But what about the Lannister army?”

Sansa hesitates before posing the question she’s been turning over in her mind ever since the Dragonpit. “Are we sure we can trust Cersei?”

“No,” Tyrion says bluntly, surprising her. “One can never be sure with my sweet sister. But…” He pauses. “I believe she will help us.”

“Why?”

He appears to think hard about his answer. “Cersei...is pregnant.”

The shock in the room is palpable.

“Pregnant?” Daenerys repeats, her own hand fluttering near her stomach.

“She will help us because she wants a future for her child,” Tyrion says. “She’s lost all of her children; she will do anything to protect this one. I’ve always said her love for her children is her greatest feature. That, and her cheekbones.”

“We must hope that you’re right,” Ser Jorah says gruffly. Beside him, Daenerys looks pale. Sansa knows what she’s thinking. Daenerys cannot have children, and here Cersei is pregnant with an heir to the throne. Daenerys will never give birth to an heir; she’ll have to choose one. If she’s lucky enough to win the war, that is.

But Sansa has faith that she will. Daenerys is a strong leader, and besides, Cersei’s pregnant with her brother’s bastard child.

And Daenerys is going to marry a woman. Which is worse in the eyes of the Westerosi?

.

When business is concluded and a plan is made, everyone parts ways. Ser Jorah and Missandei both want to speak to Daenerys, but when Sansa presses her hand into the queen’s, she nods understandingly and dismisses her counselors. Hand in hand, the betrothed women walk down the corridor.

“I know you are upset about Cersei’s child,” Sansa murmurs. “But you needn’t be. The people will never favor a queen who bore her brother’s bastard child.”

“They will,” Daenerys says bitterly. “My family did it for centuries.”

“Cersei’s not a Targaryen,” Sansa points out. “She’s a Lannister, and what’s more, she has no claim to the throne.”

“Neither did the Usurper, Robert Baratheon,” Daenerys argues. “Neither did my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror. They all took the throne by right of conquest. This is a woman who blew up a sept to get her way; she will stop at nothing to rule, and the people know it. They’re afraid of her.”

Sansa stops, turning to Daenerys and touching her cheek. “You freed thousands of slaves who knew only fear under their masters; so will you free the people of Westeros from Cersei Lannister.”

“First I have to save them from the Night King.”

Sansa opens her mouth to respond, but the sound of approaching footsteps makes her turn.

It’s Theon, a grave look on his face.

“Your Grace,” he says, inclining his head.

“Theon,” Daenerys greets. “What is it?”

He keeps his eyes on the ground. “Your Grace, my sister...she’s still Euron’s prisoner.”

“And you want to free her,” Daenerys says softly.

He nods miserably. “Yes.”

“I cannot spare the men,” Daenerys says, still in that gentle tone.

“I would not ask it of you.”

“Then what would you ask?”

“Only your blessing.” He finally brings his eyes to hers. “As soon as I get her back, we’ll sail north and fight at your side. I swear it.”

“You have my blessing.”

Theon kneels, kissing her hand. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.” She gestures for him to rise. When he does, he turns to Sansa.

“Sansa…”

“I know,” she says before he can say anything else. She throws her arms around him, holding him tight. “Be careful.”

“And you,” he murmurs into her shoulder.

She releases him, stepping back. He nods at Daenerys again and then turns on his heel, leaving them.

Sansa prays it isn’t the last time.

Chapter Text

As soon as the Dothraki set off on the kingsroad, Sansa, Daenerys, their retinue, and the Unsullied board their ships and set sail for White Harbor.

Sansa stands on the deck and watches the wintry sky melting into the sea, forming an endless gray horizon.

Jon comes to stand beside her. “In winter, we must protect ourselves. Look after one another.”

“Father,” she says softly, recognizing the words. It makes her remember one of his other aphorisms. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Jon nods. “I miss him.”

“Me too.”

Jon squeezes her hand. “Our pack was so small when you found me at the Wall. And now…there’s us, and Bran and Arya and Daenerys.”

“Daenerys is part of our pack?” she asks in pleasant surprise.

“You’re going to marry her; that makes her family.”

“You don’t think it’s...wrong?”

Jon is quiet for a moment. “I don’t think love can be wrong. Not a love like yours.”

Something occurs to Sansa. “Have you ever been in love?”

He nods. “Aye.”

“What happened?”

He’s quiet for another moment. “She died.”

Sansa squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“If we die, we die. But first, we’ll live,” he says, and Sansa has the feeling that it means something, that it had to do with this woman he loved. “We may die in this war. But first...you should live.”

She knows what he’s trying to say. “I will.” She squeezes his hand again and then turns to go down the steps.

Sansa has her own cabin, one that she shares with Brienne. But it isn’t her cabin she goes to.

Daenerys isn’t surprised to see her when she opens the door, nor is she surprised when Sansa closes the door behind her and then leans down to kiss the other woman. She is surprised when Sansa steps back and undoes the lacings of her dress.

“Are you certain?” the dragon queen whispers, watching as Sansa’s furs and dress fall away. There are scars on her stomach and legs, scars from Ramsay that will never fully go away. She’s never let anyone see them before.

Until now.

“Yes.”

Daenerys’s eyes drink her in, her breath coming hard.

Before Sansa can second-guess her decision to strip off her clothes, before she can wonder if she made a mistake, Daenerys reaches up and unpins the folds of her dress. She shrugs out of the thick black material, revealing creamy skin. She steps out of her boots, both of them laughing as she becomes caught; Sansa crouches down and pulls them off her feet.

Thus fully unveiled, Daenerys takes Sansa’s hand and leads her to the bed. Sansa lies down, trembling as Daenerys climbs atop her. Her bare skin prickles in the cold, her nipples hard and pointed.

“I don’t know what to do,” she murmurs.

“Don’t worry.” Daenerys kisses her sweetly. “I do.” She crawls down Sansa’s body. “It’s a long journey to the North, my love; you’ll have plenty of time to learn.”

If we die, we die. But first we’ll live.

Chapter Text

All around them is the thunder of feet marching on the ground.

The Unsullied move as one, thousands of bodies with one mind, one purpose.

But is it enough? Sansa wonders. She glances to the side and catches Daenerys’s eye. The queen smiles at her, and Sansa cannot help but smile back.

The northerners watching them are less happy. Their faces are made of stone, mistrust in their eyes as they watch the foreigners march into their land. Sansa waves at them, hoping to ease the tension. It works, a little; some people smile and wave back, most of them women and little girls. The men’s faces are hard and unyielding.

They don’t like seeing a woman in power.

It makes no matter. When the Army of the Dead comes and Daenerys and her dragons and armies are all that stand between the Northerners and death, they’ll warm to her soon enough. And when they learn that Ned Stark’s oldest daughter is going to marry the dragon queen, securing the North’s place as an independent kingdom, they’ll love her even more.

When they reach the gates of Winterfell, Sansa’s heart begins pounding in her ears. She scans the crowd...and then sees the two people she’s looking for. She slides off her horse and, without waiting for a groom, makes for her siblings. Arya bolts forward, and Sansa runs towards her, arms outstretched. She catches the younger woman, breathing hard as she lifts her off her feet.

“Gods, you’re tall ,” Arya complains.

Sansa laughs so hard she cries. She sets down her sister, brushing away tears. “I never thought I’d see you again.

“I never thought I’d see you again either,” Arya admits, her own eyes looking uncharacteristically bright. She’s a woman now, no longer a little girl. She looks very fine in breeches and a wool cape, a thin blade at her side.

“You look well.”

“And you look…” Arya shakes her head. “Like Mother.”

Sansa’s heart catches in her throat. Mother. She’d always known she’d inherited her mother’s Tully-red hair and blue eyes, but to be told by her sister that she looks like her…

“Sansa,” says a soft voice, and she looks over and sees Bran. Gods, he looks different, and were it not for those piercing, inquisitive eyes, she wouldn’t know him at all. But that’s her brother, and she bends down to wrap her arms around him.

“You’re looking well.”

“As are you, after all you’ve endured.”

Sansa draws back. So he knows. Or he knows part of it, anyway.

Jon comes forward, hugging Arya and Bran as well.

“It’s good to see you both.”

“Is it true you nearly died?” Arya demands.

“I told you it was,” Bran chides her.

Arya’s eyes glance behind Sansa. “Is that her? The dragon queen?”

Sansa turns at her lover and smiles, beckoning her to come closer. Daenerys has been lingering near the back, waiting to be introduced; she comes forward now, taking Sansa’s hand.

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. My sister, Arya Stark, and my brother, Bran Stark,” Sansa introduces. “Daenerys is--”

“Your betrothed,” Bran says flatly.

Sansa stares at him, and then glances at Jon, who looks unsurprised.

“He knows things,” he murmurs.

“We are honored by your presence,” Bran continues to Daenerys, who looks at him queerly. “And we are grateful for the dragons and armies you have brought North. We will need them; the Night King has your dragon. He’s one of them now. The Wall has fallen, the dead march south.”

Sansa looks sharply at Daenerys. Of course the Night King would turn Viserion into one of them; he can raise the dead, and that includes dragons. And if the Wall has fallen…

Nothing stands between the living and the dead.

“Let’s go inside,” Jon suggests quietly.

Arya plants herself at Sansa’s side. She’s still so small, even though she’s a woman grown now. “So...you’re marrying Daenerys,” she says softly.

Sansa glances at her. “Yes.” She hesitates. “Does that...bother you?” She hasn’t spoken to her sister in years; what kind of person is Arya now? Does she think two women together is wrong? Does she care? Does she still remember the argument they were having last time they were together, and does she still resent Sansa for it?

“No.” Arya looks up at her, and there’s honesty in her eyes. “I just didn’t know you liked women.”

“Neither did I,” Sansa admits.

Arya squeezes her hand. “Have you ridden her dragons?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ride her dragons?”

“I’ll ask,” she says, smiling.

The Northern lords gather in the Great Hall, sitting on the benches and standing along the walls while Daenerys and the Starks sit at the high table.

“As soon as we heard about the Wall, I called all our banners to retreat to Winterfell,” Arya says, mainly to her siblings but also the room at large. “Lord Umber?”

Little Ned Umber pokes his head out from the sea of men.

“When can we expect your people to arrive?”

He gets up, slowly and uncertainly, and comes towards them. “We need more horses and wagons, if it please my lady.” He pauses and turns red. “And...my king. And...my queen. Sorry.”

Sansa cannot help but smile at the pains he’s taking.

“You’ll have as many as we can spare,” Jon says, also smiling. “Hurry back to Last Hearth and bring your people here.”

Ned Umber bows and then hurries out of the hall, no doubt eager to be away from so many eyes.

“We need to send ravens to the Night’s Watch as well,” Jon continues. “There’s no sense in manning the castles anymore. We make our stand here. The Lannister army will be joining us shortly; let’s hope that the men we have will be enough against the Army of the Dead.”

“And if they aren’t?” someone asks.

To Sansa’s surprise and pleasure, it is Lyanna Mormont who stands up. “We have all the North’s forces. We have the Vale. We have Unsullied, Dothraki, and two dragons. Soon we will have the Night’s Watch and the Lannister forces. And this isn’t even to mention the force of Bear Island, and as everyone in this room knows, every Bear Islander is worth ten mainlanders.”

A few men chuckle in appreciation.

“We will win this war. We must win this war. Don’t you go turning yellow-bellied on us now.”

The chuckles grow louder at this. Lyanna Mormont turns to Daenerys. “We are thankful for your support, Your Grace. House Mormont is proud to recognize you as the one true queen of Westeros.”

Daenerys beams at the girl. “Thank you, Lady Mormont. Having seen your cousin in action, I am confident in Bear Island’s abilities on the battlefield.”

Lyanna looks pleased at the compliment.

More business is discussed, and most of it about food, supplies, and men. When all important matters have been addressed, Jon dismisses the assembly. Sansa lingers to catch up with some of the Northern lords and to introduce them to Daenerys, smiling and giving them all her patience even though she’s desperate to go to her room and take a hot bath. This is part of her duty, and duty comes before desire.

But when one lord comes up to her, the smile falls from her face.

“Lady Sansa,” Littlefinger says, bowing deeply. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Lord Baelish,” she says with icy diplomacy.

“I see you were successful in your endeavor to forge an alliance with Queen Daenerys.”

“Very.” Sansa allows a small smile. “We are to be married as soon as the war is over.”

Littlefinger’s surprise is palpable. “Married?”

“Yes. We fell in love on Dragonstone.” Sansa holds out her hand, and Daenerys comes forward to take it. “Daenerys, this is Lord Petyr Baelish.”

“Lord Baelish,” Daenerys says with a smile.

Sansa hasn’t told Daenerys about Littlefinger, and now wonders if she ought to have.

“My congratulations to you both,” he says with oozing courtesy. “I am sure the realm will prosper under the reign of its two just queens.”

“Thank you, Lord Baelish. Please excuse us; I would like to speak to my betrothed in private.”

“Of course.” He bows, leaving them.

“You don’t like him,” Daenerys observes.

“That’s an understatement.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrow. “What did he do?”

“About that.” It’s Arya, appearing at Sansa’s elbow. “Bran and I need to talk to you. In the godswood. Daenerys and Jon should come too.”

Curious, Sansa and Daenerys follow Arya into the godswood, the younger woman pushing Bran’s chair. Jon comes with them, looking just as curious as Sansa.

“What is it?” Sansa asks when they’ve all settled beneath the heart tree’s red leaves.

Arya pulls a knife from her side. It’s a pretty thing of sharp Valyrian steel. “When Bran fell from the Broken Tower and was asleep all that time, a man came into his chamber and tried to kill him with this. Summer stopped him, but Mother wanted to know why someone wanted to kill Bran.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sansa says, stunned.

“Father didn’t want to worry you,” Bran says calmly. “Mother rode to King’s Landing in secret, where she and Father met with Littlefinger. He said that the blade used to be his, and he lost it in a bet to Tyrion Lannister.”

“You’re saying Lord Tyrion tried to have you killed?” Daenerys asks sharply.

Arya shakes his head. “No. That’s what Littlefinger wanted Mother and Father to believe. He knew that it would drive a wedge between Stark and Lannister. He drove the wedge even further when he told our Aunt Lysa to poison her husband and send a raven to Mother saying that the Lannisters did it.”

Jon makes a noise of surprise, but Bran gazes at Sansa. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. She’d overheard enough from her Aunt Lysa to know what had happened, but to hear it put like this, to hear that it had only been part of a larger plan…

“Everything that’s happened since you left for King’s Landing was because of Littlefinger,” Bran says, and Sansa opens her eyes to look at him. “He started this war because he knew it would kill Father. He wanted Mother to himself. And now he wants you.”

Sansa feels sick. It’s no secret that Littlefinger desires her, but to hear this now…

“He should answer for his crimes,” Daenerys says firmly.

“What are we going to do? Chop off his head while the Army of the Dead are at our gates?” Sansa asks. She shakes her head. “No, we’ll have to wait until after the war. We need the Vale men.”

“Lord Royce hates Littlefinger,” Arya says bluntly. “He’d follow you even if you had Littlefinger executed.”

That’s probably true, but they can’t justify an execution right before the biggest battle known to mankind. Besides, Littlefinger may well die in the battle, and then there would be no need to execute him. Not that Sansa expects him to fight, but truth be told, she knows there’s a possibility that they’ll all die, and then it won’t matter when they kill Littlefinger.

“We should wait. An execution may lower morale, make some of the men desert.”

“Put a sword in his hand and have him fight,” Jon suggests. “He’ll be hard-pressed to refuse when even Lyanna Mormont is fighting, and he’s unlikely to survive the battle.”

Sansa feels a swell of affection for her brother at this. What a perfect idea. They can kill Littlefinger without resorting to the nastiness of an execution, without disgusting the men and alienating the Vale. It’s the perfect solution.

“It’s a good plan,” Daenerys agrees. “But if he survives the battle?”

“He won’t,” Arya says flatly.

“But what if--”

“He won’t,” Arya says again with steely resolve.

Sansa decides not to question her sister. “We should go,” she says. “Before he grows suspicious.” She turns to Daenerys. “I’ll show you to your room, Your Grace.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Daenerys takes Sansa’s arm, letting her lead the way back to Winterfell. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Daenerys murmurs, “My room?”

“It’s my room too,” Sansa admits with a blush. “But I didn’t know how to say it in front of Bran and Arya. I haven’t seen either of them in years, I don’t...I don’t know what sort of people they are anymore. They seem to have taken our betrothal well, but if they found out we were sharing a room…”

“You Northerners are...traditional,” Daenerys says, choosing her words carefully.

“We are.” Sansa squeezes her hand. “I know it shouldn’t matter, but I don’t think anyone in the North knows how to...approach our relationship. If we treat it like any other marriage, I think they’ll start to see it as one.”

They head into the castle and up to Sansa’s room. It’s exactly as she left it; the servants have even started a fire to warm the room in anticipation of her arrival.

“It’s not what you’re used to—“ she begins, but Daenerys takes her face in her hands and kisses her. Sansa kisses back, sighing into the queen’s mouth. They’ve been together every day, but they haven’t been truly alone since the ship that carried them to White Harbor. Alone together now, Sansa feels the flames of desire stirring low in her belly, the place between her legs growing hot and wet.

“Let the bath wait,” Daenerys murmurs, already unfastening the cloak from Sansa’s shoulders. “Right now, I want you.”

Sansa pulls Daenerys onto the bed. After all, who is she to deny her queen?

Chapter Text

“The water’s getting cold,” Daenerys murmurs at last.

Sansa can’t deny it; she’s tried to ignore the cooling water for the last few minutes, but not even the fire in the hearth can stave off the chill. Winter is here, just as her father always promised, and a hot bath will only stay that way for so long.

Not that both women hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed the heat it offered at the time. The steaming water had felt so, so good, easing the ache of several days in a saddle.

Daenerys turns her head, nuzzling Sansa. “We should get out.”

“We should,” Sansa says, but she makes no move to release Daenerys from her grip as she kisses the other woman’s shoulder. There’s a mark on the queen’s neck from Sansa’s earlier ardor, and the sight of it gives Sansa a rush of pleasure.

“I’m cold,” Daenerys protests.

“I’ll warm you up, my queen.” Sansa withdraws her arms, watching Daenerys stand up. Water rolls down the smaller woman in rivulets, and the glow from the fire casts her in an ethereal light. It’s all Sansa can do not to pull her back down into the tub. But it is cold, and she follows Daenerys out of the tub, drying off before pulling on her clothes. She changes into fresh things, a heavy cotton shift and a wool gown, but Daenerys gets back into her red dress and white furs. It’s the only thing she really has for the cold weather. Sansa is working on another dress for her queen, a dark cream lined with red fur that will look like scales; it should be finished soon.

They head outside to see to the men, ensuring that the Unsullied and Dothraki do not freeze in such a cold climate and that the Northern troops are in good health, but it’s hard to pay attention to the men when they’re so wrapped up in each other.

They are brought out of their happy haze, however, when some of Daenerys’s bloodriders find her. Khaleesi and khalasar exchange a few words in Dothraki, after which Daenerys looks sad.

“What’s the matter?” Sansa asks.

“The dragons are barely eating.” Daenerys sets off for an open field, Sansa trailing after her. They find the dragons on a circle of charred bones and earth, both of them looking at them curiously.

“What’s wrong with them?” Sansa asks, not seeing any obvious signs of illness--but then, how would she know?

“They don’t like the North,” Daenerys says, stroking Drogon’s snout.

Rhaegal pushes his own snout against Sansa, reminding her strongly of Lady when she wanted attention. She can’t help but smile, stroking the big, scaly creature.

Beside them, Daenerys climbs onto Drogon’s back. “Go on,” she urges, smiling.

“You want me to ride him?” Sansa asks, scratching Rhaegal. “Alone?”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed? “What if he doesn’t want me to ride him?” But she knows he won’t mind; he keeps pressing his snout against her, making low, rumbling noises not unlike a cat’s purr.

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Sansa scoffs out a laugh and then climbs slowly onto Rhaegal’s back. He sits patiently as she does, careful not to move until she’s found something like a seat. She touches the fin-like scales of his back and, finding that they’re firm, decides to hold onto these.

Rhaegal immediately begins to move, raising his neck and opening his wings. Sansa can feel his every movement, but her experiences with Drogon have shown her that just because she can feel him moving doesn’t mean she’s about to be thrown off. She sucks in a breath, watching as he stretches his wings and then carries them up and into the air. She doesn’t dare look, but she knows that Daenerys and Drogon are right behind them.

It’s like, she decides, riding a horse, but everything moves slowly and on a bigger scale. She can feel the muscles in Rhaegal’s back, can feel each beat of his wings, each bob of his head. Below them is Winterfell, the men still making camp, and on the ramparts is Arya, looking up at them in awe.

As they wheel towards the Wolfswood, Drogon overtakes them. Daenerys looks back, smiling when her eyes meet Sansa’s, and then Drogon dives until he’s right on top of the woods, his belly skimming the treetops. Rhaegal follows, and the sudden drop makes Sansa cling harder. Rhaegal does not let her fall, always keeping his back straight and aloft. They follow Daenerys and Drogon, the wind rushing past Sansa and through her.

The wolfswood gives way to a steep valley, and the dragons dive down into it, brushing the sides with the tips of their wings.

They fly for a long time, until the sun begins to set and the sky is aflame with light. Up here, on the back of a dragon while the fiery ball of light sinks towards the horizon, Sansa feels invincible. Up here, no one can touch her, not even the Night King himself.

They land when the sky’s pink flushes into purple, stars peeping out of the night. The dragons retreat back to their field, where Sansa hopes they will work up more of an appetite, while she goes in to dinner with Daenerys at her side.

“You took well to Rhaegal,” Daenerys praises, earning a smile from Sansa. “And he to you. It’s rare for non-Targaryens to bond with dragons, so I’m told.”

“He probably just smells you on me.”

“He knows that I love you.” Daenerys squeezes her arm. “You should ride him into battle.”

Sansa looks at her in surprise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Nowhere could be safer than the back of a dragon.”

“I’ve never been in a battle before,” Sansa admits. “I’ve seen them, but I’ve never actually been part of the fray.”

“It’s better you haven’t,” Daenerys says grimly. “Battles are terrible things, and this one will be the worst yet.”

Sansa gives a small shiver, and Daenerys rubs her arm soothingly. “Never fear, my love; I won’t let anything happen to you.”

But how, Sansa wonders, can she possibly keep such a promise?

.

Dinner is a quiet, subdued affair; Daenerys’s forces are exhausted, and they eat and excuse themselves quickly. After, Daenerys excuses herself with Ser Jorah; the man who cured Ser Jorah of greyscale is apparently in Winterfell, and Daenerys wants to personally thank him.

Sansa takes the opportunity to go to the study with Maester Wolkan and look over the household accounts; how much food they have, how many men and women they can arm. Last of all, he hands her a raven’s scroll from the Glovers.

“I wish it had better news, my lady,” he says gravely.

Sansa unfurls the scroll and reads. “Lord Glover wishes us good fortune, but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.” She sighs. “Wonderful.”

“People are afraid,” Maester Wolkan says in a gentle tone. “They will be repentant after the battle.”

“They won’t. They’ll be glad they stayed behind their walls and let our men die in their place,” she says bitterly.

“They can be dealt with after.”

“And they will be.”

.

When Daenerys comes to her that night, she looks defeated.

“What happened?” Sansa asks, getting out of bed to help Daenerys out of her dress.

“The man who saved Ser Jorah is named Samwell Tarly,” she says flatly. “I burned his father and brother alive.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. Ah. “Was he...upset?”

“Yes. He walked away in tears.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Sansa soothes.

“No. But I wasn’t prepared for such a...coincidence.”

“You gave them a choice. They chose death. Samwell Tarly can hardly blame you for that.”

“I don’t know; he may find a way.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sansa urges. “Samwell Tarly is a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch; he will inherit no lands and take no titles. And, if I recall correctly, he’s also studying to be a maester, which means he’s doubly sworn to serve the realm.”

“Randyll Tarly also swore to serve the realm,” Daenerys reminds her.

“He swore to serve Cersei. Not Westeros. And I’m willing to bet that with the Tyrells gone, she promised him the Reach. It wasn’t love of his country he was fighting for, it was gold and land.”

Daenerys rests her head against Sansa’s shoulder. “Still. The look on Samwell’s face…”

“There will be others,” Sansa says gently. “Samwell Tarly knew what taking the black meant. He still does. He won’t seek vengeance for his father’s death.”

“He may resent me for it.”

“Do you know what your biggest problem is?”

Daenerys regards her with surprise. “No. What?”

“You want to be liked too much.”

Daenerys smiles, embarrassed. “Perhaps that’s true.”

“I know it’s true.” Sansa slides the white furs down Daenerys’s arms and lays them over a chair. “I understand. Cersei rules with fear, and I always swore that if I was ever queen, I’d make the people love me. I never wanted to rule with fear. Fear inspires no loyalty, only more fear.”

“But,” Daenerys prompts.

“But...you cannot let your desire to be liked take precedence. Samwell Tarly understands war. And even if he does not, even if he holds it against you, he is one man.”

“Olenna Tyrell said something similar,” Daenerys admits. “She told me that I was a dragon, so I should be a dragon.”

“She was right.”

“She often was.”

When the last of Daenerys’s clothes have been stripped away, leaving her only in her shift, Sansa sits her down and unwinds her braids. Daenerys closes her eyes, humming in appreciation. Sansa works quickly but gently, combing out the loosened strands until her hair cascades down her shoulders in long, silvery waves.

“Come to bed,” Sansa murmurs. “And forget about Samwell Tarly. Forget about the war.”

“Easier said than done,” Daenerys says, but she climbs into bed with Sansa, where all thoughts of Samwell Tarly and the war and everything that isn’t each other fade into oblivion.

.

In the morning, the two women are roused by a knock on the door.

“What is it?” Sansa calls, loath to leave the warmth of Daenerys’s arms.

“Sansa, it’s me.”

Arya.

“Come in.” Sansa sits up, drawing the furs up around her shoulders.

Arya comes in, her cheeks reddening when she sees the silver hair on the pillow beside Sansa.

“What is it?” Sansa asks.

“You need to come down to the great hall.”

“What is it?” Sansa asks again, worried.

“It’s Jaime Lannister.”

Chapter Text

“He wants to help,” Tyrion says when they’ve dressed and gathered in the study.

“To help?” Daenerys asks, lip curling. “He killed my father.”

“He did,” Tyrion agrees. “And he also disobeyed his sister and queen to fight by your side.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you presented a very convincing argument,” he tells her. “This is what you wanted: people coming north to fight.”

“I wanted people . Preferably an army. Instead I have a one-handed traitor.”

“This is a good thing,” Tyrion assures his queen. “Jaime has ever been loyal to Cersei; if he’s willing to abandon her to fight for the enemy, the daughter of the man he killed, it means others will do the same.”

“But no others have ,” Daenerys points out. “He came alone , and as much as I appreciate his changing allegiance, it won’t do any good on the battlefield.”

“Jaime is still a skilled warrior; he may be short a hand, but the hand that is left to him will be useful against our enemy. More importantly, we’ll need him after the battle when it comes time to face Cersei.”

Daenerys purses her lips for a long moment, thinking. Then, her eyes turn to Sansa. “What do you think?”

Sansa hesitates. “I think...Tyrion is right,” she confesses. “We are in no position to turn away help, regardless of where it comes from. We want him on our side, especially when it comes time to march south and take King’s Landing. If both of Cersei’s own brothers turn against her to fight for you, think what message that will send.”

“What makes you think he’ll turn against her?”

“He already has.”

Daenerys purses her lips again.

“I know he killed your father,” Sansa continues. “And I don’t blame you for hating him and wanting revenge. Joffrey took my father’s head and I never stopped hating him for it. Jaime was your father’s Kingsguard and swore to protect him.”

“Why do I sense there’s a ‘but’ in there?” Daenerys asks shrewdly.

“But,” Sansa relents. “It does not paint a flattering picture of you if you dismiss a man who wants to fight for your cause. Loyalty should be rewarded, not punished.”

“Was he loyal when he killed my father?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Your father killed many people, including my grandfather and my uncle. He meant to kill my father, too. He was not a good man. Who knew this better than his own Kingsguard?”

Daenerys looks as if she wants to argue, but Tyrion steps in quickly.

“Lady Sansa is right, Your Grace. It would send a message to the people of Westeros if Jaime Lannister rode beneath a dragon banner. And the singers would love it; the Kingslayer swearing to serve the daughter of the man he killed.”

“I don’t care what the singers would love,” Daenerys grinds out.

Sansa takes her face in her hands. “Perhaps it will take care of itself...like the other problem.” She doesn’t want to name Littlefinger in front of Tyrion, but Daenerys takes her meaning anyway. She nods, relaxing.

“Alright. We’ll wait until after the battle to...make a decision.”

Truth be told, Sansa would like to see Jaime Lannister pay for attacking her father in the streets, but that was a long time ago and much has changed since then. They need him, much as she hates to admit it. They need him more than she wants revenge.

She only hopes Daenerys can learn to feel the same way.

.

The matter of what to do with Jaime Lannister decided, Sansa and Daenerys spend the rest of the morning flying the dragons. Sansa is slowly getting used to Rhaegal and learning to anticipate his movements from the shift in his muscles. She finds that he’s sometimes able to gauge her intentions from the way she leans against him, and in this way, both dragon and rider learn to communicate with one another. She’s pleased when they finally land, and she scratches Rhaegal’s head for a long moment.

“He likes you,” Daenerys says fondly. “Few non-Valyrians have ever ridden a dragon. In fact, I believe you are the first Stark ever to do so.”

“I’m the first Stark to do a lot of things. Marry a queen, for one.”

Daenerys rests her hands on her shoulders, rising up to kiss her. Everyone can see them here, Sansa knows, but she doesn’t care. She is to marry Daenerys; why shouldn’t they see?

A throat clears nearby, and when Sansa pulls back, she sees a familiar face.

“Theon!” she declares, running towards the other man. He catches her in his arms, hugging her tight. She had not thought to see him again before the battle.

“Your sister?” she asks when they pull away.

“She only has a few ships, and she can’t sail them here,” he explains, looking over her shoulder to address Daenerys as well. “She’s retaken the Iron Islands in her queen’s name.”

“Then why are you here?” Daenerys asks, puzzled.

He glances back at Sansa. “I want to fight for Winterfell...if you’ll have me.”

“Of course we’ll have you,” Sansa says, beaming. “Winterfell is your home, too.”

He smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Have you seen the others yet?” she asks, taking his arm and guiding him back to Winterfell, Daenerys following behind them.

“No, but truth be told, I wasn’t exactly eager to see Jon or Bran after...everything.”

“They’ll just be happy you’re here.” She squeezes his arm. “ I’m happy you’re here.”

“Was that you riding a dragon I saw?”

“It was,” she admits, flushing. “Daenerys thinks I should ride him into battle.”

He shakes his head. “If your parents could see you now…”

“I know.” She’s had the same thought more than once. “They wouldn’t know what to think of me.”

“What do your siblings think?”

“I think they’re just happy I’m happy. We’ve all had our share of hardships since we parted; I think now, the only thing we want for each other is happiness.”

It’s late afternoon by the time they reach the castle, and a host of men are in the yard, talking to Jon. Sansa recognizes Edd Tollett, Tormund Giantsbane, and Beric Dondarrion among them.

“What’s going on?” she asks her brother, who’s talking to the three men.

“The Umbers are gone,” he says in a low voice, looking uneasy. “The Army of the Dead will be here tonight.”

Sansa sucks in a breath. “Tonight? Truly?”

“We should prepare,” Daenerys says, stone-faced.

Sansa always knew this day was coming, but now that it’s here, she isn’t ready. She’d thought they’d have more time, even a day or two’s warning. But tonight …

It may well be her last night on this earth.

.

The lords, ladies, and commanders gather in the study to discuss their strategy. Sansa stands beside Daenerys, looking down at the map Jon has laid out for them. Truth be told, she isn’t sure what strategies work against an army of corpses risen from the grave, but anything is better than nothing.

As if reading her thoughts, Jon says, “We can’t beat them in a straight fight.”

“So, what can we do?” Jaime Lannister asks.

“The Night King made them all. They follow his command. If he falls...getting to him is our best chance.”

“If that’s true, he’ll never expose himself,” Jaime points out.

“Yes he will.”

Everyone turns in surprise to stare at Bran.

“He’ll come for me,” Bran explains. “He’s tried before, many times, with many Three-Eyed Ravens.”

“Why?” Samwell Tarly asks. “What does he want?”

“And endless night. He wants to erase this world, and I am its memory.”

Despite being in a warm room packed with people, Sansa feels a chill run down her spine.

“That’s what death is, isn’t it?” Samwell asks. “Forgetting. Being forgotten. If we forget where we’ve been and what we’ve done, we’re not men anymore. Just animals. Your memories don’t come from books. Your stories aren’t just stories. If I wanted to erase the world of men, I’d start with you.”

“How will he find you?” Tyrion asks.

“His mark is on me.” Bran pulls up his sleeve to reveal three finger-like lines burned into his forearm. “He always knows where I am.”

Sansa stares at the wound. What had happened to Bran beyond the Wall?

“We’ll put you in the crypt where it’s safest,” Jon decides.

“No. We need to lure him into the open, before his army destroys us all. I’ll wait for him in the godswood.”

“You want us to use you as bait ?” Sansa asks incredulously.

“We’re not leaving you alone out there!”

“He won’t be.”

Sansa turns to see Theon, who looks grim.

“I’ll stay with him. With the Ironborn.” He looks at Bran. “I took this castle from you. Let me defend you now.”

Bran nods slowly. Theon nods back, then Jon.

So. It is decided.

“We’ll hold off the rest of them for as long as we can.”

“When the time comes, Ser Davos and I will be on the walls, to give Queen Daenerys and Lady Sansa the signal to light the trench,” Tyrion offers.

“Ser Davos is perfectly capable of waving a torch on his own,” Daenerys tells him. “You’ll be in the crypt.”

“Is that wise?” Sansa asks.

“Yes, I have fought before,” Tyrion agrees.

“No, I mean...should we really be putting anyone in the crypts? If the Night King can raise the dead, couldn’t he raise those in the crypts?”

There’s silence as everyone in the room absorbs this.

“Gods, I never even thought of that,” Jon murmurs. “You’re right; we can’t risk it.”

“So what do we do with those who can’t fight?” Daenerys asks.

“The cellars might be safer,” Sansa suggests. “They’re underground as well, though not so closed off as the crypts. If we could barricade the doors, those inside would stand a fighting chance.”

“A fighting chance is better than none,” Arya agrees.

“Very well. Tyrion, you and Lord Varys will be in the cellars with those who cannot fight,” Daenerys orders.

“But--”

“I need you. When the battle is won and we march south, I’ll need you more than ever. You’re not a great fighter, and the chances of losing you in battle are high. I can’t risk that.”

He bows his head.

“My own fighting skills are...meager,” Littlefinger begins, but Sansa isn’t about to let him worm his way out of the situation.

“On the contrary, Lord Baelish, we need you in the field,” she says innocently. “You once fought my Uncle Brandon, did you not?”

His mouth sets in a thin line. “It was a poor fight, my lady.”

“But a fight nonetheless.” She stares him down until, recognizing defeat, he bows his head.

“The dragons should give us an edge in the field,” Daenerys says, diffusing the tension.

“If they’re in the field, they’re not protecting Bran,” Jon reminds them. “They need to be near him. Not too near, or the Night King won’t come, but close enough to pursue him when he does.”

“Dragonfire will stop him?” Arya asks Bran.

“I don’t know; no one’s ever tried,” Bran says solemnly.

An uncomfortable silence descends on the room, broken by Tormund’s pronouncement.

“We’re all going to die.” He hesitates. “But at least we die together.”

“Let’s get some rest.”

The room slowly empties out, everyone going to drink or sleep the hours away. Sansa, for one, is too on edge to sleep, and she doesn’t want to drink so close to the battle. She needs to keep her head clear.

She takes Daenerys’s hand, looking down into the other woman’s eyes. “This may be our last night on this earth. We should spend it together.”

Daenerys smiles up at her. “I like the sound of that.”

Sansa takes her up to their room to spend whatever time they have left together.

Chapter Text

Sansa isn’t sure how long she’s been asleep when she hears the horn blowing.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

White Walkers.

She sits up, reaching for Daenerys. “The horns…”

“I heard them.” Daenerys slides out from beneath the furs, dressing hastily. Sansa does the same, her fingers trembling as she laces up her leather tunic. She’d made it especially for the battle, but it feels weak and useless knowing that the Army of the Dead is right outside their walls.

The happiness from earlier tonight is gone, the love and passion turned into tense anticipation. When both women have dressed, they join hands and go out.

.

The night is dark and cold and terrifying. Even with their armies getting into position, it feels oddly still and silent. Sansa and Daenerys head out of the castle and up the ridge, moving behind the Unsullied lest they wander into the path of the wights.

The really terrifying part about them is that Sansa can’t really see them. She knows they’re there, part of the darkness, but she can’t see how big the army is, where it begins nor where it ends. It makes her shiver even beneath her cloak.

Drogon and Rhaegal are waiting at the top, shifting uneasily; they, too, must be able to sense the dead.

Sansa and Daenerys watch as the armies get into place. Suddenly, a bright light goes up. The Dothraki arakhs are flaming, bathing the rest of the army in light.

“How did they do that?” Daenerys breathes.

Sansa sees a figure riding their horse past the army--a figure all in red.

“Melisandre. The priestess,” she realizes. “She’s the one who brought Jon back from the dead.”

The Dothraki let out whooping war cries before riding forward. Sansa and Daenerys watch them plow into the black sea of the dead...and in a matter of minutes, the bright, flaming army of the living is extinguished. The war cries turn into screams, the lights dim, and soon all they can see is a black mass.

“We have to go,” Daenerys says, turning towards the dragons.

“But the Night King...we haven’t seen him yet,” Sansa says, tearing her eyes away from the armies to look at her queen.

Daenerys’s face is grim. “The dead are already here. If we wait much longer, we won’t have an army left.”

She’s right, and Sansa knows it. Casting one last glance at the army, she scrambles after Daenerys, climbing onto Rhaegal’s back. His warm body is reassuring against hers, and with a stretch of his muscles, his wings open and lift them into the air.

Down below, the Army of the Dead charges at the Army of the Living. The first clash has begun, the first victims have fallen, when Drogon and Rhaegal open their mouths and unleash fire and blood.

The wights below, already the spindly outlines of men who once were, disintegrate in the dragon’s flame. Sansa dares not get too close to the melee, afraid of harming her own men, but the dragons can at least put a dent in the Army of the Dead to make it easier on the living.

As they fly further back over the army of corpses, Sansa spies the White Walkers emerging from the Wolfswood. She shares a look with Daenerys, who nods; if they can get to the White Walkers, perhaps they can get to the Night King.

Leaning over Rhaegal, Sansa urges him closer to the Wolfswood. She sees him, the ice-white figure with a horned crown upon his head, but then a white, terrible wind blows over them and she can see no more.

It’s the worst storm Sansa has ever experienced, blowing them first one direction, then another. Snow and ice pelt her from every direction, biting her skin and blinding her. She has no idea where she is or how to right herself, and she can only cling to Rhaegal and pray the gale will end. He knocks roughly into Drogon, both dragons letting out sounds of distress as they struggle to disentangle themselves.

It feels like hours--and it may well be--before the assault of wind and snow and ice ends. Sansa takes a deep breath, gulping down fresh air. A swirling blanket of clouds is below her, and in the distance, the moon, bright and shining. It’s so calm up here, as if there isn’t a battle between the living and the dead happening below them. Some terrified part of Sansa wants to stay here, just her and Daenerys and the dragons, until it’s all over.

But they can’t, and she knows it. She looks at Daenerys, who’s also catching her breath from atop Drogon’s back. The other woman’s face hardens, and with a grim nod, she urges Drogon to dive back into the maelstrom. Taking a deep breath, Sansa pats Rhaegal, who arcs, plunging them both into the storm once more.

It isn’t so bad this time, though it’s still unpleasant. Sansa screws up her eyes, trying to see through the endless barrage of snow and ice and wind.

And then suddenly she doesn’t have to squint. She can see, and what she can see is Winterfell. The trenches are lit, holding most of the wights at bay, but some of them are falling onto the fire, creating a bridge for those behind them. She curses at that. The Night King kills and brings his victims back from the dead; of course he’d expend a few hundred so that the rest might be victorious.

A great flap of wings comes from above, and when she looks up, expecting to see Daenerys, a chill runs down her spine, because the dragon she sees is not Drogon.

It’s Viserion.

The Night King sits on his back, looking at her with impassive blue eyes. Sansa tenses, waiting for an attack, but to her surprise, he turns away, back up into the sky.

Drogon and Daenerys appear a moment later.

“The Night King!” Sansa shouts. “He was riding Viserion! He went that way!”

Daenerys urges Drogon in the direction Sansa is pointing, disappearing up into the clouds. Sansa and Rhaegal follow.

There is no sign of the Night King anywhere in the storm; the two dragons ascend in a straight line, but they reach the calm sky above the clouds again without encountering him. The two women look around them, knowing that the Night King could appear anywhere.

Suddenly, blue flame erupts from below, sending Daenerys and Drogon reeling. Viserion appears from the cover of clouds, pursuing Drogon with a never-ending stream of flame. Sansa grips  Rhaegal, terrified for Daenerys and her dragon. Daenerys is immune to flame, it’s true, but this is a different kind of flame. Could this hurt her? Or Drogon?

Though it’s suicide, Sansa urges Rhaegal to follow his brothers. He careens towards Viserion, expelling his own bright orange flame. Viserion roars, swinging around to face them. Drogon takes advantage of the opportunity to right himself, aiming his own flame at Viserion.

It makes no difference; Viserion is immune to their flames, and with an ear-splitting shriek, he opens his wings and shoots up, up into the sky.

Sansa and Daenerys gasp in the silence that follows, hearts pounding.

“We have to go,” Sansa says. “This is all to distract us, keep us from protecting Bran. He wants to throw us off.”

Daenerys nods, and with a deep breath, she urges Drogon to dive into the clouds once more. Sansa and Rhaegal follow, soaring towards the castle.

Something crashes into Rhaegal’s side, and with a scream, Sansa tightens her grip on his scales. The dragon rolls over and over in the air, and when he rights himself, she sees what it was that threw him off.

Viserion is back, the Night King still on his back. He claws at Rhaegal, who responds in kind, snapping at his brother with his jaws. Viserion’s own teeth find Rhaegal’s neck, and when Rhaegal moves his head away, crying out in pain, Viserion snaps at Sansa. She screams, holding on desperately to Rhaegal, too afraid to find purchase elsewhere.

Another force knocks them through the air: Drogon. He claws at Viserion, allowing Sansa and Rhaegal room to pull back. The two live dragons attack the dead one, and though he twists and turns, he cannot escape them.

If only he would hold still. Sansa carries a dragonglass blade, as does Daenerys, more as a precaution than anything. Such a blade would, theoretically, kill Viserion--but how can they use their blades on him if he won’t hold still?

One of them will have to get on his back, she realizes. But that means facing the Night King.

But isn’t that what they have to do anyway? Face him and kill him? The whole idea behind flying the dragons was to protect Bran. What better way to protect him than to kill the Night King?

But Sansa isn’t skilled in combat, and neither is Daenerys. Even if one of them managed to get onto Viserion, how could they be expected to kill the Night King?

But what else can I do? she wonders. Shouldn’t I try?

It would almost certainly mean her death, and not necessarily the end of the Night King. But she has to try.

Bracing herself, Sansa rises up on her knees. When Viserion bites Rhaegal again, his jaws snapping on the other dragon’s neck, she moves faster than she’s ever moved in her life, hopping from one dragon to the next.

Viserion doesn’t make it easy. He shrieks at the intruder, twisting and turning to throw her off. She holds onto the fin-like scales of his neck, knowing that the closer she is to his head, the harder it will be for him to bite her.

To her horror, the Night King is nowhere to be found.

But where would he have gone? It’s a long distance to the ground; surely he hadn’t made the jump? Perhaps he had fallen. But would such a fall kill him, or merely incapacitate him for a short time? Would it do anything at all?

Viserion gives a great shake, nearly knocking her off. She fumbles at her belt, pulling out the blade that Arya gave her. Raising her hand high, she brings the knife down in a hard stab.

The shock runs up her arm, making her hand spasm and release the blade of the knife. It makes no matter; the knife is wedged between Viserion’s scales, and with an earth-shattering cry, the dragon goes limp.

He’s dead, Sansa realizes. The dragonglass worked.

Before she can feel victorious, however, the dragon’s limp body begins to fall, and Sansa realizes that she’s still on top of him. She holds on with all her might, whimpering as the air comes rushing up around her.

“Sansa!”

She looks up and sees Drogon and Rhaegal hurtling after her.

“Let go!” Daenerys shouts from Drogon’s back. “They’ll catch you!”

Letting go of the dead dragon seems like a decidedly bad idea, but Sansa trusts Daenerys. Taking a deep breath, she lets go of Viserion’s scales and tenses.

Rhaegal swoops down, catching her in his talons. He has her secure in his grasp, and for the first time since the battle began, she relaxes, just a little.

The two dragons flap their wings, slowly lowering themselves to the ground. Rhaegal opens his talon, letting her crawl from him onto the ground. All around her is a dirty, corpse-ridden battlefield, flames still lighting the trenches.

“Are you alright?” Daenerys asks, scrambling off Drogon and running to her.

“Yes,” Sansa says, but she’s too shaken to know if she means it or not. She isn’t hurt, in any case. “The Night King, he wasn’t on Viserion.”

“I think I know where he is,” Daenerys says grimly.

All around them, the corpses are beginning to twitch, slowly coming to life. Sansa curses again, knowing that this is the Night King’s work.

Drogon and Rhaegal open fire on the wights as they come towards them, but not even the two dragons are a match for the dead. The wights come at them from all sides, some of them even managing to climb onto the dragons. Sansa grabs Daenerys’s hand, staying close as the dragons try to shield them with their bodies.

One of the wights gets past Drogon, climbing over the great dragon before landing on the ground and running at the two women.

“Your knife, the knife,” Sansa says hysterically, knowing it’s their only hope.

The wight closes in on them--

And a sword swings the wight’s head clean from his shoulders.

Ser Jorah is suddenly at their side, blood and sweat on his determined face. He swings his sword again as another wight comes at them, dispatching of the corpse easily.

Sansa is grateful for his appearance, but even his sword is not enough to defend them. More wights are climbing over the dragons and crawling under them.

Sansa spies a sword by one of the fallen bodies; it isn’t Valyrian steel, nor is it dragonglass, but it’s a blade, and that’s better than nothing. She dives for it, swinging the heavy weight as a wight comes crashing towards her. She knocks it over on its side, arms trembling with the effort. It’s the first time she’s ever so much as held a sword. Hysterically, she wonders what Arya would think of her now.

Beside her, Daenerys has her dragonglass knife at the ready; she lunges for a wight, crying out when it shatters beneath her blade.

Sansa has no idea how long the three of them stand there, using every ounce of strength to fend off the wights. Every time they cut one down, two more appear in its place. They have a tireless sort of energy, and the speed and agility of wild beasts. Rhaegal cries out, covered in wights, who claw and stab at him. Still, he does not give up, shaking them off when he can and swinging his tail, gnashing his teeth and his talons and burning all who approach him.

A wight gets to Ser Jorah, and the bear falls to his knees, his breath coming in a creaking, strangled gasp.

“Ser Jorah?” Daenerys whispers.

He surges to his feet, swinging at another wight. Sansa is momentarily blinded, and is surprised to realize that she’s blinded by her own tears. She swings her sword with a choked sob. It’s no use; she knows that now. The Night King will kill Bran, his army will destroy every last man, woman, and child, and Sansa will die here, killed by wights.

At least I’ll die with the woman I love.

She looks over at Daenerys, who looks back at her. There are tears in the other woman’s eyes, too. She lunges for Sansa, kissing her.

“I’m sorry it had to end like this,” she whispers, and then turns to drive her knife into another wight.

Sansa’s arms ache with the effort of raising the sword and she’s blinded once more by tears. She doesn’t know how much longer she can do this, but she can’t simply give up. She lets out a frustrated scream, hacking at the bones and rotted flesh before her.

And suddenly, there are no more bones or rotted flesh before her. She blinks the tears from her eyes and sees that the corpses are just that--corpses. Not wights, not soldiers in the Night King’s Army. Just bodies, lying still and silent on the ground. They tumble off of Drogon and Rhaegal, their eyes no longer ice-blue.

The Night King is dead, she realizes.

“Bran,” she murmurs.

“Go to him,” Daenerys urges. Jorah sinks to his knees, doubled over from a wound; Daenerys catches him, easing him to the ground. “Go,” she says again. “Go to your family.”

You’re my family too, Sansa wants to say, but she knows that Daenerys will not leave Jorah’s side. Worried for her own family, for Bran and Arya and Jon, Sansa takes off, running for the godswood.

It takes a long time to get there, having to climb over so many bodies, but when she reaches the godswood at last, she sees Bran, calm and unhurt in his chair. Arya and Theon stand beside him, bloody but alive.

“He’s dead,” Bran says in that toneless voice of his. “Arya killed him.”

“The Night King?” Sansa stares at her sister in disbelief. “You killed the Night King?”

“You killed a dragon,” Bran reminds her.

It’s Arya’s turn to stare. “ You killed a dragon?”

Sansa lets out a noise, more tears falling from her eyes. She doesn’t know if she’s laughing or crying. She strides forward, wrapping Bran, Arya, and Theon in a hug. Another pair of arms joins the huddle, and she doesn’t have to look up to know that it’s Jon. The first light of day creeps into the godswood, turning the leaves bloodred. The Long Night is over, and they’re still here.

The last of the Starks.

Chapter Text

It takes hours to collect all the bodies. The wights are dragged out of the castle and burned by Drogon and Rhaegal until there is nothing left. Pyres are built for the others. Though everyone is exhausted and in need of rest, they dare not wait to burn the bodies. Even though the Night King and his White Walkers are defeated, they dare not take a chance.

There are so many dead. Lyanna Mormont. Edd Tollett. Beric Dondarrion. Littlefinger. The red priestess. And Ser Jorah.

Daenerys’s face is stone as she lights Ser Jorah’s pyre. She had loved the man like her own kin. However jealous Sansa may have been of him, however clear his feelings for his queen, he had been a good man, and he had died to protect his queen and her bride.

She holds Daenerys’s hand when the other woman steps back, watching the pyres blaze.

“When I lost my son and Khal Drogo, I built a pyre,” Daenerys says in a low voice. “The Dothraki believe that burning a man will send him to the Nightlands, where he will ride eternal with his ancestors. I put Drogo on the pyre and tied the witch who had killed him and my son to it. I put my three dragon eggs next to Drogo, and once I lit it, I walked into the fire. Ser Jorah begged me not to. He thought that surely I would die. But I am the blood of the dragon, and fire cannot kill a dragon.”

Sansa listens, watching her queen. She’s never heard this story before.

“The fire did not hurt me. I took the dragon eggs and gathered them in my lap. As the fire burned Drogo’s body and the witch Mirri Maz Duur, my eggs began to hatch. It took all night, but when the fire finally burned away and all that was left was smoke and ash, I was unharmed, and my eggs had hatched into dragons. Ser Jorah was the first to find me. He has always been by my side; even when I sent him away, he always returned to help me.” Her voice breaks. “I don’t know what to do without him.”

“You will go on,” Sansa says softly. “He gave his life so that you could live yours. The best way to honor his memory is to keep going.”

Daenerys nods, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes.”

Sansa kisses her hand and watches as the flames rise up to the sky.

.

They are meant to have a feast that night. A celebration of their victory over the Army of the Dead.

The problem is, no one feels much like celebrating. Everyone sits in the hall, staring listlessly at their plates. A few low murmurs can be heard, barely audible over the clink of forks on plates. It’s so depressing that Sansa almost wants to excuse herself and go to bed. But that wouldn’t do, so she stays planted in her chair.

Beside her, Arya is unusually quiet. She keeps staring at someone or something across the hall, and after a long moment, finally stands up to excuse herself.

“Where are you going?” Sansa asks.

“Nowhere,” Arya lies, sauntering out of the hall.

Gendry Waters, Robert Baratheon’s bastard, gets up too, passing the high table as he makes for the door, but Daenerys stops him.

“Gendry,” she calls, loud enough to draw attention. The people in the hall look up, their chatter ceasing as they wonder what Daenerys will do to the Usurper’s son. Sansa can’t help wonder either, looking at her queen curiously.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Daenerys continues.

Gendry approaches her, bowing stiffly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You’re Robert Baratheon’s son.”

A long silence follows. Gendry nods, eyes downcast.

“You are aware he took my family’s throne and tried to have me murdered?”

“My queen,” Sansa whispers, but Daenerys does not look at her.

“I didn’t even know he was my father until after he was dead,” Gendry tells her.

“Yes, he’s dead. His brothers are, too. So who’s Lord of Storm’s End now?”

Gendry blinks. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“Does anyone?” When no one answers, Daenerys says, “I think you should be Lord of Storm’s End.”

Murmurs rise as Gendry shakes his head, dumbfounded. “I can’t be, I’m a bastard.”

“No, you are Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, the lawful son of Robert Baratheon,” Daenerys corrects. “Because that is what I have made you.”

A shocked silence follows, ended by Ser Davos getting to his feet and raising his horn of ale. “To Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

The rest of the room rises to their feet, cheer in their voices as they repeat the toast. Gendry accepts a mug from Jon before raising it; everyone cheers, and the party picks up with more livelihood now. Sansa looks at Daenerys, smiling.

“That was kind of you.”

“And clever,” Tyrion murmurs. “The Lord of Storm’s End will be forever loyal to you.”

Other titles are bestowed that night, and the more that are given, the merrier everyone in the great hall becomes. Arya returns, looking tousled and flushed and happy.

“Where were you?” Sansa asks, though she has a sneaking suspicion.

“Gendry’s asked me to marry him,” she says brightly.

Sansa’s eyes widen. “Gendry? Baratheon?”

Arya nods, grinning. “Yes.” The grin fades from her face. “Is that...alright?”

Sansa glances at Daenerys, who is actually smiling. “I think it would be a very suitable match.”

“As do I,” Sansa agrees. Gendry is exactly the sort of person who would make Arya happy. No airs, no political machinations. And it would mean she’d be close to King’s Landing. I could visit her whenever I wanted, and she me.

Arya hugs her sister. “Thank you.” She pulls back with a wicked smile on her face. “Now, when are you two getting married?”

Sansa and Daenerys look at each other, cheeks pink. They had always planned to marry once the war was won. The war isn’t won, not yet, but the Long Night is over. The Night King has been defeated, and once they march south, it’ll be all over for Cersei. Sansa will march south with her queen, and gods be good, they’ll be crowned soon after.

“Soon,” Sansa promises.

Daenerys takes her hand, squeezing it lightly. “Not soon enough.”

.

Everyone takes a few days to recover, sleeping and eating and not doing much else. The maesters have their work cut out for them, tending to so many wounded. It will be a while yet before they’re ready to march south and take on the Lannister army. Sansa mentions as much to Daenerys, whose shoulders sag at this news.

“You’re right. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“We should take the time to wait,” Sansa urges. “It will make Cersei antsy. If she sends her troops north to take us, we can defeat them in battle without hurting anyone in King’s Landing.”

Daenerys considers this. “What if she doesn’t take the bait? Every day we delay is another day for her to plan.”

“Every day we delay is another day for our troops to mend,” Sansa counters. “The men are in no condition to fight, and even Drogon and Rhaegal are wounded. To march now would be foolish.”

Daenerys’s jaw hardens but she nods.

“Patience, my love,” Sansa murmurs, touching Daenerys’s cheek. “The victory will be all the sweeter if you wait.”

“There will be no victory at all if I wait too long.”

A knock on the door startles them.

“Come in,” Sansa calls.

It’s Arya, looking grave. “Jon wants to speak to us in the godswood.”

“About what?”

“He won’t say.”

Sansa glances at Daenerys. “I’ll be back.” She follows Arya out of the castle and into the godswood. It’s quiet out here, the world muffled by snow and the heart tree’s red leaves. It’s hard to believe that only a few nights ago, Arya drove her blade into the Night King’s stomach, saving the world and all mankind with one thrust.

Jon is waiting with Bran, his face solemn.

“What’s going on?” Sansa asks, looking between her brothers.

Jon takes a deep breath. “I have to tell you something, and you have to swear you won’t tell anyone else.”

“What is it?”

“You have to swear,” he insists.

“How can I swear if I don’t know what it is?”

“Please, Sansa.”

She glances at Arya. This is serious indeed. She can swear Jon her silence, can’t she?

“I swear.”

“I swear,” Arya echoes.

Jon takes a deep breath. “Ned Stark...was not my father. He was Rhaegar Targaryen, and my mother was Lyanna Stark.”

Sansa stares at him, stunned. Everyone knows the story, of course, and none better than she. Rhaegar had kidnapped Lyanna and raped her, and the realm had bled for it.

“They married before I was born. He divorced Elia Martell and married Lyanna.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m not a bastard named Snow; I’m the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“How do you know all this?” Sansa asks.

“Bran,” Arya says softly.

Of course. Bran can see things no one else can. He would know.

Sansa feels almost dizzy. “So you’re...you’re not our brother?”

“Jon will always be our brother,” Arya says sharply. “Being born from a different Stark makes no difference.”

“Yes, of course.” Sansa takes his hand. “You’re still our brother.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, but he won’t meet her eye.

“What is it?”

“Daenerys,” Arya says.

Sansa turns cold.

Oh.

If Jon really is the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen, then not only does he have a claim to the throne, but he has a stronger claim than Daenerys.

“You can’t tell her,” Jon pleads.

Sansa swallows. “But...we’re to be married. I love her.”

“She will never rest easy if she knows who I am,” Jon tells her. “I will always be a threat to her.”

“But...you don’t want the Iron Throne, do you?”

“No. I don’t want anyone to know the truth of my birth.”

“Then why should she be threatened?” Sansa asks.

“Because even if I swear I don’t want it, I still have the better claim. She will always fear I will march my armies on her and take what is hers.”

“She won’t,” Sansa says crossly. “She’s not her father.”

“No, but she is his daughter.”

She points a finger at Jon, poking him in the chest. “Her blood runs through your veins. Before you accuse her of anything, look to your own actions.”

He closes his eyes. “You’re right. I only...I fear what she’ll do if she finds out.”

“She will ask you to swear not to rise up against her, as anyone would do.” She sighs. “I’ve known my share of madmen. Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay...they were all cruel. Daenerys is not like them. She isn’t mad, she isn’t paranoid, she’s nothing like her father. She’s going to be my wife.”

“Would it kill you not to tell her?” Jon begs. “To keep it a secret?”

“She’s going to be my wife .”

“Father never told your mother the truth about me,” he points out.

Sansa bites her lip. That is true. But that’s different, isn’t it?”

“Please, Sansa.”

“I won’t tell her,” she cedes. “For now.”

He looks relieved. “Thank you.”

But as she walks away, she wonders how on earth she’s going to keep that promise.

Chapter Text

It’s not easy to conceal a secret from the person you love--especially when you share a bed with that person.

Sansa can barely sleep anymore, knowing what she knows. She lies awake at night, staring at the canopy while Daenerys sleeps beside her. She tries to act normal when they’re together, but it’s hard, knowing that if she told Daenerys Jon’s secret, it would change everything.

Some small part of her is afraid that Jon is right--that Daenerys would act rashly to rid herself of any threats. But she wouldn’t.

Would she?

“What is it?” Daenerys asks one night. “Why are you so uneasy around me?”

Sansa closes her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Yes it is.” Daenerys moves closer. “You won’t look at me or talk to me. What have I done?”

“You haven’t done anything,” Sansa says, her voice cracking. “It’s not you, it’s...it’s something Jon said.”

“What did he say?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you. I swore I wouldn’t.”

Daenerys is quiet for a long moment. Then, “Does he want you to break your betrothal with me?”

Sansa’s eyes fly open. “No! Gods, no. Not that.”

“Then what ?”

“I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, even you. I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks again. “I begged him to let me tell you, but he wouldn’t. I swore to him in front of Bran and Arya and the heart tree; I cannot break an oath that I swore before the old gods.”

Daenerys leans back in frustration. “How can I trust you if you keep secrets from me?”

Sansa starts to cry. The sleeplessness of the past few days, the secret gnawing at her mind, the fear of slipping up and telling Daenerys...it all hits her at once. “I wish I could tell you,” she sobs. “But Jon will never forgive me if I do.”

“Is he plotting against me?”

“No!”

“What is it that you can’t tell me?” Daenerys pleads. “Can’t you give me some idea as to what kind of secret it is?”

Sansa hesitates. Surely she could give a hint? Something that gives Daenerys a sense of what it is without actually telling her the truth?

“There’s...someone...with a claim to the Iron Throne. They don’t want it, but they’re afraid you’ll...kill them.” That isn’t breaking her promise to Jon, is it?

Daenerys sits back, looking shocked. “Someone else? With a claim to the throne? A Targaryen?”

Sansa shrugs helplessly.

Daenerys sits there for a moment, stunned. “Who?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“How does Jon know them?”

“I can’t tell you.”

She considers. “And you’re sure they don’t want the throne?”

“I’m completely certain,” Sansa says at once.

Daenerys bites her lip. “But what if they change their mind?”

“They won’t. I know they won’t.”

“I’ve spent my entire life trying to win back the throne,” Daenerys says softly. “If someone took it from me…”

Sansa takes her face in her hands. “They won’t. Please believe me.”

Daenerys releases a shaky breath. “I believe you.”

Sansa nearly cries in relief. Daenerys gathers her in her arms, lying down on the bed with her. “My poor heart. This is what’s been troubling you?”

“I want to tell you everything,” Sansa swears. “But I can’t.”

“I know.” Daenerys kisses her forehead. “Just promise me you’ll never betray me.”

“Never.”

.

When everyone is feeling more like themselves, they hold a meeting to discuss the march south. They lay out a map with tokens to represent the armies.

“Half are gone,” Grey Worm says, removing Targaryen tokens from the map.

“The Northmen as well,” Jon says, removing direwolf tokens.

One by one, all the captains remove their tokens. It’s not a comforting sight. Their armies have dwindled significantly since the battle against the dead, and in the meantime, Cersei’s have only grown; Varys tells them that she’s enlisted the help of the Golden Company, as well as Euron Greyjoy and his fleet.

“When the people find out what we’ve done for them...that we saved them…” Missandei starts to say, but Daenerys shakes her head.

“Cersei will make sure they don’t believe it. We will hit her hard. We will rip her out root and stem.”

“The objective here is to remove Cersei without destroying King’s Landing,” Tyrion offers.

“That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Everyone looks in surprise at Arya.

“What do you mean?”

Arya shrugs. “I mean, I trained with the Faceless Men of Braavos. I can kill Cersei for you. Euron, too. When no one is left to claim the Iron Throne and Daenerys Targaryen comes marching south with her dragons and her armies, the people of King’s Landing will open the gates for you. They won’t put up a fight with no one to die for.”

Sansa looks at her sister in surprise. “You’re sure you can do this?”

“Absolutely,” Arya confirms.

The others glance at each other.

“So, what, we should just let you go alone?” Jon asks uncertainly.

“Well, bringing anyone else would draw attention, wouldn’t it?” Arya shakes her head. “I’ve lived in King’s Landing, Jon; I know how to get in and out of the Red Keep without anyone noticing. I’ve done it before.”

He looks hesitant, and Sansa can’t blame him; it’s terribly risky, what Arya proposes. But it would be the best thing for all of them; no one but Cersei and Euron would die, and it would spare Daenerys’s armies and the Northmen, who are still recovering from the Long Night.

“I say we let her do it,” Sansa says, breaking the contemplative silence. “I trust her.”

Arya smiles at her.

“I trust her too,” Daenerys says.

“Then it’s settled; Lady Arya will go to King’s Landing, take out Cersei and Euron, and we will march south to accept the city’s surrender,” Tyrion decides.

It all sounds so easy. A million things could go wrong; Arya could get waylaid, or killed, or another contender for the throne might announce themselves.

Jon, she thinks, unbidden.

Jon doesn’t want the throne. She knows that. He’s never wanted any of the titles thrown his way, and King of Westeros is the greatest of them all. He’s glad to give it to Daenerys.

I just wish he’d let me tell her the truth.

She understands why he’s afraid, why he doesn’t want Daenerys to know...but how can he expect her to keep a secret from her own wife?

.

Arya sets off that very day, alone. She takes barely anything with her, except for Needle and the dagger she used to kill the Night King.

Gendry is visibly distraught to see her go; the servants are murmuring that the couple got into a fight before she left. He hadn’t wanted her to go alone, and she hadn’t wanted to bring him.

In the meantime, the men get back into fighting shape. Not that they expect to meet much resistance once Cersei is dead, but the men will need to march all the way to King’s Landing. Sansa and Daenerys will fly the dragons to Dragonstone, and the Unsullied will meet them there after sailing from White Harbor. There, they’ll wait until they get word that Cersei and Euron are dead.

Brienne, always protective of Sansa, will be on the ships as well, as will Jaime Lannister. Daenerys had hesitated to let him join the army, but Sansa had pointed out it would look good for them if he and Tyrion were both at Daenerys’s side, and Daenerys had relented. It helps that he’ll be on a ship surrounded by Unsullied watching his every move--even if he did want to betray Daenerys, he’d be hard-pressed to do it.

“Jaime has a...complicated relationship with Cersei,” Tyrion says one night, when he and Sansa and Daenerys take a nightcap in his chamber. “His love for her is as deep as his hatred for what she’s made him.”

“Do you think he’ll try to help her?” Daenerys asks.

“I think it’s not impossible that he’ll be irrationally seized by some heroic notion or other,” Tyrion allows. “But his heart lies with Ser Brienne now. It has for some time; being free of Cersei’s yoke has made it that much more obvious.”

“And you think that’s enough to keep him from going back to Cersei?”

“Love can do strange things to people, Your Grace,” Sansa says with a smile.

Daenerys smiles back, squeezing her hand. “That it can.”

“Speaking of, we should discuss your impending nuptials. With the Sept of Baelor gone, we’ll have to find a new place for the wedding. The godswood in the Red Keep is rather remote and not ideal for guests, which we’ll want, as the more visibility the wedding has, the more readily it will be accepted by the people. There’s always the sept at the Red Keep…” Tyrion muses.

“No septs,” Daenerys says firmly. “The Light of the Seven preaches against women marrying women; we’ll never be able to find a septon who would approve the marriage. What do the old gods say about it?”

“They don’t say anything,” Sansa admits. “But Tyrion’s right, the godswood is remote, and it isn’t even a real godswood; there’s no heart tree, so there are no gods to see.”

Daenerys considers this. “Before the Targaryens adopted the Faith of the Seven, they held to the Old Valyrian ways; they had no priests, and anyone could officiate--an elder or family member or the nearest lord or magistrate. Someone of great esteem.”

“So we choose an officiant revered by the people of Westeros to marry the two of you. But who?”

“You,” Daenerys says with a small smile.

“That might be a bit odd, Your Grace, seeing as how I was once married to Lady Sansa myself,” Tyrion protests.

“Tyrion’s right; the people will find it strange,” Sansa agrees.

Daenerys considers. “Then what about your brother? Jon?”

Your brother Jon.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sansa blurts.

Tyrion and Daenerys both look surprised.

“Why not?”

“I...I just don’t think it is,” Sansa says. She can’t explain it. It’s just...Jon, who isn’t even her brother, not truly, Jon who’s a Targaryen, Jon who has the stronger claim to the throne, marrying her and Daenerys, when if Daenerys knew who he was...it isn’t right, it doesn’t feel right. “He wouldn’t want to, anyway.”

“Doesn’t he approve of our marriage?” Daenerys asks sharply.

“He does,”  Sansa rushes to assure her. “Of course he does, he only...doesn’t like attention. He’d be happier watching.”

“Well, we’ll think of someone,” Tyrion dismisses.

.

When they’re back in their room, peeling away their layers and preparing for bed, Daenerys asks softly,  “It’s Jon, isn’t it?”

“What’s Jon?”  Sansa asks, thinking about Daenerys’s earlier suggestion of Jon officiating their wedding.

“The Targaryen. It’s him, isn’t it?”

Chapter Text

Sansa turns to look at Daenerys, her heart pounding.

Daenerys, to her credit, does not look upset. She doesn’t even look surprised. Just. Calm.

Accepting.

If Sansa tells her the truth...she’ll have betrayed Jon. But if she lies…

She can’t lie to Daenerys. Not when she so clearly knows the truth.

Sansa nods, terrified.

“I’m not angry,” Daenerys assures her, coming forward to take her hands. “I understand why you couldn’t say anything. He’s your brother . Or…”

“My cousin,” Sansa says softly, and as upset as she is, some part of her is so relieved to tell the truth. “He’s Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son. I swear to you, we didn’t know. Jon only told me a few days ago, and he’d only learned a few days before that. I didn’t want to keep it a secret, but he was afraid you’d...see him as a threat.”

“I understand,” Daenerys reassures her. “Truly, I’m not upset.”

Relieved tears spring to Sansa’s eyes. “How long have you known?”

“I suspected something when I suggested he officiate the wedding.” Daenerys reaches up, brushing away Sansa’s tears. “I’m not upset. I promise you. If you say Jon doesn’t want the throne, I believe you.”

“My father always said nothing that comes before the word ‘but’ matters,” Sansa says with a rueful smile.

“I need his assurance,” Daeneys says softly. “I need to know that he’ll never tell anyone else. Not because I fear he is dishonest, but because I fear the dishonesty of others. If they know he is Rhaegar Targaryen’s son and a man , they will want him to rule. Not me.”

“They won’t find out,” Sansa promises. “He made us swear not to tell anyone else.”

“But what if he tells someone else?” Daenerys asks gently.

“He won’t , I know he won’t,” Sansa insists.

Daenerys considers her...and then nods, resigned. “Alright. I trust you.”

Sansa hugs her, burying her face in her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Never betray me, Sansa.”

“Never.”

.

When the men are ready, the army heads south. The Northmen take the Kingsroad, and the Unsullied sail from White Harbor to Dragonstone. Sansa and Daenerys, naturally, fly the dragons south. Drogon and Rhaegal sustained injuries from the wights during the battle, and Daenerys doesn’t want them to overdo it flying so far south. The dragons don’t seem to mind; the further south they get, the happier the dragons seem, eager to put the cold North behind them. Indeed, the sun burns brighter as they go, the wind turning warmer. Could spring really be so near? Or is the south only warmer than Sansa remembers?

When they draw near Dragonstone, Sansa half expects the Greyjoy fleet to be waiting in the bay for them--but they aren’t. Not that Sansa or Daenerys fully trusts the seemingly empty island; they wait for the Unsullied to check the castle before they alight.

Sansa groans as she sets foot on land; she’s been up in the air for so long that the solid, unyielding ground beneath her feet is an unwelcome shot. Her legs are also stiff and sore from where they’ve been astride Rhaegal’s back, and she makes an ungainly stumble towards the castle.

“You’ll get used to it,” Daenerys says with a sympathetic smile, wrapping an arm around Sansa’s waist and walking with her to the castle. Sansa leans against her for support, taking mincing steps as the blood starts flowing through her legs again.

Grey Worm, Missandei, and Tyrion meet them in the entry hall.

“Your Grace, we’ve had news from King’s Landing.”

“Already?” Daenerys asks in surprise, heading for the throne room. The others follow her as two Unsullied open the doors…

...and reveal Arya, draped over the throne with all the nonchalance of a sunbathing cat.

“Arya!” Sansa says in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I got bored of waiting for you.” Arya stands up, smiling. “Cersei and Euron are dead. The Iron Fleet has sailed back to the Iron Islands--or they’ve tried to. Asha Greyjoy met them head-on somewhere off the coast of Dorne and obliterated them. The Golden Company is sailing back to Essos, as there was no one left to honor their deal with Cersei. King’s Landing is leaderless and ripe for the taking.”

Daenerys closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Sansa squeezes her hand.

“It’s time,” she whispers. “The moment you’ve been waiting for for so long.”

“Yes.” When Daenerys opens her eyes, tears spill down her cheeks. “I can hardly believe it.”

.

When the Northmen have finally reached the Crownlands, Daenerys leads her armies to King’s Landing. Her dragons, her Dothraki, her Unsullied, the Northmen, the Knights of the Vale; all of them follow her, a stern, silent march to the capital.

The city gates are closed, and remain that way for a long moment. Daenerys walks forward, a lone woman with everything to lose if aught goes awry.

And then, a ringing sound starts from somewhere within the city.

Bells.

More and more bells join in the chorus, until the entire city is ringing. The gates swing open, revealing Lannister soldiers and Gold Cloaks. The Unsullied ready their spears, but there is no need; the Westerosi throw down their swords and kneel.

“Queen Daenerys,” their captain says when the last sword has been offered. “The city is yours.”

Daenerys smiles. “Thank you, Captain.” She turns to nod at her armies, who let out a cheer. Sansa beams, so, so happy for her queen.

The Lannister soldiers themselves lead Daenerys and her armies through the city. At first the people watch in nervous silence, peering out from windows and doors, but before long, someone cries out, “Hail Queen Daenerys!”

Soon others take up the cry, and others, until the streets are lined with people, cheering and waving at the queen and her army. Shy little girls hand the queen fistfuls of flowers, and one little boy gets the thrill of his life when a Dothraki pulls him up onto his saddle. Daenerys is beaming, and the smile doesn’t leave her face once. Overhead, the dragons wheel in the sky, crowing their happiness for their mother.

The Red Keep is as imposing as ever, and Sansa would be lying if she said she didn’t feel nervous at the sight of it. But the courtiers bend the knee for Daenerys, assuring her in silken tones that they have always supported the rightful queen.

Varys will deal with them in good time, Sansa knows; he’ll weed out the liars and the traitors and see to it that no one threatens Daenerys’s reign. But for now, the room full of lords and ladies bowing before Daenerys is a powerful image. She walks past them and mounts the steps to the Iron Throne, gazing at the thing in awe. Sansa has always found it ugly, personally, but it fits her queen somehow; it’s fierce and terrifying to behold, as befits the Dragon Queen. Daenerys reaches out to touch the pommel of a sword, and then slowly turns to sit in the throne. Varys comes forward with the crown that Gendry had crafted in his forge, placing it on Daenerys’s head.

“I now proclaim Daenerys of the House Targaryen First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Ruler of the Six Kingdoms. Long may she reign.”

“Long may she reign!” everyone repeats.

Daenerys looks at Sansa and beams.

Chapter Text

Daenerys’s transition to Queen of the Six Kingdoms is nearly seamless. Tyrion and Varys are well familiar with the court of King’s Landing, and they quickly suss out who can be trusted and who cannot.

Most can be; they lived in fear of Cersei’s retribution, and for this, they are pardoned. A few are not.

Ellaria Sand is freed from the black cell in which Cersei had put her. It’s too late for her daughter, who is by now a skeleton with only scraps of flesh clinging to her. Ellaria is eerily quiet; they send her back to Dorne and what is left of her children, where they hope she will find some peace and healing.

With the new regime come new titles to be distributed. The ceremonies take hours, bestowing this keep and that title on this lord and that, rewarding some for loyalty and punishing others for treason. Daenerys is a merciful queen, doling out more kindness than not.

“The people welcomed me to King’s Landing with open arms; I will not betray their kindness with unjust severity,” she says when it is suggested she enforce harsher punishments for those who oppose her.

Sansa is proud of her. She’s winning the hearts of the people, who adore their new queen. She can outsmart any man, can unite any army, can even bring back dragons from the dead.

Lords and ladies from far and wide come to bend the knee and pledge their fealty to the new queen. Sansa is reunited with her cousin Robin, who is a man now, and a handsome one at that. She also meets her Uncle Edmure, whom she’s never met before. He brings his wife, Roslin, and their daughter--a beautiful, plump little girl named Catelyn.

“Your mother was more than a sister to me; at times, she was like my own mother,” he tells Sansa. “I loved her, and I will never forget all that she did for me.” He smiles sadly. “You look just like her, you know.”

Everyone always says that, but it means more coming from someone who knew her so well. Sansa smiles, reaching out to hold her baby cousin.

“Thank you, Uncle. Hello, Catelyn.” She beams at the baby, who gives her a gummy smile in return. She has Tully blue eyes, and though there’s little hair on her head, Sansa can tell it’s going to be a full, red mane someday.

It makes her a little sad, sometimes, to think that she won’t ever have a baby. But she has Daenerys, and that’s all that matters to her. There will be children at court, and Arya may have children of her own someday, gods be good, and she and Daenerys could always take in a child. It’s unusual, certainly, but what about their relationship isn’t?

And speaking of their relationship…

The news of the wedding is better-received than Sansa anticipated. At the very least, it isn’t met with an angry mob at the gates. While nearly all of the lords and ladies at court raise their eyebrows, none of them say a word against the marriage. With Cersei mysteriously dead and the current queen in possession of two dragons, Sansa has a feeling no one is going to say anything.

.

The day of the wedding approaches with alarming speed. Sansa has her work cut out for her, having volunteered to make both dresses, but she is determined to see it through.

Daenerys’s dress is a brilliant black and red confection; Missandei showed Sansa how to bunch the fabric to give it a scale-like appearance, and Sansa uses it liberally, embellishing the black fabric with scales sewn together with red thread.

Her own dress is something of which she’s quite proud. Dyed a soft grey, Sansa brings every part of her heritage with her: she bunches the bodice into fish scales for her Tully mother, embroiders direwolves along the skirts for her Stark father and brothers and sister, and adds red heart tree leaves on the sleeves for the old gods.

In the end, they choose Jon to officiate the wedding. Daenerys insists that as the only kinsman between them, he ought to be the one. It helps, too, that he is the only king in Westeros, and therefore, Daenerys’s equal.

“Are you sure?” Sansa asks more than once, and Daenerys always gives the same answer.

“Absolutely.”

For his part, Jon agrees to officiate, though not without some trepidation.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he complains.

“Neither does anyone else,” Sansa points out. “So no one will know if you’re doing it wrong.”

“No one will know if I’m doing it right, either.”

.

Sansa can’t sleep the night before the wedding. That’s normal, she supposes. This will be her third wedding, but it may as well be her first. She tosses and turns, finally abandoning her bed to take a walk.

The Red Keep is much as she remembers it, but for every stag and lion there is now a horse or dragon. Sometimes she’ll pass an Unsullied; they always look ahead, never acknowledging her beyond a flicker.

She finds herself in the throne room, staring up at the Iron Throne. It’s dark in here, with only the dull glow of coals from the braziers for light, and the throne seems more menacing like this. They say that Maegor the Cruel was killed by the throne. He had many enemies, including his own wives, but alone with the throne, Sansa could almost believe it was the one that killed him.

“What are you thinking about?”

She turns and sees Daenerys leaning against a pillar, her silver-blonde hair tumbling down around her shoulders. It’s so long when she unbraids it. She told Sansa once that the Dothraki cut off their braids when they are defeated so that all the world might know their shame. The longer the braid, the more victorious the khal . Daenerys has been very victorious in her life.

“The throne,” Sansa says. “Do you think it really killed Maegor?”

“That’s what they say.”

“But what do you think happened?”

“Queen Elinor almost certainly killed him.” Daenerys comes forward. “Why are you thinking about Maegor the Cruel the night before our wedding?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was taking a walk and I...ended up here.”

Daenerys wraps her arms around Sansa’s waist, resting her head on her shoulder. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

They stare at the throne for a long moment.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Daenerys says softly. “I’m so happy that you came to Dragonstone and convinced me to fight for the North. I didn’t think I could fall in love again. I didn’t think I had the time or the ability, I was so focused on reclaiming the Iron Throne. But then I met you and...I wanted you by my side. Reclaiming the Iron Throne would have felt empty without you. And now you’re here and...it feels right.”

Sansa feels tears welling in her eyes, so overcome is she with emotion.

“I know it isn’t easy, what I’ve asked of you,” Daenerys adds. “Leaving your home and your family to live in a place where you were once kept prisoner. I don’t for one moment take your decision lightly. It just...it means so, so much that you did this for me.”

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth,” Sansa says honestly. “You are my family, and my home is wherever you are.”

Daenerys kisses her, long and lingering. “I wish I could marry you right now.”

“Just a few more hours,” Sansa says with a smile.

“In the meantime…” Daenerys takes her hand, leading her towards the throne. “You said you couldn’t sleep?”

“Yes,” Sansa says, wondering what the Iron Throne has to do with it.

“Then let me help you...release some tension.” She guides Sansa to the throne, sitting her down upon it.

Sansa’s never sat on the throne before. She’s never wanted to. Her father had never liked it, what few times he held court in Robert’s absence, and even Joffrey had complained about it once or twice. It feels so queer to be sitting in it now, especially given her earlier ruminations about Maegor the Cruel. He’d died in this chair. And how many kings have sat in it since then? Great men, wise men, men whose names will live on long after their corpses have turned to dust.

Daenerys kneels before Sansa and pushes her nightgown up and over her knees. Sansa sucks in a breath. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you release some tension,” Daenerys says with a coy smile.

Sansa grips the arms of the throne. Madly, she thinks of her uncle and her grandfather, murdered in this room by Aerys. How would he feel if he saw his only surviving child on her knees, pleasuring the granddaughter of Rickard Stark on the throne he fought so hard to keep?

Daenerys eases her head between Sansa’s legs, and the throne room fills with her sounds of pleasure.

.

In the morning, Sansa and Daenerys ready for the wedding with the help of Missandei and a flock of other women. The women talk and laugh while a modest group of musicians play calm, happy music in the adjoining room. Serving maids fill their cups with Arbor Gold, taking the edge off Sansa’s nerves. She smiles over at Daenerys, whose hair is being arranged by Missandei; the other woman smiles back and squeezes her hand.

The dragon queen looks stunning in her dress, as Sansa knew she would. She looks stunning, too, and can hardly keep the smile off her face when the other women murmur their approval.

“I am marrying the loveliest bride in all the world,” Daenerys declares, taking Sansa’s hands and kissing her.

They descend to the throne room together, where as much of the court as can possibly fit are in attendance. They watch as Sansa and Daenerys come down the aisle towards the throne, in front of which stands Jon. He binds their hands together and has them swear in front of the guests that “she is mine and I am hers from this day until my last day”. This done, he unties their hands and declares them joined in marriage.

Sansa leans down to kiss Daenerys, her heart pounding in her ears. The throne room thunders with the sound of applause, the very floor pulsing with the sound.

We are married , she thinks, stunned. I am hers and she is mine.

When she pulls back, Daenerys is beaming.

.

The feast goes all afternoon. They have ten courses, and in between, lords and ladies keep raising toasts to the queens. Now that the actual wedding is over, Sansa’s nerves have calmed, and she finds herself drinking and laughing with all the rest of them. She keeps touching Daenerys; squeezing her hand or stroking her knee, anything just to reassure herself that this is all real. They kiss in front of everyone and never feel shame or judgment.

“This is the best wedding I’ve ever had,” Sansa says without thinking.

Daenerys laughs. “Mine too,” she admits. “And I hope it’s my last.”

Sansa kisses her again.

.

As the feast begins to wind down, Jon stands up to make a speech. The hall quiets to hear him.

“You know, Sansa, when I sent you to make an alliance with Queen Daenerys, I didn’t expect you to do it quite like this.”

The room erupts in laughter and cheering.

Jon smiles. “I was surprised as anyone when you told me you were in love with Daenerys Targaryen…” His smile fades. “But after everything...I was just glad to see you happy. And I still am.” He turns out to the crowd. “When Sansa and I took back Winterfell, the Northerners made me their king. We were at war, and they needed a warrior to lead them. But the war is over, and now we are at peace. The North doesn’t need a warrior-king anymore; it needs a capable ruler, the trueborn child of Ned Stark.” He turns back to Sansa. “My sister. Sansa.”

Her mouth falls open, as do the mouths of most of the room.

“Jon,” Sansa whispers. “What are you doing?”

He smiles at her. “This is my wedding gift to you.” He gestures, and a servant comes out bearing a crown on a cushion. It’s iron, a circlet of swords to match the Iron Throne.

Sansa’s breath catches in her throat; she looks at Daenerys, who’s smiling.

“Go on,” Daenerys murmurs, squeezing her hand. “Stand up.”

Sansa does, mechanically, hardly able to believe what is happening. Jon takes the crown and walks over to her.

“Jon…”

“I don’t want it,” he murmurs. “I don’t deserve it.”

“But what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Go beyond the Wall with the Free Folk, maybe. Live. Sleep. Not worry about war anymore.”

She smiles at him. “That sounds nice.”

He raises his eyebrows, holding up the crown. She nods, turning to face the hall as he lowers it onto her head.

“I name you Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.”

The Northmen stand, raising their swords. “The Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!”

Beside her, Daenerys grips her hand, chanting with the rest of them. Soon the entire hall takes up the chant, raising their swords and their cups. Nearby, Arya is grinning, chanting with the others.

“You deserve this,” Jon whispers in her ear.

Can Sansa truly deserve all of this? Marrying the woman she loves, becoming Queen Consort of the Six Kingdoms, being named Queen in the North?

Winter is coming , her father always said. It will come again. The hard times will come again. But for this golden moment, everything is perfect.