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Sansa Stark, for all of her admitted faults and weaknesses, knew that one of her greatest strengths was diplomacy. The northern lords, who’d grown only more and more hard to control with each month following the Battle of the Bastards (a name coined by one of those lords, and just as exasperating), seemed to listen only to her guidance, and, often, her reprimands.
Jon, stalwart, honourable Jon, tried his best with them, but he was easily frustrated by silly nobles and their whims. Sansa, on the other hand, had been raised to be the perfect lady, a wife meant to be hospitable and welcoming and pleasant, and had grown into a woman around the most vile nobles in King’s Landing. She was certainly much more prepared for placating Lord Baelish than her brother was. Jon had little patience for manipulation and politics – he was much too straight forward for Baelish’s games. The one time that Jon and Baelish had been left in a room alone together, the latter had nearly lost his head.
Sansa wouldn’t have taken issue with that, but the Lords of the Vale may have, and they made up half of the northern army. If Jon hoped to win the war against the Night King, he really couldn’t afford to fall out of Robin Arryn’s favour.
The boy was annoying, spoiled, but overall he was nice enough to sit with and read to. He missed his mother, but he seemed to enjoy learning swordsmanship, and even showed promise with a bow. Royce was, well, not confident, but hopeful that they’d make a soldier of him yet. Sansa had gotten off on the wrong foot with him in the Vale, when the traumas of King’s Landing were still fresh and her grief still consumed her. Sansa regretted her rashness and anger, for had Robin been more like Joffrey, or even Arya, there would’ve been no salvaging their relationship after her slap. The freedom of the north, and, Seven, the whole of Westeros, relied on Sansa’s pleasantness; to think that her actions as a child could have ruined all of that was… well, she didn’t like to consider it.
But Robin seemed to have forgotten all of that, or, at the very least, he didn’t care about it anymore. He went readily to her quarters for tea, and allowed her to sit with him as he learned numbers with the Maester. When he puttered about the training grounds, she watched him and the other boys – the young and orphaned Lord Umber, a few stable boys and a squire or two – clash their wooden swords and congratulated him readily on his progress. At his nameday celebration, a small but respectful feast that Sansa organised herself, he demanded to be sat with her.
She was fond him, she could admit. But his affections had their purpose. With each moment she spent with him, the more she earned his loyalty, and, thus, the more he valued her over Baelish.
Jon was no political thinker, so she didn’t try to explain it to him. Her mother would’ve found her actions dishonest and unseemly, her father would’ve shunned her as manipulative or, worse, southern. Robb, she liked to think, would’ve appreciated it, the only member of her family close to valuing wit over honour.
Margaery would be proud of her.
.
The Northern Council (not an official title, but the one that Sansa liked to use – it made the whole business seem much more important and serious) consisted of Sansa, Jon, the trusted Onion Knight Davos Seaworth and Brienne, who didn’t contribute but stood watch by the wooden stairs so there would be no interruptions.
Jon had taken to making decisions on the balcony that their father used to watch them from. It was cold, but they could survey the people under their protection, and the lands that had been entrusted to them – won by them in battle. Sansa liked it there, too, she wouldn’t hesitate to admit. Looking at her brother as he brooded, hand resting on the newly repaired wooden railing and cloak regally billowing in the breeze, she could easily mistake him for Father.
In all of their many discussions, they’d spoken of the Night King, of Cersei, of the north and the south, and one thing was apparent to Sansa: Jon’s mind worked every bit in the way of a northerner. Honour over intelligence.
“Do you think it’s really Tyrion?” Sansa asked. The raven had arrived in the night, half frozen and clutching word from Dragonstone. It was a dangerous business, trusting a letter, no matter how legitimate it appeared to be. Even now, as she looked at the careful penmanship of Tyrion Lannister, easily recognisable from their year of marriage, she found herself hesitating to believe that it could really be him. Surely it was some trick from Cersei, some way to lure them down to south to be killed. “It could be someone trying to lure you into a trap.”
Jon’s brow furrowed, his eyes flickering toward her and then back to the training grounds below. “Read the last bit,” he told her.
She sighed, but read, “’All dwarves are bastards in their fathers’ eyes’.” She passed the letter to Davos, but he didn’t seem to understand any more than she did. “What does that mean?”
“It’s something said to me the first night we met.” His voice was clear, but his body language was stiff. Sansa stared at the side of his face. “You know him better than any of us,” he looked back at her suddenly, meeting her eyes. “What do you think?”
And wasn’t that the question? Because Sansa didn’t know what to think. Her relationship with Tyrion had been clouded by grief – the deaths of her mother and brother, the bitterness of a forced marriage, the torment of Joffrey. She’d spent more time with him than almost anyone, but it hadn’t been happy, and she remembered resenting him. He was a Lannister, representative of everything she hated in the world, of the monsters who destroyed her family. And what was to say that, even if this was Tyrion, that it wasn’t some scheme for revenge. She’d been an accessory to regicide, and Tyrion had been blamed and charged for a murder he didn’t commit. He’d lost everything: his brother, his titles, his rightful land… he may very well blame her for Baelish’s plan.
And yet… Sansa knew he was good. He’d been kind to her, a shining light in King’s Landing when she had no friends or allies. Before Margaery even stepped foot in the capital, he defended her, and protected her. She’d been a child, and, despite everything she’d been raised to believe – never trust an imp, never trust a Lannister – he’d been the closest thing to a gallant saviour that she had. Even when she’d hated him, when she’d considered hiding a knife under her pillow and slitting his throat in his sleep, she could never quite bring herself to do it.
“Tyrion’s not like the other Lannisters,” she admitted. “He was always kind to me, even when it didn’t benefit him. But,” she gazed at Jon steadily, jaw set, determined, “It’s too great a risk. We don’t know this dragon queen. She razed her way through Essos with an army of slaves. She could be as mad as Aerys for all that we know of her.”
Davos hummed, squinting intently at the letter. “He really is a charmer,” the Onion Knight didn’t appear charmed. “Of course, the causal mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied and three dragons is a bit less charming.” He paused, a look of deliberation passing over his face.
“What is it?” Jon asked.
“Do I remember you saying that fire kills wights?” Davos looked between Jon and Sansa. “And dragons breathe fire.”
Jon looked away.
“You can’t be suggesting Jon meet with her!” Sansa interjected, aghast.
The older man shook his head. “No, of course not. Too dangerous.” Sansa relaxed, just slightly. “But, if the army of the dead makes it past the Wall, do we have enough men to fight them? An alliance with someone that strong…”
They were silent for a few moments. Brienne gave a slight cough from her position, and they each turned to watch as Baelish, dangerous as a snake, weaved his way through the training grounds and to a doorway on the opposite side of the castle. Sansa looked at the floor beneath her, where the imperfect Bolton craftsmanship had allowed gaps between each slab of warped wood. It seemed he’d found the perfect spot to listen to their council without having been invited.
“What exactly are we planning on doing with Littlefinger?” Davos asked after a moment.
Jon gave a gruff sigh, jaw clenching. “Well, I supposed we can start by holding the rest of our meetings in my study.”
.
Sansa Stark didn’t trust southerners. She’d learned her lesson as a child, and continued to learn it with every moment that passed. The south was a pit of vipers, a chaotic mess of overreaachers looking for status and money. Honestly, Sansa didn’t even fully trust northerners – the memory of Ramsay prevented that.
Jon Snow, for all of his time in the North, didn’t seem to have her reservations. In fact, he seemed hell bent on risking his life for the Great War before the fighting even truly began.
“She’s a dragon,” Sansa reminded him, completely appalled. Jon was sat at the head table of the Great Hall, where Ned sat, where Robb sat, where Bran sat – three Starks who were dead, or gone. Sansa didn’t want to sit, or relax, or deliberate any further. She paced in front of him with uncharacteristic fervor, static in contrast to Davos’ stillness.
The room was empty, save for Brienne at the door. Sansa had wondered why Jon had called them to meet in the Hall instead of his study, where they’d discussed grain stores only that morning. Now, she understood that he’d called them there because he had no intention of discussing his decision. His mind was made up – the Dragon Queen would be approached, and he would announce his decision to the northern lords as soon as she voiced any approval. Sansa refused to give in without a fight.
“I know that,” Jon sighed. “But we need all the allies we can get.”
Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose, frustrated, and didn’t stop pacing. “Allies. Exactly. Daenerys Targaryen is a stranger. She’s a stranger and a southerner. Can you not remember the last time our family ventured south?” She thought of Father, so righteous and good and honourable, just as Jon was, then she thought of his head on that spike.
“I know, Sansa. You don’t need to remind me of Father, or Robb,” he tapped his fingers on the table, brown eyes unfathomable. He made an impressive picture, one had caressing his beard in thought, back straight, stance wide. He truly looked like a king. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t an idiot. “But this opportunity, as risky as it is, is the only one we have.” He leaned forward, eyes imploring her to understand. “The Northern forces have been too damaged in this war; we don’t have enough food to survive the winter, let alone enough men to defeat the Night King. And our people come before my life.”
“It’s a dangerous move,” Davos agreed. “But I trust you. And if things are even half as bad as you’ve seen, we need as much help as we can get.”
She felt like tugging her hair out. “No. No, I won’t allow this. We’ve just gotten the North back under one rule, you’ve only just been named the King – if you leave, what’s to say that won’t all fall apart?” She stopped moving but threw her arms in the air. She almost stomped her foot.
She didn’t say the rest of what she’d been thinking. In King’s Landing, she’d heard tales of the Targaryen Princess as far back as when her father had been Hand, and they’d all mentioned how beautiful she was. Sansa trusted Jon more than anyone, and she trusted him with her life, but he was a man – and from her experience, honourable men made stupid decisions around beautiful women. What’s to say that Jon wouldn’t see her, and want to save her, and put her needs against Cersei Lannister before the needs of the North? Even Ned had been lost control long enough to father a bastard.
“You’ll be here.” Jon stood, “And the lords respect you, I know they do. They’ll listen.”
Sansa scoffed. “The lords see me as a woman before they see me as a leader. That’s why they didn’t name me queen: they want you, they put their faith in you.”
Jon stared at her for a few moments. Sansa wished she could read him better, know what was going on in his head. His stoicism was a damn impenetrable mask.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” she repeated incredulously. Surely she couldn’t have won, not this easily. Jon was a stubborn bastard. “Okay, you won’t go South?”
“Okay, I won’t go South,” Jon nodded. He joined his hands behind his back, posture straight and regal. “You will.”
.
To be fair to them all, the lords were in relatively good spirits as the crowded into the Great Hall, despite no doubt knowing that they’d been gathered for bad news. Glover sat with his men on the left, Lady Mormont and her knights on the right, her small face as glaring and fierce as ever.
Sansa felt a twinge of pain in her chest as she watched the lady share a few quiet words with Ser Wallon, a middle aged knight with dark brown hair and an impressively large beard. Lyanna Mormont looked so similar to Arya, and Sansa imagined that, had they never gone to King’s Landing, Arya would have grown up to be very similar to her.
It was painful to think about. They’d only been children, and it was getting harder and harder to remember her sisters voice, and the exact colour of her eyes; her childhood seemed like little more than a distant memory now, something that happened to another orange haired northern girl, not her.
It was still strange to see so many men in the Hall. Before the King visited, it had only ever been half filled, even when they were visited by the boisterous Greatjon Umber and his many knights. It was different now, of course. They were no longer sat down to feast, but to receive a serious and important update on the war. In all honesty, they were dangerous. Sansa knew that they were loyal to Jon, and the Stark family name, but they were scared, and even the most loyal dogs lash out when they feel their safety is threatened.
Which didn’t bode well for them now, for what they had to say.
“This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly,” Jon said clearly, voice ringing around the silent Hall. The men looked at him seriously, eyes judging, and Sansa had never felt so tense sat at the head table in front of them all. Jon stood next to her, Samwell’s letter clutched tightly in his hand. “He was my brother at the Night’s Watch, a man I trust as much as any man in this room. He has discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of Dragonglass.” The men muttered between themselves, and Jon handed the parchment to Lord Glover.
The older man looked over it, face unreadable. Sansa, stood behind the head table, between Jon’s chair and her own, clasped her hands behind her back.
“I received this,” he held up another roll, smaller, made clearly from Essosi parchment, “a few days ago, from Dragonstone. It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister.” The muttering rose once more, louder and angrier. “He is now Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen. She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister, she has a powerful army at her back, and, if this message is to be believed, three dragons.” The men made noises of outrage, sharing looks amongst themselves. Sansa knew that they were already aware they weren’t going to enjoy what Jon was leading up to; she only hoped her own mollifying would be enough to quiet them. “Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys.”
The uproar was cacophonous. Every man in the room knew well how poorly Starks fared when they sailed south. Jon met her eyes, and she gave him a nod, before clearing her throat primly.
“My friends,” she began. The hall fell silent. “Our King understands that his place is in the North, with his people, where he can better prepare for the winter and for the battle with the dead. However,” she looked to Lord Glover, then to Lady Lyanna, who were both frowning deeply. “He recognises that this dragonglass is our only hope to defeat the Night King. Without it, the northern casualties will be vast, and we have seen enough bloodshed since the death of Robert Baratheon.” She took a deep breath. “Which is why he has chosen to send me as an emissary in his place.”
“But, my Lady,” Lord Glover said after a brief, shocked pause. “You are only young. You belong here every bit as much as our king; your place is in the North.”
Sansa nodded. “It is. I’m not disputing that. I, more than anyone in this room, know the horrors that the southerners have inflicted upon my family. But Daenerys Targaryen has a large army, and she has dragonfire – we must convince her to join us in our battle against the Night King. It may be our only hope.”
“Aerys Targaryen invited your grandfather south and burned him alive. This queen is a stranger, how can we know she won’t do the same to you?” Lyanna demanded. She looked so much older than her years, stood brimming with righteous anger, surrounded by her knights. Had it been a few years prior, she could’ve been Arya, all northern pride and ferocity.
Regarding her, Sansa couldn’t help but give a small, soft smile. “I understand the risks. I’m willing to take them. It’s what my father would have done, and it’s what Robb would have done.” She rounded the table, coming to stand in front of Jon, whose brow was furrowed. “Myself and Lady Brienne will ride to White Harbour tomorrow, and then sail for Dragonstone. It has already been arranged.”
.
Sansa had already begun to regret her decision when she reached her rooms later that evening. The discussion had gone on for hours, a long and tiring debate. They’d put up such a fight she didn’t even want to imagine how they’d have reacted if Jon had decided to go himself. Eventually, there had been nothing left to argue about, no more points left to raise that couldn’t simply be struck down by their shared knowledge that this was the only way. They could be unhappy about it, but their feelings changed nothing.
She sank gratefully into a bath, surrounded by the warmth of the water and lit by a crackling hearth but still achingly cold. A handmaiden began to wash her, one of the girls who’d sought work in Winterfell after the Boltons were deposed. She was a small thing, with ashy blonde hair and a pretty face. Sansa couldn’t remember her name.
She supposed it didn’t matter now; she may never see Winterfell again after leaving, and if she did this girl may well already be dead by the time she’d return. Sickness and famine were common in the winter, and this was to be the harshest in a hundred years.
Her eyes closed. Shae would have been savagely angry at her for putting herself in danger; she’d been so protective, kinder than many she’d met, but colder, too. Don’t trust anyone. Sansa could hear her voice, plain and loud, as if the Essosi were in the room at that very moment. It was one of her most valuable lessons. There were only three people in the world who’d defied its wisdom; one was already gone, another only a hallway away from her, probably sat broodingly in front of a fireplace, and the last was no doubt stationed outside of the room, far too dutiful to place her own comfort above Sansa’s safety.
“Leave me,” the Lady of Winterfell ordered. The girl was quick to scutter from the room, footsteps almost silent but still far too loud.
Sansa wanted nothing more than to stay. To change her mind and demand that they simply accept Daenerys as an enemy. But that would be too selfish; Jon would never allow it, he’d just go in her place.
This was the only way.
She stood, and stepped out of the now-cold water, wrapping herself in a robe. Her trunk had already been packed. There was nothing to do now but rest.
.
The party gathered at daybreak in the yard. Sansa was dressed for travel, in a simple fur coat and thick trousers. There would be no litter to carry her; it was horseback, walking and sailing from this point forward. Dresses could wait.
Jon’s face had seemed to be permanently set into a frown, but now, standing before her, the furrow of his brow was even deeper, the melancholy in his eyes even sharper. Sansa wanted to beg him not to let her leave, or to come with her. Instead, she smiled at him carefully.
“It’s not too late,” he told her roughly. “I can still go.”
She laughed. “It is, and you can’t.” She drew him to her, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she had when they’d been reunited. He was still for a moment, before curling her into his embrace. Her eyes closed, wanting to savour this; the feeling of complete safety, of belonging. Jon was the North, and Winterfell, and Home. Her childhood and her hope for a better future. She never wanted to let go.
They stood there for a time, far too long to be appropriate, but nowhere near long enough. When Brienne cleared her throat, signalling it was time to depart, her whole body ached at the thought of letting him go. But she did, and she stepped away, chest tight and feeling colder than it had in months, since she’d watched Ramsay die.
“Be safe, Sansa,” Jon told her softly.
She gave him a watery smile. “And you, Jon.”
.
The journey from White Harbour was unpleasant, just as the journey from King’s Landing had been. It wasn’t the sailing – the Narrow Sea was choppy and rough, but she felt no sickness – but the anticipation, the unknown. She didn’t know what reception awaited her on Dragonstone, and it was so close to King’s Landing and Cersei. What if she really was walking into a trap? Daenerys Targaryen may just burn her alive before even speaking to her, simply because she’s a Stark, a paramount member of a House that contributed to the downfall of the Mad King.
Brienne had been quiet through much of the journey, as she often was. They sat together in the quarters Sansa had been given, nursing cups of sweet wine and listening to Podrick ramble endlessly. She sometimes caught Brienne smiling fondly at the boy. He was truly far too kind for the world they lived in; Sansa hoped that wouldn’t get him killed.
They were on the water for thirteen days. On the fourteenth, the crew dropped anchor off the coast of Dragonstone and the northmen readied a boat to sail to shore. Sansa stood at the bow of the ship, taking in the sight of grey rock, steeping cliffs and a high-towered castle made of stone. It was imposing, fitting, she supposed, for the Dragon Queen. Like Aegon the Conqueror before her, Daenerys sought to claim Westeros with three dragons and a foreign army.
It had always been Arya who’d liked to hear stories of fire and blood, Arya who’d admired Visenya Targaryen. Sansa had preferred tales of romance and knighthood. The only dragon who’d interested her was Aemon the Dragonknight.
Sansa was guided into the sailboat, then sat flanked by Brienne and Podrick. The other northern soldiers, a few knights that Jon had trusted to protect her, surrounded them, chattering amongst themselves in a mix of trepidation and excitement. None of them knew what to expect. But it was too late to turn back now.
When the boat got closer to the shore, the others stepped out into the water, pulling it across the sand. Sansa waited until they’d reached where the sea did not, then allowed Brienne to take her hand and
lead her onto land.
It was the furthest south Sansa had been in years. The heat wasn’t as stifling as the King’s Landing summer had been, but even under the overcast sky she missed the brittle chill of the North.
There was a small party ready to meet them, gathered at the mouth of the stone pathway leading to the keep. Most, Sansa didn’t recognise, but she could guess who they were. They were heavily armed, with whips or deadly-looking curved blades. Each sported a long, sweeping braid and sand-coloured furs. Dothraki. They had to be. She’d known very little about them, and, even when she searched for more information to prepare for the journey, Winterfell had little to offer. The few things she’d managed to gather had told her to proceed with great caution around them – they were skilled fighters.
And there, much more familiar, stood next to a pretty woman with dark skin and curly hair, was Tyrion Lannister. Exile had been kind to him. He looked older, but his clothes were finer than the Lannister-red jerkins of his past, and he’d grown an impressive beard. His face was careful, but his eyes were still filled with surprise. Sansa hadn’t been there when Jon had written to Dragonstone to tell them of their decision to meet, but, looking at her ex-husband now, she could guess that he’d not mentioned she was their chosen emissary.
“Lady Stark,” he greeted when she was close enough to hear him. “Lady Brienne.”
“Lord Tyrion.” She gave him a nod.
“I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you,” Tyrion admitted, sharing a look with the woman beside him.
Sansa clasped her hands behind her back. “You were informed of the arrival of a northern emissary, were you not?”
“We’d been, ah,” he smiled carefully, “Under the impression the King in the North himself would be joining us.”
“Jon sends his regards,” she told him honestly. “But he has many responsibilities; preparing the North for winter is a gruelling process. And,” she looked warily at the Dothraki, who were staring back at her, “you can understand his reluctance, given our family’s history.”
Tyrion was quiet for a moment, just regarding her, and she felt a cold drop of fear slide down the back of her neck. Would he see this as a slight against his queen? Would she receive punishment for their disrespect?
But then he smiled, worn but bright, almost happy. “Of course. This is Missandei, the Queen’s most trusted advisor.”
The woman, Missandei, gave them a warm smile. It made her already pretty features even sweeter. “Welcome to Dragonstone. Our Queen appreciates the long journey you have made in order to meet her here. If you wouldn’t mind surrendering your weapons.” She nodded to one of the Dothraki next to her, who held out his arms.
Brienne glanced imploringly at Sansa, and she nodded. Brienne untied the sheath from her waist, looking extremely reluctant to give up Oathbreaker. Whether it was because of how vulnerable it left her, or because of her emotional attachment to the blade, Sansa wasn’t sure. The rest of the soldiers followed suit, and Sansa saw Tyrion’s smile widen into a grin when he caught sight of Podrick.
Behind them, men picked up their sailboat and carried it away.
“Please, follow me,” Missandei said. The Queen’s advisor turned on her heel and started up the steps of the stone pathway. They trailed behind her, observing their surroundings, and Sansa allowed herself to fall into step beside Tyrion.
“I’m glad to see you well, Lady Stark,” he said after a moment. “You’ve grown only more beautiful with age.”
“It feels as though it’s been an age since I last saw you,” she replied. “Only the imp could turn being exiled for regicide to his advantage.” Sansa frowned slightly. “I… apologise for leaving you to face the consequences of Joffrey’s murder. I was unaware of my own involvement in the plot until Littlefinger had already spirited me away.”
Tyrion was quiet. They continued up along the stone path, the wind growing harsher and the air growing colder. Around them, the view of the ocean was spectacular, water fading into the horizon as far at the eye could see, and above, a large and intricately built fortress. Truly a sight to behold.
“There’s no need to apologise,” Tyrion told her honestly. “As you can see, I’ve recovered well from being tried. And Lady Olenna has already explained to me the finer details of Joffrey’s death,” he met her eyes, “I blame you for none of it.”
She nodded and allowed the subject to drop.
They continued in silence, save for Podrick’s excited whispering to Brienne behind them. Sansa tried to prepare herself, but she wasn’t sure how she could prepare herself to meet Daenerys Targaryen. She knew so little about her character. In King’s Landing, most of the lords and ladies of Westeros had been discussed by gossips at great length; there was no shortage of stories. But Daenerys had been in Essos all this time. What little they knew about her came from miles away, only bare facts and guesswork. The only thing that all accounts had agreed on was that the Dragon Queen was beautiful, and that meant nothing.
Sansa focussed on the heavy sound of thick boots meeting stone, forcing herself to breathe calmly. But then, an ungodly screech, high-pitched and loud and monstrous rang painfully through the air. Brienne was on her immediately, protecting her with her own body instead of her missing sword, but Sansa could see over her shoulder the foreboding, terrible body of a dragon.
It was impossibly large, covered in shining black scales and trimmed with red around its neck. Its wings were twice the length of its body, its claws wickedly sharp. It was the thing of nightmares, a creature straight out of one of Old Nan’s horror stories. They stayed there for a moment of pure shock, before Brienne helped her up.
Tyrion and Missandei looked amused, maybe even smug, and Sansa bit back her fury at having been so visibly frightened in front of her enemies. She wouldn’t allow them to see anything more that they could perceive as weakness.
“I’d say you get used to them, but you never really do,” Tyrion commented, looking up as the one dragon was joined by two more in the sky. “Surprised?”
Sansa sniffed primly, continuing ahead behind Missandei. “No. She’s the Dragon Queen. I’d have been more surprised not to see them.”
Her heartrate slowed, and her face remained impassive. She wouldn’t be shaken, she refused to be. The North was relying on her ability to placate this stranger, and she would succeed.
.
When Sansa saw Daenerys Targaryen for the first time, sat regally upon a large, stone-carved throne, she was struck by how beautiful she was. Even from all the tales she’d heard, no one had done justice to the ethereal vision of the powerful Targaryen Queen. Her hair was a sharp, white-blonde contrast to the dark slate behind her, her face soft and fair even from the distance between them.
Despite herself, she felt her breath stutter in her throat. But Sansa had grown used to being around beautiful people. Being a great beauty meant nothing; Cersei had been proclaimed the most beautiful woman in Westeros for twenty years, and yet she was also the vilest woman Sansa had ever met. She’d been fooled too readily by Joffrey’s handsome young face as a girl and she would never make that mistake again.
“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” announced Missandei, stood to the Queen’s right. Tyrion had stopped on the opposite side, a small man with a large presence. The three made a formidable sight, garbed in black. Sansa came to a stop ten feet from the throne, Brienne at her side, hand coming to rest where her sword would be. The other northmen had been led away. Only Pod stood with them, three people, it felt, against a whole army.
Sansa imagined she must have looked very small then. She and Brienne were both tall women, but they were severely outnumbered. They had no friends here. She’d tried to dress appropriately for the occasion, severely enough to be understood as a force in her own right, but soft enough to lull Daenerys into underestimating her, as most do. Now, she felt very conscious of the Northern style of braids in her hair, of the imperfections on the gown she’d made herself, still wet at the bottom from walking through the sand. It had been some time since Sansa had stood in front of someone who commanded so much respect. In the North, she’d been the one with that power.
She took a breath, clasping her hands behind her back.
Missandei continued, “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.”
Sansa turned slightly to Brienne, who stepped forward. “This is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, emissary to Jon Snow, the King in the North.”
“Thank you for travelling so far, my lady,” Daenerys began. Her voice was smooth and soft, as pleasant to listen to as she was to look at. Dangerous. Sansa was glad she’d convinced Jon not to come. “I confess, we had been expecting Lord Snow himself.”
“I beg your pardon, your grace,” Sansa said pleasantly. “Perhaps you misheard. Jon Snow is King in the North. Not a lord.”
Daenerys’ eyes narrowed, though her tone remained inviting. “Forgive me, Lady Stark. I never did receive a formal education.” Her head tilted slightly, “But I could’ve sworn I read the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen. In exchange for his life, and the lives of the northmen, Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?”
Sansa felt her hands tighten behind her back, and her smile turned cold. “Yes, your grace, I’m afraid you do seem to have your facts wrong. The last King in the North was, in fact, my brother, Robb Stark, who liberated the North from the rule of Joffrey Baratheon.” She held the Queen’s gaze unflinchingly, even as her jaw tightened. “Though, I can understand your confusion, as this occurred while you were…” she paused, “elsewhere.”
“Ah,” Daenerys hands laced together on her knees. “But still, an oath is an oath. And perpetuity means,” she looked at Tyrion, who appeared tense and uncomfortable. “What does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?”
“Forever,” he answered.
“Yes,” she met Sansa’s eyes again. “Forever. So I assume, Lady Stark, you’re hear to bend the knee on behalf of your brother, Lord Snow?”
Sansa’s back was straight and tense, and she felt for a moment like she was fighting a battle now, here in the great hall of Dragonstone. She remembered feeling similarly whenever she was met with Cersei’s barbs, or trying to placate Joffrey, or to ease the horrors Ramsay would inflict upon her. Every word felt like making a move in a game of chess. It was strange then, that she felt so sure of herself, so convinced that she would win. She had rarely won before.
“I am not,” Sansa told her.
The Dragon Queen’s facial expression became cold, but her smile remained. “Oh.” The room felt as glacial then as the north, just as bitter and harsh. Sansa welcomed the change. She’d thrived in the cold all her life. “That’s unfortunate. You’ve travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”
Sansa couldn’t stop her lips from lifting, disbelief turning to amusement. Daenerys truly was a Queen; she certainly had the arrogance of one. “Break faith? Your father burned my grandfather and uncle alive. Your brother kidnapped and raped my aunt. I believe the faith between our two houses was broken long ago.”
Daenerys frowned, softening. “My brother was a fool. My father was an evil man. I am neither of them. On behalf of my House, I ask for forgiveness for the crimes they committed against your family.” She smiled once more, and it appeared almost genuine. “Our Houses were allies for centuries, and those centuries were the most peaceful and prosperous this country has ever seen. With a Targaryen on the throne, and a Stark as Warden of the North. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine, and I will name your brother Warden of the North. Together, we will save the country from those who would destroy it, and achieve peace and prosperity once more.”
“You’re right,” Sansa allowed after a moment. “You’re not guilty of your father’s crimes. We cannot choose our family,” she looked briefly at Tyrion, “And those who are related to evil people don’t have to be evil themselves.” She took a deep breath. “But I didn’t come here to uphold a vow my ancestor made centuries ago. The North has fought too hard and too long for that.”
“The why are you here?” The other woman demanded. She was no longer smiling.
“Because the North needs your help. And you need ours.”
Daenerys gave a soft laugh. It sounded sweet, melodic, but its tone was bitter. “Did you see three dragons flying overhead? Did you see the Dothraki, every one of which has sworn to kill for me?” Her voice was derisive. “How could I possibly need your help?”
Sansa wet her lips. She looked, once more, at Brienne, but the lady knight’s face was impassive. It was Sansa’s responsibility to negotiate; no one would be able to help her. She straightened her stance even more, and took a step toward the Queen. The Dothraki tensed.
“Your grace, I understand that you’re fully capable of defeating Cersei. With your dragons and your army, you could sack the city with ease.” She looked away, then back. “I want Cersei dead more than anyone. She’s a cruel and evil woman, removing her would be a favour to us all. But that war’s not important anymore.” She turned to Tyrion imploringly. “Tell me, Lord Tyrion. You’ve known me since I was a girl. In all of that time, through our marriage and tentative friendship, have you ever known me to be a liar?” Perhaps not quite the right question, upon reflection. “Or, better yet, have you known me or my brother to be mad?”
Daenerys’ eyes narrowed, but Sansa focussed her gaze on Tyrion. Briefly, she wondered if he’d told his Queen about their marriage. It wouldn’t surprise her if he hadn’t; their union was hardly more than a sham, and barely a friendship.
“No,” he answered, confused. “I’ve known you to be neither of those things.”
“Then, please, I ask you,” she turned back to Daenerys. “Both of you. To believe me when I tell you that Cersei is no longer the true enemy. The true enemy is the enemy to the North.”
“As far as I can see, you and your brother are the enemy to the North,” Daenerys said, tone clipped.
“We’re not your enemy.” Sansa took another step forward. “Your enemy is the Night King. The army of the dead is on the march, and it’s almost here. It doesn’t matter now who sits on the Iron Throne; all that matters is that we unite against our common enemy.”
“The Night King.” Daenerys repeated. “The army of the dead.” She scoffed slightly, rolling her eyes upward and giving a short bark of a laugh in disbelief. “I was born on Dragonstone, did you know that? Not that I can remember it. We fled before Robert’s assassins could find us. Robert was your father’s best friend, no? I wonder,” if Sansa had thought her demeaner cold before, now it was all fire, all intense and sudden righteous anger. “If your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib? Not that it matters now, of course.”
She stood, and began to walk closer. She was much smaller than Sansa, but she had such an aura of power and dominance she may have been six feet tall. Under other circumstances, Sansa may have admired her. “I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me, I don’t remember all their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I’ve been chained and betrayed; raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile?”
Daenerys stopped a foot away from her, so close that Sansa could see all the details of her face. She really was beautiful. “Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself; in Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn’t seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn’t crossed the sea, any sea, but they did, for me.” Her eyes were ferocious, practically sparking. “Do you seek to- to trick me? Lure me to your armies as though they have even the slightest hope to defeat mine? I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will.”
“And soon, there will be nothing left to rule over.” She took another step closer, so close she could reach out and touch her. “I don’t doubt you’ve suffered. I’ve suffered too, through things most people can hardly imagine.” Sansa raised her chin. “I don’t blame you for not believing me, or trusting me. I’m a stranger to you. But if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen to our shores, then it has brought me to you here, today. Why would I have come here, risking my life, if what I’m saying isn’t true? If we don’t defeat the Night King, everything you’ve gone through, everything I’ve gone through will have been for nothing, because we’ll all be dead.”
“The war against my sister has already begun,” Tyrion interrupted, moving to stand closer to where the two women were almost toe to toe. “You can’t expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting,” he paused, “whatever Jon saw beyond the Wall. If we must unite against this enemy to the North, then you might as well kneel.”
Sansa sighed. “With all due respect, the North has fought for its freedom, and won. Your claim to the Iron Throne rests solely on your father’s name, and my father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The lords of the North have put their trust in Jon, and Jon has put his trust in me. I’m here to seek you as an ally, I’m not here to bend the knee.”
“That’s fair,” Daenerys said, lip curling. “It’s also fair to point out that I am the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms. The North is one of those kingdoms. And therefore, you are in open rebellion.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, before Sansa laughed lightly. “Yes, our kingdom is in open rebellion. How many kingdoms do you have currently, may I ask? Is it one, or two?”
Daenerys’ jaw clenched in fury.
They were at a stalemate, stood only a breath away from each other, the air around them so tense Daenerys’ Dothraki soldiers were fingering their weapons. Sansa didn’t break eye contact.
Varys scuttled into her peripheral vision. He placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned closer to whisper in her ear, even as Sansa and Daenerys’ eyes remained locked. The Queen blinked and looked away, frowning suddenly. Varys moved back, and she started to walk back toward the throne.
“You must forgive my manners. You must be tired after your long journey,” she said, voice tense. She looked between Sansa and her two companions. “We’ll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.” She turned to say something in Dothraki to one of her men.
“Am I a prisoner?” Sansa asked tersely.
Daenerys’ back was turned to her, but her head turned slightly to the side. “Not yet.”