Chapter Text
He had no intention of returning north. Half a fortnight had been quite enough for both him and Caraxes. But for some reason…he had been brought back here nine moons on. The dishevelled village slumped against the howling wind. This far north, it never seemed to stop. Snow drifted down from above, settling amongst his silver hair. His black cloak whipped around his legs, whipping them bloody with their frenzied strikes and iced droplets.
He barely remembered why he had been brought here. Some fascination with the wall perhaps. The enchantment got old when you realised it was just a big block of ice. It was further north where things became interesting. During a storm, much like this, he had lost sense of direction with Caraxes and ended up in the Far North instead of back in Molestown.
Lightning cracked against the sky and for all the miles around atop his dragon, all he knew was blank whiteness. The wind screamed loud and ferocious, the sound vibrated through his bones. Which he was grateful for because at least he was warm.
He and Caraxes spiralled off their path when a bolt of lightning crashed in front of them out of nowhere that sent them spinning from the endless nothing. He should have died then. If he didn’t die there he should have died when he felt branches and ever green pines rip through his skin and clothes, barely breaking his fall. If he didn’t die then—
Well, he would have been fine seeing as he never hit the ground.
The next thing he remembered was walking up to this gold eyed woman with dark skin. As dark as the tallest oak tree. He thought he was dreaming until she fed him a mushy red paste.
“You are safe.” she told him. “I found you and your dragon injured, were you lost in the storm?”
Lya’s voice was like the first breath of spring after the stifling cold that he felt in his blackened flesh, it was as though the Old Gods had taken pity on this arrogant fool. Say what you would about the Seven Viserys’ child-bride preaches about but none could deny the Old Gods or their existence. They were as real to Daemon as the Fourteen Flames.
It was only to be expected that he bedded her after becoming hopelessly lustful for her. The one night they had been enchanting in ways no other will ever be. He left soon after. They could not stay together after all. She was of the Free Folk and he was a prince. If she had said yes he would have gladly spent the rest of his banishment with her.
“You have given me a great gift, Prince Daemon. But our future is not together. No matter how much I wish it.”
So alas he had left her and the True North behind. Until a few weeks ago, he had almost forgotten about her. He had this urge to return to her that grew stronger as the days passed and now he was here. In a half dissected down of rotted huts and bright snows.
A door squeaked on its hinges with a howl of wind it swung off its hooks and went flying. Daemon ducked under it just in time then he heard it. A scream.
Daemon sprinted through the snow. Water sinking into his trousers and boots. He burst through the open doorway to a bed of blood and Lya convulsing on the ground, her belly swollen with a child and her legs spread open.
“Lya?” he gasped.
He skidded onto the floor and came to her side. Lanterns of odd green flame flickered and spluttered erratically yet stubbornly clung to life. Lya’s eyes were swollen, her hands were clammy and sweat poured unrelenting down her head. He grabbed her hand and she flicked her eyes open, blessing him with her gold eyes for perhaps the last time.
“You returned?” she asked, breathless from pain.
“Shh.” Daemon said softly, he smoothed back her red hair from her head. “Water? Do you want water?”
“No, no water, I don’t have much time left. Our daughter… our daughter is coming.”
She let out a shriek and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders when another tremor burst through her fragile frame. Last he saw she was plump with fine curves with a fierce body to go with it. WIllowy creatures have their charms but he was always partial to the bigger women himself. None of her beauty stayed with her. Her dark skin had wanned and the little life left in her eyes that shined like the sun was focused on bringing their daughter to this world.
How could she hide this from him? Hurt blasted through him before fear stamped it out. Why did she insist on doing it alone? Did she not trust him? They did not love each other but she had saved his life for the gods’ sake. Did that not entail a certain bit of trust?
He felt stupid a moment after. How could she have sent him a letter? She was fluent in the common tongue but could only write in the Old Tongue. If she had sent one how would he read it?
“Did you know before I left?” he asked her softly.
She shook her head with a strained smile.
“I had hoped… something is going to happen to you, my Prince. A great war brews among your family. A war you will not survive. Unless… unless you take our daughter and raise her, protect her from all who would harm her. She will protect you in return.”
She grabbed his arm.
“The First Men and the Children do not forget their debts.”
===
She knew nothing but blackness. The chill of snow and the chattering bones of the dead haunted her in this formless abyss of nothing. Had they forgotten her once again? Would she wake to their Gods as the least of all the Starks?
Her gift had never been realised.
Lady was ripped from her arms before she understood her to be her soul in all ways. She rotted away in the pits of Kingslanding, with no Father, no Arya and no Lady. It would only suit the least of the Starks to die as she was. An old toy with no use to anyone. Not even her cousin. Because there will always be someone else. Someone better.
She can feel the daggers slice her skin, but there is no pain, only a numbness that curdles her strength and drains her of all her life. What a grand life to feast on. Doted upon. Abused. Forgotten. Abused. Barely survived.
“You have such a low opinion of yourself.”
Sansa sat up in the abyss of inky blackness with a gasp. She turned around, her heart had sped to unfathomable paces. She swung her head around to see a boy leaning on a staff. He looked at her with icy eyes. They were the depths of a winter storm but there was a fire in him. A kindness that was at odds with his attire and look.
He had snow white hair and skin so pale, she could trace the veins on his skin. He wore a plain blue tunic and brown trousers with bare feet.
“Are you not cold?” she blurted out.
The boy of 17 raised an eyebrow in disbelief before he let out a laugh that chimed like bells and seemed to chase all the shadows from her.
“That’s awfully kind, thank you. But no, I’m perfectly fine.” he said.
She nodded slowly, confused by his presence.
“Do I know you?”
He hummed in thought. She blinked at him in shock when he balanced on top of his staff with agility he didn’t look like he was capable of doing.
“In a way. Yes. I have known you since before you were born.” he said.
Well… that’s not strange at all. Sansa slowly backed away from him at those words.
“You have known me all your life too.” he added as an after thought, not noticing the retreat. “Do you remember what happened? With the dead in the Crypts?”
Sansa would rather not remember if it was all the same to him. She told Jon that hiding them in the Crypts was a stupid idea! But no, let him take the advice of bloody Tyrion of all people, who hides people among the dead when they are against the Others? Clearly someone who is not as well read as he likes to pretend.
She nodded to save herself from the tremors.
“Well, I have good news for you. You have a chance to change that.” he said calmly.
Sansa stared at him.
“That’s not funny.”
“I am not joking.” he said, dropping his smile. “You and Jon have been chosen to be brought back here. When you die once again, you will be reborn with no memories of what happened. But your choices in this life will dictate the next.” he held up a finger in front of her. “You only have one chance. This is my gift to you, Child of the Forest. A chance to save yourself, your family and Jon.”
She stood up abruptly. Could it be true? Why would he lie? He doesn’t seem like a liar. So it had to be true. Could it be done? Could she save the world before Jon had to sacrifice everything for it? The weight on his shoulders in those final days with the Dragon Queen plaguing his bed and the dead coming closer. If she could even give him just a bit of comfort in the future, it would be worth it, wouldn’t it?
“Do you accept?” he asked.
He held out a hand to her. She nodded quickly, she grasped his hand and he pulled her from the blackness that wailed at her absence.
“All you need to do are these three things.” he held up his fingers.
“1. Bond with the Cannibal. He will remember you, trust in your bond.”
She blanched, the Cannibal? Where was she? She thought she was getting a second chance at their time! She thought he was sending her back to when the king first came to Winterfell!? She thought she would be able to save their father! What does he mean that she’s to bond with the Cannibal? Is he mad? Is this the Dance?
“2. Jon needs to bond with Grey Ghost and save him from dying.”
This is the Dance… he sent her back to kill her. She’s certain— no! She shook her head, she promised herself that she would save Jon. She breathed in shakily. Or die trying. At least she’ll be reborn even if she fails.
“3. Aegon II must win. Jaehaera must be wed to Aegon III and rescued from her death.”
Sansa hesitated.
“Can I ask why?” she asked. “What difference does Jaehaera make?”
He smirked at her.
“Because all our wolves, should they wish to survive, need their greensight.”
He slammed his hand out and the blackness fractured to pieces while she screamed as she was propelled backwards and into the body of a screaming babe.
===
Daemon held his screaming daughter to his chest, Lya smiled weakly at their daughter. Though his daughter did not open her eyes he knew on some level that he would not lose her mother’s golden irises anytime soon. She had Daemon’s white skin but her mother’s deep auburn hair.
Lya rubbed her thumb across her head lovingly.
“Will you call her Sansa?” she asked weakly. “For the North?”
But she knew that Daemon wouldn’t accept that name. She was a Targaryen babe. For one to survive these treacherous conditions, she needed a strong name. He could call her Visenya, that’s what Viserys would have called her, he’s sure. But only one name came to mind. One that would honour her mother as well as her dragon side.
“What about… Alysanne? For the good queen?” he asked Lya softly. “But to all her family and me, she will be Sansa,”
Lya gave the widest smile he had ever seen on her face.
“I think… that will be just perfect.”
Thus were the last words of the woman Lya. A true servant of the gods. As any Child would be.