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The snow crunched beneath her boots as she followed the Lady of Winterfell through the vast expanse of her keep. When she had first arrived in the North, the snow had felt endless, but now, it seemed as though there was somehow less. The drifts no longer towered above the courtyard walls, and the air no longer carried the same bite of death it had before. The Long Night had come and gone, and though its scars lingered, the world felt as though it were breathing again.
Dany had not known what to expect when she had arrived in the North, but she had most of all not expected the warmth of the welcome she was given by its lady, Sansa Stark. The girl was about Dany’s age, and had accepted Dany’s unfamiliarity with the customs of Westeros with grace and patience. There was a quiet strength in her that Dany had come to admire, a steel hidden beneath courtesy.
So when Sansa told Dany that she had something she would like to show her, Dany had no objections.
The girls walked side by side through Winterfell, greeting those in their path as they went. Children paused their play to watch them pass, men rebuilding a wall stopped and waved to their lady. They walked through the inner yard and beneath a low stone arch half-swallowed by climbing ivy, a large glass structure lay ahead; with long, sloping roofs of thick glass panes set in lead. Even from outside, Dany could see the faint blur of green within, muted by condensation that clung to the panes like morning frost.
“These are our glass gardens,” Sansa explained. “We built them as a way to be able to grow food even through the winter. Almost everything we’ve tried to grow here has done well.” She walked forward and pushed open the door. Warmth spilled out, enveloping Dany. The smell of damp soil and plants filled her nose. It was a sharp contrast to the cold, damp stones of Winterfell. The air was thick and alive. Rows of leafy greens stretched toward the pale sunlight filtering through the glass. Small white blossoms dotted low shrubs. Vines climbed carefully built frames.
“It’s beautiful,” Dany said softly.
“It is,” Sansa agreed. “The fact that they may sustain us through the rest of this winter is the more important part, though. I do have a favorite part that I would love to show you.”
“Then it would please me to see it.”
Sansa led Dany further into the garden, further explaining how the gardens work as they went. “There is a hot spring underneath here, and it keeps the building warm. The glass allows sunlight to reach the plants. There are plans to build more.” They reached the far end of the garden, where the sunlight seemed strongest. There, arranged in several clay pots, were saplings unlike the others. Their leaves were darker, glossier, shaped in a way that did not belong to the North. Lemon trees.
The sight of them stole the breath from her lungs. For a moment, she was a girl again, barefoot on cool stone, sunlight pouring through a high window. She could almost hear the distant rush of the sea, taste the salt in the air. A tree bowed beneath the weight of bright yellow fruit, their skins warm from the sun. A red door, faded and flaking, stood half-open behind her.
For a moment she felt home.
Her fingers trembled as she reached toward the nearest sapling. The leaves were smaller than those in her memory, the branches thin and careful, but they were unmistakable. She brushed one glossy leaf between her fingers, and when she lifted her hand to her face, she caught the faintest hint of citrus. Before she could speak, Sansa’s voice broke the silence.
“They remind me of my childhood. I loved lemon cakes. They were my favorite. I would beg for them whenever we had lemons. We almost never did.”
Before Dany could respond, Sansa’s gaze drifted to the small saplings, soft and distant.
“I used to imagine summers that smelled of lemons and sunlight,” she continued, her voice low, almost to herself. “The North didn’t have them, of course. Just snow and stone. But in my mind… I would picture myself in the South, warm and bright and happy. I never thought I would miss these stone walls so much.”
Dany’s eyes softened, and she crouched slightly to be closer to the saplings. “I know that feeling,” she said quietly. “I used to dream of home too. A place where I could feel the sun on my face, and hear the sound of the sea. A place where I could just be a girl again, not a queen.”
Sansa’s eyes followed her, quiet and steady. “I thought you might like them,” she said softly, almost shyly. “I imagined that maybe… you would understand what it is to long for the sun.”
There was a quiet peace in simply standing together, sharing the silence and the sunlight. “I do,” she said. “I understand.”
They moved slowly through the garden, touching the plants, brushing soil from leaves, lingering at the lemon trees. There was no hurry or urgentness, just two girls sharing memories. Dany watched Sansa adjust a flower, brushing a stray leaf from its stem, and in that careful motion, she saw the same patience, the same quiet strength that had drawn her to her from the start. Dany knew that gentleness well, as Sansa had taken to helping braid her hair in the mornings. The other girl had always taken care to be gentle with her, and Dany appreciated it.
As they walked, the sun climbed higher, and through the glass panes it fell in golden shafts, warming Dany’s shoulders. She could feel the difference immediately. Her skin tingled pleasantly, and a faint smile tugged at her lips. Snow and ice were just outside these walls, but here, in this oasis of green and sunlight, the world felt soft and alive. She had imagined Winterfell to be bleak, the snow and stone imprisoning, yet Sansa had made it something else entirely.
“Of all the times I imagined the North when I was across the Narrow Sea, I never imagined it like this,” Dany remarked. Sansa smiled in response.
“Even when I lived here, I never really appreciated it for what it could be.”
Sansa held out her hand to Dany. “Come,” she said. “I want to show you something else.” Curious, Dany took her hand. The warmth of Sansa’s fingers surprised her. They left the lemon trees behind and continued toward a small archway in the rear corner of the garden. Here, the glass was thinner, the sunlight streaming down in almost violent intensity, illuminating a miniature orchard of even more saplings. They weren’t lemon trees, but they were beautiful nonetheless. Dany walked slowly among the trees, brushing the delicate branches with her fingertips. She had ruled through fire and blood, she had carried empires on her shoulders, and yet the peace and quiet of these young trees made her feel more powerful than any crown had ever done.
Sansa watched her closely, and Dany caught herself studying Sansa in return. There was a subtle grace to her movements. Even her smile, small and fleeting as it was, radiated a kind of warmth that was guarded but sincere.
“This is my favorite part,” Sansa said, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “When I was little, I imagined summers with fruit trees, and flowers, and warm air. And now… I can see it, at least a little.”
“I always wanted something like this,” Dany admitted, almost to herself. “Not the conquest, not the throne, not the dragons… but this. Something that grows under my care. Something that survives me. But dragons plant no trees.”
“Maybe this one can.”
They stood together, hands brushing against leaves, sunlight bathing them in gold. When Sansa reached out again, taking her hand fully this time, Dany felt the truth of it in her chest. Hope could exist even in the North, even after the darkness. And perhaps, in the presence of someone who understood what it was like to be robbed of a childhood, even a queen could find a place to simply be a girl again.
They lingered there, hands intertwined, and Dany allowed herself to simply breathe, to feel the warmth, to watch the light dance across the leaves. There was no rush, no need for crowns or dragons. Here, in the garden that Sansa had nurtured against snow and stone, Dany felt at peace