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Sansa stood on Winterfell’s ramparts, her gaze cast out over the fields surrounding the castle. That morning fresh snow had fallen, blanketing the landscape in a pristine coat of white, so bright and blinding that Sansa had to squint to make out the figure she was looking for. She was there, though, standing alone, her back to Sansa as she looked to the south. With her pale hair and her white fur jacket Daenerys nearly disappeared into the landscape. There was a distant, keening cry, and Sansa looked up to see Drogon flying high above.
The dragon had long since become a familiar fixture in the skies above Winterfell. Sansa looked back to Daenerys, taking a moment to find her again in the midst of all that white. The dragon queen was impatient for winter to end, Sansa knew, and often spent her spare time looking to the south, as if she could will the time to come for her march on King’s Landing. Jon and Grey Worm had convinced her to wait, convinced her that the troops that had survived the battle against the Night King needed time to recover. Daenerys was not much for patience, and had made it clear that she regretted agreeing to wait until spring. But she had agreed, and she was committed to her word, even if it grated.
The wait also grated on Sansa, not that she would admit it. She bristled at having foreign soldiers milling about her home, having to entertain a foreign queen in her own halls. Winterfell was hers, and she resented having to share it with such suspect allies.
She could at least comfort herself with the thought that it wouldn’t be much longer. The days were growing warmer and brighter, and soon the freshly fallen snow would turn to slush and then water under her feet. It had, in the end, been a short winter. If the maesters were to be believed all of their seasons would be short now that the Night King was dead.
Sansa made her way down the steps and out the gates, her cloak dragging across the freshly fallen powder as she made her way out to where Daenerys stood. Daenerys heard her coming and turned as she approached.
There was very little color to her at all, except for a light pink flush from the cold across her face. Dressed all in white, with her ivory hair falling around her shoulders, she looked far more like the fairytale princess of a snowy northern kingdom than Sansa did. It was strange, in that moment, to remember that she was really a desert creature, made for fire and not ice.
“Aren’t you cold?” asked Sansa. “Surely you would be more comfortable inside, curled up by the fires.”
Daenerys shrugged. “It’s not so bad,” she said, leaning forward, running her gloved fingers through the furs at Sansa’s waist. “It gets a little warmer every day, doesn’t it? When we first came here I thought the cold winds would cut right through me if I spent too long exposed to them. Now, though, it’s nearly a spring breeze.”
She leaned forward, her cold nose pressing against Sansa’s cheek. So close, but even as Sansa was tempted to lean in, to press against her until their bodies warmed each other, she pulled back. It was too much for the bright light of day. “We could be seen,” she said, her voice low even though they were alone in the field.
Daenerys pulled back, seemingly unbothered. She seemed less inclined to hide than Sansa, less bothered by the idea that people might gossip or whisper behind their backs. But she didn’t question or push back against Sansa’s secretive nature. “Would you like to go inside, then?”
Sansa nodded, turning and leading the way back to the keep. They walked in an amiable silence to her rooms, Daenerys a half step behind her. It wasn’t until they were safely behind closed doors that Sansa turned, letting herself take in Daenery's face. Her bright, round eyes, her lightly flushed cheeks and just barely parted lips.
Daenerys kissed her, then, her lips still cold from being outdoors. But her mouth was warm as she opened it, pressing her tongue between Sansa’s lips, and Sansa knew that in no time at all they would both be feverishly hot from the intensity of clinging to each other. She pushed her fingers through the soft white fur of Daenery’s coat and pulled her closer, tight enough that their bodies were flush against each other. Daenerys pushed her forward, up to the edge of the bed, and then down against it, laying on top of her as she sought her mouth again.
It felt a little too much like giving in, having Daenerys on top of her, holding her down and peeling off her clothes one layer at a time. She didn’t want to give it up, though, so she kept it secret instead - keeping a cold and respectable distance in public, only letting Daenerys under her skin in the reassuring privacy of her rooms. Daenerys’s cold fingers reached the bare skin of her thigh, and she gasped at the icy touch. Daenerys laughed at her reaction, her voice low and warm, like a lover. Not the cruel laugh of a would-be conquerer - that would come later, once she had secured her hold on King’s Landing and her attention turned back North. After all, Daenerys could not be the Queen of all Seven Kingdoms while Sansa was Queen in the North. Their desires were not, in the end, compatible.
That was a problem for another season, though. For now, it was still winter, and Daenerys was warming her bed, her deft fingers pushing in between Sansa’s legs to make her tremble and moan.
“Will you miss me when spring comes?” asked Daenerys, her tone soft. A little pleading, even. Such a contrast from the harsh and unyielding tone she carried in public.
“Yes,” said Sansa, sighing as Daenerys’s fingers curled inside her.
And she meant it. She would be safer with Daenerys gone from Winterfell, safer still if she died fighting the Lannisters. But she would still miss her. A shame, really, that she couldn't make herself believe that love might soften Daenerys. Might turn her away from her drive to conquer, to swallow the seven kingdoms whole. Sansa wasn't that naive, though, not anymore. She felt her legs tremble as Daenerys's fingers moved inside her, prying rapturous noises from her mouth.
In this moment, as brief as it might be, life was too sweet for fear, for resentment. Sansa pushed away all thoughts of the future and let herself be swept away.