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Chapter Text

The dead brought no siege weapons, but they throw themselves against the doors of the Great Hall relentlessly. It’s only a matter of time before they break through. As soon as the Wall fell, Jon knew the war was lost. Or maybe it was when Daenerys refused to fight in the North before she took her southern throne.

As last stands go, this is a pitiful one. Winterfell will be overrun like Castle Black and Last Hearth and all the others before it. All Jon can do is ensure none of them will be forced to rise and fight again.

He looks around the room at those who are gathered here. Some fled south to escape the encroaching night and the relentless army. But even more chose to stay. As Sansa said, when Jon begged her to leave, death is coming, and she would prefer to die at home. He searches for the familiar head of red hair, but there are too many people crammed inside for him to see her. He wishes he could hold off until he had one last glimpse of her.

But the dead do not wait. Jon raises his torch. “What is dead shall stay dead,” he proclaims.

He drops the torch, and it ignites the oil slick floor. The flames spread quickly and even those who chose to face their end like this scream as the flames take them.

#

It takes a long time for the screams to stop. For some reason, the flames don’t. Nor do they harm Jon. With a frown, Jon steps forward and then he stumbles as he falls off a platform and lands on a hard-packed dirt floor. Gasps around him force him to his feet in a moment, Longclaw drawn in front of him.

The room he’s in is dark, illuminated only by the large fire at his back. It flickers, casting shadows on the walls. The occupants of the room are all robed, but they lower their hoods to stare at him in awe and reverence.

“Fuck no,” Jon says as he recognizes one of the priestesses. “What have you done? Where am I?”

“You know me?” Melisandre looks flattered rather than concerned.

“We lost,” Jon tells her. “If you think to summon me here to fight for you, you are wrong.”

“I didn’t summon you,” Melisandre tells him. “R’hllor did.”

Jon’s string of profanity is enough to offend the entire room. Before any of them can react, the doors to the room are opened, and a woman enters. She is older than Jon by several decades. Her silver hair is obvious even in the dim lighting of the room, but it isn’t until she’s closer that Jon sees the purple eyes. She clearly isn’t Daenerys, and Jon almost laughs. For a House that was supposedly down to its last member, there are a lot of Targaryens running around.

“Who is this?” the woman asks. “Where did he come from?”

“He stepped through the flames,” one of the priestesses says.

“And you are unburnt?”

Jon shrugs. “Family quirk.”

The woman raises her eyebrows. “You are a Targaryen?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Not many reject the blood of the dragon,” the silver-haired woman says.

“A Targaryen kidnapped my mother and started a war. He died in the war he started with his own selfishness, and my mother died giving birth to me. The only Targaryen I’ve met was as selfish as her brother. She chose the Iron Throne over the Others and doomed Westeros to eternal night.” Exhausted, Jon seeks out the priestess who spoke earlier, willing to talk to anyone but Melisandre.

“The eternal night?” the priestess asks. “If you battled against the darkness then you must be Azor Ahai reborn.” She drops to her knees before him. “I am Kinvara.”

“You say the Long Night was lost.” Melisandre speaks, and she isn’t intimidated by Jon’s glare. She looks around at her brethren before her gaze finds Jon’s again. “In what year did this occur?”

“This one,” Jon tells her, his patience all but gone. “Three-hundred and four years after Aegon’s Conquest.”

Silence meets Jon’s proclamation.

“It is 110 AC,” the Targaryen woman says.

No, Jon thinks. Impossible. But he has already been reborn once. He has seen the Wall fall and the dead march. He has seen dragons. And hadn’t Melisandre told him the power in blood? If he is both Targaryen and Stark and he sacrificed himself…

“Fuck,” Jon says.

“The battle then was lost,” Kinvara says. “Because of something that happens now. You have been sent by R’hllor to prevent it.”

“No,” Jon says, even as his mind screams why me? Hasn’t he done enough? Failed enough?

“What could happen now that that affects two-hundred years from now?” the Targaryen woman asks.

“The dragons.” Jon doesn’t know his history well, especially not his Targaryen history, but he knows when it winds through the North’s. Cregan Stark was praised for keeping his oaths in the infamous war. “Have you heard of the Dance of Dragons?”

No one in the room answers in the affirmative.

“What is it?” the Targaryen asks.

“The beginning of the end.” Jon sheathes Longclaw. “The dragons died, and Targaryen power waned. I grew up with the first non-Targaryen king since the Conquest.”

“The dragons died?” The Targaryen shakes her head as if she can’t believe it. “How?”

Jon’s smile is stretched, painful thing. “A Targaryen war for succession.”

#

Saera Targaryen and the fire priestesses waste no time in sending Jon off to King’s Landing under strict orders to prevent the death of the dragons. Jon isn’t sure how a letter of recommendation from an exiled Targaryen is supposed to help with this aim, but when he hesitated, Saera offered to find him employment in one of her brothels if he preferred that instead.

And so here he is, in King’s Landing for the first time in his life. Save for his trip to Dragonstone to plead for dragons, Jon had never left the North. He is sure it surprises no one that he prefers it. His first impression of the capital city is unflattering. It is crowded, reeks of all manner of unpleasant things, and it is stifling, both the temperature and the general feel of it. He would take the biting wind at the top of the Wall over this stagnancy any day.

He attracts a few looks as he makes his way toward the Red Keep. He’s still in his leather armor, and he has a Valyrian steel blade strapped to his hip. No doubt, though, it is the black curls and the gray solemn eyes which attract the most attention. It was a blessing, he knows, that he looks so thoroughly northern. It made it easier to hide a half-Targaryen. But here, in King’s Landing, it makes him stand out.

It is quite a production for him to make it from the gates of the Red Keep to outside the throne room itself. Not for the first time since landing in Volantis, Jon has wished for Sansa at his side. She lived in King’s Landing for years, as a future princess and then as a captive. She has always been better at politics and court than he is.

Before he can worry too much, the herald hesitantly announces, “Jon Targaryen,” and Jon is ushered into the throne room.

Silence falls over the room, and he walks softly so as not to make unnecessary noise. Courtiers line both sides of the court, and they stare openly and then begin to whisper behind their fans. On the throne itself sits the king, Viserys, as Saera had informed him. Beside him is a tall, severe man with the Hand pin on his vest. And at the King’s feet, on a smaller and far less dangerous throne is a girl who must be the Princess Rhaenyra.

Jon stops before the Kingsguard step in and block his way. He bows deeply and hopes it’s at least partially correct.

“You don’t look like one of us.”

The man who speaks steps out from the crowd. He wears his silver hair long and loose except for a few braids to keep it from falling in his face. He is dressed in black and red, and he rests his hand on the pommel of his sword. A sword that Jon recognizes from the stories. Dark Sister.

Jon bows again, this time to a prince. “Not all of us have two Targaryens for parents,” he says.

Belatedly, he realizes his words might be taken as an insult, but Daemon only laughs. “I suppose you have proof of your claim?”

Jon pulls the leather thong from around his neck. In a small satchel kept against his chest, under his clothes and armor, is the note Saera wrote for him. He removes the letter and hands it to the prince. The man raises his eyebrows at the seal and looks Jon over again. “It’s quite the trip from Volantis.”

“It is,” Jon agrees, as more whispers travel through the room.

The anticipation in the room only rises as Daemon reads the letter. He’s careful to hide his expression now, giving nothing away. After he finishes, he hands the letter to King Viserys, much to visible ire of the Hand of the King. After the king reads the letter, the Hand all but snatches it from him.

“Why have you come here?” Daemon asks. “Was there not enough adventure in Essos?”

“Not enough family,” Jon answers. He quirks a smile at the visible shock on Daemon’s face. Apparently, Northern honesty is still as disarming as ever. “I did not come for the throne, and I will swear to never sit on it if you like. I did not come for a dragon either. I simply want to know my family.”

“Are you another uncle?” Princess Rhaenyra asks. She glances at Daemon with a small frown, as if she doesn’t want another uncle.

“Our exact kinship is unknown,” Jon answers. “It would honor me if you called me cousin, but it’s an honor I do not dare ask for.”

“I like him,” Daemon decides. “What say you, brother? Shall we grow our family by one?”

“Your Grace,” the Hand says, speaking up before the king can answer. “This boy is unknown, his story unverified, and his sponsor is a woman of ill-repute.”

The king looks at Jon, uncertain, but Jon has nothing to offer in his defense. All three of those things are true. He is here to somehow stop a Targaryen civil war from breaking out. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to do it or who he’s supposed to back.

“Then we will make it two for two,” Daemon declares. “Jon shall join the City Watch and remain under my guidance.”

“What say you, Jon?” King Viserys asks. “My kin says you are trueborn kin of mine. You say you came to King’s Landing with no expectation. Will you accept my brother’s guidance?”

“I am your trueborn kin,” Jon says, even if it is a distant, distant relation. “I know some do not honor it, but my parents were wed beneath a weirwood tree. I am trueborn and a Targaryen, even if I did not inherit any of the looks. You are the king, and I hesitate to correct you, your Grace, but I must. I did come with one expectation.” He removes his blade as he takes a knee before the throne. “Valar dohaeris, your Grace. All men must serve.” Jon waits for the noise of the court to die down before he speaks again. “I, Jon Targaryen, do swear upon the old gods and the new that I have no desire for the Iron Throne. I henceforth remove myself from the line of succession. I am simply Jon, with no titles to accompany it. I am here to learn and serve my family until the gods determine my service complete.”

“Then arise, Jon, and be welcome,” Viserys says. The king levers himself off his throne and walks down the steps of the dais. Jon hurriedly rises and sheathes Longclaw before the king reaches him. He is shocked to be embraced, and he is stiff at first, before he hesitantly returns the embrace. “Rhaenyra, come greet your cousin.”

The princess rises from her throne as well. She doesn’t embrace Jon as her father did, but she does extend her hand. Jon lightly grasps it in his and bows over it. He doesn’t dare kiss her skin, but his lips touch the air several inches above it.

Daemon laughs and then pulls Jon into a sideways hug, rougher than Viserys’s embrace, something more akin to what Jon experienced with the Night’s Watch.

“My wife and queen is in our chambers,” Viserys says and to Jon’s alarm, he looks almost misty-eyed. “You will dine with us this evening and meet her.”

“We’re going to add to the family again soon,” Rhaenyra says.

“Congratulations,” Jon says. Is it this child which sparks the war? He doesn’t think so. Arya knew far more about the Targaryen histories than Jon did, but he thinks Rhaenyra was the first queen in her own right. She was usurped, but not by her sibling. Because a son of the king would inherit before her. Was it her uncle? Jon wishes he had been a more attentive student.

“You have very good timing,” Viserys says, showing no intention of returning to his throne or resuming court. “The lords and ladies of the realm will be arriving in the next few moons for the tournament for my heir.”

“Will you compete?” Rhaenyra asks.

“I am not a knight,” Jon answers.

“But you know battle,” Daemon says. He looks not to Jon’s sword first but the scar that curves around his eye. His gaze drops to the sword second. “That is Valyrian steel.”

“Aye. Tournaments are for fun and for show. I would not know how to do it, and I would risk injuring someone.”

“I would call you a braggart, but you are not,” Daemon says. He studies Jon for a long moment. “There is Northern blood in you.”

“My mother. They say I take so much after her, she gave everything to me. She died in childbirth. My father gave me his name and nothing else. Everything I am, I have to make for myself.”

“A familiar refrain.” Daemon claps him on the back. “Brother, I will have Jon at your quarters for supper, but I will steal him away until then. I’m sure court will be quite dull after this.”

“May I go with you?” Rhaenyra asks, a hopeful look on her face.

Daemon doesn’t seem to even notice as he dismisses her. “We’re going to the City Watch barracks, which is no place for a girl, let alone a princess. We will see you this evening.”

Rhaenyra pouts but her uncle isn’t swayed, and Jon finds himself almost hustled out of the throne room. Daemon is taller than Jon, as many men are, but he is lithe, honed muscle, where Jon has more thickness to him. He idly wonders who would win in a fight, the famed Rogue Prince or Jon.

“I will have servants take your things to your rooms,” Daemon tells him. “Where are they?” He looks around the entrance hall as if there will be a stack of trunks.

Jon unslings the satchel from his shoulder. “Everything I own is in here. I would carry it with me, if it doesn’t offend you.”

Daemon stares at the small bag long enough that Jon is worried he is offended. “You brought so little with you?”

“I will earn my keep here,” Jon says, uncomfortable with the look he’s being given. “The barracks will suffice.”

“You are a Targaryen, and you will be treated as one,” Daemon says. He starts walking, clearly expecting Jon to follow. “Not as a prince, mind you, but as one of ours. You will have room in the Red Keep and an allowance. You will want for nothing. But generosity comes with a price.” Daemon’s tone deepens, darkens, but he doesn’t slow his pace. “You will ask for no more than you are given. You will not take anything that isn’t yours to take.”

“I would never.” Jon feels a prickling of anger at his integrity being questioned. “And if you recall, I already swore off the throne.”

“You think the throne is the only treasure the Targaryens have?” Daemon stops now, outside the gates of the keep. “My niece, Rhaenyra. You will not touch her.”

“I will not,” Jon agrees. He can’t help his horror at the suggestion. “She is a child.”

Daemon huffs. “She is ten and three, the same age her mother was when she went to the marriage bed.”

Jon thinks back to the throne room. Rhaenyra is that old? She seems so much younger. Is it because the North and the war aged everyone so quickly? Is it because Jon is on his third life and feels ancient? He tries to imagine Rhaenyra and Sansa side by side. Sansa only has a few years on the girl and yet, it seems so vast.

“Regardless,” Jon says. “I have no interest in taking Princess Rhaenyra to wed or to bed.”

“Good,” Daemon says.

“You are protective of her,” Jon says as they continue their way back down into the city.

“Someone must be. Her mother is too often bedridden, and her father is too busy. Viserys has always intended for her to wed her brother, so she has not been raised to rule or know the treachery that lives in men’s minds. She is innocent.”

Jon tries to remember Sansa before she left with Lord Stark for King’s Landing and her betrothal. Had she been so innocent and young, then? He finds his memories of his childhood vague. He recalls better the cold and hardened beauty who rode for Castle Black. The way her icy armor melted at the sight of him and how she’d thrown herself into his arms. Sansa Stark, the girl who dreamed of a white knight, so eagerly embracing a black crow.

Jon’s heart aches for her loss. While he told Daemon the truth, he has no intention of wedding or bedding a child, because that is what Rhaenyra is, he has no intention of being with any woman. His love is dead, and Jon’s heart died with her. He will serve the gods and then pray they finally let him be at peace.

“She’s old now for that kind of betrothal, isn’t she?” Jon asks.

“My brother hasn’t figured it out yet.” Daemon rolls his eyes, clearly feeling freer outside the keep’s walls.

“Do you intend to take her to wife?” Jon asks. He personally thinks she’s too young for Daemon, especially now, but he’s aware that Targaryens have always done things…differently than others.

“I have a wife.” Daemon doesn’t sound pleased with that fact, nor did he answer Jon’s question.

Still, wary of provoking Daemon’s temper, Jon doesn’t ask any additional questions as they continue their journey. The barracks for the City Watch aren’t far from the main gate to the Red Keep, which makes sense. They are loud, rowdy, with a different kind of energy than the Night’s Watch had. Jon suspects most of it is because of the temperature difference and the rest of it is because the City Watch doesn’t swear the same kind of oaths.

There is an immediate change as Daemon enters the barracks. The men don’t come to attention, but they do call out a few hellos, even some invitations to share a drink or visit a whorehouse together. Jon tries not to grimace.

“You lot shut up for a moment!” Daemon shouts, his voice ringing out above the rest. It’s only a moment before the room settles. Daemon places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “This here is Jon Targaryen, kin from across the sea. He is part of my family by blood, and he’s come to join my family by choice.”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” the men shout in unison.

“Someone get this man a gold cloak!” Daemon shouts.

Jon is separated from Daemon as the two of them are swarmed, an equal number of men wanting to speak to their commander as well as the newcomer. The first man who makes it to Jon is…large. Jon has to tilt his head far back in order to meet the man’s eyes. He isn’t intimidated, not after Tormund and the other Free Folk and even some of the giants he allied with against the Others. Still, he didn’t realize they made men this large south of the Wall.

“Luthor Largent,” the man says. “Captain.”

“Well met,” Jon says.

Another large man approaches, not as tall as Largent but broader, with obvious muscle. “Ser Harwin Strong of Harrenhal.”

“Well met,” Jon repeats.

He meets far more men than he can remember, but he trusts as he settles into training and patrols the names and faces will begin to stick in his mind. At some point, he is awarded the promised gold cloak, and he can’t help but wish it were black instead.

#

Jon’s afternoon with the gold cloaks is over before he’d like. Daemon ushers him back up to the Red Keep, and Jon is feeling more like a squire than a man grown as he follows Daemon around. This time, Jon is shown to the rooms he’s been given in the keep. They are far larger and better appointed than he needs, but he doesn’t protest. He arrived declaring himself a Targaryen and wishing to be treated as family, and this is what it means to be Targaryen.

Part of him wonders what it would have been like to grow up at Rhaegar’s trueborn son. Would the realm still have dissolved into chaos? Would he feel more comfortable here and with the name Targaryen if he was raised to be one instead of fear them?

Jon is left to bathe and then change into the simple clothes left out for him. He is grateful for the extra set, as the clothes he arrived in while not charred or singed, have certainly seen better days. He is grateful for the Targaryen colors being red and black, as no one will look at him strangely if he chooses to dress in as much black as he can. Tonight, since his clothes were already set aside for him, he wears what he was given; a blood red shirt with a black doublet over it and black pants with red detailing. He thinks the embroidery might be flames, but he’s not entirely certain.

He pulls on a fresh pair of boots, black leather that is as soft as a pair already broken in, and then he attempts to arrange his curls in some kind of order. He strokes a hand over his beard and wonders if he should trim it. Daemon’s hair is long and pin-straight, and he boasts no facial hair. Jon already stands out with the black curls. Does his beard even matter at that point?

Jon has just finished strapping Longclaw to his waist when a servant appears to tell him Prince Daemon is at the door.

Once again, Jon is escorted by Daemon through the halls until they reach the king’s rooms. At least the family is smart enough not to put Jon too close to the others. He isn’t sure whether their trust in him is humbling or foolish.

There is a woman already seated at the table and though she looks tired, she offers Jon a warm and welcoming smile. “You must be the one everyone has been talking about. I am Aemma.”

“Your queen,” Daemon says, half-growl, full threat.

“Your Grace,” Jon greets. He bows. “Thank you for welcoming me to your family and to your table.”

“Finally, a Targaryen with manners.” Aemma’s smile brightens. “Come, sit. Once my husband and daughter arrive, we can eat.”

“How are you feeling today?” Daemon asks as he points to the chair next to the one he takes. Jon obediently sits where told.

“I am fine. You worry too much.”

Daemon’s face suggests that he doesn’t worry enough. Jon wonders if the pregnancy is a difficult one, but he knows better than to ask. He has vague memories of Lady Catelyn being pregnant, but he was never encouraged to speak to her, pregnant or not. And, obviously, he was not around any pregnant women at Castle Black either. He knows he has been terrified of it all his life, impregnating a woman, condemning a child to the same fate he suffered. It’s why his affairs have been exceedingly rare.

If the dead hadn’t risen, would he and Sansa—no. Silly thought. The dead did rise. Thinking of anything else is only torturing himself.

“Jon shall join the gold cloaks,” Daemon is saying as Jon pays attention again to the conversation. “If he has the skill to back-up the sword he wields then he will be a great asset.”

“I wouldn’t carry a blade I wasn’t worthy of,” Jon says before he can think of a more polite response.

“Does it have a name?” Aemma asks.

Jon is about to answer when he realizes that if this is House Mormont’s blade, House Mormont might already have it. “Ghost,” he answers, giving the blade a new name.

“Hmm,” Daemon says, clearly not thinking much of it.

The king and his daughter arrive together, and Daemon tugs Jon up so they both stand as the king enters.

“You didn’t come get me,” Rhaenyra tells her uncle, clearly cross with him. “Is this how it will be when mother has her babe? I will be replaced?”

“No,” Daemon promises with more conviction than Jon had anticipated. He kneels in front of the princess and thumbs away her pout. “You are my favorite, niece, and you always will be.”

“This is why she’s spoiled,” Aemma says but she sounds resigned to it. “Everyone come sit, so we can eat.”

Jon waits for everyone else to be seated before he takes his own seat. He eats quietly, willing to listen to the conversation around him but without any real desire to join in. He samples a little bit of everything, a little in awe of the spread on the table. He has never seen such rich food before. They were rationed as the Long Night fell, and before the Wall certainly wasn’t a place of fine cuisine. Even when he was a boy at Winterfell, they didn’t dine like this. He never went hungry, unless he was being punished, but the food in the North was hearty and simple. This is decadent.

For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s because he’s here, and the thought almost makes him laugh. This isn’t a feast or a meal honoring long lost kin. He sits at a king’s table, and this is clearly how kings eat. Even as he enjoys the varied fare, he hopes he will be allowed to dine with the Watch going forward. He doesn’t belong at a table like this, no matter what his name is.

Chapter Text

Jon learns the streets of King’s Landing before he learns the layout of the Red Keep. After the initial few days of curiosity, he is mostly forgotten as the king attends to his kingdom and the princess either cares for her pregnant mother or demands attention from her uncle. Jon is glad to slip into the background.

“Another moon’s turn and it’ll be like you were born here,” Addam Harte says. He’s the fourth son of a second son, or something similar, and he has been Jon’s shadow since Jon found him struggling in the training grounds and stepped in to help. He doesn’t mind the boy, and it’s been helpful to have an ally who grew up in the King’s Landing and knows the streets and alleys as well as he does. The boy, no more than five and ten, looks at Jon’s curls and grins impishly. “Well, you’ll never look like you were born here.”

“He fights like he was,” Gyles says.

Gyles Langward is Jon’s other companion. He is a few years older than Jon, and he has neither Jon’s pensiveness nor Addam’s youthful excitement. House Langward’s most notable member was Harrold Langward, who served in Maegor’s Kingsguard. According to the sneers from some of the other City Watch members, the knight chose a trial by combat when the new king took the throne. He died fighting, which Gyles snidely points out is better than some of the other Kingsguard; weak men who were executed or cowards who went to the Wall.

The City Watch is full of the bitter and the ambitious in equal measure. They are men, and boys, who don’t have the connections to pursue knighthoods. The Watch offers a chance to make a living without being dependent on relatives. Some believe it is a chance to attract a prince’s notice or make a name for themselves.

Jon finds it easy to be lost amongst two-thousand other gold cloaks. He can do his patrols, contribute to the safety and security of the city, and then sleep soundly each night knowing his life has purpose. As meagre a purpose as it is. Of course, he knows there is more he is here to do, as his dreams remind him, as if the gods believe he’s neglecting his true duty.

He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to prevent the Dance of Dragons. He has difficulty remembering what the sides were and what the inciting action was. He isn’t sure who he is supposed to support. Daemon is violent, the gold cloaks speak reverently of their commander and the Night of Justice, when they were unleashed to round up and punish every criminal they could find. Daemon frequents brothels but from all reports, while he is lusty and passionate, he doesn’t hurt the women he beds. Jon would not call him a good man, but he isn’t a bad one either. And he is currently the heir to the throne.

Perhaps Queen Aemma is pregnant with a son and after so many years believing himself to be the heir, Daemon rebels? Even as Jon has the thought, he dismisses it. Daemon has taken Jon under his wing, which has meant several nights of patrolling, drinking, and then Jon begging off from visiting the brothels. It has also meant conversations, honesty found either in late nights or the bottom of a cup. Daemon Targaryen is passionate, and he is violent, but all those energies he directs toward bettering his family. He would never turn against them.

“Jon? Jon?” Addam sighs as he pokes Jon’s shoulder and doesn’t get a response.

“He doesn’t care,” Gyles says as Jon tunes back into their conversation. “What does a cock-less man care about the pretty girls arriving for the tournament?”

“I have a cock,” Jon says. He rolls his eyes. “You’ve even seen it when I’ve taken a piss.”

“I only looked because I heard you were an Unsullied who broke your chains and ran away to Westeros.” Gyles doesn’t even sound invested in the lie, as if he can’t bother.

It’s a recurring tease that Jon either doesn’t have a cock or has a malfunctioning one since he refuses to bed whores. As with the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk, he’s learned to take the teasing as his due. He’s teased for his curls, for his pretty face, and for his lack of whoring. It would be a waste of time to fight everyone who has a muttered comment, so he doesn’t.

“The pretty girls arriving for the tournament are ladies,” Jon reminds them. “Which means they are off-limits to all of us.”

“Maybe not you,” Addam says. “Are you saving yourself for a lady?”

Gyles snorts. “That’s our Jon, as pure as the Maiden.”

“Fuck off,” Jon says and then turns them down the Street of Steel.

#

Patrols increase as the population of the capital increases. With the addition of so many noble sons, there is an increase in theft as well as mistreatment of the brothel workers. Jon’s patrols are shifted to accommodate. It is Jon, as well as Ser Harwin and even Daemon on occasion who are sent to guard the whorehouses. Men of noble birth to interfere when other men of noble birth don’t behave as they should. It is politics, and Jon finds himself wishing for the Wall.

On the day the Northern delegation is set to arrive, Jon isn’t given leave from his duties so much as ordered to take up the duties of a Targaryen instead. He dresses in simple black clothing and stands to the side and behind the rest of the royal family as they greet the Northerners in the courtyard.

Jon’s chest is tight with longing. He knows these Starks will not be his uncle or his cousins, but they will still be kin. And as much as he was brought to this time to be a Targaryen, not even the gods can overwrite the part of him that will always feel like a Stark more than anything else.

It is not only the Starks who arrive, but the Manderlys, the Mormonts, some other houses, he’s sure, but he stops looking at sigils when he spots the young woman standing with Rickon Stark. It is her hair he notices first, red and blazing amongst the dark furs and muted clothes of the Northern delegation. He looks at her eyes next, bright and blue, her gaze already locked on his, as if she sought him out from amongst the royal party. Her lips curl into a smile that he would recognize anywhere.

Sansa.

He almost drops to his knees right there. He isn’t sure how he stays standing. Sansa is here. He isn’t alone. He isn’t sure if it is a gift from the gods or a sign that they don’t trust him to do this on his own, but he doesn’t care. Sansa is here, and she will surely know what to do.

“May I present my own cousin, Lady Sansa Stark,” Rickon says, finishing introductions.

Sansa curtsies deeply, beautifully, and she greets the royal party. “There is one last introduction to be made,” she says with a smile. She snaps her fingers and the crowd parts so that a large black dog can pad its way to Sansa’s side. No, Jon realizes, as the creature obediently sits at Sansa’s feet, its head of a height with her ribcage. A direwolf.

“This is Shadow,” Sansa tells the crowd. “We are not as blessed with our sigil as you are with yours, your Grace, but Shadow found me when I needed her most. She is my dearest companion.”

“May I pet her?” Princess Rhaenyra steps out from her father’s shadow, showing interest for the first time. She is fearless as she approaches, as if riding a dragon means she thinks there is nothing in Westeros which can harm her.

“She is friendly to those who deserve it,” Sansa says. As if on cue, Shadow slinks forward and licks Rhaenyra’s outstretched hand. The princess giggles. Sansa’s answering smile threatens to bring Jon to his knees. “She is very well-behaved, princess. If you like, I can bring her to Ladies Court.”

“Oh, we don’t have one of those,” Rhaenyra dismisses. “Mother is too busy, and I have no interest.”

Jon knows Sansa well enough to catch the flicker of surprise before her expression is smoothed out again. “How do you and your ladies entertain yourselves?”

“I only have the one,” Rhaenyra answers. She continues to pet Shadow, unaware of the effect her words have. “She prefers the Sept, and I prefer the skies.”

“Only one?” Sansa glances back at Lord Rickon with an apprehension and hesitancy that feels real even though Jon knows it isn’t. He has seen Sansa command the North. “You are the Crown Princess. Is this how things are done in the South?”

“Would you like to join the Princess’s household?” Daemon asks, even as the king and princess continue to be oblivious to what’s happening around them.

“I would offer my companionship while we are here in the capital,” Sansa says.

“I spend most of my days with my mother,” Rhaenyra says quietly, almost shyly. “She is confined to rest in her chambers as her birthing date approaches.”

“I would not intrude where I am not welcome,” Sansa says.

Jon is aware of the king greeting the Northern houses, but he cannot tear himself away from the sight of Sansa or the sound of her voice. He had thought her dead, thought her lost to him in this new life. Perhaps, the gods are cruel, but they are not as cruel as they could be. He needs an excuse to speak with her, alone, so he can find out how she was brought here. He doubts she walked through the flames as he did.

“I would welcome you,” Rhaenyra says. She stops petting Shadow and looks up at Sansa. “It is quite boring.”

“Then we shall bring entertainments. Books or perhaps songs, whatever it is your mother likes best.”

Jon sees the moment Sansa wins Rhaenyra over. It isn’t with the direwolf, even if Rhaenyra enjoys dangerous things. It is with the care and compassion shown for the expecting Queen. He hears plenty of whispers about the queen. Concern over another child when she’s lost so many already. Pity that she is always bedridden. Scorn for a woman who cannot do her one duty.

The conversation with the Northerners has come to an end, and the king ushers forward those tasked with seeing them to their rooms. Lord Stark glances back at Sansa and then addresses the king. “Your Grace, could someone show Lady Sansa to the godswood before she goes to her rooms? She is quite pious.”

Standing like a fiery beacon in the courtyard, a direwolf at her hip, Jon doesn’t think of Sansa as pious. He thinks of her as the North itself. He steps forward before he’s conscious of doing so. “I would be honored to escort you to the godswood, Lady Sansa.” At Daemon’s elbow, Jon quickly adds, “I am Jon Targaryen, kin to the royal family and Captain of the City Watch.”

Sansa curtsies deeply to him. “Thank you for the offer and the honor, Captain Jon.”

“Are you sure he’s yours and not ours?” Lord Rickon asks with a laugh. He steps forward and offers Jon his hand. They clasp hands and then embrace, slapping each other on the back twice in the Northern way. He doubts that did anything to dissuade the Northerners from thinking he’s one of theirs.

“He is Targaryen,” Daemon says, his voice light but with a curl of danger beneath it.

“Shadow,” Sansa says and the direwolf breaks the building tension by trotting over to Jon.

The direwolf has fur as black as night, but her eyes are as red as Ghost’s had been. Black and red, Jon muses as he scratches under Shadow’s chin. A direwolf in Targaryen colors. Shadow nuzzles Jon’s hand in turn, and Sansa smiles at them both.

“Shadow approves,” Sansa says and finally she approaches. She extends her arm to Jon, expectant, and he quickly places her hand on his crooked elbow. His manners are as rusty as ever, but he can still recall escorting Sansa around Winterfell in those few moons before everything went terribly wrong.

A household guard from both House Targaryen and House Stark follow at their heels as they make their way into the Keep. Jon bites back comment as Shadow leads the way as if she knows exactly where the godswood is. In retrospect, she probably does, if not from divine intervention then from the scent alone.

Jon rests his hand on Sansa’s and tries to hold back all his questions. He tries to remain poised as if he cannot feel the heat of her hand through his sleeve, as if her presence isn’t like a rope to drowning man.

When they make it to the godswood, the two guards remain in sight but keep a greater distance. Sansa withdraws from Jon’s side and spreads her skirts as she kneels before the weirwood. Jon hastily kneels beside her.

“Jon Targaryen,” she murmurs, a greeting and a question all in one. “When we heard the news, I scarcely allowed myself to hope, but here you are.”

“I burned Winterfell as we discussed.” He keeps his head bowed and his voice lowered, this conversation for them alone. “The flames didn’t abate. I stepped through them and into a room in Volantis. Out of the Great Fire of the Fire Priestesses. They said R’hllor summoned me here to fix a great wrong.”

“Hmm,” Sansa hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his words. “Lord Rickon tells me the family was in the godswood when the weirwood lowered its branches and set me on the ground. They say I am blessed by the gods, and they have agreed to do all they can to help me stop winter’s approach. They have claimed me as a cousin, found again after the slaughter of everyone in my household. They brought me south at my insistence. When the Night came, we needed unity, and we needed dragons.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees. It’s the same conclusion he came to. “I don’t—” he hangs his head, ashamed. “I don’t remember much of this time. I don’t know what to do.”

“We will figure it out together,” Sansa promises. “The gods knew this was a burden too great for one person. I will become a part of the princess’s household. Arya mentioned her. Not as often as Visenya, but Rhaenyra was known as the Half-Year Queen. Her crown was stolen and history judged her harshly for the violence she used to take it back. But she was queen in her own right, rather than simply wife to a king. You bear the name Targaryen but not the title of Prince.”

“I am a distant relation from Essos,” Jon says. “I have sworn off any ambition for the throne. I am here to support my family.” He can’t help the twist of his lips at having to claim the Targaryens as family. He never knew Rhaegar except for unflattering stories. And Daenerys…no, Jon has no love for his Targaryen kin.

“All of Westeros dies if we fail,” Sansa says softly. She reaches over to clasp his hand in hers. “Every action we take is for the Starks.”

Sansa has always had a gift with words, a way to frame things to make people unite to her cause and believe what she says. Jon is no different. He nods, trusting her words. He may be named Targaryen, but there is an equal amount of Stark in him. He will use one family to save the other. To save all of Westeros.

“I serve in the City Watch,” Jon continues. “Prince Daemon has taken me under his wing, but I do not have the ear of anyone in the family. There is still distrust.”

“Bond with Prince Daemon as I bond with Princess Rhaenyra,” Sansa says. “We will determine what to do.” She stands and brushes off her skirts as Jon hurriedly rises to his feet as well. “I will come to the weirwood each morning and evening when my duties allow.”

“I will meet you when I can,” Jon promises. He wants to take her hand again. He wants to pull her into an embrace so he can feel her and be sure she is real. Instead, aware of the eyes of the guards, he steps back and bows. “I will escort you to your room, my lady,” he says, loudly enough to be heard.

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “I was told of southern chivalry, but you are the first example of it that I have seen.”

They keep their conversation light and superficial as they pass through the crowded hallways of the keep. There are rooms for all the visitors, but they are, of course, not in the family wing of the keep. Jon supposes the distance can only be a good thing, as it means he is less tempted to find Sansa and speak to her when there is no known reason for him to do so.

He bows outside her rooms and then forces himself to turn and head for his own rooms.

#

The tournament is not for another moon yet, but the North cited unpredictable travel times and the rarity of their visits for their reasons to arrive so early. King Viserys is delighted to host them, and Jon as well is eager to have his kin here. He does not speak to Sansa every morning and evening, there are times he cannot make it to the godswood and, even when he can, she is sometimes accompanied by others.

Jorelle Mormont is the most common of her companions. She has seen her twentieth nameday but still has a distance to her thirtieth. She is a warrior and clearly uncomfortable in the dresses she has to wear for court. During one of their mornings alone, Sansa told Jon that Jorelle is both friend and guard and that she has taken it upon herself to train Sansa in how to use a dagger.

“Lord Stark saw me,” Sansa confesses quietly, her voice almost too low even for Jon to hear. “My scars. It’s why he spun the tale of my family’s slaughter, so if anyone else sees the scars, there is an explanation for them. Jori isn’t teaching me how to fight, I will never be you or even Arya, but she is teaching me tricks to hold out long enough for help to arrive.”

“Does it bring you comfort?” Jon asks.

Sansa gives a slow, hesitant nod.

“Then I’m glad you’ve found a teacher.” Jon refuses to shame her for anything she does, whether it is learning to carve a man up with a knife or the embroidery she still enjoys. She has been judged and shamed enough for one lifetime.

“The princess is young,” Sansa says. “She is spoiled. And yet…she is alone, Jon. She is the Crown Princess, but her mother is constantly in bed as she tries to birth a son. Her father is absent. Her uncle adores her, but, Jon, she has no ladies. There is Lady Alicent Hightower, but she isn’t a lady-in-waiting in truth. She is more like a girlhood companion. I do not understand it.”

The ways of women and the ways of court are a mystery to him. All he can do is offer up a shrug.

“She has not made a formal offer to Lord Stark yet, but it was far too easy to ingratiate myself to the princess,” Sansa continues. “She knows she isn’t the child her parents want. She is hurting, and she doesn’t know what to do with that hurt.”

“You will guide her,” Jon says with confidence. “And I will steer Prince Daemon toward spending more time with her. He is a…difficult man, but it is undeniable that he is different with her.”

Their planning is brought to an end when Shadow rises from her lazy sprawl, a sign that someone is approaching. Jon is the first to rise, and he offers Sansa his hand, helping her to her feet.

Prince Daemon raises a sardonic brow at them. “If I could interrupt your…prayers, cousin.”

Jon glances at Sansa, embarrassed at Daemon’s implications, and also conflicted on whether to leave her here on her own. He knows King’s Landing holds no good memories for her after her years of being held hostage.

“I can find my way back to my rooms,” Sansa assures him with the indulgent smile she wears whenever she thinks he’s being overprotective. That she both appreciates him and thinks he’s silly. “Between Shadow and Ser Brayden I shall be well guarded.”

Right, she has both a direwolf and the Stark household guards to protect her. Jon sketches a bow and then reports to Daemon’s side. “Are we needed in the city?”

“We are always needed somewhere,” Daemon says. To Jon’s surprise, Daemon doesn’t bring Jon to the barracks but to Daemon’s own rooms. They are in the solar, and Daemon pours a goblet of wine for each of them. Daemon sprawls in his seat and takes a lazy drink. He stares Jon down until Jon gulps a bit of wine himself.

“If red hair is your preference, you could have said.” Daemon’s gaze is flinty, as if he knows what he says is incendiary and wants to see a spark turn into a flame. “The brothels are very accommodating.”

“I have no interest in whores,” Jon says for what must be the hundredth time since arriving.

“But you do have an interest in a Northern lady?”

“My mother was a Stark,” Jon says, because Daemon read Saera’s letter, the one that attested to Jon’s parentage. The Company of the Rose was a sellsword company founded by men and women of the North who rejected Torrhen Stark’s submission to Aegon the Conqueror. It is not impossible that he has a Stark mother, and he asked Saera to include that detail to limit the amount of lying he will have to do. “I came to King’s Landing for family, and you have welcomed me, but the gods have seen fit to introduce me to my second family as well. Lady Sansa has been telling me about the old gods. There are no weirwoods in Essos.”

“You are defensive of her.” Daemon’s slouch is supposed to lure Jon into a false sense of security. He has seen the tactic employed time after time, Daemon portraying himself as the lazy prince or the rogue, only to snap to attention the moment his prey gives themselves away.

“Whispers have followed her from the North.” As much as Jon doesn’t wish to speak of Sansa’s past, he knows Daemon is aware of it. He cares too much for his family’s safety to not apprise himself of everything happening in the city.

“You pity her, then?”

“No!” Jon’s protest is perhaps too vehement, but he can’t help himself. “She would neither welcome nor forgive my pity. What she has endured…She is strong. It is a different strength than yours or mine own. It is admirable. It is interesting.”

“She is quickly becoming a favorite of my niece,” Daemon says. He leisurely sips his wine again, as if he isn’t threatening Jon without unsheathing a single weapon.

“I’m glad. They both deserve friendship.”

“Is that what you want from the Lady Sansa? Friendship?”

“If she offers it to me, I will gratefully accept.”

Daemon studies Jon as if he knows Jon wants more, but he can’t possibly know what Sansa is to Jon. Jon wants her friendship, yes, but he wants more as well. He wants to hold her in his arms. He wants to brush out her beautiful hair as she tells him about her day. He wants a swarm of children to trip them up as they try to walk through the courtyard together. He hopes his longing doesn’t show on his face.

“You are strange,” Daemon tells him. “Must be the Stark blood.”

Jon laughs and raises his goblet as if Daemon has made a toast. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you want?”

Daemon is quiet for so long, Jon thinks he isn’t going to answer. But then Daemon says, “I want Aemma to birth a healthy boy, so my brother will stop sending her to the birthing bed before it kills her. I want my niece to have a younger brother, so the weight of the Crown is off her shoulders. I want her to see that even though all Seven Kingdoms will forget about her once I have a nephew, I will never forget her. She sees her mother suffer, did you know? She asked me once, why she isn’t enough. Why her mother must cry and bleed when Rhaenyra is alive and healthy.”

It is too early for thoughts this deep, but Jon doesn’t discourage the prince from sharing. “What did you tell her?”

“That men are selfish cunts.” Daemon laughs and drains his goblet. “There are not many Targaryens left. There used to be so many and now…” Daemon pours himself another goblet. “You will have to marry. Might as well be the Stark girl. She’s pretty enough. Laena Velaryon would be better, but Corlys would never betroth his daughter to an unknown Targaryen.”

“What about you?” Jon asks.

“Unless you truly don’t have a cock in your pants, marrying me won’t help.” Daemon smirks but he sobers quickly. “I am shackled to a wife I cannot abide. She despises me, and even if we were to have a child, she would claim it and raise it to be heir to her seat. The child would not be mine. Due to the Good Queen’s,” Daemon sneers the title, “wisdom, the child wouldn’t even have my name.”

“Then you need an annulment,” Jon says.

Daemon barks out a harsh laugh. “I have tried. If this pregnancy of Aemma’s isn’t successful, I may have to resort to other means.”

“Murdering your wife won’t help y—our house prosper,” Jon says.

“I wouldn’t get caught.” Daemon sounds insulted. “I am hoping my brother gets his damned son and that he’s so overjoyed he grants me my annulment.”

“Who would you marry if you had the choice?” Jon asks. “Laena Velaryon?” He can’t help but wrinkle his nose. The girl is younger than Rhaenyra, a true girl, and not a potential bride, at least in his opinion.

“She is a child, even if her bloodline is impeccable,” Daemon says. He drinks from his goblet. “In truth, I don’t know. I always wanted a Valyrian bride. My first choice is dead, because I was shackled to the Bronze bitch. Laena is too young and—” Daemon hesitates as if he isn’t going to name who his true preference is. “My brother would say Rhaenyra is also too young, but I would wait for her. He still believes she’s going to marry her brother, but she will be too old for him. Too old for him and too young for me. In truth, it’s why I haven’t bothered with my wife. What is the point?”

Jon hasn’t seen this despondent side of Daemon before. He has seen him angry, seen him vicious, seen him so smug Jon wished he could dump him on his ass but this? This is a man on the edge of defeat.

“Patience, then,” Jon says. “We will celebrate the king’s son and, mayhaps, by the time King Viserys realizes Rhaenyra is too old for her brother, she will be more of a proper age for you.”

“Give me the rest of your wine and get out,” Daemon says.

Jon hurries to obey.

Chapter Text

Sansa still can’t believe the truly pitiful state of Princess Rhaenrya’s household. Even the queen only has a handful of ladies and attendants, mostly kin from the Vale. It is as if the royal family doesn’t know how to conduct themselves as nobility, let alone as royals. It occurs to her that perhaps they do not. She has studied recent history since arriving, and she knows the Great Council chose King Viserys. He wasn’t raised to rule, and it shows.

She suspects Princess Rhaenys could have helped, but pettiness and stung pride held her tongue. It’s a contrast to Prince Daemon who, by all Jon’s accounts, is desperate to support his family. He is sometimes too eager, she thinks, but it is impossible to doubt his devotion.

Well, some still doubt.

It has taken her some time to learn the politics of this Red Keep, but she has the basics now. The Hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower, is a second son who found himself at the side of a king, and he has never left, despite the king having changed. He craves recognition and power, and it’s obvious he sees Daemon Targaryen as a threat to that power.

The Hand’s only daughter, Alicent, is the princess’s companion, the one who isn’t even a true lady-in-waiting. She is quiet and overly pious. It did not take much effort for Sansa to supplant her in Rhaenyra’s affection. Sansa is the princess’s favored companion, but she hasn’t been offered an official position yet. She spends most of her time with the princess, but when Rhaenyra goes riding on dragonback, Sansa hosts an unofficial ladies court.

It has allowed her to meet the daughters of powerful men and learn more about this time she’s found herself in. When she set the crypts on fire and stabbed herself through the heart, she didn’t expect to wake up in Winterfell’s godswood. She certainly didn’t expect to be living in a different time.

She still recalls Lord Stark’s concern as she opened her eyes for the first time. He asked her what had happened, and she answered truly. Winter came. Between the weirwood lowering her to the ground before the Starks and the bloody hole in her dress and the healed scar from her dagger, they believed she was sent by the old gods, and so she told them where she had come from. From a time without dragons when dragons were needed. Wars of kings and then queens when unity was needed.

They were deciding what to do when they received word from King’s Landing that a Jon Targaryen had made an appearance at court. And that is when Sansa knew. Jon, her Jon was alive as well. The gods didn’t give her this burden to shoulder alone. She needed to go to King’s Landing. And it so happened there was a reason for her to go, the upcoming Heir’s Tournament. She was confused when she heard the babe is not yet born, it seems like tempting the gods to host a tournament for a son when the babe was not yet born or declared healthy. One of many things about this court that simply isn’t right.

Cersei would never.

Sansa came south with the Northern delegation, and she intends to remain in King’s Landing when they return. At first, she thought only Shadow, her direwolf, would remain with her, but if she is successful then Lady Jorelle Mormont will be taken on as one of the princess’s ladies.

Sansa doesn’t know much of this period in history. She knows they are approaching the Dance of Dragons, when Targaryen fought Targaryen. She knows this leads to the end of dragons and, eventually, the believed end of the Targaryens as well. Like Jon, she isn’t sure who they are meant to support. All she knows is that the Targaryens and their dragons must survive if they are to defeat the Others.

At the moment, there is King Viserys and his wife Aemma, their daughter Rhaenyra and the king’s brother, Daemon. She has heard of Daemon Targaryen, never spoken well of, but she isn’t sure if it’s history or truth. Afterall, Sansa knows history, whether recent or in the deep past, is not necessarily a true recounting. Did Cersei succeed in having the maesters label the Starks as traitors when all they ever did was try to keep a double-Lannister off the throne?

She isn’t sure who the factions in this war will be, so for now, she keeps her peace and gathers as much information as she can.

“Lady Sansa, the seamstress is here.”

Sansa looks up from her embroidery and smiles at Lady Amanda Arryn, the queen’s half-sister. She is part of the queen’s household, but she devotes what time she can to her niece. “Thank you,” Sansa says as she stands. “You didn’t need to come fetch me yourself.”

“It was no trouble. How are you enjoying the Red Keep?”

“It is very grand,” Sansa answers, injecting girlish wonder and enthusiasm into her voice. It is easy to play the starstruck northerner. “Princess Rhaenyra says the tournament shall be even grander. We don’t have anything like it in the North.”

“King Viserys enjoys a celebration,” Lady Amanda says with a small frown as if she doesn’t approve.

“I have already eaten so many new things, and Princess Rhaenyra says the feasts shall be even more varied.” Sansa casts her eyes downward. “Sometimes, it is all so much.”

“It can be quite overwhelming,” Lady Amanda comforts. She delivers Sansa to the princess’s rooms, which are covered in various bolts of fabrics. There are half a dozen girls giggling and touching the various fabrics as the seamstress and her assistants attempt to corral them into some kind of order.

“Aunt Amanda!” Rhaenyra cries. She emerges from a rich maroon velvet and bounds over to her aunt. “And Lady Sansa! Are you both to help us?”

“Only Lady Sansa.” Lady Amanda attempts to look contrite. “I fear I’m too old for such girlish fancies.”

“You’re never too old for new dresses,” Rhaenyra says, but she grabs Sansa’s hand and pulls her forward, leaving her aunt behind.

Already in the room is Lady Laena Velaryon, Lady Cassandra Baratheon, Lady Alanna Tyrell, Lady Mina Tully, Lady Tyra Lannister, and Lady Alicent Hightower. Most of the girls are oohing over fabric or looking at the princess’s jewels. Alicent hovers on the edges, hands clasped in front of her, as if she doesn’t know how to join a conversation.

“These are the dresses that have already been made.” Rhaenyra pulls Sansa over to the three dress models where three beautiful gowns are displayed. One is a deep red velvet, the bodice adorned with gold embroidery and black stones. One is gold and ostentatious enough to make a Lannister jealous. The third is Arryn blue, and Sansa smiles as she touches the sleeve. Even if her own time in the Eyrie hadn’t been pleasant, there were parts of it that were bearable.

The blue dress has delicate lace detailing that Sansa can’t help but be impressed by. The lace dips and swirls like clouds in a bright blue sky. “This is well done,” Sansa says.

“Minnie has the best fingers for lace,” the seamstress says, openly praising one of her assistants.

“What shoes and jewelry should I pair with it?” Rhaenyra asks before she goes to the fourth dress stand, where a stunning black dress is still being constructed. “And how shall I make this one stand out?”

Sansa laughs, light and airy. “One at a time, princess. I’m afraid not all of us can keep up with you.” She allows herself to be directed to the dress in progress. Sansa studies it for a moment. “I think paneling for the skirt, princess. So that when you’re standing still the dress appears fully black but when you move, there are glimpses of red.”

Rhaenyra claps her hands together and turns to the seamstress. “Can that be done?”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“And these earrings with it,” Cassandra says, bringing forth a pair of ruby drop earrings.

“And this necklace!” Laena presents a Valyrian steel piece that will complement the Targaryen colors of the dress nicely.

“And perhaps these shoes?” Tyra holds up a pair of heeled shoes. To Sansa’s shock, they aren’t gold nor gaudy. They are black with three rubies on each shoe.

Before Rhaenyra can approve, Alicent ventures a quiet, “Heels, Rhaenyra? Aren’t those a little mature for you?”

Rhaenyra barely glances at Alicent before she scoffs, dismissing the girl. “I am the Crown Princess. I am about to be an older sister. I can wear heels if I’d like.”

“Not everyone can be as naturally tall as I am,” Sansa says with a little smile. “Some need help.”

“I will be tall like you,” Cassandra declares. “But until then, I will wear heels as well, princess.”

“Me too,” Alanna Tyrell agrees.

“I don’t think I should,” Laena says, looking disappointed.

“You are the youngest amongst us,” Sansa says, drawing the girl to her side. “There is no shame in that, nor rush to grow up. If you’d like, I can weave flowers into your hair for the tournament. We’ll make sure they match the wreath you create for your favor.”

“We shall make our own favors?” Rhaenyra asks, curious, before she remembers that she is a princess. “We shall! Will you schedule it, Lady Sansa?”

“Of course, princess.” Sansa holds back her smile. It wouldn’t be ladylike to look so smug. But it is easy to direct the princess, even easier to have tasks assigned to herself. She is slowly but steadily growing her influence.

“You are all dear to me,” Rhaenyra says as she goes to one of the open chests. She brings it over to the table and the girls all crowd around to look at the jewels inside. “Each of you may pick something from this chest to borrow for the opening feast.”

“You are too kind,” Sansa says, her words quickly echoed by the others. She steps back to let the others look first, everyone in the room naturally deferring to Laena. Well, Cassandra seems put out, but she goes to look in another one of the chests.

“Not that one,” Rhaenyra says sharply. “Those are from my uncle.”

And only you are allowed to wear his gifts, Sansa thinks, slotting that piece of information in with the others she’s collected. It amuses her that Rhaenyra’s companions will wear jewelry gifted by her mother, perhaps even the king, but they are forbidden from gifts given by the prince.

After Laena chooses a ring, Cassandra chooses a necklace that will be sure to catch everyone’s eye and attention. Tyra, unsurprisingly, chooses a gold brooch with a large oval ruby that looks almost like an egg with two filigree gold dragons coiled around it. Another piece that will attract attention and show the favor of the princess. Mina Tully selects a bracelet and Alanna Tyrell picks a brooch in the shape of a flower.

Sansa is ushered forward next. She intends her dress to be well-made but simple in comparison to the girls around her. She has to be careful the jewelry won’t overshadow her outfit. Nor can she refuse the princess’s favor. She smiles when she finds a silver hair comb.

“Boring,” Cassandra dismisses.

“You’re simply jealous,” Mina says with a longing look at Sansa’s hair. “If your hair was nearly so beautiful, you would call attention to it as well.”

“Thank you,” Sansa tells Mina before Cassandra can snap back with an insult.

Almost as one, the girls turn toward Alicent. “I—I shouldn’t,” she demurs.

Sansa wants to roll her eyes. No doubt the girl believes herself to be acting righteously, but all she does is lower herself in Rhaenyra’s mind and call attention to her status as the daughter of the Hand, rather than a great lord.

“No doubt, she’s never touched something so fine before,” Cassandra says snidely.

Tyra Lannister, who is a cousin to the ruling lord, doesn’t bother to hide her giggle.

“Come,” Sansa says, gesturing to the reticent girl. “The princess is most generous.”

“She is!” Alicent takes her cues well, bless her. “The most generous and kind princess, and friend, anyone could ask for.” She hurries forward to peer into the box but, as Cassandra had suggested, she has no idea where to begin.

“What color is the dress you’ll be wearing?” Sansa prompts.

“Dark blue,” Alicent answers. “With a high neck and full sleeves.”

“Dull,” Cassandra says. “Don’t you know there will be dancing at the feast? All the eligible men in Westeros are here, but so are the women. You must stand out.”

“Some take comfort in their faith,” Sansa says.

“I hear you go to the godswood each morn and eve,” Tyra ventures. “Is it true that the trees talk to you?”

“The gods speak to those willing to listen,” Sansa says. She sifts through the jewelry in the box until she encounters a silver necklace made of two falcons in flight. She glances at Rhaenyra to make sure she is alright with Alicent wearing a gift from her mother.

“The silver will stand out nicely against the blue,” Rhaenyra says.

“That is what I was thinking.” Sansa smiles and holds the necklace out to Alicent. “Now, we all have a gift from the princess for the feast.”

“Will you dance?” Alanna asks Sansa as Alicent does her best to fade back into the background.

“If I’m asked.”

“You will be,” Mina says with confidence. “You are beautiful, even if you insist on dressing plainly. Men will notice.”

“I daresay the princess won’t have a single dance where she’s allowed to rest her feet,” Sansa says, easily deflecting the attention away from her. “We may have to steal her away simply to give her a rest.”

“I love dancing,” Rhaenyra says. “Uncle Daemon promised to open the floor with me, only the two of us.”

“Will you wear the black dress, then?” Sansa asks. “So that every time he twirls you, the court will see the red of your skirts?”

“Yes!” Rhaenyra turns back to the seamstress. “Can you sew some kind of jewels into the panels as well so I glitter and shine as I dance?”

“Of course, your Grace.”

Satisfied, Rhaenyra turns back to her company. “This has left me ravenous. Who wants cake?”

#

The queen is too heavy with child to join the court for the opening feast. Sansa has heard there is some uncouth betting taking place as to whether the babe will be born during its tournament or after. The Northerners have their own whispers, unhappy with tempting the gods like this.

King Viserys shows no signs of ill ease, clearly enjoying himself as he feasts at the high table. Perhaps it is Sansa’s Northern upbringing or perhaps it is the rationing she experienced at the end of her life, but this kind of excess turns her stomach.

“That is a very pretty hair comb,” Lady Manderly says. “Is it new?”

“The princess allowed me to borrow it for the feast,” Sansa says. “It was most generous of her.”

“Ah.” Lady Umber chuckles lightly. “That explains why the Lord Hand was berating his daughter for wearing an Arryn necklace. I wondered where she’d gotten such a thing.”

“Women,” Lord Umber scoffs. “A whole language in trinkets and clothes.”

“A language you don’t understand,” Lady Umber tells her husband.

“Because you are far more intelligent than we men can ever hope to be,” Lord Glover says, earning a laugh and a light slap to his shoulder from his wife.

Sansa picks at her food as conversation takes place around her. It was easy to spot Princess Rhaenyra at the high table, but she hadn’t expected to see Jon there as well. He isn’t in a place of honor, but he’s at the table itself, looking bored and miserable as he eats and ignores his neighbors.

As if he can tell she’s looking, he raises his head and meets her gaze. He offers her a quirk of his lips, as if admitting to being a horrible bore. She knows he doesn’t care for feasts and parties. A childhood of being kept on the outside by Lady Catelyn, and then the Night’s Watch didn’t exactly give him an appreciation for the art of conversation or court.

He left that to her in the short time they ruled Winterfell together. But there’s something to be said for his blunt approach. Because he did talk to her, privately in their chambers, with none of the flowery language he despises. He told her of his love, his desire, his words almost painful in their honesty.

She drops her gaze to her plate before someone catches them looking.

As Rhaenyra told them, she opens the dancing for the evening with her uncle. She is stunning in the black gown, her skin and hair almost seeming to glow in contrast. And the first time Daemon spins her and her skirts flare out, the room seems to gasp as one as they glimpse the glittering red hiding between the black folds. Rhaenyra’s enjoyment is infectious, she laughs as she’s twirled and giggles as Daemon lifts her in the air. It is clear they are watching an adult dance with a child and despite all the whispers about the Rogue Prince, he does nothing dastardly nor untoward.

Sansa declines the well-meaning offers from the Northern sons, because she has no intention of dancing tonight. She knows the rumors that have been spread about her. The attack that killed her family. The assumption that her maidenhead was taken. Lord Stark had been furious when he found out the natural conclusion to the tale they wove, but Sansa talked him down. There is only one man she will willingly be with, and he doesn’t care for whispers and stories. He knows the truth of her in a way no one else does.

She wore a dark gray gown tonight, well-constructed and made from fine material. She did the embroidery herself. It is a garment she takes pride in but not one intended to make her stand out nor attract attraction.

She doesn’t expect Ser Tyland Lannister to approach the Northern table, let alone her own seat. He looks nothing like Joffrey, nothing like Cersei, and yet, part of Sansa freezes at the sight of him. Even Tyrion, the most bearable of the Lannisters, was not a man she felt safe with. He didn’t claim his marriage rights, but she knew it was because he thought her to be a child and, at some point, children grow up.

“My cousin Tyra speaks highly of you, Lady Sansa,” Ser Tyland says. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Sansa had not considered this while she was befriending the other girls. That those girls might have male relations they would seek to curry favor with. Sansa could decline the Northern invitations without giving offense, but she doesn’t know how to do the same here. “Thank you, ser.” She places her hand in his and allows him to bring her out to the floor.

The dance is simple enough, Sansa made sure the other girls taught her in the lead-up to the feast. She is not the most graceful dancer on the floor, but she doesn’t embarrass herself or her partner. She’s grateful when Ser Tyland keeps the conversation superficial, as if he truly did ask her to dance at his cousin’s request and not based out of his own desire.

After her dance with Ser Tyland, she doesn’t sit for what feels like hours. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, asks for a dance. So does Laenor Velaryon, Laena’s brother. She dances with House Tyrell and House Tully, and when the song ends, she isn’t even surprised to see Prince Daemon with his hand extended to her.

She can’t help but look for Jon, and Prince Daemon’s laughter draws her attention back to him. “Not the Targaryen you were hoping for, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa’s blush is real, ashamed at her own lapse in behavior and manners. “Prince Daemon, I—”

“It’s quite alright,” he tells her. He takes her hand but, rather than leading her to the dance floor, he guides her where Jon is glowering at a spot on the wall. “Cousin, I have brought you the second fairest partner of the feast. Shall you dance with her, or will the honor be mine?”

Jon head jerks up, and he’s stepping forward before Daemon even finishes speaking.

“Captain Jon.” Sansa sinks into a deep curtsy, perhaps more than a City Watch captain deserves, but he is a Targaryen, and she figures better safe than sorry.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon breathes, too affected for them to convincingly play at being strangers, but she supposes at worst Prince Daemon will assume their mornings in the godswood are cover for an illicit tryst.

Sansa waits expectantly and when Jon makes no move to speak further, she can’t help her light laughter. “Do you intend to ask me to dance?”

“Yes! Would you do me the honor?”

“Hopeless,” she hears Daemon mutter as Jon leads her onto the dance floor.

Jon is a poor dancer, lack of opportunity more than skill, but her dance with him is Sansa’s favorite of the night.

#

“How are you so good at this?” Laena asks. She huffs as she looks down at her flower wreath, the petals crushed and the circle rather uneven.

Sansa sets her own wreath aside and moves to help Laena with hers. “Practice. We used to make them at home all the time.”

“I don’t see why you’re making one now.” Cassandra’s frustration is as visible as Laena’s, but she tends to direct her feelings outward rather than inward. “The boy you fancy isn’t even competing.”

Sansa focuses on twisting the flower stems just so.

“Lady Sansa danced almost as much as Princess Rhaenyra,” Mina says. “How do you know she fancied any of them?”

“What about you, Lady Alicent?” Tyra asks. “You should be marrying soon, should you not? Did you dance with anyone who caught your eye?”

“Dancing is a gateway to forbidden pleasures,” Alicent recites, no doubt something told to her by a Septa. Sansa bites her lip to hold back her laugh, but the other girls aren’t as kind.

“Forbidden pleasures?” Cassandra all but purrs. “Sounds delightfully wicked. What pleasures are those?”

“Lady Cassandra,” Sansa says. Once she has the girl’s attention, she discreetly glances at Laena, but one and ten, who is sticking her tongue at as she tries to twist the flower stems the way Sansa showed her.

“I should like to give my favor to a knight,” Alicent ventures. Her flower wreath is simple but well-made.

“Your brother?” Tyra asks, voice dripping with false sweetness.

“No.” Alicent sighs, unaware of the looks and giggles. “A knight from the stories.”

“You’re a romantic.” Cassanda makes it sound almost like a vulgar word. “Men are useful for one thing; securing your future.” She glances at Laena and then adds, “Well, two things.” She doesn’t elaborate, but the wicked glint in her eye says it all.

“What about you, princess?” Sansa asks.

“She always gives her favor to Prince Daemon,” Alicent answers.

“It’s a good way to ensure you’ll be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty,” Sansa says.

Rhaenyra smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. While she had been jubilant at the feast and the morning after, chattering about the food, the sweets, the dances, her mood has grown more solemn as the days pass and her mother remains bedbound. Sansa has done her best to keep her spirits high, but at this point, the only thing which will console her is her mother’s successful birthing of the babe.

#

That evening, Jon meets Sansa at the godswood. It is more common for him to meet her in the morning before they both begin their days, but he tells her he’s been given leave from the City Watch until the tournament is over.

“We made our tournament favors today,” Sansa says. “None of the Northerners are competing, so I don’t know what to do with mine.”

“Did you want me to compete?” Jon frowns at the thought. “I don’t actually know how to joust, and I’m afraid the melee would send me back to a different battle.”

“No, I don’t need you to show off in a competition of ego.” Sansa draws a handkerchief out from where she had stashed it. “But still, I would like you to have my favor.”

Jon takes the piece of fabric, and his face grows more solemn as he studies it. In a nod to the flower wreathes they made, Sansa embroidered a border of blue winter roses. In the center of the cloth is the Targaryen three-headed dragon. His mother and father, represented together.

“Thank you,” Jon says. “It is beautiful.”

“We both know you don’t have an eye for embroidery,” Sansa says.

“The thought is what matters.” Jon is silent for a moment, contemplative as he traces the dragon. “After Sam told me, I wondered sometimes, what it would have been like to grow up as Rhaegar’s son. This life…it isn’t the same, but it’s a glimpse of it. An opportunity to be a Targaryen. It’s so different from what I know. I try not to hate it, but it is difficult.”

Sansa cannot imagine what Jon is feeling. She knows the Red Woman brought him back to life, told him he was the Prince Who Was Promised and his duty was not yet done. For him to die a second time and awaken a third…No wonder there are dark circles under Jon’s eyes. As if he is haunted. The burden he carries…At least she is here to help him with it.

“Will you be in the royal box?” Sansa asks. It is a sharp change in subject, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yes, though on the edge of it.”

“Princess Rhaenyra invited me to sit with her. She told me I could bring Shadow.”

Hearing her name, Shadow rolls onto her back, clearing expecting stomach rubs. Sansa laughs and obliges.

“When do you think she’ll ask for you to be one of her ladies?”

“I am going to suggest it after the babe is born. With both her parents doting on the child, she will feel jealous and alone. She’ll want someone who is loyal to her, and I will be just that.”

Jon breathes out slowly. “Daemon is worried. Queen Aemma has only had once successful birth, and she has been trying since she was three and ten.”

“That is barbaric,” Sansa says. “Not even Tyrion bed me when I was that young.”

“What happens if the babe dies?” Jon whispers.

“I don’t know,” Sansa answers, equally quietly. But, if Rhaenyra was known at the Half-Year Queen, then either this babe is a girl, or it doesn’t survive. She takes advantage of the night and leans against Jon’s side for a moment of comfort.

Chapter Text

Jon sits in the royal box, which seems poorly named given how few royals are actually in it. There is only King Viserys and his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra. The queen is still bedridden, swollen with pregnancy, and Prince Daemon is competing in the tournament and so isn’t in the box. Jon is here, a Targaryen but not royalty. Princess Rhaenys is here, a princess but not Targaryen royalty.

It’s odd.

In the front row of the box, Sansa sits at the leftmost edge so that Shadow has the space to curl up without disturbing anyone else. Jon smiles as Shadow butts her head against Sansa’s hand, demanding pets. Sansa obliges and even bends down to press a kiss between the direwolf’s ears. Ser Otto flicks an irritated look at them and Jon bristles. He knows there have been objections to Shadow’s presence. It’s only the disbelief that direwolves truly exist and Shadow’s placid nature that have kept the wolf at Sansa’s side. If the Hand decides to make trouble, Jon will make him regret it.

While he doesn’t have the same hatred for the man that Daemon does, he would willingly make himself Daemon’s ally against Otto if he harms Sansa.

It doesn’t take long for Jon to realize that jousting is boring. The boredom is only interrupted by moments of violence that twist his stomach. This is pointless. Pride and showmanship and for this men risk grave injury. Absolute folly. When it is Daemon’s turn, he requests his niece’s favor. She places the flower wreath on his lance, and Daemon wins his first bout easily.

“Did you really come from Volantis?”

Jon looks down to see young Laena Velaryon has approached him. She has wide, curious eyes. She wears a dress that no doubt costs more than Jon’s entire wardrobe, but in contrast to the fashionable gown, her hair is woven through with fresh flowers.

“Lady Sansa did it,” Laena says, touching one of the flowers.

“She’s very kind.”

“Lady Cassandra says you fancy her.”

Jon feels a flush creep up his neck. “You are curious about Volantis?” Better for her to be curious about a city across the sea than his relationship with Sansa.

“My father tells us stories of his adventures. I wish to travel like him someday, but I will take to the skies, not the seas. Laenor says you’re our distant kin. Do you have a dragon?”

“I do not.”

“Do you want one?” Thankfully, Laena doesn’t pause long enough for Jon to answer. “I do. More than anything. A dragon means freedom. Men don’t need dragons to be free.” On the field, there’s a loud crash as a man in full armor is unhorsed and falls to the ground. “I prefer boat races.”

“As do I,” Jon agrees. “Blood is precious and should not be spilled without good reason.”

“Do you know how to sail?”

“I have not had the opportunity to learn.”

“Perhaps Lady Sansa can arrange something. She is very good at scheduling activities. I have had a lot of fun in the capital. I hope we stay.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t. Surely Princess Rhaenyra needs to build her household.” Or, at least, that is what Sansa has told him. He still doesn’t understand how Rhaenyra only having one lady is a grievous insult, but it’s clear Sansa is furious on the princess’s behalf.

“Mother said the same. I hope all of us girls can stay. Even Lady Alicent, though, she likes to lecture us all on propriety. I told her she should stop before my mother hears and takes offense. She raised Laenor and I both to be well-mannered.”

“Is that why you’re gossiping like a fishwife?” Princess Rhaenys asks, making her presence known.

“I wanted to know about Volantis,” Laena says, uncowed by her mother’s rebuke. “Ser Jon hasn’t told me anything yet.”

“And he won’t,” Rhaenys says. Jon takes her words as a warning and nods in acknowledgement. “Back to your seat, Laena. Prince Daemon is about to ride again.” Rhaenys lingers as her daughter returns to her seat. Jon and the princess watch in silence as Daemon viciously unhorses a Hightower knight. “He’s taken a liking to you.”

“Does that speak for or against my character?”

Rhaenys’s lips twitch in a reluctant smile. “Enjoy the rest of the tournament.”

Jon doesn’t take another full breath until she’s gone. He half-heartedly watches the joust, wondering what Westeros would have been like if she had been chosen by the Great Council, until movement catches his eye. A messenger leans over to whisper something in the Hand’s ear. Otto places his hand on King Viserys’s arm and then guides him from the box.

Curious.

Jon happens to catch Sansa’s eye. She tilts her head toward the exit, as if she wants him to follow the men. He isn’t sure what right he has to intrude on the realm’s business, but he knows better than to doubt Sansa. On his way out, he spots the worried expression on Princess Rhaenyra’s face and—oh. The queen must have started her labors.

Or, Jon realizes, once he’s made it to the family wing, she’s mid-labor. He’s concerned at how easily he’s able to pass through the keep, into the private Targaryen wing and then to the queen’s chambers themselves. True, he is outside her bedchamber, but he isn’t sure he should be allowed this close. He is so close he can hear Queen Aemma whimper in pain.

Jon remains off to the side, unseen and unnoticed. He watches as King Viserys consults with Ser Otto and Grandmaester Mellos. From their expressions, it isn’t good news. Jon has killed men and sent the dead to their final death, but he doesn’t know anything about life. All the experiences he has, none of them will help Queen Aemma.

“Is there no other way?” Viserys asks. He sounds small and defeated, nothing like a king.

“Not if you want to hold your son,” Ser Otto answers.

The king shuffles to stand in the doorway leading into the queen’s bedchambers.

“Viserys?” Queen Aemma calls for him, her voice weak. “Viserys, love, are you there?”

“Do it,” Viserys says softly before he enters, “Aemma, I’m here.”

“It hurts,” Aemma says.

“I’m sorry.” Viserys grasps her hand. He presses a kiss to the back of it. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

“Viserys?” Aemma’s confusion matches Jon’s. He isn’t sure what’s happening. The king steps back, releasing his wife’s hand. Four of the Grandmaester’s assistants step forward. They each grab a limb and press Queen Aemma down against the bed.

“Viserys!” Aemma screams as the Grandmaester approaches with the knife. “Viserys, no! Someone help me! Save me!” She shouts and struggles with renewed vigor.

Jon doesn’t understand until he does. He takes a step forward as Queen Aemma screams. He must take another and then several more, because soon there is an armored knight standing in his way.

“You are not permitted inside,” Ser Harrold says. The man’s eyes are pained, torn between duty and decency.

Jon doesn’t know how long he stands there, horrified, unable to process what’s happening. Long enough for the queen to fall silent. Long enough for a babe’s wail to be heard.

“A son, your Grace,” Otto Hightower says. “What shall you name your heir?”

Jon turns and leaves before anyone can notice him. He runs, body suddenly capable of action when before it wasn’t. Was he a coward? He could have cut through the Kingsguard. He could have killed everyone in that room, but it would have been too late. The queen had already been—

He stumbles through the hallways. He finds a wandering servant. “The Stark quarters,” he gasps. He’s rushed in a different direction and ushered into an unfamiliar set of rooms. Without being prompted, the servant returns with a chamber pot. He falls to his knees and empties his stomach. He has seen terrible things but nothing so terrible as that.

She called him love. She trusted him. And he let his maesters cut her open for a son.

Jon is aware of sounds around him, people moving, speaking maybe, but none of it penetrates the haze in his head until he hears Sansa’s unmistakable voice. “Jon? Jon, what has happened?”

Jon turns bloodshot eyes to Sansa, his war-hardened cousin who has perhaps seen even more horrors than he has. He doesn’t want to add to her nightmares, but he cannot keep what he’s seen inside. “He butchered her,” Jon whispers, because there’s no other word for what he saw.

“Everyone out,” Sansa orders, the authority of a queen in her voice. They must obey, because she falls to her knees at his side a moment later. She cups his face between her hands. They’re chilled, they’re always chilled, but it’s something for him to focus on.

“He butchered her,” Jon repeats. “And he was rewarded with his son.”

“Oh, Jon.” Sansa sighs and pulls his head to her chest. She strokes her fingers through his hair, offering him comfort he doesn’t deserve. He stood there and did nothing. The gods sent him back to protect the Targaryens, and he did nothing as one of them was killed. Is this the family he is supposed to claim as kin? The family he is supposed to save and take pride in? He hates them. He wants to tear the dragon sigil from his chest. He wants to burn every scrap of clothing they’ve gifted him. He—

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Sansa says.

“They didn’t even drug her.” Jon squeezes his eyes shut. “She didn’t understand. She begged her husband to save her.”

“Men are cruel,” Sansa says simply, with years of evidence behind her claim. No wonder she isn’t surprised at the depths men can sink to. Joffrey dragged her out to see the head of her father on a spike. The same boy-king would strip her and beat her before the court, because he knew she was helpless to do anything against it. Petyr dripped poison in her ear, schemed to make her Lady of the Eyrie and then sold her to the Boltons. And Ramsey…no, he doesn’t doubt that Sansa knows the cruelty of men after Ramsey.

“I would never,” Jon vows.

“I know.” She continues stroking his hair. “I know.”

“He wanted a son more than he wanted a wife.”

“Rhaenyra will be devastated,” Sansa says.

“Do you need to go to her?” Here is Jon, crying like a babe at Sansa’s breast when it’s Rhaenyra’s own mother who was killed so violently. And if the king was willing to kill his wife for a son, what will happen to the daughter?

“Not yet,” Sansa says, “but I will. Just as Daemon will need you.”

#

By the time Sansa sends Jon to find Daemon, the news has spread that Queen Aemma died giving birth to a son who lived long enough to draw breath but not very much long after. Jon finds Daemon in a brothel, surrounded by men in gold cloaks, empty tankards of ale, and whores looking to ply their trade.

“Best be on your guard,” Daemon slurs when he spots Jon. “This is not a good day to be Targaryen.”

It is never a good day to be Targaryen, Jon thinks. He grimaces. “Your niece is distraught.”

“I am in no condition to comfort her.” Deamon’s hair hangs limp about his face. There are stains on his shirt from where he spilled drink down it. He does not look like the warrior from the joust. He looks small and hurt, like a boy who has lost his family.

Jon knows a thing or two about losing family. He sits in the empty chair beside Daemon and waves off the scantily clad girl who offers him a drink. “We will mourn tonight,” Jon says. “You will suffer tomorrow. And then you will comfort your brother and your niece.”

“He named him Baelon,” Daemon whispers, his head falling forward and landing with a thud on Jon’s shoulder. “He named him after our father. It’s like losing him again.”

Jon does what Sansa did for him and runs his fingers through Daemon’s hair. He hopes it offers the man half as much comfort as he received from Sansa.

#

Jon wakes up on the floor of Daemon’s bedchamber with a sore back. Unlike Daemon, he isn’t suffering a hangover, so he simply groans, stretches, and goes to find a servant as Daemon retches into his chamber pot. Wrangling the drunk and bereaved prince hadn’t been an easy task. The man wanted to drink. He wanted to fuck his favorite whore, claiming the House of the Dragon needed new sons and daughters. When Jon reminded Daemon he was married and if he truly wanted children he could go to his wife in Runestone, Daemon drew steel.

Fortunately, Jon was able to disarm Daemon without injury to either of them. He had to recruit Ser Harwin and Ser Luthor to help him carry the prince back to the Keep. The woman, Mysaria, offered her own bed for Daemon to sleep in, but Jon wanted Daemon in his own bed.

Jon sends the servant for a hangover breakfast and then sits in the outer solar. After a lot of grumbling and stumbling, Daemon staggers into the solar. His breeches aren’t laced, and he isn’t wearing a shirt. He looks half-drunk still and Jon sighs. He checks to make sure Daemon doesn’t have any weapons on him and then drags him into the wash chamber. Before Daemon can react, Jon grips the back of his neck and dunks the man’s head in the chilled bowl of water Jon requested.

Daemon yelps and rears back, elbowing Jon in the gut. He splutters and shakes his wet hair. “Are you mad?” Daemon demands.

“Are you more clear-headed?” Jon replies.

“Fucking nosy, interfering…” Daemon continues to grumble as he shuffles out of the room.

Jon follows behind at a careful distance. When Daemon throws himself onto one of the chairs, Jon sits carefully on another. “I sent for food.”

“I would rather be miserable from drink than from grief,” Daemon says. He doesn’t meet Jon’s eye as he confesses.

“You told me blood of the dragon runs thick. You told me you would do anything for your family. They need you. Drink yourself into a stupor with me at night, but be there and sober for them during the day. Rhaenyra lost her mother and her brother. Don’t force her to lose her favorite uncle as well.”

“I don’t need a lecture on family from you.”

“Then prove it.”

Daemon scowls and disappears into his bedchamber. When he emerges, he has combed his hair and put on fresh clothes. Jon gestures to the tray of food that arrived while he was gone. Daemon eats; eggs and toast and bacon and sausages and even most of the potatoes. Jon picks idly at the leftovers, not hungry but knowing he can’t skip meals.

When Daemon exits his rooms, it’s with purpose, and Jon has to hurry to keep pace with him. They go the king’s chambers where the king and his daughter await. Jon remains on the edges as Daemon goes to them and offers what comfort he can.

#

It is Princess Rhaenyra’s dragon which lights the pyres for Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon, because King Viserys doesn’t have a dragon of his own. Both bodies were wrapped tightly in cloth before they were placed on their pyres. As they burn, Jon can’t help but think the king did a good job doing away with the evidence of his crime.

#

Daemon storms into the barracks and unerringly finds Jon in the crowd. He points at him. “Training grounds. Now.”

Ser Harwin whistles lowly, so he doesn’t call attention to himself. “I hope your affairs are in order.”

“He’ll be fine,” Addam says loyally. “Not even the prince is as good with a blade as Jon.”

Ser Harwin raises his eyebrows, and Jon isn’t surprised when the man, and several others, trail Jon to the practice grounds. Daemon is already there, stripped down to his base layers, Dark Sister drawn and ready.

“No,” Jon says. “Leather armor and blunted blades or I won’t spar with you. Not when your mood is this foul.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow into slits. For a moment, Jon wonders if the man will rush him and force Jon to draw Ghost and defend himself. But whatever demons are haunting Daemon, he must truly want them excised, because he stalks over to the armor rack and grabs a set of leathers. Addam helps Jon with his armor and then hands him a blunted blade. Even with the precautions, Jon is positive he’ll come out of this with an assortment of bruises.

As soon as Jon is armored, Daemon charges at him. Jon is able to get his blade up in time to prevent a direct hit, but the impact of their blades is enough to jar his body. He wants to know what could possibly have happened now, but he knows he’ll have to wait until later to ask. Daemon won’t tell him in front of a crowd, and he certainly won’t be talking until he’s bled out some of his aggression.

Daemon’s footwork is sloppy, his anger fueling his drive. It makes him unpredictable at times, but it does give Jon the advantage. He sticks to defense, allowing Daemon to tire himself out by swinging wildly. At one point, frustrated, Daemon sweeps his leg out and takes Jon’s feet out from under him. Jon hits the ground hard, and he has to roll quickly to avoid Daemon’s slash. Jon springs to his feet and thinks, fine. If this is what Daemon wants, Jon will fight him.

It’s Jon’s turn to go on the offensive. He drives forward and doesn’t only use his blade. He kicks. He punches. He throws an elbow or two. At one point, he disarms Daemon and then he tosses his own blade aside and they wrestle, the two of them rolling around on the ground, no move too dirty for them to use. By the time they’re both flat on their backs, panting, Jon’s bleeding from where Daemon bit his fucking ear. He can also feel the sting on his face which means Daemon’s scratch drew blood. He wonders if Daemon’s balls still hurt from the knee Jon drove into them. Better not to ask or Daemon might try to bite his nose off next.

“You’re a scrappy fucker,” Daemon says with a hint of pride.

“Can we soak in a hot bath, or do you have more aggression to work out?” Jon asks.

“Come on.” Daemon hauls himself to his feet with a groan and then he and Jon stagger to the barracks bathing chamber together.

It isn’t Jon’s first public bath, nor does he expect it’ll be his last. Still, he’s uncomfortable as he strips down, especially since Daemon shows no qualms about staring. In Daemon’s defense, Jon’s chest is littered in scars from when the Night’s Watch mutinied.

“You should be dead,” Daemon says with a critical eye. And then he shrugs. “Suppose it’s why you aren’t afraid to call me on my shit. You’ve already faced death and come out the victor.”

Twice, Jon thinks, though he isn’t sure dying and being resurrected counts as winning. He sinks into the heated water and exhales deeply.

“Tomorrow, at court’s session, Viserys is going to name Rhaenyra his heir.”

Jon sits up, eyes open, fully alert. “He’s what?”

“I’m being disinherited.” Daemon chuckles softly, but his expression is anything but amused. “Viserys says he killed Aemma by forcing her to try and have a son when they already had a living child. Whether it’s guilt or the Small Council finally convinced him I’m unworthy, she’ll be announced as the Heir to the Iron Throne tomorrow morning.”

Jon wishes he could talk to Sansa and discuss what this means and what they should do. She’s always been smarter than him at court games and politics. He knows the Targaryens have to remain united. He knows they want Rhaenyra to be queen for longer than half a year. It means she needs support. He needs to convince Daemon this is a good thing.

“This is a good thing,” Jon says.

“You agree with them?” Daemon asks. “Ser Cunt even pointed out that I’ve been married for years with no children, which should disqualify me from being my brother’s heir. Viserys claims he’s doing it out of sentimentality, but I know the truth. He and Otto want me as far from the throne as they can get me.”

“The king is young,” Jon says. “He’ll remarry. If he has a son with his new wife, it would be easy, expected, for that son to be named heir over a brother. But if he declares his first living child, a pure Targaryen as his heir, it’ll be more difficult for Rhaenyra to be supplanted.”

“My brother isn’t thinking about that,” Daemon says. “He isn’t thinking at all. Do you know what happened at the Great Council? My brother was chosen to succeed over Rhaenys. How many lords supported him because he was a male claimant? How many of them will drop their support for his female heir?”

“None if they know what’s good for them.” Jon’s attempt at levity fails. “What do you want? Do you want the throne? Do you care if it’s passed to a half-Targaryen?”

“Of course I want it,” Daemon says. “But I would never take it. Truthfully, I think I would be shit at being king. But you’re right. My brother will remarry and whatever whelps he has won’t be true Targaryens. The throne belongs to Rhaenyra.”

“Then support her,” Jon tells him. “I have heard of the Great Council. I heard you raised an army in support of your brother, to counter the navy the Velaryons assembled. The crown was placed on your brother’s head, but it might not have happened without you. Give Rhaenyra the same support.”

Daemon sinks down into the water until only his eyes and forehead are showing, as if he’s some kind of slumbering sea dragon. Jon hopes this is the direction Sansa wanted him to nudge Daemon in. But didn’t they say the House of the Dragon needed to be unified? What better way to unify it than everyone supporting Rhaenyra. Her father is going to declare her the heir. With Daemon’s approval, it will all but seal the matter. Even if Viserys remarries and has a son, Rhaenyra will inherit uncontested.

#

“You are an idiot,” Sansa tells him when he conveys these thoughts to her. She sighs and brushes the curls from his face. They are meeting at the godswood beneath the stars. Tomorrow, King Viserys will make his announcement. It took Jon the entire day to calm Daemon’s temper and make him see reason. If Sansa says all that work was for nothing… “Rhaenyra will never know a moment’s peace once her father makes the announcement. There will be threats against her on all sides, especially from the family of her father’s new wife. But consolidating Targaryen support and showing the family united behind her is a powerful first move. You should stand with the royal family tomorrow.”

“I’m hardly a Targaryen,” Jon protests. “Not like them.”

“You have the name. You’ll be targeted as the weak link, so you must show your strength from the start and then withstand whatever inquiries come your way. I—” Sansa frowns and looks at the ground. “I think the king does remarry. I think it’s Rhaenyra’s half-brother who usurped her crown. We cannot let that happen this time.”

“But we can’t remember how it happened last time,” Jon points out.

“Why should we need that to guide us? If we know our goal, we can see it through. We’re both smart and capable. And as you know, I learned from the best.”

Jon can’t help the face he makes. “Petyr Baelish?”

Sansa’s eyes glitter dangerously in the dark. “Cersei Lannister.”

#

Jon does his best to stand still and not fidget. He is up on the dais along with Daemon and Rhaenyra. Viserys, of course, is seated on the Iron Throne itself. The court files into the hall, quiet whispers spreading through the room as they try to guess the purpose of today’s session. The assembled crowd all wear black, honoring the queen’s mourning. It takes Jon some time to spot Sansa, as she has a black veil covering most of her hair, hiding the vibrant red from view.

At her side, Shadow sits and waits with everyone else for news. Sansa gives Jon an encouraging smile. He tugs at the bottom of his doublet.

“Thank you all for joining us here today,” Viserys says. “I know this is not the celebration you traveled so far for, and I know many of you need to return to your castles and keeps. But when I invited you here, it was for the Heir’s Tournament, to honor my successor. I had thought it would be Baelon, the babe the late Queen Aemma birthed, but it was not to be.” Viserys lowers his head in a moment of silence. When he raises it, he rises from the throne. “I have called you here today to witness as I name my daughter, Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Heir to the Iron Throne, and the future Princess of Dragonstone. She is my firstborn, the only child I will ever have with the good Queen Aemma, and she will inherit the throne after me.”

Silence meets the king’s proclamation. It’s shock, Jon’s sure, but before the whispers can begin, Daemon bounds down the steps of the dais. Otto Hightower looks pleased, as if he thinks Daemon is about to storm out of the room entirely. But once he reaches the base of the stairs, Daemon kneels.

“Blood of my blood, kin of my kin, I pledge my oath to you, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and future Princess of Dragonstone. I will support your claim as I supported my brother’s before it. If you need me to raise armies, only name it, and I will see it done.”

Surprise ripples through the room. Jon knows a cue when he hears one, and he is the next to descend the steps. He kneels next to Daemon. “Blood of my blood, kin of my kin, I pledge my oath to you, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and future Princess of Dragonstone. House Targaryen is united behind King Viserys’s proclamation.”

Rickon Stark is the first to step out from the line of courtiers. He kneels next to Jon. “House Stark pledges its oath of fealty to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and future Princess of Dragonstone.”

Jon chances a look up as first the Lords Paramount then the others follow suit to swear to Rhaenyra. She looks cautiously intrigued by the display but beside her, her father looks shocked. Even a little confused, as if he didn’t expect such support. Otto Hightower, on the other hand, looks positively livid. Jon isn’t sure what plans they’ve interrupted, but the Hand isn’t pleased with such strong support.

After each lord, no matter how major or minor has sworn, the rest of the assembly all kneels or curtsies deeply.

“Thank you for your vows,” Rhaenyra says, her voice young, but it carries through the echoing hall. “I will learn at my father’s side how to be a ruler. I will ensure these vows you have made today are ones you are proud to uphold.”

“Princess Rhaenyra!” Daemon shouts, punching his fist in the air.

“Heir to the Iron Throne!” Rickon Stark bellows.

“Princess of Dragonstone!” Jon calls out.

Soon the hall is echoing with cheers and support. Jon swears he even hears Shadow bark in support of the princess.

Chapter Text

When the Northern delegation departs for their journey back home, Sansa and Jorelle Mormont remain behind. In the aftermath of Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon’s deaths, it was easy for Sansa to officially be named a lady-in-waiting. Lady Amanda Arryn, half-sister to Queen Aemma, now oversees Princess Rhaenyra’s household but the woman, understandably, is deep in mourning. It was simple for Sansa to suggest the girls who kept Rhaenyra company leading up to the tournament now be added to the heir’s household.

Nominally, Lady Amanda, as the eldest and direct kin to the princess, is her chief lady-in-waiting, but Sansa is running things as one of the few who didn’t know Queen Aemma personally. Currently, Princess Rhaenyra’s ladies are Alicent Hightower, Cassandra Baratheon, Alanna Tyrell, Mina Tully, Tyra Lannister, Laena Velaryon, Jorelle Mormont, and the Strong sisters, Nora and Elara.

Their excitement over the appointment is muted due to the mourning, but Sansa ensures they have each been assigned personal duties and that there are appropriately somber entertainments and activities to keep them occupied. She knows the importance of keeping these ladies loyal to Princess Rhaenyra and making sure they marry equally loyal lords.

Lord Borros Baratheon did not seem pleased to kneel to a future queen. Sansa would take great satisfaction in using his daughter to uphold House Baratheon’s oath.

Additionally, Jon told her Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, did not seem pleased with Daemon leading the realm in pledging for Rhaenyra. So far, Alicent hasn’t given Sansa any reason to suspect she knows of her father’s plots, if her father is indeed plotting. The girl is dull and far too obsessed with attempting to drag Rhaenyra to the Sept.

Each morning while Rhaenyra takes her daily flight on Syrax, her dragon, Sansa hosts ladies court. She embroiders, many of the ladies of the court joining her. By the time Rhaenyra has finished with her flight, they will often move onto learning new dances, playing cards, or other pastimes. Rhaenyra doesn’t always participate, but she does make an appearance, even if it’s just to snatch a few cakes off the tray of sweets.

Sansa is preparing for war, setting the battleground and gathering allies, but in the immediate aftermath of Queen Aemma’s death, Rhaenyra is a grieving daughter who simply wants comfort. Sansa, well, Shadow, is Rhaenyra’s most constant companion. Rhaenyra even curls up around the direwolf in bed each night, drawing comfort from the animal. She is only three and ten, Sansa reminds herself. She has lost her mother and her brother in a single day. She has been named heir to the throne, an honor but also a huge responsibility, and she struggles to adjust. Sansa tries to balance Rhaenyra’s obligations and grief with moments of joy and lightheartedness.

They go sailing on one of Lord Corlys’s pleasure yachts. They pick flowers in the garden and go on a picnic in the Kingswood. Jorelle gathers them around the flickering hearth at night and tells stories of the Others until they all sleep in pairs, too afraid to bed down alone.

When Rhaenyra wants solitude, Sansa makes sure she has it, Sansa sitting as a silent sentinel and Shadow guarding the door. Today is one such day. Rhaenyra sprawls on her bed, a well-loved book of child’s tales in front of her. She sniffles as she turns the pages, occasionally dabs at her eyes.

They are interrupted by a knock at the door. “Lady Laena Velaryon requests permission to enter,” Ser Erryk Cargyll, the Kingsguard on duty says.

Rhaenyra hastily wipes at her eyes. “Enter,” she says.

As soon as the door is open, Laena rushes in, the girl not nearly as poised as she normally is. She falls to her knees at Rhaenyra’s bedside. “I did not know my father’s plots, and I do not want it,” she swears.

Alarmed, Rhaenyra looks to Sansa before she looks back at Laena. “Plots? What could your father possibly being doing to worry you so?”

Rhaenyra tries to urge Laena to her feet, but Laena won’t budge. “He—he says the king must remarry for the good of the realm.”

Rhaenyra’s face goes frighteningly blank. “Yes. The Small Council has brought it up more than once. My mother has been dead barely two moons, but they already seek to replace her.”

“I don’t want to,” Laena whispers. “I couldn’t. I want to be your lady, cousin, not your mother.”

Rhaenyra shudders as if only now realizing what it means for her father to remarry. “No, none of us want that. Thank you for coming and telling me this. I’m sure your father is pressuring you to be agreeable.”

Laena nods, miserable, and this time she allows Rhaenyra to urge her up onto the bed with her. “He is arranging weekly meals and garden walks. I have to obey him, but I didn’t want you surprised.”

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra says again. She clasps Laena’s hands in hers. “You are my lady, which means it is my duty to look out for you. If you don’t want this marriage, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”

Sansa had been married to a man as old as Viserys when she was as young as Laena. She was fortunate that Tyrion never touched her. She doubts Laena would be as fortunate. No doubt, the king is lonely and seeks companionship. And, no doubt, as time passes, he begins to wonder if he was hasty in naming his daughter heir. He’s still young. There will be more children from his loins. The fact that he is considering remarriage so soon, however, casts obvious doubt on Rhaenyra’s inheritance.

“Though, your father might sour things himself if he isn’t more cautious,” Rhaenyra says. “He brings up the Stepstones at every Council meeting. My father doesn’t even let him speak anymore before he changes the subject.”

Laena sighs. “It’s all Mother and Father discuss at meals. They threaten our shipping lanes and our economy. Father says it won’t be long before they threaten more than that.”

“My father wants to be known for peace,” Rhaenyra says. “I think the pirates would have to sail into Blackwater Bay for him to take action.”

Sansa doesn’t know anything about the Stepstones, but war history has never been her favorite. She’ll have to ask Jon if he knows anything about it.

#

“Everyone knows about the Stepstones,” Jon says. At Sansa’s look, he ducks his head sheepishly. “I suppose not everyone. You know, Theon—” Jon’s words stutter to a stop. He visibly has to compose himself before he continues. “He liked naval battles. And Robb always liked the gruesome fights. The Stepstones had both. There was an enemy pirate, I don’t know his true name, but they called him the Crabfeeder.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Sansa asks.

Jon shakes his head. “He was known for staking his enemies to the shallows for the crabs to feed on. He didn’t much care whether they were dead or not first. I don’t—I don’t remember many specifics. I think it went longer than anyone expected it to. Arya didn’t understand why having dragons didn’t mean an easy victory, but I don’t—” Jon sighs. “I’m sorry. I wish I remembered more.”

“It’s fine,” Sansa tells him. This is nearly two-hundred year old history. Neither of them know many specifics about this time. As she told him before, they will figure it out. Their goal is to see Rhaenyra ascend to the throne and rule over a united Westeros. Their goal is to see both Targaryens and their dragons thrive.

“I think Daemon wants to go,” Jon admits. “He’s been meeting with Corlys often, and he’s been especially brutal on the training grounds. He’s restless. He hasn’t seen true war before. He thinks there’s glory to be found in it.”

Even though it’s morning, Sansa risks reaching over and clasping Jon’s hand. The godswood isn’t a popular destination and it’s early enough that it should be safe. “The Small Council has begun suggesting the king remarry. He won’t hold out against their pressure for long. Lord Corlys is pushing his daughter forward.”

“She’s barely more than a child,” Jon says, horrified.

“And her children would prove the only true threat to Rhaenyra’s claim. It would be better for the king to marry someone from a less prestigious family.”

“Are you going to interfere?” Jon asks. He looks uncomfortable. He has never truly understood Sansa’s battleground or how women fight wars.

“We’ll see. Both Laena and Rhaenyra are against the match, so I doubt it will happen. The Council isn’t wrong, you know. Daemon is married but refuses to produce children, Rhaenyra is still too young for marriage and children. That leaves only you and Viserys.”

“I—” Jon looks everywhere but at Sansa. “There is only one woman I wish to marry.”

“Oh, Jon.” Sansa squeezes his hand again. She wants it too, to marry a man of her choosing. A good man. One who makes her feel safe, who will love and cherish her. Who, perhaps, might one day give her children.

“Not yet,” Jon says. “I know it is too soon, but I don’t want you to have any doubt.”

“The gods sent both of us back. I choose to believe it’s a sign of their support and approval. One day, I will be your wife.” She shivers a little, liking the sound of it. Jon’s wife. And he will be her husband.

“One day,” Jon echoes. He finally looks at her and the passion burning in his gaze suggests he hopes that day will come quickly.

#

Sansa has noticed that Lady Alicent is shyer than the other girls. Where Lady Cassandra doesn’t believe a room exists that she doesn’t have the right to be in, Lady Alicent needs to be explicitly invited to join the group. Oftentimes, more than once. Sansa finds it frustrating as well as short-sighted. For years, Alicent was Rhaenyra’s only companion. She should be showing more tenacity in holding her place as Sansa and the other girls join the household. Instead, she seems to shrink with each passing day.

“Will you join us in ladies court today?” Sansa asks.

Alicent is wearing a deep blue dress with cutouts around the neckline. It isn’t improper, but it’s far more mature than anything Sansa has seen her in before. Alicent stares at her hands, clasped in front of her, and shakes her head.

One of those mornings, then. “I would appreciate an ally against Lady Tyra’s obsession with gold in her embroidery,” Sansa says with a coaxing smile.

Alicent glances up and then returns her gaze to her hands. “I’m to attend the Small Council meeting.”

That is a new excuse. Sansa nods in acknowledgement and then goes to show her face amongst the ladies of the court. She is curious what Lady Alicent could possibly contribute to the Small Council meeting, but she’s certain Rhaenyra will tell her later. Rhaenyra tells Sansa perhaps more than she should about what takes place when King Viserys meets with his advisors.

The Ladies Hall is not very far from where the Small Council meets. Sansa is looking at pressed flowers with Alanna Tyrell when they hear a muted bellow.

“This is a grave insult, and I will not stand for it!”

“That’s my father’s voice,” Laena says, dropping her embroidery.

Cassandra is the first to reach the doors, but the rest of the ladies follow her to where the shouting came from. The door to the Small Council room is open. Lord Corlys is nowhere to be seen, but the excitement isn’t over.

Rhaenyra is the next to storm out, even as her father calls after her. Sansa exchanges a look with Lady Amanda, and the older woman hurries after her niece, leaving Sansa with the rest of the ladies.

“Your Grace, we have an audience.” Lord Lyonel Strong approaches the open door of the Small Council chamber. He raises his eyebrows as he takes in the full complement of ladies.

“We heard raised voices,” Sansa tells him. “Lady Laena recognized her father’s voice, and we were concerned.”

Lord Strong looks back over his shoulder. When he turns his attention back to the women, he seems to have aged ten years. “King Viserys was informing us of his intent to remarry for the good of his realm and his house.”

Sansa turns to Laena, who is looking small and ashen next to Jorelle. “Are congratulations in order, then?”

Lord Strong clears his throat. If possible, he looks even more uncomfortable. “King Viserys will marry Lady Alicent Hightower.”

Mina’s gasp is audible in the sudden silence.

Sansa had her suspicions when Lord Strong said the king was to remarry. Why else would Alicent be in the Small Council meeting if she weren’t the lucky bride-to-be? Sansa will have to find Rhaenyra later. For now, she needs to begin the whispers against the grasping future queen. Reminding everyone that the king was informally courting Laena Velaryon and that she is a far better prospect was a good first step. There will be many others in the weeks to come. By the time Alicent has Queen in front of her name, Sansa intends to make sure she has no substantial power.

Sansa makes a show of looking around the assembled ladies, as if looking for Alicent. “We will have to give the future bride our congratulations later.”

“Is this why she never attends activities with us?” Cassandra asks, her pretty features twisted in spite and jealously. “She has been too busy attending the king instead of her princess?”

Sansa allows titters to break out amongst the group for a count of two before she says, “We will not neglect our duty. Come, I’m sure the princess needs our support in this trying time. Nora, Elara, your father has remarried. Your comfort will be especially needed. You can help prepare the princess for what to expect.”

Sansa leads Princess Rhaenyra’s ladies away, leaving the rest of the court’s noble women to gossip outside the chamber.

Princess Rhaenyra isn’t in her chambers when they arrive. Sansa would bet anything Rhaenyra is on her dragon, trying to clear her head, or possibly flying away from King’s Landing. There is no sign of Lady Amanda either, so Sansa quickly takes charge.

“Jorelle and Nora, go to the dragonpit to await Princess Rhaenyra’s return. Bring your brother with you as a guard. Let no one disturb the princess on the way back. Alanna, you know the princess’s favorite treats. Go to the kitchen and put in an order. Tyra, go with her and make sure it’s done in a timely manner. Laena, you should speak with your family. Mina, Elara, please go with her as a reminder that Laena is part of the princess’s household and that she has offered only honors to House Velayron.”

Mina’s eyes widen at the implication, but she nods and quickly leads the other two girls out of the room. The other four depart as well, leaving only Sansa and Cassandra behind.

“Do you have orders for me as well?” Cassandra drawls. She looks down her slender, pointed nose, as if daring Sansa to command her.

“You have ambition,” Sansa says, because she spotted it from the first day she met the girl, but it was especially obvious when she realized Alicent had slipped around both her and Laena to secure the king’s affection.

“You don’t?”

Sansa matches Cassandra’s smile with one of her own. It’s a sharp, edged thing. “I swore an oath to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, future Queen of Westeros. Do you know what the king’s second wife will be?”

“Queen.”

“Temporary.” Sansa holds Cassandra’s gaze, and she’s pleased to see the girl sit up straighter and pay attention. “She will be Queen or Queen-consort until her husband dies and then she will be the Dowager Queen as the true Queen of Westeros takes the throne. Her children will at best be spares used for breeding stock and at worst lightning rods for rebellion.”

The first hint of fear appears in Cassandra’s eyes.

“Would you rather have great power and then have to step aside and give it to someone else or be powerful in your own right for all your days to come? You are Cassandra Baratheon. You will either be wife to an influential lord or Lady Paramount in your own right.”

“My father may have four daughters, but he and my mother are young yet,” Cassandra says, but Sansa can see the spark in her eye. She’s hooked. “Besides, my father is a man proud of his illiteracy who claims loudly for anyone to hear how stupid and weak women are. He’d never let me inherit.”

“Rhaenyra will be Queen of Westeros,” Sansa reminds her. “Her cousin Lady Jeyne is Lady of the of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East.”

Cassandra nods and then appears to file the information away to consider later. “Why are you telling me this?”

She’s smart and, if Sansa can play this right, she will be an invaluable ally. “I told you, I am sworn to Princess Rhaenyra. I will not allow even a king to make me an oathbreaker. He will remarry, and his wife will be a threat to Rhaenyra’s succession. I aim to minimize that threat. She needs to be weak. I don’t want you to see that weakness as an opportunity.”

“I wasn’t expecting this from you,” Cassandra says.

“Northerners are loyal,” Sansa says. Best to play into common stereotypes than let Cassandra believe she’s some kind of schemer.

“What’s the plan?”

Sansa smiles. “It’s already begun. Reminding the court that Laena was being considered as a future bride, a lady from a rich house with personal ties to House Targaryen. Your comment that Alicent has neglected her duties to the princess to pursue her father. We will chip away at her power and influence until she is stranded. And then we will leave her there alone. And as it will be a ladies’ battle, none of the men will notice and intervene.”

“I am glad you chose to give me a warning,” Cassandra says.

“It would’ve been more difficult with you,” Sansa tells her honestly. “After Laena, you are the best option for the king’s remarriage.”

“More difficult, but you still would have done it.”

Sansa inclines her head in agreement.

#

Sansa’s plans aren’t dependent on Rhaenyra’s opinion of her friend, but they will be much easier if Rhaenyra doesn’t seek to protect Alicent. When Rhaenyra returns from her flight, flanked by Jorelle and Nora, her cheeks are blotchy as if she’d been crying, but her hands are clenched into fists.

“That two-faced, opportunistic, lying whore!” Rhaenyra shouts as she storms into her solar.

Perfect, Sansa thinks. “You should mention that to your father.”

Rhaenyra stops, mid-breath from her next slew of insults. “What?”

“Tomorrow, your father will no doubt want to speak with you about his announcement. Perhaps scold you for running out of the Council meeting. Tell him you were caught off guard. Laena gave you the courtesy of telling you her father’s plans. Alicent didn’t do the same.”

Rhaenyra looks around the room at her assembled ladies. They’re all back, even Laena, though Sansa doubts her presence is guaranteed yet. “If any of you seek my father’s bed or my family’s power, then I ask you to do me the kindness of walking out now. If you betray me, you will be met with fire and blood.”

“We swore to you twice over,” Cassandra says. “First as your ladies, second as the future Queen of Westeros. I am no oathbreaker.”

“We swore to you,” Sansa agrees.

Swiftly, the rest of the girls reaffirm their allegiance. Once they’re eating cakes and cheering Rhaenyra up by using the most foul language they know to talk about Alicent, Sansa slips over to where Lady Amanda stands guard. Her mouth and shoulders are both tight with either tension or rage. Sansa’s reminded that it’s this woman’s sister who died not three moons ago and is now being hastily replaced.

“Tomorrow, Lady Alicent will attempt to join ladies court,” Sansa says, her voice pitched low as to not carry. The girl will have to, after Cassandra’s comment that she hasn’t been seen with Rhaenyra’s ladies. She’ll have to make an appearance to try and quiet the gossip as to what exactly she’s been doing with her time. Sansa will make sure they all depart early, so Alicent will not be able to enter with them. She will have to approach alone, and Lady Amanda, their sentinel, will be there to meet her. “I would like you to decline her entry.”

“And I would like to shear the hair from her head,” Lady Amanda says, “but I know I’m not allowed.”

“You are tasked with safeguarding the princess’s virtue and surrounding her with only the most blameless of ladies,” Sansa says. “If you tell her this, I will do the rest.”

Lady Amanda studies Sansa for a long moment. “Be careful. Her father is a powerful man.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says.

#

Due to the excitement of the day, Sansa is not able to visit the godswood that night. Nor is she able to go in the morning. The rest of the ladies are curious why Sansa is in such a rush, but none of them question her. They are the first to the Ladies Hall, and they quickly apply themselves to the task of making Princess Rhaenyra smile.

Before long, other ladies of the court drift in, many of them surprised to see Rhaenyra here.

“She needs the distraction,” Sansa tells Lady Bar Emmon as the woman joins Sansa in her embroidery.

“Did her father truly tell her when he announced it to the Small Council?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Lady Bar Emmon presses her lips together, as if she doesn’t dare speak out against the king but doesn’t approve of what he did.

“It’s difficult for a girl to lose her mother,” Lady Rosby says.

“We’re doing our best to comfort her,” Sansa promises. “Lady Alicent used to be her only lady, Perhaps, she felt there was no place for her with Rhaenyra anymore?”

“So she turned to her lady’s father?” Lady Rosby stabs at her embroidery with far more force than necessary.

Sansa is content to let the women around her comment and gossip, only offering a word or two when she thinks they need to be nudged in a certain direction. It doesn’t take long before she spots the door open. And she isn’t the only one.

Half the room notices Alicent as she’s stopped by Lady Amanda at the door. The other half is quickly alerted to the girl’s presence. There’s a tense silence as everyone strains to hear what’s being said. They’re all eager to know why Alicent dares show her face and how Rhaenyra will react to the sight of her former lady.

Alicent and Amanda speak too quietly to be heard, but Sansa recognizes the desperate look on Alicent’s face. That’s Sansa’s cue. She sets her embroidery hoop back in her basket and strolls over to the entrance, as if every eye in the room isn’t boring into her back.

“Is there a problem?” Sansa asks once she reaches the pair.

“Lady Amanda won’t allow me to enter,” Alicent answers. There are tears welling up in her eyes, as if she’s about to make even more of a spectacle of herself than she already has.

“It is my responsibility to safeguard my niece’s virtue,” Lady Amanda says.

“I see.” Sansa feigns sympathy. “Alicent, surely you understand why Lady Amanda cannot allow you back into Princess Rhaenyra’s inner circle.”

“But I am a maiden,” Alicent whispers. “As I have always been and will be until the day I am married before the Seven.”

“Alicent.” Sansa steps closer as if they are keeping confidence. “King Viserys announced your impending marriage with no one even knowing you were courting. He plans to marry you before Queen Aemma’s mourning period is even halfway through. There is only one reason for such haste and such secrecy.”

“No!” Alicent forgets herself in her alarm, and her voice carries through the hall. “I am a maiden, Lady Sansa, I swear it before the Seven. I have comforted the king in his grief but by reading to him, nothing more. Please, let me speak to Rhaenyra. Let me explain.”

“There is nothing to explain,” Sansa says firmly. “As I said, there is only one explanation to rush and hold a wedding while the groom is still in mourning for his previous wife. Little Laena has only just flowered. I cannot in good conscience let her keep company with you.”

Alicent’s face drains of all color. For a moment, Sansa is concerned she will faint. “I will prove myself to Rhaenyra,” she says, seeming to rally.

“That is Princess Rhaenyra to you,” Lady Amanda says sharply. “You are not her stepmother yet.”

Alicent stumbles away from the hall, followed by a guard cloaked in white and another cloaked in green.

“She already has a Kingsguard assigned to her?” Sansa asks, surprised.

She doesn’t expect an answer, but she forgot that with Princess Rhaenyra inside her guards stand outside the door. It is Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander himself, who stands guard this morning. “The Hand wishes to ensure his daughter’s safety.”

The Hand, not the king? Sansa raises her eyebrows. “What harm could come to her at Ladies Court? We ladies are gentle creatures, you know.”

“As you say,” Ser Harrold says.

Sansa turns and heads, not for the embroidery circle, but for where Cassandra is poorly pretending to read a book of poetry. Alanna and Tyra are with her, as well as some of the noble wives and daughters that make up their court.

“What was the fuss?” Cassadra asks quietly, as if this is a conversation meant to be only between the two of them. Her voice is quiet, but Sansa trusts the women around them to strain their ears to hear.

“Lady Alicent requested entrance. Lady Amanda denied her.”

“Anyone with eyes saw that. What was the reason why?”

“We are Princess Rhaenyra’s ladies, and we must be above reproach.” Sansa keeps her expression placid and her voice stern. “The rush of Lady Alicent’s wedding…there are doubts. She is not to attend the princess until Lady Amanda says otherwise.”

Cassandra looks triumphant as she turns to pass on the orders to Alanna and Tyra. Sansa goes to where Jorelle is perched, heckling Nora and Elara as they play a game of cyvasse. She tells them the same before she goes to where Mina keeps Rhaenyra company.

By the time Sansa returns to her embroidery, the rushed nuptials and state of Alicent’s virtue are the sole topics of conversation.

#

“King Viserys has moved his wedding back,” Jon tells Sansa as they meet in the godswood. Sansa can’t help her smile, charmed that he thinks this is news to her. “He intends to fully honor Queen Aemma’s mourning period before he takes another wife.” He shakes his head. “How did you do it?”

“I suspect Alicent was the one to convince him,” Sansa says. The girl has already approached Sansa begging for her to speak to Lady Amanda on her behalf. It was quite pathetic, but Sansa did as she was asked. It wouldn’t do to completely alienate Alicent yet, lest she realize she needs to surround herself with true allies. “It was quite scandalous, the rushed wedding. And to Rhaenyra’s own friend, a girl of the lower nobility? Half the court thinks she’s with child.”

“Is she?” Jon asks.

“If she was smart, she would be wedded and carrying the king’s son right now,” Sansa says. “Fortunately, she doesn’t understand the game she’s decided to play. But enough of her.” Sansa doesn’t like all these manipulations even if she has grown to be skilled with them. “How are you?”

“I’ve been given some relief as Daemon’s favorite sparring partner.” Jon winces and rolls his neck as if he’s sore from his last bout with the prince. “But I worry at where he’s gone. He received a raven from Driftmark. Lord Corlys wanted to speak with him.”

Lord Corlys, who left the capital in a fury after his daughter was slighted by King Viserys’s announcement. Lord Corlys who has been unrelenting in his efforts to get the crown to support him in his fight in the Stepstones.

Sansa frowns. “He will want Daemon and his dragon to aid him in his war.”

“Aye.”

“I don’t want you to go. I feel as though I only just got you back.”

Jon pulls her into his arms and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t have any wish to go either, but I have no reason to say no. I will keep Daemon alive and when we return, hopefully Rhaenyra will be old enough for a betrothal.”

“Keep yourself alive as well,” Sansa tells him. “And. If it truly is to be war, you’ll bring Shadow with you.”

“Sansa—”

She cuts off his protests. “I will be fighting a war of women. You will be fighting a war of men. Shadow will be of more help to you than to me.” She shifts so that she can look Jon in the eye. “And it will allow me to check on you. Please. If you insist on going off to war, let me offer what protection I can.”

“Thank you,” Jon tells her, instead of arguing more.

Sansa closes her eyes and prays there will be no war in the Stepstones.

Chapter Text

Daemon leaves, without the Crown’s permission, to fight with Lord Corlys in the Stepstones. He takes many with him, including Jon and Shadow. Sansa continues to visit the godswood each morning and evening. She prays for Jon’s safety.

Rhaenyra, who still mourns her mother and brother, now worries over her uncle as well. It doesn’t help that she is quarrelling with her father, refusing to take private meals with him since he announced his intent to marry Alicent. It is useful in that King Viserys seems near desperate to regain his daughter’s favor, but his pride won’t allow him to chase her forever. She might be his daughter, but he is still a king.

Sansa will work at mending that relationship slowly. For now, she continues to shore up Princess Rhaenyra’s allies in court. Rhaenyra is hosting a small luncheon in the gardens today, where ladies can sip sweet wines and admire the flowers and, if they’re lucky, share a word or two with the princess.

Alicent arrives with the other ladies of the court, and her big brown eyes are as wide and sad as ever, as if she has any right to feel slighted by Princess Rhaenyra. Sansa shares a look with Cassandra and the eldest Baratheon daughter walks with Sansa as they go to greet the lady.

“Am I late?” Alicent asks quietly.

Sansa gestures to the other noble women joining them. She hides her smile as a few pause near the flowers in order to have an excuse to eavesdrop.

“But you’re already here.” Alicent looks over Sansa’s shoulder at where Rhaenyra can be heard giggling, no doubt at one of Jorelle’s bawdy jokes.

“Lady Alicent, now that your reputation has been restored, you are allowed with Princess Rhaenyra, but surely you can understand why you’re no longer one of her ladies-in-waiting. I know King Viserys is withholding a formal betrothal and wedding until his mourning period is finished, but everyone knows you are promised to him. You can no longer attend Princess Rhaenyra as you did when you are friends, now that your future role is to be her stepmother.”

“Oh.” Alicent lowers her gaze, as if this is truly a surprise to her. “I thought—”

“You thought nothing would change? You are a woman grown, Lady Alicent, promised to be wed. The princess is still young, to be surrounded by girls and maidens.”

“But I’m not—” Alicent stares beseechingly at Sansa as if she will help her. “I’m not the king’s betrothed, as you said.”

“You are his companion,” Cassanda says with a smirk.

“Lady Cassanda,” Sansa says, full of reproach.

“I apologize.” Cassandra dips into an insultingly shallow curtsy. “You are his lady companion.”

The ladies around them titter, giving away their audience. Alicent’s cheeks flush a mottled red. Sansa steps forward, savior and tormentor all in one. “I will take you to the refreshment table, and then you can greet the princess.”

Cassandra remains behind with the other ladies, and Alicent all but presses herself against Sansa, desperate for protection. “She is unkind.”

“She’s been slighted,” Sansa says. She guides Alicent to the platters of sliced fruit. “The whole realm knew the king would remarry. If he had followed proper protocol, the lords of the realm would have presented their daughters. Lady Cassandra would have been one of his options.”

“She is jealous, then.” Alicent seems relieved at this. “It is a wicked trait. I will pray to the Seven on her behalf.”

You should pray on your own, Sansa thinks. “There will be many jealous ladies. I fear you don’t have many friends at court.”

Alicent’s gaze is drawn towards Rhaenyra, who is surrounded by her ladies and tips her head back so Mina can dangle a bunch of grapes over her open mouth. “All I did was read to him,” Alicent says, nearly a whisper. “Why should she hate me for only trying to help?”

“She feels betrayed. She surrounds herself only with those who are loyal to her now. I should return to her side, lest she believe I’m conspiring with you.” Sansa smiles pleasantly and leaves Alicent standing alone at the table.

#

Alanna Tyrell skims the parchment in her hand. “Mother is wroth.”

Sansa started the tradition of Rhaenyra’s ladies all breaking their fast together. They always bring the ravens they received during the previous day and compare correspondence, so they can factor the news into their plans. They are an unofficial council, working together to aid the heir to the throne.

“The Hightowers are assembling ladies for Alicent.” Alanna hands the parchment to Sansa for her to read. “House Hightower, Cuy, Fossoway, and Tarly. All the ladies being requested are kin to the Hightowers if not Hightowers themselves.”

“Unsurprising,” Sansa says. The letter doesn’t give much more detail, but Alanna was correct, Lady Tyrell is quite furious, as she should be. “Though to disrespect their liege lords by not requesting any ladies from House Tyrell…” Sansa tsks her tongue. “Quite shameful.”

“She will have allies.” Rhaenyra glares at the parchment. “I thought we wanted her alone and miserable.”

“This is good,” Sansa says, setting the parchment down. “It shows we’re winning. This is a counter move, made to shore up Alicent’s support. We will make sure it won’t succeed. As Alanna said, House Tyrell has been slighted. Alicent will be surrounded by kin but no house in the Reach which isn’t affiliated with the Hightowers will benefit. The Hand of the King has power and how has he used it? He made his daughter a lady to a princess and a future queen. He has secured a place for his son in the City Watch. Now, it is his relatives who benefit. Whereas you, princess, have ladies from across the kingdoms.”

“Alicent might have Hightower support, but that is all she will have,” Alanna says. “The Reach is already grumbling. The Westerlands and Crownlands will no doubt follow.”

“Hmm,” Rhaenyra says, clearly not convinced yet. “What else?”

Cassandra scowls at a letter of her own. “My mother is with child again. My sister Maris claims she said it’s to be her last, whether it’s a boy or not. My father, of course, claims it will be a boy. The birth announcement was accompanied by permission to court his eldest daughter.”

“If you will not be Lady of Storm’s End, you will still be a great lady,” Rhaenyra says. “And as one of my ladies, you cannot marry without my permission. If you don’t like any of the suitors your father finds, you won’t have to marry them.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra says. She continues to scowl at the letters.

“Jon wrote me,” Sansa says, breaking the tense mood. “He has arrived in the Stepstones. He says the men were cheered to have Prince Daemon and Laenor join them, along with their dragons.”

“My brother is safe?” Laena asks. She remained in King’s Landing, even as her father and brother went off to war and her mother returned to rule Driftmark.

“As of this letter,” Sansa answers, not wanting to give false hope. She knows war is dangerous. War claimed so much of her family; her mother and then, then later, Rickon, and still later, the war against the dead claimed them all, even Sansa herself.

“What else did he write?” Cassandra snatches the parchment and then frowns. “Is this code?”

“It’s the Old Tongue,” Sansa answers. She takes the letter back.

“You speak the Old Tongue?” Jorelle asks, interested.

She learned in order to communicate with the allies they made as they prepared to fight the Night King. “I know some,” Sansa says. Enough to write to Jon in what might as well be code down here in the south.

“Did Jon write of Shadow?” Rhaenyra asks.

Sansa resists the urge to close her eyes and look through Shadow’s instead. “She did not enjoy traveling by boat, but she’s settled now that they’re on land.”

“My father still rages in the Small Council,” Rhaenyra says. “He is angry that Uncle Daemon and Lord Corlys have gone to war. He claims he won’t aid them.”

“We will pray for their victory to be swift, then,” Sansa says.

#

Sansa is listening to Laena read Valyrian poetry, the cadence enchanting, even if Sansa doesn’t understand the words. There is a whole group of ladies held as a captive audience. Sansa’s own enjoyment is interrupted when Lady Amanda approaches and taps her on the shoulder.

“Princess Rhaenyra requests your presence.”

Sansa stands and smooths out her skirts. She offers Laena an apologetic smile and then heads towards the doors. It’s too early for the Small Council to be over. Has there been another announcement? Another crisis? For a moment, she worries it’s the Stepstones. The fight wasn’t immediately won, even with the addition of two dragons. She knew it was naïve to believe it would be. Is it equally naïve to believe both Prince Daemon and Jon will survive?

Sansa is brought to one of the practice grounds where Rhaenyra stands with Ser Otto Hightower and Ser Harrold Westerling. There are several men below them, all dressed in their armor, their house’s sigils proudly displayed.

“We have need for a new Kingsguard,” Rhaenyra explains as Sansa comes to stand beside her. “My father said this task was better suited to me than discussing the war in the Stepstones.”

“King Viserys is a wise man,” Sansa says.

“You have missed their introductions.” Rhaenrya’s lip curls. She is angry with her father, and it’s clear she intends to take that anger out on the men before them. It will not help her cause, but Sansa knows she can’t push, not in front of Ser Otto. Sansa’s greatest strength in the war she wages is that no one knows she’s waging a war.

“I’m sure only the best knights of the realm have been put forward for this honor,” Sansa says.

In front of them, the men mill about, uneasy with the extended wait.

“Ser Desmond Caryon caught a poacher,” Rhaenyra says, her voice at least pitched low enough not to carry. “If he is truly the best the realm has to offer, perhaps it’s a good thing my father won’t declare war in the Stepstones. We would surely lose.”

“Princess,” Ser Otto chides.

“Ser Rymun Mallister won the melee at Cider Hall,” Rhaenyra continues. “I’m certain the others have trivial boasts as well. There is one with actual combat experience. Ser Criston Cole has been fighting the Dornish in the Stormlands.”

Sansa keeps her expression placid only through years of hard-earned experience. Criston Cole. She knows that name. Bran had been obsessed with the Kingsguard. He didn’t only want to be a knight, he wanted to be one of the greatest, honored with a white cloak and defending the king. Criston Cole did more than defend his king. Kingmaker, they called him. Bits of forgotten history return to her. Criston Cole, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, crowned Aegon II, effectively usurping the throne from Aegon’s half-sister Princess Rhaenyra.

“I’m not familiar with House Cole,” Sansa says lightly.

“He is the son of the steward for the Lord of Blackwood,” Ser Otto says. “It would be better to honor a Mallister or Crakehall. Allies are important, princess.”

Rhaenyra looks as though she will name Ser Criston out of spite. Sansa wonders if that is what happened last time. But then Rhaenyra turns to Ser Otto. She looks him over, considering. “Allies are important? Ser Harrold, are these the only candidates or may I choose any knight of the realm?”

“You may raise any man you deem worthy,” Ser Harrold says, but there is a hesitation in his voice and his gaze, as if he worries what Princess Rhaenyra will do.

“Princess, I—”

Rhaenyra places a hand on Ser Otto’s arm to silence him. She leans in, as if they are having a private conversation. “This will please you, Ser Otto. No need to fret.” She smiles and then steps forward to address the men before her. “Thank you for presenting yourselves today. It is an important responsibility, to choose the next man who will defend the king and his family. I have been fortunate in my personal guard, Ser Harrold, who is now raised to the position of Lord Commander. He has protected me since I was a babe. I would like the same protection extended to my future stepmother, Lady Alicent. A knight to defend her that she has known since she was a child. For that reason, I name Ser Gwayne Hightower to the Kingsguard.”

Sansa watches as the color seems to drain from Ser Harrold’s face. Even Ser Otto looks displeased. Rhaenyra glances at Sansa, triumphant, and Sansa realizes this is simply an extension of their lessons. Show that House Hightower only seeks to benefit itself. It’s a smart political play, even if she doubts the merits of raising an unworthy knight to the Kingsguard. Plus, Sansa has to make sure the blame for this rests fully on House Hightower.

Sansa steps forward before the knights’ grumbling can rise above a mutter. “Good knights of Westeros, I am Lady Sansa Stark, one of Princess Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting. It is my duty and pleasure to arrange proper activities for the princess of the realm. I know today’s decision must come as a disappointment, as you are all fine, brave knights, who strive to serve their king with honor. Next week, Princess Rhaenyra will be hosting a small gathering of ladies, and I would like to invite all of you to attend as well. You will not don a white cloak, but there are some benefits to that.” Sansa allows herself a brief, teasing smile. “Princess Rhaenyra shows her kind heart by ensuring the king’s future wife will be protected by kin, but it is not a slight against any of you. Nor is it a sign of disfavor from your princess. Attend our small gathering as proof that Princess Rhaenyra does hold you in her favor and in her thoughts.”

Ser Rymun is the first to step forward. “Thank you for your kind invitation, Lady Sansa. I will attend.”

Ser Desmond steps forward next. “You honor us, Princess Rhaenyra. Thank you. I will attend as well.”

One by one the knights step forward and pledge their attendance. Sansa knows it won’t smooth over all the hurt feelings. These knights were willing to give up the potential to own lands and take wives in order to serve the king. A few dances with ladies too highborn to marry them will not make up for it. It will be a start, though. And all Sansa needs is that small opportunity.

#

Sansa bites her bottom lip, feigning great concentration. “I am not sure it is right for you to attend, Lady Alicent. You are the king’s promised, and this is to be a gathering of maidens and dashing knights.”

“I will not do anything untoward,” Alicent promises. Her brother, now with a white cloak, stands behind her, her constant shadow.

“Your virtue must be unquestioned,” Sansa emphasizes.

“It will. Ser Gwayne will accompany me. He will act as chaperone.”

Sansa allows her stern countenance to thaw. “Very well. Three days from now, the Rose Garden. There will be a light luncheon, music, possibly even dancing.”

“Thank you!” Alicent grasps Sansa’s hand in hers as if they are friends. “I will do nothing to dishonor myself nor Rhaenyra, I promise.”

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Sansa corrects gently, a reminder that Alicent has lost the right to be so familiar with the princess.

“Yes, Princess Rhaenyra,” Alicent dutifully echoes.

Sansa smiles and takes her leave.

#

The gardens are decorated, the tables have been set up and laden with food. The musicians tune their instruments. Sansa looks around her with satisfaction. Everything is ready. Now, all they need are their attendees. It’s a small gathering, and it won’t get out of hand, everyone knows the realm is still in mourning, after all, but it will be a pleasant way to pass an afternoon.

Sansa wears a gray dress in lightweight material in deference to the southern heat. She still wears the black mourning veil to cover her most distinguishable feature. The mourning period is halfway through. There is still much work to be done before it’s finished. Alicent Hightower is guarded by her brother and her cousins and other kin will be arriving in droves soon. While limiting her influence is important, they must also limit her power.

“You’ve done well,” Lady Amanda says, drawing Sansa out of her thoughts.

“My actions reflect on Princess Rhaenyra,” Sansa says in return.

“Her nameday is approaching. She’ll be four and ten. Two years out from being able to claim Dragonstone as her own.”

“Once the mourning period is over, I suspect there will be many vying for her hand.” Sansa watches as the ladies of the court begin to arrive, greeted by either Rhaenyra or one of her personal ladies.

“She was spoiled as a girl, and now she’s in training to be Queen. She will not accept a husband who seeks to rule her.”

“Then we will find her one who won’t.” Sansa says. She already knows who the best match for Princess Rhaenyra is, but there is a very large obstacle in the way. He is already married. She’d rather not resort to murder, which means she needs to find a way for Prince Daemon’s marriage to be annulled. Fortunately, both husband and wife despise each other, claim the marriage is unconsummated, and have requested annulments on different occasions. She suspects it is the king’s stubbornness and the Hand’s interference which keeps Prince Daemon shackled to Lady Royce.

“You have more faith in the men of Westeros than I do,” Lady Amanda says.

Sansa thinks of Joffrey, of Petyr, of Ramsay, and she laughs. “Believe me, my lady, I do not.” Sansa offers a curtsy and then goes to greet the members of the City Watch who were invited to shore up the numbers of their male guests. Ser Harwin is with his sisters, but he pauses his conversation to take her hand and press a kiss to it.

“How gallant,” Sansa says with only a bit of a teasing in her voice.

“Is Ser Breakbones being gentle?” Another gold cloaked man takes Ser Harwin’s place and bows deeply over Sansa’s hand.

This starts a silly competition amongst the men, as they rush forward to shower courtesies on the ladies until it’s almost a mockery and giggles fill the air. For a moment, Sansa can almost imagine herself as this girl, young and silly, no thoughts in her head except for dashing knights and a gaggle of blond-haired children.

But she is not that girl. She extricates herself from the swarm with grace under the guise of getting herself a drink. She elects for lemonade, freshly squeezed and all the tarter for it. As she understands, the relationship with Dorne is not a peaceful one but nor is it outright war. There are trade routes aplenty, but even if there weren’t, she suspects King’s Landing would never run out of lemons. They are Princess Rhaenyra’s favorite.

Sansa keeps a sharp eye on the assembly, feeling more like Lady Amanda than a young woman. She isn’t sure if it’s because she feels as though she’s lived a thousand years or because she is twice married, and she is neither girl nor maiden anymore. Even though both her husbands are dead, she has given her heart to Jon freely and joyfully. There will never be another man for her, no matter how sweetly Ser Tollen compliments her dress.

When the dancing begins, Sansa is able to keep out of it, finding Lady Amanda for a conversation no one is brave enough to interrupt.

They discuss the assembly with serious expressions on their faces so those who glance over at them think their conversation to be much more weighted. Sansa observes the dancing, the mingling, and her eye is drawn to the one thing that stands out. Lady Alicent keeps to the edges of the garden with her only brother, Ser Gwayne of the Kingsguard for company.

Lady Amanda follows Sansa’s gaze and sighs. “Whatever game you’re playing with that girl will not end well.”

“There is only one ending—Rhaenyra will be the Queen of Westeros after her father.” What Sansa doesn’t add is what she learned in her previous life. When you play the game of thrones, you either win or you die. Sansa curtsies and then drifts over to where the Strong girls are sampling the selection of wines. She collects Mina on her way, hooking her elbow through the Tully girl’s arm.

“Mina and I are going to greet our little wallflower,” Sansa says without looking over at Alicent. “After two songs have passed, would you ask your brother and another knight to come ask us to dance?”

“Only one?” Elara, the younger sister, asks.

“I’m sure Ser Gwayne is gallant enough to dance with his sister,” Sansa says. And if he isn’t, she will prompt him to. It will be another opportunity to show how the Hightowers only favor themselves. And, if Alicent is bold enough after to dance with the other knights, it will at least keep her from ruining the pleasant afternoon with her gloomy disposition.

Sansa guides Mina to where Alicent stands. Because her brother is so close and no doubt reports directly to Ser Otto, Sansa curtsies and nudges Mina to do the same. “Good afternoon, Lady Alicent.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Sansa, Lady Mina.”

“I noticed you have not left your refuge.” Sansa offers the raspberry tart she wrapped in a napkin.

“Thank you.” Alicent takes the treat and breaks a small piece of it off. “I know I should be mingling, but with my future promised, not official, I’m not sure where I belong.”

Then how do you expect to be Queen? Sansa hides her derision behind a smile. “Mina and I will keep you company, then. Is your future truly so uncertain? Have you not spoken with King Viserys?”

“Not since he told me we were to delay our marriage.” Alicent breaks off another piece of the tart. “He would tell me stories as he worked on his model of Old Valyria. I miss it.”

“Perhaps something can be arranged,” Sansa says.

“Are you glad to have your brother with you?” Mina asks.

“Yes.” A smile blooms across Alicent’s face. “I know he’s been in the capital, but the City Watch kept him away from me more often than not. And soon I shall have cousins and aunts as well. I look forward to introducing you.”

Mina painfully coaxes Alicent into talking about her kin, which passes the time until Ser Harwin and Ser Tollen approach them. Ser Harwin stops and bows a respectful distance away. “Lady Mina, would you honor me with this next dance?”

Mina glances at Sansa, a blush high on her cheeks. Sansa smiles and nudges the girl forward. She places her hand in Ser Harwin’s and allows him to lead her to the unofficial dance floor. Ser Tollen offers Sansa a roguish grin as he holds his hand out to her.

“Will you not even ask?” Sansa asks, feigning offense.

“My beautiful lady,” he begins, and Sansa can’t help her laughter.

“I accept, if only to halt the torrent of false compliments.” She places her hand in his, but she doesn’t allow him to lead her away yet. She looks over at Alicent and hesitates. “I wouldn’t leave you here on your own.”

Alicent, to her credit, puts on an admirably brave face. “I have my brother for company.”

“Why not dance with him?” Ser Tollen asks. “I believe Princess Rhaenyra charmed Ser Harrold into a dance. If the Lord Commander can find amusement, surely Ser Gwayne can as well.”

“Especially to comfort a sister,” Sansa adds.

Ser Gwayne offers his hand to his sister and the two couples join the others in dancing. Of course, once Sansa agrees to dance, it is difficult for her to extricate herself again. She dances with Ser Tollen, Ser Harwin, and then Ser Criston Cole. She begs off a fourth dance saying she must return to Alicent, who is back to standing away from the merriment. She recalls seeing Ser Gwayne escort Alicent back after a single dance. No one else offered to dance with her again.

Ser Criston accompanies Sansa back to Alicent and Ser Gwayne, which is hardly necessary. Sansa hadn’t known how to refuse the knight when he asked her to dance, and it hadn’t been as enjoyable as her dances with the others. She knows the man hasn’t done anything wrong yet, but this is a man who in one lifetime betrayed the queen he was sworn to protect. It shouldn’t shock her. The Kingsguard were hardly honorable in her own lifetime.

“Would you like to dance again?” Ser Criston asks, the question directed at Alicent, not Sansa.

Alicent’s shock is genuine and painfully obvious on her face. She looks over her shoulder at her brother, as if she expects him to step between her and the knight. When he doesn’t react, she glances at Sansa, as if expecting her to protest.

“I apologize, but I cannot,” Alicent answers, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am the king’s promised, and I must remain above reproach.”

At first, Sansa doesn’t believe she’s heard the words that came out of Alicent’s mouth. Or that Alicent is looking to Sansa for approval. Stupid, stupid girl, Sansa thinks as Ser Criston withdraws his hand and clenches it into a fist at his side.

“You question my honor?” Ser Criston demands, his voice low and dangerous. “You slight us for the Kingsguard appointment and now you suggest we would—” he cuts himself off before he can voice the rest of this thought.

“No, I didn’t mean—” Alicent steps forward as if she means to grab Ser Criston’s hand, but he steps back out of her reach. His dark eyes are hardened, his pride stung. Sansa hadn’t expected Alicent to be as foolish as to turn down a dance with a knight nor say the words which came out of her mouth. How has she been at court since King Jaehaerys and learned nothing?

Ser Criston turns on his heel, and Sansa thinks he would have stormed out of the garden entirely, if Cassandra didn’t choose that moment to call out his name.

“Ser Criston? Where is Ser Criston Cole?”

The assembly looks around and, spotting the knight, they part so that Lady Cassandra has an unobstructed view of the man. Cassanda wears a black gown, in deference to the realm’s mourning, but with Baratheon yellow accents. She glides forward, her sharp eyes taking in Ser Criston’s rage and Alicent’s distress. Her lips curve into a wicked smile for a moment before her expression clears.

“Ser Criston Cole,” Cassandra says as she approaches the man. Around them, everyone is silent, watching, waiting to see what will transpire. “Princess Rhaenyra told me you were one of the most promising selections for the Kinsguard. Is it true you have defended the realm against Dornish incursions?”

“It is true.” Ser Criston’s words are clipped despite her compliments.

“And do you know who I am, Ser Criston?” Cassandra looks amused, rather than offended, but the way she approaches and circles Ser Criston as if he were prey, suggests her pride has been stung as well.

“Lady Cassandra Baratheon,” he answers promptly.

“Yes, Lady Cassandra Baratheon of Storm’s End. You have defended the realm, but you have done it in my homeland, ser. I would ask that you extend that protection further. I am the daughter of a Lord Paramount, and I am in need of expanding my personal guard. It is not as prestigious as the Kingsgaurd, I know, but I would be grateful to have a knight with such experience at my side.”

Cassandra is correct, there is a large difference between Kingsguard and household guard, even if that household is that of a Lady Paramount. For a moment, Sansa thinks Ser Criston’s pride will blind him to this opportunity, but he jerks his head in a nod and then goes to one knee right there. He draws his sword and holds it up, extended in both hands.

They exchange their vows, knight and mistress, before Cassandra bids him rise. There is polite applause from the gathered assembly, before everyone leans in to whisper to their neighbor.

“Lady Sansa!” Rhaenyra calls.

Sansa finds the princess on the far side of the garden with a plate of lemon cakes beside her. Each cake is missing the candied fruit that normally rests on top. She is keeping company with Ser Harwin, Ser Rymun, and the Strong sisters. Her cheeks are flushed as if she’s had too much wine and not enough cake.

“Lady Cassandra stole my moment.” Rhaenyra pouts for a moment, looking like the spoiled princess she’s accused of being. “But perhaps it is for the best. You do not like to be the center of attention.”

Sansa stills as she tries to guess what Rhaenyra is about to spring on her.

Princess Rhaenyra gestures to Ser Rymun Mallister, one of the men who had been considered for the Kingsguard. “You are here in King’s Landing, instead of the North with your kin in order to serve me. And you have sent Shadow, your most dedicated protector to the Stepstones to watch over my kin. I would not leave you unprotected.”

“I hardly feel unsafe,” Sansa says. There are a few Northern guards, left to watch over both her and Jorelle, not to mention the City Watch members who assist in the Red Keep’s security.

“There are only so many positions in the Kingsguard, and they are meant to guard first their king and then his family.” Rhaenyra clasps Sansa’s hands in a friendly gesture. “I would see you guarded by someone who is dedicated fully to you. Ser Rymun won the melee at Cider Hall. He is a strong knight.”

Sansa cannot risk offending the princess or Ser Rymun, so she forces a smile to her lips. “You are most generous, your Grace.”

Rhaenyra tugs on Sansa’s hands, a frown marring her pretty face. “Do not your Grace me, Sansa. You are one of my ladies, but I consider you more than that. You are my friend.”

Sansa knows how reluctant Rhaenyra is to use that word after her last friend went behind her back and seduced her father. Sansa raises their joined hands and kisses the back of Rhaenyra’s hands. “You are my friend as well, Rhaenyra. Thank you for looking out for me. I will be honored to accept Ser Rymun into my service.”

“Good,” Rhaenyra says. She picks up the plate of lemon cakes. “Would you like one?”

Sansa laughs and picks up a candy-less cake. “Thank you. I am quite partial to them.”

Chapter Text

Jon hates war. He hates the layer of filth that accrues—dirt, sweat, blood. He hates the buzz in his head—too little sleep and too much caution. He hates the waiting, the slow anticipation for a fight and how everything passes at twice the speed once the battle begins. More than anything, he hates how good he is at it.

He’s useless on a boat, and he doesn’t have a dragon, but put him on the ground with steel in his hand, and there’s none better. Naively, he hoped two dragons would mean an easy victory. But this isn’t his Westeros. These pirates know the threat of dragons, and they’re prepared for them. They strike and then hide in their caves, leaving Jon’s side to be battered by the elements and disease.

The war council stands around their table, a map of the Stepstones laid out before them. One of Vaemond’s sons enters the tent without permission. “Sails on the horizon,” he gasps as if he sprinted here.

“Dornish suns?” Corlys asks.

“Dragons?” Vaemond asks hopefully, still expecting King Viserys to change his mind and add the might of the Crown to their endeavors.

“Wolves,” the boy answers.

The war council goes out to see these sails for themselves. True to the boy’s word, there are a handful of ships sailing toward them. Jon’s hope that Sansa somehow secured Northern aid is dashed when he sees the sigil is a wolf, not a direwolf, In fact, he doesn’t recognize this sigil at all, a wolf in the midst of a winter storm.

They must make a ridiculous sight, the lot of them standing on the beach and watching as a rowboat is lowered from the flagship. The small boat gradually makes its way toward the shore. Once it’s near enough, Shadow bounds forward, splashing through the water to greet their visitors.

“Others take me!” A deep voice curses. “What are you, some kind of demon wolf?”

The rumbling accent, even the curse sounds like home to Jon. If he closes his eyes, he could believe himself to be on the Wall, surrounded by brothers in black, the lot of them ready to face death and win. But he isn’t at the Wall, he’s on the Stepstones. The large figure who steps out of the boat first is taller and broader than Jon, but he’s far more worn. His skin is rough and hardened, age lines looking like deep-set creases. His armor too, battered leather, looks as though it’s seen better days. His beard is scraggly, as much white and gray in it as black. The hair on his head is much the same, curls tamed by a leather band.

“Shadow, to me,” Jon says.

Shadow stops trying to lick the salt off the man’s hand and obediently trots to Jon’s side.

The man looks from Shadow to Jon as three other men step out of the rowboat. “Are you the one we’re reporting to, then?”

Daemon, Corlys, and Vaemond all bristle at the assumption.

“Who are you?” Corlys demands. Jon saw glimpses of the man’s pride in King’s Landing, but it’s far more apparent in the close quarters of war, here on the islands.

“My boys call me Roddy the Ruin.” The man grins, showing off sharpened teeth. The three men with him look far too old to be referred to as boys. “Stark called for aid, and we answered. Only about five-hundred. We didn’t have the boats for more.” The man may have been answering Corlys, but he hasn’t looked away from Jon. “I was told there was a wolf waiting for us.”

Roddy’s men stand next to him. They’re in the same sorry shape, battered armor and grizzled faces, but Jon doesn’t doubt that each of these men has blood on their hands.

“Are any of you fighting age?” Vaemond sneers. Another man with too much pride. At least Corlys has reasons to believe in his own self-importance.

Roddy laughs, a deep Northern rumble. “Did you hear that, boys? He thinks our fighting days are behind us.”

“That’s how it is in the south.” The speaker is missing an eye, a nasty scar bisecting the socket. “They retire to get fat and fuck their wives after their first tourney.”

Vaemond sucks in a breath, offended, but Roddy speaks first.

“We’re Winter Wolves, and you’d best respect it.”

“I do,” Jon says before violence can break out. “I respect you.” He’s heard stories of the Winter Wolves. Men who, in lean times, chose to prioritize their families and struck out in the snow to challenge death to take them. If these are truly such men, then Jon would be honored to fight at their sides.

“Word of them reached Volantis?” Daemon asks, incredulously.

“Yes.”

Daemon doesn’t push for more. “They’ll answer to you. It’s about time you got your own command.”

“They won’t answer to a green boy like him,” Vaemond protests, as if Jon hasn’t done more to contribute to this war than Corlys’s cowardly brother.

“Then they’ll die,” Daemon says, sounding like he doesn’t much care. “Either way, you don’t need to worry about it.”

Roddy gives Jon a long once over, his gaze lingering on Shadow. “You’re one of ours.”

“Aye,” Jon agrees.

“This is Jon Targaryen.” Daemon rests a heavy hand on Jon’s shoulder, as if to remind Jon as much as Roddy and his fellows.

“Not a demon wolf,” Roddy says. “A dragon wolf.” He pulls a brightly colored cloth out of his belt and waves it in the air. “Hope you don’t mind. We need to disembark so the ships can return.”

“The ships aren’t staying?” Corlys asks.

“We aren’t fucking Ironborn. We don’t know naval warfare.” He barks out a short laugh at whatever expression he sees on Corlys’s face. “You don’t need to worry about us weighing down your ships when this is over.” Conversation over, he heads further down the beach to await his men.

“They don’t expect to return,” Jon explains softly as the Winter Wolves move out of earshot. “In the North, when winter comes and resources are short, men who don’t want to be a burden on their families will leave. Normally, they remain in the North. They aren’t afraid of death. They’re eager to meet it and overcome it or to yield to a worthy opponent.”

“Perhaps this isn’t a good assignment.” Daemon looks apprehensive, as if he isn’t sure how Jon will fit in with the wolves.

Jon’s grin probably does nothing to reassure him. “You’ve seen my scars. I know what to say to the god of death. Not today.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Daemon says.

Jon nods and then goes to join Roddy at the water’s edge.

#

Jon is easily the youngest of the men now under his command. This isn’t new to him. He was a fresh-faced recruit when he arrived at the Wall. He earned respect and a position in command not through his connection to Eddard Stark but through his own merit. Of course, it was his decisions that led to a mutiny against him as well, but he doubts he’ll face the same here.

These men want to fight for a worthy cause and die honorably. There will be no knives in the dark.

It helps that Roddy has taken a liking to Jon and that Jon has no intention of abusing his authority. He recognizes that for all the wars he’s fought, these men have far more experience than he does. He isn’t looking to command them. He’s looking to fight beside them.

He knows the others look down on his motley crew, whether it’s Corlys’s men, Daemon’s City Watch, or the sellswords looking to make some gold off a pirate’s fortune. The Winter Wolves don’t wear the fine armor or carry the fine weapons of Corlys’s men. They are not eager young men, desperate to prove themselves like the City Watch. And they are not men looking for fame, glory, or gold like the sellswords.

“You understand us,” Roddy says one morning, as they sit around a fire and tend to their wounds from the night before.

Notherners understand this battle the pirates fight. It reminds Jon of Robb, and his chest aches for a brother he might never see again. The pirates strike under the cover of darkness. They use small, targeted groups to instill fear and chaos. They do not march in columns on an open field the way men battle in the south.

Jon has become nocturnal. He and his men fight in the dark. They are guided by Ethan the Eagle and by Shadow, both of whom can see just as well in the dark as they do in the light.

“Aye, I do,” Jon says. He is bent over Sighorn the Silent’s arm as he stitched up a gash. His stiches are not nearly so neat nor pretty as Sansa’s, but they’ll serve their purpose.

“Ethan says Shadow is not yours.”

Jon’s gaze drifts to where the direwolf is curled up by the fire. Her eyes are closed as if she is sleeping. Her fur is stiff with salt, and she has learned to eat fish and other bounties from the sea. She is strong. Adaptable. He whispers to her when he can, unsure if Sansa is listening, but trusting that she will hear some of his words.

“A direwolf is not a pet, and they have no master,” Jon says.

“They have a bond,” Ethan says. Ethan is the smallest man amongst the wolves. He is a crannogman, a distant relation to the main line of House Reed. When they battle, he is guarded by four men. Jon has seen the whites of his eyes as he wargs into creatures which can see far better at night than any man can.

“Shadow’s bond is not with me,” Jon says even though he feels as though he’s giving away secrets not meant for him to give.

“Then you have the favor of a most extraordinary woman,” Ethan says.

Jon can’t keep the smile, not the blush, from his face. “Aye.”

“Oh ho!” Thor the Boar crows. “Does the pup have a lass back in the stinking capital?”

Jon finishes Sighorn’s stitches and cuts the thread. He wraps the wound and then pats the man’s arm, signaling that his work is done. He looks around to see a small crowd has gathered around the fire, interested in hearing his answer. These men gave up their families to protect them. Some of them had wives, many of them had children. They have made their peace with never seeing them again. Jon hopes that the gods sending Sansa here with him means they don’t intend to part them.

“She’s a lady,” Jon says softly. The men crowd closer, eager to hear more. He knows it’s partly his fault. He yearns to be a part of them, to sink back into his Northern roots, but he is a Targaryen, and they all believe him to be from Essos. He doesn’t speak much about himself, because he doesn’t want to lie, and the truth would not be believable.

Shadow rouses and moves to his side. She rests her head on his thigh and then closes her eyes again. Jon runs a hand through her fur. “Lady Sansa Stark.”

“We could have guessed that,” Willem says, gesturing to the direwolf. Willem the Watchful, kin to the Starks of Winterfell.

“Some says she looks more Tully than Stark.” Jon continues to scratch between Shadow’s ears. She opens her eyes and they’re blue, rather than red. “They’re wrong. Her skin is as pale as a weirwood, and her hair is as red as its leaves. She is of the North.”

Shadow huffs before her eyes bleed back to red. Jon pats her between the ears. He knows Sansa checks in when she can, nervous and worried with Jon at war again and so far away from her. He feels as though he’s always leaving her. So far, at least, he’s always come back.

“What do you know of the North?” one of the men scoffs.

“It’s in my blood,” Jon answers. “It’s in my head. I hear its song.”

“Oh?” Roddy takes a swing of ale and then belches loudly. “What does the Northern winds croon to you, pup?”

“Winter is coming,” Jon says solemnly. “And the realm must be strong enough to meet it when it does.” He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Even with salt stung lips he can still taste the bitter cold of the North. He can still feel the shiver of dread as the dead shambled toward the Wall. He has one purpose, to turn back winter. He couldn’t in his lifetime, so the gods gave him a chance to do better. “I spent time in Volantis with the Red Priestesses. They don’t call it winter, they call it the Long Night, but it’s the same thing. Stories of how the world ends are told across the known world. Different people, different gods, but one thing in common. Death.”

Roddy is the first to laugh, and the other men join in. “Who’s going to tell the next story? Thor? Jack?”

“Aye, I’ll go next,” Jack says. Jack the Bear, of House Mormont. He wears the pelt of an ice bear, the white long since turned brown with dirt and dried blood. But the head is preserved, the teeth bared at anyone who looked upon his shoulder. He wields a spiked mace and is deadly with it. “On the other side of the North, they boast of mermaids, beautiful creatures which perch on rocks and sing love ballads to the men at sea. But those on our side know no such beauty. Our sailors know to beware the call of the siren.”

Jon leans back as Jack weaves a tale of sea witches who seek to enchant men and drag them to the depths of the ocean to feast on their hearts. He doesn’t mind his tale being dismissed. He knows how difficult it is to believe. Even when winter came for Westeros, there were those who didn’t believe it was real. Or, even if they did, didn’t believe it could conquer the whole continent. He knows Winterfell didn’t stop the Night King’s march. Did he make it to King’s Landing? Did Daenerys ever fully realize the threat? Did she fly out to meet it?

He supposes if the living were slated to win, the gods would not have chosen him and Sansa to fix things. He hopes it did end with Winterfell burning and the south never knew the cold or the fear of the dead.

After Jack is another round of drinks and a story by Willem and then they all settle down enough to sleep.

#

Roddy stands at Jon’s shoulder as they look over the map in the war council tent. He has not been a popular addition, but Jon insisted that he take part. Corlys and Vaemond had been the two loudest to protest, but after the Winter Wolves showed they would fight fiercely, no matter the odds, Corlys welcomed Roddy.

It helps to have a division who doesn’t balk at the worst assignments. If it was another war, another commander, another division, Jon might think he and his men to be sacrifices. But Daemon would never put another Targaryen in danger like that, and the Winter Wolves have beaten the odds too many times to fall to pirates on some southern islands.

“I received word from King’s Landing that two supply ships are enroute,” Daemon says. He taps the parchment and pushes it to the center of the table for anyone who wants to read it. “My brother’s note was short. It’s a gift from my niece, not official endorsement from the Crown. But if we see Targaryen sails, we aren’t to burn the ships on sight.”

“Did he say why your niece was feeling generous?” Corlys asks the question even as he picks up the parchment to read.

“He didn’t. But our supply lines suffer more from the storms than the enemy. We need to set something stationary and protected.”

This is a familiar refrain, from even before the Winter Wolves joined them. Jon doesn’t roll his eyes, but he’s tempted.

“A stash of provisions makes a tempting target for both the enemy and our own men,” Corlys says, the same argument he has made the past six times this has been brought up.

“We now have the right garrison to defend it.” Daemon gestures to Jon and Roddy. “You’ve seen the Winter Wolves fight. Not even Vaemond can doubt their honor any longer. They will defend our garrison and our supplies. And men who leave their homes so their children can eat are not ones who will steal extra rations during war.”

It’s a surprising speech. Jon knows the truth of what Daemon said, but he never imagined Daemon would be the one to say it. And then, looking back at the map, he realizes what Daemon’s play is. The garrison won’t be established on Bloodstone, the largest island and the source of their most frequent skirmishes. They’ll pick one of the smaller ones, and Jon will be sequestered away from the fighting. Daemon still doesn’t believe that Jon doesn’t intend to die here.

“Will we be guarding supplies or empty rooms?” Roddy asks. Before anyone can answer, he points to several more islands. “You say supply caches make a tempting target, and I agree. It’s time we give these fucks a taste of their own tactics.”

“Ambush sites,” Jon says. He nods as he looks over the collection of islands. “We lure them in and then we kill them. Three is probably the most we can adequately defend with the numbers we have. Two fakes and one real. With any luck, they’ll throw themselves at the fake multiple times before they realize they’re dying for nothing.”

“Aye.” Roddy leans in to determine which three islands will be the most defensible and Jon listens.

#

Jon and Roddy are still with the main forces when the promised supply ships arrive, their sails proudly boasting the three-headed dragon. The first rowboat delivers not supplies but a messenger with a stack of letters. Word to Corlys from his daughter and wife, word to Laenor from his sister and mother. Daemon receives several missives. Jon receives a letter that he quickly tucks away for later, once he has some privacy.

He tucks the letter against his chest, Sansa’s words as close to his heart as he can manage. He knows he must have a lovesick grin on his face, but he can’t dampen it. Sansa has written to him. He’ll read her words, hear her voice for the first time in far too long.

Daemon rips open one of his letters, and Jon catches a glimpse of looping, feminine handwriting. It doesn’t surprise him that Rhaenyra has written to her uncle or that he’s as eager to hear from her as Jon is to hear from Sansa. Daemon’s eyes quickly scan the document. He reads it, looks up at the sky, and then reads it again.

“Ill tidings?” Corly asks.

The men stop reading their own letters, smiles vanishing at word from home or the prospect of good wine. The tension rises and it doesn’t dissipate, even as Daemon shakes his head.

“The opposite.” Daemon sounds stunned. He hands the parchment to Jon. “Read this and confirm mine own eyes don’t deceive me.”

“Out loud,” Corlys adds, staring at the letter in Jon’s hands as if he will be able to make out the words even with the distance between them.

Jon clears his throat and begins. “My dearest uncle.” He flushes and hurries forward. “I write to you from mine own hand to tell you King Viserys has granted an annulment between yourself and Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone. To show the Crown desires you to live and return home to find a bride and continue our great family, please accept the supplies on these ships. Your loving niece, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, Princess of Dragonstone.”

Jon stares at the words on the page, hardly able to believe it. He wonders if his own letter will provide additional details. This seems like one of Sansa’s clever machinations.

“I am unshackled!” Daemon cries out in joy. He grabs Jon and plants a kiss on his cheek. He grabs Corlys next and laughs after bestowing his kiss. “I’m free!” He kisses every member of the war council, going as far as to chase Roddy when the man tries to dodge.

Despite the strain of the war, Daemon looks like a boy, carefree and happy. He orders some of the wine on the ships be used to celebrate the end of his marriage. Jon thinks it to be in poor taste until later that night, deep in his cups, Daemon tells him the truth behind his marriage.

“It was a punishment,” he slurs, leaning heavily against Jon’s side.

They’re gathered around a fire, each of them with full cups. It reminds Jon of the North, of late nights huddled with the Free Folk, drinking fermented goat’s milk to try and ward off the cold. He sips his Arbor Gold and the moment is ruined, the wine too rich to be anything like Tormund’s favorite drink.

“So you always claim,” Corlys says.

“No I—” Daemon rouses himself from his slouch. “You knew Jaehaerys. He didn’t want any daughters to have dragons, because daughters marry.” Daemon smirks at Corlys, as if thinking about Corlys’s dragonriding wife. “But Rhaenyra…she was my niece. The first of a new generation. I put the egg in her cradle myself. If it hadn’t hatched during the night, I have no doubt it would have been snatched away the next morning.”

“But it did hatch,” Laenor says. His eyes are wide at hearing what must be a family secret.

“And I was banished to the Vale, torn away from my family’s side, ordered to create a new family with a woman I had no interest in. All I have ever wanted is to see my house return to its glory.”

“You will,” Jon promises. There will be no Dance of Dragons, no decline of the Targaryens. “You are free to choose your own wife now.” And Jon suspects he knows exactly who Daemon will choose. He feels a moment of guilt. He knows Sansa will be whispering in Rhaenyra’s ear until the girl is in love with her uncle, more than she is already. This won’t be a marriage born out of duty, but it will be arranged, even if the husband and wife don’t realize the work that has been put into making it happen.

His guilt fades knowing what will come if they don’t push Daemon and Rhaenyra together. A war for succession now and then death when the War for the Dawn comes in two-hundred years.

“Why now?” Corlys asks. “You have asked for an annulment before.”

“Perhaps Otto the Odious is dead.” Daemon looks cheered by this prospect.

Jon rolls his eyes at the enthusiasm in Daemon’s voice. “Ser Otto has been pushing to move up his daughter’s marriage, despite the king’s mourning. His last argument was that with Rhaenyra too young yet and King Viserys delaying, House Targaryen is in jeopardy.” Jon was correct. Sansa’s mind was behind this annulment, which means Daemon is free to marry Rhaenyra when they return from this blasted war. “Princess Rhaenyra pointed out that you have been in a childless marriage for years, and if the Small Council was truly concerned with future Targaryens, you should be given leave to choose your own wife.”

The men around their fire stare at Jon with open mouths. Jon shrugs, self-conscious with the attention. “Or so Sansa told me.”

“Sansa?” Daemon hones in on the familiarity. “Did the Small Council forget there’s another Targyaren of marrying age? Shall we expect wedding bells when we return?”

“Fuck off,” Jon says, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“What sweet words did your lady write you?” Daemon strikes before Jon is prepared, tackling him to the sand. He reaches into Jon’s doublet and triumphantly holds up a wrinkled letter. Jon makes a half-hearted grab for it, but Daemon stumbles out of reach. He squints at the parchment, turns it upside down, and then frowns. “Have I had too much to drink? This is all nonsense.”

Corlys takes the letter from Daemon’s hands. He frowns heavily, suspicion wrinkling his brow. “Is this code?”

Roddy leans over to look. He laughs and shakes his head. “That’s the Old Tongue. You’re full of surprises, pup.”

“Can you read it?” Corlys asks.

Roddy snatches the letter and holds it out to Jon. “I could muddle my way through, but I won’t. Is it only full of gossip?”

Even the tips of Jon’s ears burn with his blush as he takes the letter back. “No but I’ll only share the gossip. Ser Gwayne Hightower was recently named to the Kingsguard.”

“Fucker didn’t deserve a gold cloak, let alone a white one,” Daemon says.

Jon smiles to himself as he successfully distracts the group. He settles back on his seat and, since the letter is already out, he reads it again, greedy for Sansa’s words. She gave Jon a thorough update on King’s Landing. It seems her plans are going well, both limiting Alicent’s power and increasing Rhaenyra’s. Jon wishes he had the same success to share on his end. He hopes this is the last war he has to fight in. He wants to live his life, share his days with Sansa and however many children the gods bless them with.

After he finishes reading, he presses his lips to Sansa’s signature, and then he tucks the letter away next to the handkerchief she’d given him before the tourney. He will see her again. He swears it by the old gods and the new

Chapter Text

As 110 turns into 111 AC, Sansa suggests Rhaenyra grant Otto Hightower a boon. There are still three moons left in King Viserys’s mourning period, and the man is restless. Daemon’s annulment hardly made things better. Sansa wants to appease the man before he thinks he needs to strike out and take what’s being withheld from him.

Otto Hightower is a man like any other. He reminds her, in some ways, of Petyr Baelish, a man who thinks he deserves more than he has and believes himself clever enough to earn it. Both men who bought into the lie of their own self-importance. Both incredibly dangerous if given the opportunity.

“I don’t want her anywhere near my father,” Rhaenyra pouts, looking like a disgruntled daughter rather than a princess and future queen.

“I know,” Sansa says. “But he is going to marry her. Nothing we do will prevent it. If you suggest she return to comforting him, you look like both a gracious friend and a supportive daughter. Ask for your aunt to be their chaperone. You know she won’t allow anything untoward to happen.”

Rhaenyra stares out her window, her gaze fixed on the dragonpit, as if she’s longing to take to the skies for the second time today.

“Would you do it?” Rhaenyra twists to look at Sansa. “Would you chaperone their meetings?”

“If you would like.” Sansa didn’t expect it, she didn’t plan for it, but she’s certain she can find a way to balance her duties to Rhaenyra, to Ladies Court, and acting as a royal chaperone.

“My aunt would if I asked her,” Rhaenyra says. “And she would be stricter than the most devout septa in Westeros, but it would be unkind to make her watch her sister’s husband court his future wife.”

“Of course.” Sansa knows royalty isn’t perfect, and she has her reservations about Targaryens, but moments like these remind her that while Rhaenyra is a Targaryen princess, she still has a kind heart. “Will you propose it in the next Small Council meeting?”

“I will. I’ll tell my father I want it to be one of my ladies but that I don’t think Aunt Amanda is the correct choice. And I’ll mention that Alicent looks to you as an example of a lady and a friend.” Rhaenyra scowls because there is truth in her words and for all that she can be kind, she can also be both selfish and possessive. “Let the others find out with the announcement.”

“As you wish,” Sansa says. Speaking of the others, they will be here soon. “Would you like me to call for anything for our Ladies Council?”

Rhaenyra has started conducting a Small Council of her own, made up of her ladies in waiting. They have slowly added to Rhaenyra’s responsibilities, arguing that a queen’s duties need to be done even if there isn’t a queen and who better than the future queen, Rhaenyra herself? There is unending correspondence, event planning, budgeting for the royal household as well as charity endeavors and city improvements. When needed, they invite guest counsel such as Lord Beesbury, the Master of Coin, or Lord Strong, the Master of Laws.

With the support of her ladies, Rhaenyra doesn’t falter under the new responsibilities and court has started to liven up again. The princess has power, she has influence, and Alicent will find it very difficult to take any of it back even once she’s married to the king.

“Parchment and ink.” Rhaenyra flexes her hand as if she’s already anticipating the cramps. “It feels as though every woman in the Westerlands has given birth recently. There are quite a few congratulations to write.”

“And yet Lord Lannister remains unwed.”

“No doubt he’s waiting for my mourning to end so he can ask my father for my hand.” Rhaenyra’s expression darkens, as it does every time she thinks on her future duty to marry and produce heirs for the kingdom. “His brother Tyland would be a better choice. Jason Lannister cannot rule Casterly Rock and act as my consort in King’s Landing.”

“Ser Tyland only has half the arrogance of his brother,” Sansa says.

“I don’t want to marry a Lannister. They’re far too ambitious.” Rhaenyra directs her gaze out the window again. “Any lord who approaches my father is, because who else would dare ask for a princess’s hand? I want to choose my own husband, not because I’m a silly girl as Otto suggests, but because as future queen, I need to approach my future consort.”

“Something to suggest to your father once the mourning period ends.”

“He will want to choose my husband himself. He is overprotective.”

“I’m sure a compromise can be reached,” Sansa assures her. She isn’t unsympathetic to Rhaenyra’s feelings. Sansa knows, better than most, the dangers in marriage. She was betrothed to a wicked prince, married to an honorable Imp, manipulated by a false father, and wed to a bastard out of her mother’s worst nightmares. She has been controlled by men, passed around by men, used by men.

She gives in to a moment of weakness and slips into Shadow’s mind. It’s difficult at this distance, and she only catches a glimpse of Jon, sleeping soundly in his tent, before she’s back in her own mind in King’s Landing.

“There will be no compromise on children,” Rhaenyra says softly. “As heir and future queen, I must have heirs of my own. And our family is much diminished. My mother told me I have a royal womb, and my greatest duty will be to birth half a dozen children.”

“Your greatest duty is to your people,” Sansa corrects gently, wary of speaking out against the late Queen Aemma. “Your duty is to see them fed, sheltered, and protected. If you must, you can name an heir, but you cannot neglect the welfare of those you rule.”

“My father says I’m not permitted to marry until I’m six and ten at the earliest, but it’s still—I don’t want to die before I’ve had a chance to live.”

Sansa knows there are only a few Targaryens when before there had been so many. She knows how many Targaryen women have died in childbirth. There’s nothing she can say that will assuage Rhaenrya’s fears. Though…given what Jon told her about Queen Aemma’s death…how many women have died unnecessarily in childbirth?

“A fear I understand,” Sansa says, for didn’t she die before she had a chance to live? That the gods brought her back and given her a second chance is something not everyone can count on. “If you’d like, we can begin preparing. There must be maesters and midwives who have dozens if not hundreds successful births to their names. You don’t have to be treated by the same men who…” Sansa trails off as if she doesn’t want to speak of Queen Aemma’s tragedy.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra says. “I’d like that. My father will have more children, I’m not stupid enough to think otherwise. And…we secured the annulment for Uncle Daemon but if he marries who I want him to marry, it will limit the number of Targaryens.”

Sansa smiles at how Rhaenyra dances around the topic, as if Sansa hasn’t been enabling this possibility since she arrived in King’s Landing. “He will put your health and wellbeing over anything else. If you gave him one child, an heir, he would be content to never sire another babe on you to soothe your fears. And if you wanted a child for every room in Maegor’s Holdfast he would give that to you as well.”

Rhaenyra’s shoulders stiffen. “You…you know what I want?”

Who, Sansa thinks, but the answer is the same. “My father promised me that he would wed me to a man who was brave, gentle, and strong.” Her heart aches for a moment at the thought of Ned Stark, taken too soon and too violently from her life. “He no longer lives to see it happen, but I will see it happen for myself. You are a princess and a future queen. You need a man with strength, one who will stand between you and any dissenters, one who will cut down your enemies, but one who will be gentle with his wife. There are not many men who can fill both the role of consort and husband. I won’t shame you when you find one.”

“My parents always intended for me to marry my brother. I don’t see how an uncle is so different.”

“I suspect that your father growing up alongside your uncle will cause some distress. Brothers see sides of each other that fathers and sons don’t. I imagine it will be difficult for your father to think of the brother he snuck out to whorehouses with married to and bedding his daughter.”

“Uncle Daemon would never treat me like a whore.”

“He would treat you like a queen.”

Rhaenyra turns to look at Sansa, shocked at her support, but wide-eyed surprise quickly giving way to satisfaction. “You would aid me in securing this match?”

“Aye.” Sansa flashes a smile. “As much as I hate this war, in truth, it came at a good time. When Prince Daemon left, you were a girl. By the time he returns, you will be a woman. His attraction will be more easily accepted.”

“He’s always loved me.” Rhaenyra frowns as if Sansa’s casting doubt on this.

“Love takes many forms,” Sansa says. “No one can deny that he has loved you since you were a child. But if you want him to be your husband, that love will have to shift.” Sansa hesitates, debating how much she should say. “If, before he left for the war, he looked at you as a husband looks at a wife, I would have done everything in my power to keep you apart.” Sansa can tell she’s shocked Rhaenyra even more, but she doesn’t falter. “You may have been flowered, a woman in the eyes of the law, but you were not a woman in the eyes of the gods. Men who are aroused by children…” Sansa’s stomach almost revolts, not only at the thought of Petryr but of all the men who coveted her in Joffrey’s court.

“You were a child when your family died,” Rhaenyra says, offering an opening for Sansa to unload her own burdens.

“I was a child when my father died.” Sanas touches her neck, as if she can feel the cut of a blade. “His blood and my pain saw me become a woman. I would not wish that awakening on anyone.”

“I do not want to lose anymore of my family,” Rhaenyra says quietly.

“Perhaps, when you suggest your father and Alicent visit, you could also arrange more regular visits with your father for yourself. I know it is difficult for him to be your father and king both, but don’t let him being king eclipse completely that he is family.”

“I will think on it,” Rhaenyra says.

A knock sounds at the door, signaling that the other ladies have arrived for Ladies Council. Rhaenyra calls them in, and then moves from the window to the table they host their meeting around. Sansa sends a maid to fetch writing supplies and then takes her seat at Rhaenyra’s righthand.

#

Sansa, trailed by Ser Rymun, goes to the Tower of the Hand to retrieve Alicent for the first chaperoned meeting between her and King Viserys. Alicent greets Sansa with a wobbly curtsy that betrays her nerves. Her brother, Ser Gwayne, falls into step behind her as Sansa and Alicent make their way to the king’s chambers.

“Your dress is quite pretty,” Sansa says, an empty compliment. The gown is not pretty so much as mature, and the rich jewel tone and stiff fabric looks odd on Alicent’s slender form. It looks as though it’s trying to give her womanly curves where she as of yet has none.

“Thank you. It was one of my mother’s.”

No doubt a strategy put forth by Otto.

“Only because I have nothing so fine as to wear before a king,” Alicent is quick to add, as if she thinks Sansa will believe she’s attempting to seduce a king with a woman’s gown.

But your girlish dresses were enough for a princess? Enough for a princess’s mother and father when you broke bread with them? Sansa keeps the most vicious of her thoughts in her head. She must continue to be seen as Alicent’s confidante and champion. It makes it much easier to manipulate events in Rhaenyra’s favor.

“I’m sure he will be glad to see you, no matter what dress you wear,” Sansa says. “I heard he took great comfort in your presence, and it’s been some time since he’s had it.”

Alicent flushes at the reminder. “I am worried it’s been too long,” she admits.

“It has been less than a year. It takes far longer than that for grief to leave one’s heart.” Sansa knows. She still weeps for those she’s lost, everyone now except for Jon. And with him in the Stepstones, she isn’t sure she’ll still have him when the war is over.

“I—” Alicent falters. They walk in silence for a stretch before she rallies. “Thank you for agreeing to act as a chaperone.”

“It is my honor and duty to serve the royal family.”

“I know what people whispered about me. I’m glad you’ll be able to see the truth.” Alicent offers Sansa a smile.

When they reach the king’s chambers, Sansa falls into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace,” she greets. “I am here to serve as a chaperone for your meeting with Lady Alicent. I am required to remain in the room with you, but I will sit silent and out of the way.”

“Thank you for your service, Lady Sansa.” King Viserys smiles kindly at her. “Would you like a refreshment?” He gestures to the table that has been set with wine and a platter of finger foods.

“I am well but thank you.” Sansa retreats to the window bench. She can still see the entirety of the room, including the impressive city replica that takes up the majority of it. This must be the Old Valyria model Rhaenyra is always talking about. Sansa barely spares it a glance. She sits on the bench beneath the window and sets her embroidery basket next to her. She intends to be productive during this time.

The realm’s mourning is nearly at its end and even with the mourning period still going, there are events, festivities, even quiet courting. Sansa prefers Northern-styled gowns, but as a lady-in-waiting to the princess, she can’t look too droll or cheap. She uses embroidery to stand out, to make her dresses seem finer than they are. Today, she’s working on the skirts of a gray dress, using lace, pearls, and embroidery to make it look like a winter squall whenever the skirts move.

“How are you, Lady Alicent?” King Viserys asks, genuine interest in his voice. “It has been some time since I’ve seen you.”

“I have missed you as well,” Alicent says. “Have you made much progress on your city since I last saw it?”

The conversation is exceedingly dull. Sansa isn’t sure if she’s impressed that Alicent has managed to capture a king’s interest without ever lifting her skirts or if it’s pathetic. She listens to the two of them prattle on about a destroyed city that led to the Targaryen conquest. Sansa still can’t help the curl of her lip as she thinks about the Targaryens. In her time, it had been three-hundred years since the conquest. Now, it’s barely over a hundred. And yet, Targaryens think they have some gods-given right to rule, as if the Starks don’t have a kingship going back eight-thousand years.

It’s the dragons, she knows. Just as she knows the dragons are needed for the years to come. But it’s only another example of those with power using it to subjugate others. The Targaryens fled from the Doom. She has sympathy for that. But to turn their tragedy into a tragedy for all of Westeros?

Sansa takes a steadying breath. It’s no good to allow her thoughts to drift in this direction. They lost the war without the dragons. They died without the dragons. The gods gave Jon and Sansa a chance to fix things so the future can be saved, but it means making their peace with both Targaryens and the dragons they claim to control.

Her thoughts drift to Jon and the Stepstones. Does he fight side-by-side with dragons on the islands? Is he afraid? Is he envious? Sansa sent Shadow with him but what is a direwolf when one can have a dragon?

She loves him. Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. King Jon, King and Warden in the North. And now Jon Targaryen. She has loved every version of him. Her love has even carried into a new time. When she was a girl, she sang silly songs and dreamed silly dreams. Golden knights and dashing adventures. She thought the horrors and reality of the world had stripped those dreams from her, but somewhere, buried deep inside her heart, love still lived. Jon found it, coaxed it, nurtured it. It is not the love of her childhood dreams. It isn’t even the love her parents had for each other. It’s something deeper, something that neither time nor death will ever take from them.

The bells toll, signaling an hour has passed. Sansa stands. Both King Viserys and Alicent are hesitant to part and do so only with the promise they will see each other again in two days.

“I love him,” Alicent confesses quietly to Sansa as they exit the room.

You don’t know the meaning of the word, Sansa thinks.

#

In addition to Sansa’s chaperoned meetings, King Viserys and Lady Alicent take supper together most nights, along with Princess Rhaenyra. Sansa has encouraged Rhaenyra to spend time with her father just the two of them, not only to help counter Alicent’s growing influence with the king, but because Sansa will spend the rest of her life wishing she had more time with her own father.

Rhaenyra flourishes with her father’s attention, and it does the realm good to see the king and his heir repair their relationship. From what Rhaenyra tells Sansa, the king listens to Rhaenyra more in Small Council meetings, agrees with her suggestions more often than not. He welcomes her to court and has her sit beside him, not only to learn but sometimes to pass judgements or make decisions herself.

A side effect of all this is that Rhaenyra begins to soften toward Alicent as well. They had been friends for years, the only friend Rhaenyra had. Sansa isn’t certain it’s necessarily a bad thing for the two women to repair their friendship. Could Alicent be content with the love of the king and the friendship of a princess? Could she raise her children with love and without ambition?

“I had this commissioned for you.” Rhaenyra holds a box out to Sansa, anticipation brightening her violet eyes. “I shall not permit you to refuse it. “You are my most trusted lady and ally.” Rhaenyra’s smile falters as she hesitates naming anyone a friend. “I want the entire court to know you carry my favor and my authority.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says automatically. She takes the box, wide and flat, bearing the seal of the royal jeweler. She expects some kind of trinket, but when she opens the lid, she finds her breath snatched right from her lungs.

The necklace is stunning. Crafted with silver, it loops and twists around pendants made of dark, shimmering dragonglass, and studded with white pearls. It is a large piece, a statement piece, but it is nothing Sansa would ever have thought the princess would commission.

Rhaenyra smiles, delighted with Sansa’s reaction. “You thought it would be gold and garnets. But these are your colors.”

Silver, black, and white, they are very similar to House Stark’s colors. Sansa touches the largest of the dragonglass pendants. “This is beautiful, princess. I know I have already thanked you, but I’m not sure I can thank you enough.”

“You deserve it.” Rhaenyra steps forward to peer at the necklace as well. “It will look good against your skin and the high-neck gowns you prefer.”

“This was very thoughtful.” To Sansa’s horror, she feels the sting of tears in her eyes. She blinks quickly to keep them at bay. “I am used to gifts that seek to claim me.” Dresses in Lannister colors, necklaces that serve as collars. “But this—As you say, these are my colors. The workmanship is yours, but you’ve chosen it to represent me.”

Overcome, Sansa can do nothing but sink into the deepest of curtsies.

“I don’t want you to change,” Rhaenyra says. She lightly grips Sansa’s arms and bids her to rise. It means Rhaenyra has to look up at Sansa, but there’s no jut to her chin, no glint to her eyes that suggests she resents it. She slides her hands forward, until her arms are looped around Sansa’s waist. She embraces her, and Sansa fumbles to embrace her back.

“Thank you,” Sansa says again, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhaenyra clears her throat as she steps back, clearly ready to put the emotions behind her. “I do not want the other ladies to feel jealous or slighted.”

“You allowed us to borrow your jewelry for a feast,” Sansa says, careful not to name the reason for the feast.

“I could gift them each the piece they chose before,” Rhaenyra says. “I have some new ladies since then, but they will be allowed to choose something as well.” She nods decisively. “See it done, please. We can make an event of it. Wine, trying on jewels.”

“Lemon cakes?” Sansa suggests with a smile.

“Two platters.” Rhaenyra shares her smile. “I know you favor them as well.”

“I only eat the ones you’ve discarded once you’ve claimed the candied lemon. Waste is a terrible thing.”

Rhaenyra laughs and takes the necklace out of the box. “Turn around, Sansa, and let me put this on you.”

Sansa sweeps her skirts out and kneels, earning another laugh from the princess. It isn’t the same as afternoons spent with Arya or even her girlish days with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. It’s what Sansa might have had if she and Myrcella had ever become sisters. But that will always be a maybe, and this is reality, and Sansa gives herself over to the moment.

#

Cassandra sweeps into Rhaenyra’s room wearing a hairnet studded with yellow gems which shine out from between the dark spill of her hair. She preens and accepts the compliments from the other ladies, quick to tell how it’s only the latest in a series of expensive gifts from Lord Loren Estermont, heir to Greenstone.

The man came to the capital shortly after the announcement that Lady Baratheon is once again with child. The courtship between Lord Loren and Cassandra has been muted in deference to the mourning period, but no one is blind to the fact that it is happening. Cassandra accepts Lord Loren’s gifts and affection and gives very little back, as if daring him to do better. Fury still simmers under her skin, angry that her father doesn’t respect her, angry that she will have to settle for being Lady of Greenstone, rather than Lady Paramount of Storm’s End, and she clearly intends to make her future husband work for her affection.

It isn’t the most romantic of courtships, but Sansa expects it to be a successful one.

“Now, my gift will pale in comparison,” Rhaenyra says with a mock pout.

“Never,” Cassandra promises. “You are my princess, my future queen. How could even a future husband compare?”

Rhaenyra laughs, enjoying the flattery. She bypasses the table of desserts and brings them to the open jewel cases in what seems like a repeat of the afternoon so many moons ago. “I would like to gift you each a piece of jewelry. I know my tastes are not the same as everyone’s, so I would have you choose for yourself.”

Sansa isn’t surprised when Cassandra and then Tyra choose the same pieces they did before. Nor is she surprised when both girls insist on finding the treasures the others wore to the feast. They help Nora and Elara choose something, as they had not been a part of the original group. Sansa lends her aid to Jorelle, finding a set of hair pins that can be used to stab someone in a pinch.

“What about you, Lady Alicent?” Cassandra asks, her voice dripping with the sweetest of poisons. “Do you remember what you wore to the feast?”

“I—” Alicent hasn’t moved from her spot near the refreshments.

“Perhaps you already have enough royal jewelry,” Tyra says with a sneer worth of Cersei Lannister.

“It was a necklace, wasn’t it?” Cassandra asks, not giving Alicent time to respond to any of their barbs.

It was a necklace, Sansa remembers. And not just any necklace. She feels a moment of panic, of worry, of a situation spiraling out of control, before Cassandra triumphantly lifts the silver falcon necklace from the chest.

The room falls silent. Mina’s giggles dry up in her throat, Laena’s shy compliments fade into nothing. Alicent stares at the necklace, horror blanching her face white. Rhaenyra stares, her earlier smile still frozen on her face, as if she hasn’t yet comprehended what she is seeing. A falcon necklace, an Arryn necklace, a gift from Queen Aemma that Alicent wore only days before the queen died and Alicent sought to take her place.

Sansa doubts Alicent was trying to seduce the king before his wife died. In fact, she still doesn’t think Alicent is trying to seduce the king, but appearances matter far more than reality.

“You treacherous snake!” Rhaenyra’s bellow shatters the silence. She snatches the necklace from Cassandra and for a moment, Sansa sees the flicker of madness and fears Rhaenyra will attempt to choke Alicent with it.

“Rhaenyra, I—”

Sansa moves quickly, interrupting Alicent’s fumbling apology. She hustles Alicent out of the room, pushing her through the door. She spots Ser Gwayne standing off against Ser Rymun, Ser Criston, and Ser Erryk as if he intends to fight all three knights. Alicent trips and it’s only her brother’s quick reflexes which catch her before she falls.

“You are not welcome in the princess’s quarters anymore,” Sansa says. Whatever stirrings of friendship there have been the past few weeks are gone now. “You are not welcome in her presence; though, situations will call for it. You will address her as befits her station, princess of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne. You will no longer be thought of as her friend or former lady.”

“I didn’t—” Alicent’s shoulders shake as she sobs. “I—”

“If King Viserys’s word holds true, you will marry him, and become Princess Rhaenyra’s stepmother, but you will presume no familiarity, nor will the princess grant you any rank or privileges based on the connection.”

Alicent sobs harder, her brother’s arms the only thing holding her up.

“You have sacrificed your childhood friend’s love for that of her father,” Sansa continues, merciless. “I hope you find the exchange to be worth it in the days and years to come, Lady Alicent.” Sansa offers a curtsy befitting Alicent’s station even though Alicent is too distraught to see. Sansa raises her gaze to Ser Gwayne. “Escort your sister from these chambers and do not seek to bring her this way again.”

“What happened?” Ser Gwayne demands, torn between anger and bewilderment.

“What happened?” Lady Amanda emerges from the princess’s chambers, closing the door behind her. Muted, through the heavy wood, they can hear Rhaenyra’s shrieks. “What happened is that when my niece showed generosity to her ladies, your sister adorned herself with the sigil of my house. What happened is that while my sister, Queen Aemma, still lived, your sister sought to seduce the king away from her.”

“I didn’t,” Alicent protests weakly.

“Did you think Viserys would act as the Targaryens of old and take two wives?” Lady Amanda hisses. “Did you celebrate while the rest of the realm mourned my sister’s death? Did—”

“Enough,” Sansa says softly. She places a gentle hand on Lady Amanda’s arm. The knights have heard enough, and she trusts Ser Criston at least to spread this tale throughout the keep. She doesn’t want Lady Amanda to cross any lines Ser Otto might seek to punish her for. “Ser Gwayne, you have your orders.”

“No!” Alicent cries as her brother shuffles backwards. She kicks her legs as if she can stop his progress. “Rhaenyra—Rhaenyra!”

“Ser Rymun,” Sansa says. “Would you please assist Ser Gwayne in his task? I promise to remain here under the protection of Ser Criston and Ser Erryk until you return.”

Ser Rymun eyes Alicent with distaste, but he gives a curt nod. “Yes, my lady.”

Sansa waits for them to progress down the hall and around a corner before she turns to Ser Erryk. “I trust, ser, that you will communicate what has occurred to the Lord Commander? Princess Rhaenyra does not wish to be troubled with Lady Alicent’s presence going forward.”

There’s a new sound, not Alicent’s weak cries or Rhaenyra’s muted fury. It’s a piercing shriek, one that makes Sansa cover her ears and look about.

“Syrax,” Lady Amanda says grimly. “Rhaenyra’s dragon. I must calm my niece.” She hurries back into Rhaenyra’s chambers.

“I will make sure he knows,” Ser Erryk tells Sansa.

“Thank you.” She curtsies to Ser Erryk and then to Ser Criston before she too re-enters Rhaenrya’s chambers.

Chapter Text

There is undeniable tension in the Red Keep following the incident in Princess Rhaenyra’s rooms. Rumors once again circulate that Lady Alicent actively set out to seduce a grieving king and all the Hightower relations in Westeros can’t put an end to them. Sansa has to remain above it as official chaperone for King Viserys and Lady Alicent, but it doesn’t mean she’s an ally of the again-disgraced lady.

She treats Alicent coolly, doesn’t initiate conversation on their walks to and from the king’s chambers, and her responses are clipped whenever Alicent dregs up the courage to speak. Ladies Court has become a battlefield, and it doesn’t matter how many Hightower cousins Alicent surrounds herself with, there are still whispers and dark looks in her direction.

Sansa, for her part, doesn’t need to do much. There are enough whispers that she doesn’t need to contribute her own. And once the ladies of the court realize she won’t gossip about or malign her chaperone sessions, they stop asking. Cassandra had been particularly wroth that Sansa won’t spread rumors of impropriety, but Sansa told her she wouldn’t risk her own reputation for lies, especially when the truth is damning enough.

It means the chaperoned sessions have continued. The king seems oblivious to the churning chaos of his court, but Alicent is aware of what is said about her. She brings a new determination to her meetings with King Viserys. She doesn’t seduce him, Sansa is beginning to suspect the girl wouldn’t even know how to begin, but she does seem more engaged, as if she recognizes King Viserys is her only ally. She still hasn’t realized he’ll offer no protection. He is ignorant, willingly or not, of what happens in his court. He prefers an uneasy peace to open conflict. No doubt, he is already trying to persuade Rhaenyra back to evening suppers shared with himself and Alicent.

Sansa has turned the new situation over in her head more times than she can count, searching for a way to benefit. She doesn’t want to end the possibility of marriage between King Viserys and Alicent, not when Alicent is doing such a good job of weakening her own position before she can ever rise to it. But delaying it is still high on Sansa’s priority list. The war in the Stepstones continues to drag on. Rhaenyra is still young, though she grows in age and experience with each passing day.

Sansa has a few ideas, one of which she put into motion when she suggested to Ser Harwin Strong that Mina Tully has grown into a lovely young woman. A lovely marriageable young woman, Sansa had added when Ser Harwin looked at her somewhat blankly.

The heir to Harrenhal officially courting the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Trident has given the court something new to whisper about in recent days. Something pleasant, for once.

Today, Sansa sits in her usual window seat in the king’s outer chamber, but her embroidery lays forgotten in her lap as she stares out the window. From here, she can catch a glimpse of the gardens. Ser Harwin’s gold cloak shimmers as he escorts a young lady around to view the flowers. It will be a good match, uniting the two great powers in the Riverlands. And Lord Strong has looked pleased in recent days, as if he’s anticipating his son will be willing to give up his gold cloak and take the family seat once he is married. Sansa doesn’t have the heart to remind Lord Strong that he himself works in the capital while his wife is at home in Harrenhal.

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa looks up at the call of her name. She turns away from the window to see both King Viserys and Alicent looking at her. The king’s expression is far softer while Alicent’s eyes are narrowed, angry that Sansa has claimed the king’s attention.

“What tune were you humming?” King Viserys asks. “It isn’t one I’m familiar with.”

Even though Sansa had purposefully been humming to herself, she still blushes as if it had been an accident. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, you Grace. I didn’t—”

“It’s quite alright,” King Viserys interrupts. He gives her a friendly, almost fatherly smile. “Please, tell me the song.”

“It’s My Bonny Lass,” Sansa admits. “It’s a Northern love song.”

“What makes it Northern?” King Viserys’s curiosity is fully peaked. He turns away from his model city to give Sansa his full attention. “It’s nothing like the bear song, is it?”

Sansa laughs lightly as she shakes her head. “The Bear and the Maiden Fair is considered quite bawdy, your Grace. My Bonny Lass is about love without artifice.”

It’s King Viserys’s turn to chuckle, oblivious to the growing fury on Alicent’s face. “If Northern love is without artifice, what are you implying about us in the south, Lady Sansa?” He waves off her apologies. “All will be forgiven if you sing a verse for me. I’d like to hear this Northern music.”

It has been quite some time since Sansa sang. She takes a deep breath and stares at Old Valyria as she begins to sing, her voice sweet and clear.

My bonny lass she smileth
When she my heart beguileth, Fa la.
Smile less, dear love, therefore,
And you shall love me more, Fa la.

Sansa glances at King Viserys when she finishes, nervous for his reaction. She hadn’t intended to go this far, singing for the king, but he looks delighted, both with her voice and the song itself.

“I understand your point now, my lady,” he tells her.

“We don’t approach courtship the way you do in the south,” Sansa ventures, hoping to distract him from asking for more verses. “But I admit, it is lovely to see. Two of your daughter’s ladies are being courted, did you know? Lady Cassandra Baratheon is being courted by Lord Loren Estermont and, more recently, Ser Harwin Strong has begun courting Lady Mina Tully.”

Alicent sits beside the king, her eyes practically blazing now with anger, but she is a meek girl, still. She doesn’t know how to claim a man’s attention, how to redirect a conversation, and so she stews, impotent, as Sansa continues to converse with the king.

“And my daughter?” King Viserys asks.

“No one would dare court Princess Rhaenyra without your permission,” Sansa says. She notes the way Alicent looks almost pleased at this, as if she wants Rhaenyra denied a basic southern pleasure. “But I am not the only one who has taken to humming love songs.” Sansa lowers her gaze, the perfect picture of a demure lady. “She talks about the love you have for her mother. Did you court Queen Aemma?”

It’s a gamble, mentioning the late queen’s name, and Sansa holds her breath as she waits for the king’s response. She isn’t the only one. Alicent is frozen on her seat, as if she fears the queen’s name.

“Alas, I did not.” King Viserys sighs, saddened, but not distraught. “I loved her, deeply, but we were married quite young. I romanced her in the first years of our marriage, but it isn’t the same as a youthful courtship.”

Alicent, who had narrowed her eyes at the mention of King Viserys’s love, looks thoughtful toward the middle, and almost triumphant near the end when he admits to never properly courting his wife. Sansa makes a noise of acknowledgement and turns her attention to her embroidery again.

“Have any young men caught your eye?” King Viserys asks.

It takes Sansa a moment to realize she’s being addressed, even though Alicent is the only other person in the room, and she is clearly angling for King Viserys’s attention. Sansa lowers her embroidery to her lap. “I’m afraid the Northern practicality I was raised to admire is sparse at court.”

“Do you plan to return North?” King Viserys seems to realize this is perhaps too forward a question, even for a king, because he hurries to add, “I only ask because my daughter has grown quite fond of you. She would be sad to lose you.”

Sansa offers a pleasing smile. “Thank you, your Grace. One day, I would like to return North, but I am not in a rush. I plan to remain in King’s Landing until the princess no longer has need nor want of me.”

“Good. She has been quite brusque recently.”

Sansa almost gapes in a most unladylike manner. She glances at Alicent as if to ask is he truly this dense. Even Alicent looks at the king with skepticism. Sansa is the first to rally. “It is a difficult time for her, your Grace. She still mourns her mother.” As Sansa expected, the room grows dour with the statement. “And, forgive me if I overstep in saying this, I believe she fears to lose her father as well.”

The king tucks his gloved hand out of sight and forces a laugh. “I am quite hale and healthy, my lady.”

“I meant your affection,” Sansa says, her voice barely audible. She can feel Alicent’s glare as if it is a physical thing. “She used to dine nightly with you, but something has changed.”

King Viserys sighs. “I still issue the invitations, but she refuses to attend.”

Because Alicent is present. Sansa isn’t sure how to make that connection for the king without outright stating it. “I used to be terribly jealous of my sister,” Sansa says and her chest aches with the truth and memory of her words. “She had the Stark look, dark hair and gray eyes like my father. Like my aunt as well. My father would indulge her as she played with wooden swords. He taught her to ride a horse. My father and I shared no interests and so I never received private lessons or attention. We shared meals, but I had a sister and three brothers. There was always someone else who was louder.”

“You think I should spend time with my daughter alone?” King Viserys asks. His gaze is pleading, almost painful in his desperation for someone to tell him how to connect with his own family.  

“I dare not even suggest to a king how he should spend his time,” Sansa says. “But not a day passes that I don’t wish I had spent even an hour longer with my father.”

“I will think on your words,” King Viserys says. “Thank you for your honesty.”

This time, when Sansa returns to her embroidery, she isn’t interrupted until the chaperoned meeting is finished.

#

“My father wishes to spend more time with me.” Rhaenyra scowls as she prowls the length of her room. Her expression darkens as she spots Sansa, placidly sitting at the table. “It’s as if he’s finally remembered I exist. But the mourning period will be over soon, Alicent will bat her lashes at him, and he’ll forget about me again.”

“You are his daughter,” Sansa says. She needs to encourage Rhaenyra to return her father’s affection. He is a man, a king, and it means his pride is greater than even that of the Lannisters. If she rebuffs him too often, he’ll stop making the attempt.

“He won’t quit taking supper with Alicent. They either dine in his rooms or in the Great Hall with the court, but she’s always there.”

“You cannot make it a competition,” Sansa advises. “As crass as it is to say, there will be things she can offer him that you never will.”

Predictably, Rhaenyra screws up her face in disgust.

“But the same can be said for you,” Sansa adds. “You are his daughter, his firstborn, his last connection to Aemma Arryn, and you are his heir. Sit with him in a tower, look over your kingdom and talk of the responsibilities you share. Share happy memories of your mother and your uncle, remind him of the family he already has. Take him to the dragonpit to see Syrax. All Targaryens love dragons, do they not?”

Rhaenyra stops pacing and in the stillness she looks small, like she’s still a girl. “He will never choose me over her, will he?”

“No,” Sansa says softly, as if she can cushion the blow. “But if it is any consolation, he will never choose her over you, unless you force his hand.”

“But if he can replace my mother, he can replace me.”

Sansa rises from her chair. She approaches Rhaenyra and when the girl doesn’t back away, Sansa enfolds her in an embrace. “He cannot. He could have another ten daughters and none of them would replace you.”

“But a son?” Rhaenyra whispers, as if she doesn’t want to speak her fear into the world.

“You are his firstborn and heir to the Iron Throne. All of Westeros has backed his pledge to you and given oaths of their own. Politically, we are making you irreplaceable. But as a daughter, you already are. As one of five children, with two wards to bring the number up to seven, I thought my father didn’t have the time nor interest for me. Your father has a kingdom. Soon, he will have a wife and perhaps one day children. All of his time is not yours to claim, but that only increases the importance of the time you two do carve out for each other.”

“You must think I’m terribly spoiled.” Rhaenyra sniffs and rests her head on Sansa’s shoulder. “You have lost your whole family.”

“I don’t think you’re spoiled,” Sansa says. “I think you’re fortunate. You still have your father. There is time to repair the relationship between you.”

“It is difficult,” Rhaenyra admits, “to be both daughter and heir. My father is not only my father but also my king.”

“You sit on the Small Council, you attend feasts and other events. He sees you often as his heir. Remind him you are his daughter as well.”

“I will.” Rhaenyra steps back and wipes at her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

#

Sansa doesn’t expect to comfort another woman quite so soon, but Cassandra finds Sansa in the godswood, and the normally put together lady trembles as she sinks to the ground next to Sansa. Her hair is mussed, as if she had been gripping it, and her face powder is smudged as if she had been crying. She wears none of the finery Lord Loren has gifted her, nor does she wear anything yellow for her own house. She wears black, as if—

“My mother is dead,” Cassandra rasps. She bows her head, her hands clenched into fists where they rest on the ground.

It isn’t what Sansa expected her to say. All her polite words and careful courtesies die in her mouth. There is nothing that can ease this pain, and Sansa won’t insult either of them with platitudes.

“The whole court will know it soon, and I will have to act as if none of it touches me. It was my father. He—you remember my mother said this babe was to be her last?”

“I do,” Sansa says, because Cassandra won’t be able to see her nod.

“Supposedly, the babe was breech. He ordered it cut out of her.”

Like the king and his queen, Sansa thinks.

“I have another sister.” Cassandra is silent for a long time, her shoulders shaking, either with rage or with grief, Sansa isn’t sure. “My grandfather, Lord Boremund, he heard what my father had done. Called him a butcher. Called him no son of his. Told him if he didn’t know how to respect and love a woman, then he would never know the touch of one again. He’s been stripped of his inheritance and sent to the Wall. I am now my grandfather’s heir and future Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.”

Sansa doesn’t know what to say. She isn’t sure there is anything to say.

“I wanted it,” Cassandra says, and it isn’t a confession, because Sansa already knew it. “But the gods know I didn’t want it to happen like this. I was so certain mother was having a boy. I allowed Lord Loren to court me. I will have to start again with someone new.” Cassandra finally raises her head. Her eyes are blank, empty, as if it is her life the gods have claimed and not her mother’s.

Sansa knows the courtship began on uneasy grounds. Cassandra resented having to settle for lady of lands sworn to her house, and poor Loren was forced to bear the brunt of that resentment. He showered her with jewels and trinkets and attention. She rewarded him with her favor and attention, out in the open where everyone could see. Sansa hadn’t realized their courtship had deepened into something more genuine.

“I will be called back to Storm’s End,” Cassandra says. “Grandfather will want to prepare me to rule, and I will have to find an appropriate husband. My girlhood is at its end.”

“Not yet,” Sansa says. She finally shifts and gathers Cassandra in her arms. “Let yourself weep, let yourself mourn, and when you face the vultures, you will do it with your head held high. They will not see a single moment of weakness.”

“You will,” Cassandra says and it’s a sign of her trust in Sansa that she allows herself to cry.

“I know the pain of losing a mother,” Sansa says. “It is one you never truly recover from.”

She had not even been able to properly mourn, but she doesn’t think it would have mattered. She found herself missing her mother regardless. When she was sewn into a wedding dress, and she desperately wanted the advice of a woman who wouldn’t be cruel as she told Sansa what happened in the marriage bed. When a disgraced knight offered to rescue her, Sansa needed a woman’s counsel. When Sansa was betrayed by her mother’s friend, disgraced in her home. When winter came and Sansa had to make the choice to give Winterfell true death rather than see those under her care raised as wights.

She knows Cassandra doesn’t have an easy path forward. She will step into her position as heir amidst controversary and gossip. She will be forced to wed for duty’s sake and not whatever affection has managed to grow between her and Lord Loren. While still mourning her mother, practically a girl still herself, she will be forced to act as mother for her sisters, including a young babe.

She will succeed, Sansa has no doubt, but she deserved better. She deserved for her courtship to end with a grand wedding. She deserved her mother sitting at her side as they made her maiden’s cloak. She deserved her mother’s teasing advice as she prepared her for the marriage bed and then, later, the strong support as Cassandra first takes to the birthing bed.

“My father has always been a fool,” Cassandra says, her voice as sharp and cold as ice. “I never thought he’d be a kinslayer. It will fall on me to scrub his stain from our house.”

“Hasn’t cleaning always been women’s work?” Sansa asks. Her reward is a harsh, barked laugh, from the woman in her arms.

#

The court has been whispering of the Baratheon’s disgrace for days, but Cassandra holds her head high, as if she is above it all. She attends court, even though Rhaenyra gave her leave to skip it. Plans have been made for Cassandra to return to Storm’s End, but Cassandra refused to steal away in the night. Her father has shamed her, but she will show her face, she will weather the derision, and she will show she is all the stronger for it.

Today, petitions ended early, but the court still lingers in the throne room, highborns mingling and speaking with each other. Rhaenyra is up on the dais with King Viserys, speaking quietly, no doubt about decisions made earlier this morning. She has taken Sansa’s advice, strengthening her relationship with her father and her king both. She has learned to ask her father for explanations, not a child’s defiance but an heir’s request for guidance. She has learned to share her favorite places with her father and even some memories she thought to safeguard deep in her heart.

It is slow progress, but it is steady.

There is a bit of commotion in the crowd before Lord Loren Estermont emerges from the throng. He wears mostly black, in deference to Lady Baratheon’s death, but there is a bit of green thread through his clothes, a reminder that he is the heir to Greenstone.

“Your Grace.” Lord Loren bows deeply to the king on his throne. “Petitions have ended for the day, but I would ask that you bear witness and give your blessing to the proposal I am to make.”

The crowd falls silent as Lord Loren searches the ladies until his gaze lands on Cassandra. She wears all black, including a mourning veil which covers her hair. Lord Loren strides forward until he can take her hand and bow over it.

“I apologize for my absence, my lady, there were things I had to see to at home before I could be at your side.”

Cassandra withdraws her hand, and Sansa recognizes the armor Cassandra guards herself with, as it is the same armor Sansa used to wear.

“Before, I sought your hand, hoping your knowledge and upbringing would serve us both well as you took the title of Lady of Greenstone.” Lord Loren doesn’t look to the murmuring crowd. He doesn’t shift as if uncomfortable with the attention of the entire court. His eyes are only for Cassandra and her reaction. So far, she gives him none. “Now, due to tragedy, you are the Lady Baratheon, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands. Let us fully reverse positions, my lady. I was raised to rule Greenstone. Allow me to use that knowledge to advise you as your husband.”

Rather bold, Sansa thinks, to propose to a woman in mourning.

“I have come from Greenstone just now. Arrangements have been made. If you accept me, my lady, I will renounce my lordship in favor of my brother. I would be your husband, your advisor, your support, whatever you would have of me, and I would do it willingly.” Ser Loren goes to one knee before Cassandra. “You are in mourning, and I would not rush nor demand a decision from you, but I make this declaration in front of you, the court, and our king so that all of Westeros knows the seriousness of my offer.”

Sansa cannot help the way her mind turns over this declaration. Lady Baratheon’s death was a tragedy, but it elevated Cassandra to Storm’s End. It has placed a woman, a daughter, in a position of power. It will be difficult for anyone to see Lady Cassandra Baratheon of Storm’s End as anything but a preview for Rhaenyra’s own future ascent to power. And for an heir to a respectable house to renounce his birthright in favor of serving a lady in power…it sets a good precedent for Rhaenyra.

“I thank you for your offer.” Cassandra places two fingers beneath Lord Loren’s chin and tips it up so that he is looking at her. “You are correct that I am in mourning and cannot accept at this time. I would ask you not to see this as a refusal.”

Gasps echo through the room. Lord Loren stares up at Cassandra, his eyes shining with hope and, if Sansa is feeling romantic, with love as well.

“I will be returning soon to Storm’s End to care for my sisters and mourn with my remaining family,” Cassandra continues. “House Estermont has always been a loyal, steadfast house. I would be most grateful if you would accompany me.”

“I will,” Lord Loren pledges.

“Then rise, Lord Loren. House Baratheon will not forget the offer you have made here today.”

#

Sansa has been working on a tapestry during her chaperone time, recently. Perhaps, it is everyone around her emerging from their mourning and looking for love which stirs her own heart. Perhaps, it is that the war in the Stepstones continues to drag on and, despite everything she’s faced, she fears losing Jon more than anything else.

He is her last remaining family, her last remaining connection to a world she’ll never see again. She stitches a great weirwood tree, the bark bone white, the leaves a deep, pulsing red. The face in the tree is detailed, shades of Bran in the heavy brow and solemn expression. Gathered in front of the tree is a pack of direwolves. Ghost, Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer, and Shaggydog. Or, there will be once she’s finished.

She works on Summer today, curled up at the base of the tree, offering support to Bran. There are other details she’ll include. In the distance will be the reflection pool with the outline of two figures, her mother and father. Her family will be united again, even if only in art.

These sessions have gone longer and longer since they first started. There are times when Sansa spends nearly half a day with the king and his companion. The mourning period is nearly at its close. Ser Otto has been pestering Lord Beesbury about coin as if he’s already begun planning the wedding, but King Viserys has made no announcement. Sansa is curious if her latest plan will come to fruition.

She wonders if Jon received her latest raven.

When the session finally ends, Sansa rolls up her tapestry and places her embroidery materials in her basket. Before she can reach the door and hand the tapestry to Ser Rymun to carry back to her rooms, King Viserys stops her with a hand on her arm.

Sansa’s breath catches in her throat, and her eyes dart to him, the fear in them not one of her acts. She blinks rapidly, searching for her calm expression and her courtly smile. On the other side of the open door, in the hallway, Alicent stands with her brother, her gaze hard and suspicious.

“A moment of your time, if you don’t mind, my lady,” King Viserys says.

Sansa curtsies to dislodge the king’s hand. “I am at your service, your Grace.”

Her heart beats too rapidly in her chest. She keeps her eyes lowered, and her hands grip her skirts so they won’t betray her by shaking. From what she’s seen of King Viserys, he is kind. Paternal, a bit foolish at times, dangerously ignorant at others, but he isn’t malicious. He isn’t cruel. Still, she has too many years of being wary of a man in a crown to breathe easily under his attention.

“My daughter.” He starts and then stops as if he isn’t sure how to continue.

“Princess Rhaenyra is very dear to me.”

“The reverse is true as well, I am told.”

His gaze is heavy, lingering on the necklace Sansa wears. Her dress has a high neckline so he truly is starting at the jewelry, not even getting a hint of Sansa’s breasts, but her throat is still dry as she tries to swallow. “Yes, your Grace.”

“She is avoiding me.”

“Your Grace, I cannot be your daughter’s confidante if she doesn’t trust me to keep that confidence.”

“No, of course not.” The king clears his throat as he shuffles over to one of the room’s many chairs. He eases down into it with a grimace, as if the movement pains him. “But you are a girl like my daughter. Is there any advice you can give a father?”

It is another ask for Sansa to break confidence but gilded with deniability. Sansa knows she can’t truly refuse a king. She smooths out her skirts as she gathers her thoughts. “Your daughter has stopped attending nightly suppers.”

“Yes. The mourning period is nearly over. Is she rebelling against the marriage? I declared before the realm I would marry Alicent Hightower, and I am not a man who breaks his word.”

Sansa risks a look at the king. He is genuinely confused, as if somehow he has missed the gossip running rampant through the Red Keep ever since the Arryn necklace incident. How? How can he be that ignorant of his own court? His own daughter?

“She knows,” Sansa finally says. “She knows you would never break your word. You have promised a crown to one girl and a throne to another. The whole realm knows you will marry Lady Alicent. And, as the mourning period is drawing to a close, it will happen soon. But, if you will pardon my candor, your Grace, the end of an official mourning period doesn’t mean the end of mourning. Rhaenyra’s heart will ache for her mother until the end of her days.”

“What of me? What of my heart?” King Viserys looks on the verge of tears. “Is it too much to ask for a man’s daughter and future wife to dine together? Everything was good, but Rhaenyra is in one of her moods again. How am I supposed to trust her to be my heir if she throws tantrums like a child when she doesn’t get her way?”

“From everything I’ve heard, you’ve found love with Lady Alicent,” Sansa says, drawing on every lesson she’s ever learned to spin this web. “Your Hand’s daughter, your own daughter’s companion, you’re forging a new relationship with her, and it has brought you tremendous comfort and joy. But Princess Rhaenyra’s relationship with Lady Alicent has also shifted. It isn’t as easy or pleasant a change. Your Grace, the only reason I am telling you this is because the entire court knows it already; Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Alicent are quarrelling. If your daughter avoids being with the two of you, it is because she doesn’t want to bring you strife.”

“How is this supposed to be for my benefit?”

“You promised a crown to one girl and a throne to another,” Sansa reminds him, her voice as gentle as she can make it. “Princess Rhaenyra knows your character as both her father and king, she knows you would not go back on your word to either of them. She doesn’t want you to feel as though you have to choose between them. She still attends private meals with you, does she not? She still makes time for her father and king?” Sansa holds her breath until King Viserys nods, gaze distant, as if he’s thinking about one of these moments. “It isn’t your company she avoids, your Grace.”

King Viserys sighs, slumping in his chair. “They were girlhood friends. I thought she would be pleased.”

Sansa has met many foolish men in her life, but King Viserys might be the biggest fool of them all. “Your Grace, you have chosen Lady Alicent as your companion and future wife. If you’ll forgive me, Princess Rhaenyra hasn’t chosen Lady Alicent as her stepmother. She will honor your choice, but I fear the rift that will develop between you if you force her to embrace it.” Sansa offers the king a soft smile. “You can order a man to kneel, and he will drop to his knees. You can order a man to give you a portion of his harvest, and he’ll ask if you want it in grain or in gold. But to order a woman to feel? That might only be within the power of the gods, your Grace.”

Another sigh, this deeper than the first. “I thank you for your counsel, Lady Sansa. I will not keep you here longer.”

Sansa curtsies deeply and holds it, a beat past what is needed, and then she exits the room. Ser Rymun falls in behind her. She isn’t surprised when Alicent plasters herself to Sansa’s side.

“You didn’t tell him,” she says, her voice rich with disbelief, with wonder, as if she can’t imagine why not.

“That you wore his wife’s jewels before she died and then snuck into his chambers while her soul still lingered?” Sansa affords Alicent none of the care she offered the king. She wants to laugh at the way Alicent’s eyes go wide, she wants to bare her teeth until Alicent scurries away. “He doesn’t want to know. The entire keep can talk of nothing else. He wants a happy family, husband, wife, and daughter. You could give him that if you stopped sabotaging your own efforts.”

“I—”

Sansa cannot listen to Alicent’s pathetic blubbering today. She stops abruptly, and Alicent stumbles forward a step before she stops as well. “Ser Gwayne, please see your sister back to her day. My chaperoning duties are finished.”

Sansa leaves without another word, branching off to the gardens where Princess Rhaenyra plays lawn games with the other ladies, and a few of the men, of court. As soon as Rhaenyra spots Sansa, she breaks away from the bag tossing game they’re playing.

“Your father asked about you,” Sansa tells her. “I gave him no information that was not public knowledge.”

“Thank you,” Rhaenyra says. “I know it is not an easy position you’ve found yourself in.”

The king doesn’t bring me out to the ramparts to look upon my dead father’s head, punctured by a spike, Sansa thinks. He doesn’t call me before the court, order me stripped to the waist and beaten by the Kingsguard. He doesn’t hiss promises in my ear regarding the fate of my maidenhead. Sansa summons a smile from deep within herself. “It could be worse,” she says. “I apologize for interrupting your game.”

Rhaenyra eyes Sansa curiously, but she doesn’t press. She simply nods and then returns to Mina Tully’s side.

#

There is a feast to commemorate the official end of the realm’s mourning for Queen Aemma. Lady Alicent Hightower is sat at the high table and before the dancing begins, King Viserys announces his intent to court the Lady Alicent and then marry her before the close of the year. He follows up his announcement by asking her to dance the first number of the night.

A foolish king and his equally foolish soon-to-be queen, Sansa thinks.

Chapter Text

Ever since Jon was given his garrison to guard, war has become less of a reality. It feels almost as if he’s back at Castle Black, training, drilling for an unknown enemy that may never come. Only, the enemy they trained for at Castle Black did come. Jon doesn’t allow himself any misguided belief that the pirates will never set foot on his island.

They raided the other two stores and while scores of pirates lay dead on the beaches, the decoy garrisons were discovered and destroyed. There are barely over three-hundred Winter Wolves remaining, all of them here under Jon and Roddy’s joint command.

The island is large enough for proper defenses, even if time hasn’t been on their side. Their fort was built on the eastern edge, because the sheer cliff that drops into the ocean is too difficult for a scaled invasion to be of concern. With natural protection at their backs, they set to working the terrain at their fronts to be to their advantage. Trenches, palisade walls, nothing elaborate, nothing meant to keep an enemy force at bay, only one meant to delay them. Trip them up, force them to follow a set path or waste time knocking over walls.

Each day that passes without seeing sails on the horizon is another day for anticipation to build in Jon’s chest. He knows the inevitable marches towards him, as slow but as steady as death. He trains with the other Wolves, spoils Shadow, and uses the complex pulley system to lower supplies when ships come for them.

“Ships have been spotted off Bloodstone,” Ethan the Eagle reports. Despite the name, it is a peregrine falcon that rests on his shoulder this far south. He offers the bird up a piece of fresh fish and it gobbles it down eagerly. “Daemon and Corlys are taking the main force to meet them.”

“A tempting target,” Jon says. He meets occasionally with the others to discuss strategy, and frustrations increase with every meeting. With every moon this war drags out, the men grow restless. There is no glory in a war fought under the cover of night. No songs will be sung without a climatic battle, but the pirates have little interest in a grand confrontation. It makes him wonder why they dangle such a thing now.

Two days later, Jon has his answer.

Ethan’s eyes, his falcon’s, eyes are better than any spyglass, but Jon still uses the spyglass so he can have confirmation of his own. Ships in numbers he can’t believe approach their island. He’d be flattered by the pirates’ overcompensation if those numbers didn’t mean certain death.

I’m sorry, Sansa, he thinks as he hands the spyglass to Roddy. A small part of him rages, an even smaller part of him begs any god that might be listening. Quickly, he closes those parts of him off. He cannot afford any distraction.

“They must be hungry,” Jack the Bear jokes.

“Gather the men,” Jon says. He feels cool calm he now associates with death. As if there’s an inch of ice between him and the world. It will melt, he knows. When he enters the battle, when his bloodlust is up, he will burn as hot as any dragon. But until then, he is as cold as the Others themselves.

He places a hand on Ethan’s arm to keep him at his side as the other men leave to gather the rest. “There is a rowboat at the base of the cliffs. I want you to take Shadow and go to Bloodstone. Tell the others we’ve been overrun and warn them there might be a trap waiting here for them.”

“Why not you?” Ethan asks.

“A commander doesn’t abandon his men on the eve of battle.” Jon scratches Shadow between his ears. Red eyes stare up at him. He isn’t sure whether he’s grateful or if he wishes they would turn blue, if only for a moment. “And make sure this ends up in Prince Daemon’s hands.” He holds out a scroll, the one he wrote with every Northern house that makes up the Winter Wolves. When the Stepstones are won, the North will be rewarded for its sacrifice.

“We don’t hold much for southern shit, but you’re a Targaryen,” Ethan says. “If I leave you here to die—”

“I was a wolf before I ever was a dragon,” Jon interrupts.

“And your lady?” Ethan asks. He stares at Jon with more curiosity than anything else, as if Jon is a mystery to him.

“She’ll finish what we started,” Jon answers. “Now go before they decide to circle the entire island.” Even as he says it, he rests a hand on Ethan’s arm, keeping him from leaving. “This is not a mercy. Death, at least, is an ending. Survival stretches on.”

If anything, Ethan’s curiosity grows. “Is that what you’re searching for, Jon Targaryen? An ending?”

“The gods won’t grant it to me until it’s the right one,” Jon says. He hears Roddy’s deep rumble, a sign that some of the men are returning. He gives Ethan a nod and then goes to join Roddy and the others in the courtyard of their small fort.

He stands before a group of men, hardened by harsh winters, by loss, by the heavy cost of survival. A group of men who won’t turn and run when the odds are bad. A group of men who will fight until the Stranger rips them from this world. Jon wishes these were the men he’d served with at the Wall. He thinks even the Night King’s army would be no match for true Northern ferocity.

“We’ve sent ravens, but I doubt we’ll receive aid,” Jon says, unafraid to give these men the truth. They won’t fight any less for it. They won’t drive their maces and axes through his body. “Our main force is occupied, no doubt the pirates’ plan. We are all that stands between this invasion force and the supplies that feed our army.” Jon looks out as the assembled men and bares his teeth. “Every man you gut is one who can’t fill his belly with our food. Every man you cut down is one who can’t sail for Bloodstone.”

The men shout and cheer, their voices rising for a victory that will cost them their lives. Jon throws his head back and howls, and they all join him, a pack of raucous wolves.

#

There is time. Too much time. The pirates prefer to fight at night, and they use the daylight to intimidate. They sail their ships, unload their men, allow Jon and his fighters to see how uneven their odds are. It makes him want to laugh that they think intimidation is possible.

Still, the time to think is unwelcome. Jon’s thoughts are drawn to Sansa, how devastated she’ll be when she hears of his death. How angry she’ll be, and he almost pities the gods for her fury at hearing he’s been taken from her will be something to behold.

I love you, he thinks. He whispers it for good measure, as if the wind will carry his words all the way to King’s Landing.

He keeps his vigil alone as the sun rises to its zenith and then begins its slow descent. As darkness begins to fall, he closes his eyes. “I am the sword in the darkness,” he murmurs, the words coming back to him as if he spoke them only yesterday. “I am the watcher on the wall. I am the fire that burns against the gold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.”

He rises to his feet and curls his hand around Ghost’s hilt. He gave his life for the Night’s Watch, but the gods said he wasn’t done yet. He gave his life for Winterfell, and they roused him once again. It is strange that he anticipates his next death, here on an unnamed island in the Stepstones, far from the North and his home. But maybe, if he wasn’t here, the island would be overrun. The army’s morale would break or a trap would be set and Daemon Targaryen would die. If his death is what’s needed for Daemon to live, for the Targaryens to thrive and the dragons to flourish; well.

In that case, his answer to the god of death is not yet.

He’ll take as many down with him as he can.

He goes out to the wall and stands beside Roddy to squint into the falling darkness. The pirates have great bonfires on the beach, more intimidation tactics, no doubt.  

“You could’ve left,” Roddy says, no judgement, a statement of fact.

“Could’ve,” Jon responds. “Didn’t.”

“Aye, you’re one of us.”

Jon feels something settle beneath his skin for the first time since he walked out of the flames in Volantis. “Jon Snow. Has a good ring to it.” He laughs at the expression on Roddy’s face and slaps the man hard on the back. “Come. It’s time to wet our blades with the blood of our enemies. The god of death will feast tonight.”

Jon descends the ladder with ease, until his feet are on the ground. The pirates leave their fire on the beaches and rush forward as if expecting even terrain. Jon grins at the first shouts as the leaders fall into the first set of trenches. There are many of them, some studded with sharpened sticks or rocks, meant to impale those who fall into them. There are others where Winter Wolves lurk, waiting for their prey to come to them.

Jon leaves the meager protection of the fort. He draws Ghost from its sheath and rushes forward to meet the enemy.

#

The battle is more like the Battle of the Bastards than the War for the Dawn. It is messy, both armies made up of the living, which means the spray of blood and the stench of organs exposed to the air. It means the enemy tires, makes mistakes, but also that the enemy is motivated.

“Ten!” A voice rings out, loud over the shouts and grunts of fighting. Jon doesn’t understand until the same voice calls out. “Eleven!”

“Fifteen here, you fucker!” Someone else shouts. Jon thinks it might be Thor the Boar.

A competition. They are counting their kills. Jon laughs and drives Ghost through a pirate’s unprotected stomach. He yanks the blade out and raises it in time to block the swing of an axe. The Valyrian steel slices easily through the wooden handle of the axe, leaving Jon’s attacker without a weapon. Jon pivots, punches the tip of his blade through the man’s throat, and then withdraws it. Blood splatters across his face and neck.

#

Jon’s body aches. His ears ring with the clash of steel, but he isn’t sure if it’s real or imagined. There are fewer and fewer calls of kill counts, either because the Wolves save their breath or because there aren’t many of them left.

Jon himself is losing strength. For every man he cuts down, another five are there to take his place. It’s unfair he thinks. Why is he even here? Because Corlys didn’t like the price of the tolls? Because Driftmark wanted another source of income by securing the shipping lanes for themselves? Because Daemon has something to prove?

Jon died, twice, fighting the wars of his people. He rages at the thought now of dying for someone else’s. Hasn’t he given enough? Hasn’t he earned a quiet future with his wife?

He shouts and fights with renewed vigor. He hacks and slashes with none of the form drilled into him by Ser Rodrik or the Night’s Watch. Valyrian steel is sharp and that, more than his skill, is what aids him.

He fights because he’s never known anything else.

He feels the bite of a blade, and it brings him to his knees. He touches a hand to the wound, as if he can staunch the blood flow. He will die the same way that he was born, covered in blood. He drives Ghost through his attacker. It is little comfort to take his killer into death with him. There are still too many pirates. Too many to raid their stores and then sail for the next island.

Jon didn’t do enough.

He wasn’t enough.

He never is.

Jon throws back his head and bellows, but it sounds more like a screech.

Like twin shrieks, he thinks, until he realizes that sound isn’t coming from him.

“Dragons!” one of the pirates shouts.

Sure enough, Jon sees two dragons fly overheard, illuminated by the flame that pours from their mouths.

That is not Caraxes, he thinks. The necks are all wrong. The coloring too. One dragon is bronze, molten metal in the light of the flames. The other is silver, or maybe white. Ghost, Jon thinks as darkness encroaches on his vision. Ghost, you’ve returned to me.

#

Awareness hovers at the edges of Jon’s mind. It’s within his grasp, but he shies away from it. Awareness will bring only pain, and he is not eager to embrace it.

“Fire,” he rasps, because that is what his dreams are full of. Fire and blood. Burn them all. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

“Jon?” A voice calls to him. “Jon!” More insistent this time.

I am King in the North, and I do not answer to you, Jon thinks before he allows the darkness to swallow him again.

#

Jon feels stretched, like a hide in preparation for tanning. He feels equally scraped. His eyes flutter, but his lashes are too weighted for him to open his eyes. His throat is parched, his tongue a heavy useless thing in his mouth.

“Here.”

A hand under his head, lifting it up. Something at his lips. A cool trickle of water, liquid salvation. He finds the strength to open his eyes. It feels like a monumental effort, something that should be rewarded with cheers.

“Are you with us this time?” Howland Reed asks.

Has Jon woken before? He doesn’t remember it. He tries to lift his hand, but it doesn’t obey him. He parts his lips to speak and is given another trickle of water.

“Howland,” Jon manages to rasp.

Howland closes his eyes. When he opens them, they look different. Wrong. “My name is Ethan.”

Howland Reed is dead, Jon remembers. Along with his children, Meera and Jojen. Jojen sacrificed himself for Bran. But Bran is dead now too. They are all dead, because Jon couldn’t save them.

No, not all of them.

“Sansa,” Jon whispers. Something claws inside his chest, trying to escape. He cannot move his body. He cannot force his toe to twitch or his hand to rise. He can barely speak words, but his mind can scream. SANSA!

“Stop that!” Someone shouts from far away. There are more shouts—surprise, anger, fear, and then a great black direwolf bounds over to Jon’s side.

“Sansa,” Jon begs, precious fluid wasted as his eyes fill with tears.

Blue eyes meet his. Shadow dips her head and then licks a stripe up Jon’s neck.

“Sansa,” Jon breathes and then his eyes fall shut again.

#

Jon isn’t sure how many times he has drifted in and out of consciousness before he is fully reclaimed by the land of the living. This is, he thinks, the first time he’s managed to sit up, even if Ethan had to pull him into the position and stack pillows behind his back to keep him upright. He looks down at his bare chest with a frown.

“Fire may not kill a dragon, but it burns everything around it.” Daemon Targaryen stares at Jon with a hint of a smile curling his lips.

“What happened?” Jon asks. His head throbs, and he’s forced to accept Ethan’s help both feeding and watering himself.

The smile fades from Daemon’s expression. “The Crabfeeder sent a force meant to overwhelm and butcher you. It was on the brink of succeeding.”

Jon remembers being stabbed. He remembers a screech. He remembers flames.

“When we arrived, the island was ash, save for the garrison on the edge of the cliffs.” Daemon studies Jon as if he’s hoping for a hint of recognition. “The ships were burned at sea and the men burned on land. There was nothing left, save for two coiled dragons; Vermithor and Silverwing.”

“I don’t—” Jon accepts a spoonful of broth. “I don’t remember.”

“You were found between them, once Caraxes was able to convince them to move.” Daemon approaches Jon’s bed, until he stands beside it. “Naked as a babe but unsinged.”

“Fuck,” Jon says. “They killed everyone?”

Ethan curls his hand over Jon’s, an offer of comfort. “The Wolves were either dead or in death’s embrace.”

“Fuck,” Jon says again.

“Just you,” Daemon says. “And your blade.”

Jon looks past Daemon for the first time, at the tent he’s convalescing in. Ghost, his sword, is on the ground, without even a sheath to protect it. He would protest the treatment except…something is wrong with his blade. It is Valyrian steel, but it seems to glow, like an ember in the depths of a fire.

“It didn’t melt, but it does burn,” Daemon says.

Jon closes his eyes. Azor Ahai, he hears in Melisandre’s voice. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want it. “The dragons?” he asks.

“Have been nesting in the Dragonmont since King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne died,” Daemon answers. “I’ve never heard of a dragonrider bonding across such a great distance, and you’ve never stepped foot on Dragonstone.”

“I prayed,” Jon whispers but that is too soft a word for what he did. “No, I begged. I didn’t want to die.” And he didn’t. Everyone else did around him.

Only death can pay for life, he thinks.

#

“They are all dead,” Jon says, once it is only him, Ethan, and Shadow in the tent. He checks Shadow’s eyes to make sure they’re red before speaking. Guilt, for all it isn’t physical, is a heavy thing.

“They came here expecting to die,” Ethan says. Any comfort those words may have given Jon are taken by Ethan’s next ones. “Survival stretches on.”

Jon’s own words, thrown back in his face. The worst part is, he can’t even regret it. He wanted to live, badly enough that he apparently called to two dragons an ocean away. He will see Sansa again. Part of him wants to mount a dragon and leave now, scoop her up from King’s Landing and fly to where they will never have to see another living soul.

The rest of him knows better. This is three times he has escaped the permanence of death. The gods have a plan for him, and he cannot turn his back on it. All he can hope is that he sees their plan through with time enough for him to enjoy this life they keep returning to him.

“Aye, it does.” Jon eases his legs over the side of the cot he’s been recovering on. “Help me stand. I want to see the dragons.”

“Stubborn man,” Ethan says, but he helps Jon to his feet. They stand there for a moment, beside the cot, as Jon’s body trembles and determines whether or not it will support him.

Once Jon determines that yes, it will, he hobbles out of the recovery tent. Outside, it is early morning, and he squints against the brightness of the sun. Around him is the bustle of a war camp, everyone engrossed in their own tasks, and they pay no mind to him. His steps become surer as he goes, even as his muscles ache and pull, signs of disuse.

He follows the pull in his chest, until he reaches the edge of the camp. Once the tents give way to open ground, it is easy to see the dragons. They have claimed a patch of land for themselves, all four of them. Seasmoke, Caraxes, Silverwing, and Vermithor. He had seen Daenerys’s dragons when he went to Dragonstone. They had been awe-inspiring, the first dragons seen in over a hundred years. At the same time, they had been terrifying, a reminder of what Westeros had overcome and the danger that threatened them now.

They had also been needed.

Jon had gone to Dragonstone to take the measure of the Dragon Queen. He needed dragonglass to fight against the army of the dead. He wouldn’t have said no to dragons or Daenerys’s armies. She wanted him to kneel, not just in fealty but in worship. The Mother of Dragons, she called herself. And what could Jon do but take a knee before her? He was a bastard raised to a king. He had nothing to bargain with except for his crown. He gave it to her for peace. For an alliance.

And then she told him he was now her subject, and it was her schedule they would follow. A war in the south for the throne before she’d ever turn her attention North.

Silverwing lifts her head at Jon’s approach. The other dragons crack an eye open to look at him and then return to their slumber, but Silverwing remains attentive. She is the one who drew Jon here. Though, he supposes he first drew her here.

He pats her scaled head once he is in range. “Thank you,” he tells her. She saved his life. Depending on how long dragons live, she may one day save all of Westeros. Daenerys was raised on stories of the Iron Throne, but Jon and Sansa’s children will be raised on stories of the Long Night. They will tell their children, who will tell their children. The North will remember. He only hopes Rhaenyra will be the unifying queen Sansa thinks she can be.

He can’t scratch under Silverwing’s chin the way he did to Ghost or now does to Shadow. He pats the tough, silver scales that protect Silverwing’s body instead. He stays by her side, speaking quietly, until Vermithor stirs from his nap. When the great bronze dragon’s eyes lock on Jon’s, no further communication is necessary. Silverwing may be Jon’s bonded mount, but she is Vermithor’s bonded mate.

Jon bows to them both and then slowly backs up until he reaches the camp again.

“I was curious if both of them were bonded to you,” Daemon says once Jon joins him at the first ring of tents.

“I thought riders could only ride one dragon and dragons would only allow one living rider.”

“And I thought the Targaryens being immune to fire was a child’s story.” Daemon’s tone is light, but his expression is serious.

The back of Jon’s neck prickles, a warning of possible danger. Jon walked out of the flames in Volantis, but thankfully Saera didn’t share that in Jon’s introduction letter. He isn’t sure if she’s communicated it since. Jon was a lost Targaryen. Some don’t even believe him to be a Targaryen. But he has lived through dragonfire. It is proof of his blood. He has somehow called to his dragon from leagues away. Additional proof. But if he were to be bonded to two dragons…legends are dangerous. The Targaryens think themselves akin to gods, but Jon has only ever been a man. He only wants to be a man.

“Blood magic,” Jon says. “I don’t recommend it.” He had been killed and then revived by a red priestess. No, more than that, because Melisandre was a shadowbinder from Asshai as well. Only death can pay for life. Jon never received official confirmation, but he’s nearly certain it was Shireen Baratheon who paid for his resurrection. And his immunity to fire.

“What did it cost you?”

Jon can’t help his laugh, a harsh, jagged thing. “It didn’t cost me anything.” A lifetime of guilt. A debt he’ll never be able to repay. He didn’t ask for it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still his burden to carry. “The Unsullied are rented out to make their masters rich, but their training begins early. It takes many years before the masters can profit from their soldiers, but they are cautious investors. You know the Unsullied are cut. Their manhoods are burned at the altar of the Lady of Spears. There are those who pay the masters great sums to be present at these burnings. To harness the power in the sacrifice.”

“Someone burned so you never will again,” Daemon says softly, figuring it out.

And she died as well, Jon thinks but he knows better than to say. He nods, verifying Daemon’s conclusion. “Aye. I didn’t know. I didn’t ever ask for this. I never would have. But it’s mine now.” Targaryen blood in his veins, pumping along with Stark blood. An immunity to fire. A burning sword. A dragon. No, he didn’t ask for any of this, but the gods have given it all to him anyway. The only way to make Shireen’s death right, to make the burning of Winterfell right, to balance out the scales is for him to lay the groundwork to stop the Long Night. He will make all those sacrifices mean something.

“They say Targaryens are more kin to gods than men,” Daemon says.

“The gods see the larger picture. They are not kind or cruel or merciful or whatever it is we believe them to be. They know the Great War is the war for the living. To them, sacrifice is practical. While to us, it can be devastating. I am a man. I bleed, I weep, I mourn. I don’t want to be a god. No one should want that.”

“Dragons give us unmatched power. We inspire awe and fear in equal measure.”

Jon thinks unchecked power is a dangerous thing, but he knows better than to say it to a Targaryen of royal blood. Daemon is right. The dragons are what turned the Targaryens from minor nobility in Valyria into a Westerosi dynasty. His stomach roils as he remembers he is here to strengthen that dynasty. He only hopes there will be rulers in the future who care for the people they rule.

He still remembers the horror at learning Daenerys burned the grain caravans from the Reach. Burning food as winter fell on Westeros. How she followed that horror by another, executing those who had surrendered. They would not kneel, and she would not accept anything else.

“We’ll have to get you a saddle,” Daemon says. “I’ll teach you to fly myself.” He clasps Jon’s shoulder. “But for now, let me return you to the recovery tent. I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“Alright,” Jon says, even though he wants to linger outside. He knows overeagerness will set his recovery back. A bit of restraint now will keep him from being miserable later.

“Maybe write a raven,” Daemon suggests as they navigate the narrow rows and alleys of the camp. With Daemon at Jon’s side, they attract far more attention. “Your Northern friend wrote a few, but I’m sure your lady would appreciate an update in your own hand.”

“Sansa,” Jon breathes. He stops in the middle of the path and grips Daemon’s arm hard enough to bruise. “Does she—what does she know?”

“She knows you live,” Daemon says, no hint of his usual teasing. “But a raven from you will do far more to ease her worries than one from me or your friend.”

Jon practically runs all the way back to the recovery tent.

Chapter Text

There was a time in Sansa’s life where all she wanted was to live a life of luxury as Queen in King’s Landing. There was a time in her life where all she wanted was to escape King’s Landing, to hole up in the North with her family and live out the rest of her days in quiet solitude. Retuning to King’s Landing, living here, even in the past, has been difficult.

It is helpful, of course, that it is the past. When she looks out at the city, there is no Sept of Baelor, no memory of her father losing his head in front of her. When she attends court, it is King Viserys Targaryen on the throne, not Joffrey Baratheon. The people she surrounds herself with may have familiar House names, but they are not the monsters from her first life here in the capital.

Even still, there are places she struggles to go, sigils she struggles to see. There are times when the past seems to reach out and grab her.

Today, as she sees Princess Rhaenyra and Jorelle Mormont approach her from across the courtyard, Sansa’s stomach plummets to the grass at her feet. She knows that posture—the set of those shoulders, the tremulous smile, and pitying eyes. Her gaze darts to the scroll clutched in Jorelle’s hand, grip too tight, wrinkling the parchment, and Sansa knows.

Winterfell sacked. Bran and Rickon killed. Robb and Mother butchered at the Red Wedding.

Is this the news that Arya has been found? Or, that her body has been found? No, Arya is dead, along with the rest of the North. Which means—

“Jon,” Sansa whispers. She takes a step back, as if she can run from this news. “JON!”

Her scream echoes in her ears, but it morphs, changes into a howl. Sansa is no longer in the Red Keep. She’s in a tent. It smells of salt, of fish, of fire.

“What is that—” a voice she doesn’t recognize speaks but she pays it little mind.

Jon is on a cot, his body bare, not even a blanket to cover him. His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls. Alive, she tells herself, alive, alive, alive.

“It hasn’t done this before. Get it quiet or get it out.”

A man kneels at Sansa’s side, but she doesn’t look away from Jon. What happened to him? Why doesn’t he stir? Why is he in this tent? Why does his body put off heat like a furnace?

“Shadow.”

Sansa stops howling, but she doesn’t look away from Jon. She can’t.

“Shadow.”

Sansa continues to ignore the voice.

“Sansa.”

That gets her attention. She turns her head to the man. He has a small, plain face. It’s weathered, tired, and—no distractions. She whimpers and nudges Jon’s shoulder with her nose.

“Sansa,” the strange man says again, his voice quiet, his words only for her. “He lives. He is recovering. But you cannot be here.”

Sansa growls, daring him to try and rip her away from the man she loves.

“You are too far away,” the man says. “You risk losing yourself. I will watch over him, I swear to you by the old gods. And I will write to you. But you cannot linger.”

Sansa whimpers again. The man is right. She’s—she’s in Shadow. For more than a glimpse. She cannot hold this connection. Or, if she does, she will lose her connection to herself. Jon lives. He lives, and she will cling to that.

#

Sansa opens her eyes to darkness, and she sits up, arms swinging to fight.

“Sansa!” A woman’s voice this time. Strong hands grip her wrists and calm her flailing. “It’s only a blindfold.” One hand releases Sansa’s wrist and pushes a cloth up and out of the way.

Sansa blinks and looks around her. She’s in her bedchamber in King’s Landing. Straddling her on her bed, holding her down, is Jorelle Mormont. “I—” Sansa slides the blindfold all the way off. “What happened?”

“You collapsed in the courtyard.” Jorelle shifts so she’s sitting on the edge of Sansa’s bed, but she stays close, her voice lowered. “Your eyes—” Jorelle glances toward the door, as if she’s worried about someone on the other side hearing what she has to say. “They rolled back in your head. I covered them. Ser Rymun carried you to your bedchamber. The princess wanted you to see the maester, but I told her I’d seen you have a fit like this before. She has been worried. She said if you weren’t awake by supper, she was ordering a maester to attend to you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says. She isn’t sure how much the south knows about Northern magic and wargs, but she’d rather no one see her in such a vulnerable state. “And I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“Where did you go?” Jorelle asks.

“To Jon,” Sansa whispers, and she looks away, ashamed. “You were coming to tell me bad news, and I thought—” her throat closes up as her fear returns. She reaches out and clasps Jorelle’s hand. “He lives. That’s all I know.”

“He lives,” Jorelle confirms. “I can tell you more if you are ready to hear it.”

Sansa’s cheeks heat up with her embarrassment, but she nods. She needs to know.

“Jon commanded the Winter Wolves,” Jorelle begins, reminding Sansa of what they already know. “They were tasked with defending the war supplies on an island garrison. They were attacked in numbers far superior to what they could win against. Jon sent one of the Wolves away along with Shadow to warn Prince Daemon and the other commanders that the supplies and the island would be lost. But they weren’t. Not entirely. Two dragons arrived.”

“Silverwing and Vermithor,” Sansa murmurs. King’s Landing had been full of whispers when the two dragons were reported gone from Dragonstone with no indication of where they went or why they departed.

“When Prince Daemon flew to the island to determine what had happened, he found the garrison still standing, the supplies untouched. The waters were full of charred and broken ships. The beach was littered with bodies. Closer to the garrison it was ash and bones. But in the center of the island were the two dragons, coiled around each other, protecting something. Someone.” Jorelle squeezes Sansa’s hand. “Jon.”

“He survived dragonfire?” Sansa asks.

“He and his sword both,” Jorelle answers. “He’s with the rest of the forces now, recovering. Prince Daemon promised to send ravens with any and all updates.”

“Recovering from what?” Sansa asks. “If he survived the dragonfire, why does he need to recover?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have more information soon.”

Sansa feels like a child again. She wants to stomp her foot, scream I want to know now like some wicked, spoiled thing. But if Jorelle had answers, she would have already given them to Sansa. All a tantrum would do is sully her reputation more. Speaking of…

“How bad are the whispers?” Sansa asks. All this time carefully manipulating the court, remaining out of sight, constructing her image of a quaint but loyal Northerner, and now she’s made a spectacle of herself.

“Only a few saw you faint,” Jorelle says, her blunt honesty as refreshing as it is painful. “Princess Rhaenyra has spread your duties amongst the rest of us. The main whispers are surprise that this didn’t happen before. The consensus is that you’re overworked.”

“Hmm.” Sansa will have to do her own listening and then methodically build her reputation back up. At least she knows it will be manageable. It isn’t as though she has to navigate accusations of treason or cruel boy-kings.

“You are,” Jorelle says, continuing her honesty. “I know you are trying to overfill your days in order to distract yourself, but you must rest.” She holds up a hand to stall Sansa’s protests. “Princess Rhaenyra has made it her personal mission. Arguing won’t help you any.”

“I have no desire to think. Especially knowing now that Jon is hurt.” But Sansa knows firsthand how stubborn Princess Rhaenyra is. She bites back her sigh. “May I have a bath and a fresh change of clothes?” She appreciates no one changed her, she suspects Jorelle had a hand in it, but she feels stale and rumpled after over a day abed.

“Of course.”

#

“I am quite well,” Sansa says for what must be the hundredth time in the past few days. She has made an appearance at Ladies Court each day, knowing it’s important to be seen healthy and returning to her routines. She doesn’t have the same ease she did before the raven about Jon. Each smile, each courtesy, each breath she takes feels as though it’s a monumental effort. It is exhausting, which has not put any of Princess Rhaenyra’s fears to rest.

“I heard he claimed two dragons,” one of the dozen Hightower relatives says.

“Then you’re listening to poorly informed gossips,” Princess Rhaenyra snaps. She is sitting in the sewing circle but rather than embroidery on her lap, she has a book of Valyrian poetry.

“It is a one-to-one relationship,” Sansa explains. “I’m surprised Lady Alicent hasn’t told you more about dragons. She is still intending to marry into the Targaryen House, is she not?”

“The king has begun his courtship,” Lady Cuy says, a high flush on her cheeks. “The entire court knows his feelings for my niece.”

Sansa works on a new set of handkerchiefs to replace the one Jon lost when his clothes were turned to ash. Perhaps, it is overboard to make him twelve, but she wants him to know he has her heart in his chest, that her heart beats alongside his own, and he should be more careful with it. She has plans to make a handkerchief for each direwolf in the Stark family, beginning with Shadow, but her very first gift to him will be two coiling dragons, one bronze, one silver.

“Your embroidery is so tight,” Alanna says with an envious sigh. “I wish I had half your skill.”

“This is how I spend my time,” Sansa tells her. “I don’t have nearly the ability you do with a harp, nor can I claim any skill with a paintbrush.”

“You’re saying I need to practice more?” Alanna grins and returns to embroidering a crooked rose. “Do the dragons mean you are making a gift for him?”

Him, he, no one seems to name Jon, as if they’re afraid Sansa will faint again at his mention. “I gave Ser Jon my favor before the tourney when I first came to the capital,” Sansa says. Her shoulders tighten as she attracts the attention of the entire circle, but she doesn’t look away from the curve of Silverwing’s back.

“But he didn’t compete, did he?” Alanna asks.

“He did not.” Sansa can’t help her small smile at the memory. “I told him that he wasn’t competing was no reason not to give him my favor. He brought it to the Stepstones with him, but you have all heard the same reports I did.”

“It was lost to dragonfire,” Alanna says. She sounds genuinely mournful, as if a few blue roses on a piece of fabric is a large loss. Sansa does mourn it but not nearly as much as she would if Jon had gone up in flames as well.

“And so I am making him more. Hopefully, these will fare better.”

“Do you love him?” Mina Tully asks, her voice hesitant, as if she isn’t sure it’s an appropriate question. Despite her hesitancy, her own embroidery is forgotten on her lap as she stares at Sansa with wide, hopeful eyes. As far as Sansa can tell, Ser Harwin’s courtship of her is going well, but it means she is constantly humming love ballads and trying to find the same happiness for the rest of Rhaenyra’s ladies.

“Of course she does,” Elara Strong answers. “She sent her direwolf to war with him.”

“So?” Tyra Lannister asks.

Elara exchanges a look with her sister and Jorelle as if to commiserate on the ignorance of the other kingdoms.

“They don’t follow the old gods,” Sansa chides.

“Direwolves are the sigil of House Stark, but they’re more than that,” Jorelle says. “They are more similar to Targaryens and their dragons than household pets.”

“That’s enough,” Sansa says mildly. There’s no need to give all their secrets away. Jorelle nods in understanding, and Sansa resumes her embroidery, as if the topic doesn’t require her full attention.

“Did Shadow survive the—the—” Poor Mina can’t even finish the thought. Sansa hopes Ser Harwin is gentle with his future wife.

“She did. When Ser Jon realized they were under attack, he sent Shadow to safety with one of the men under his command.”

“He didn’t go himself?” Tyra asks.

Sansa can’t stop her small huff of laughter. “No, he did not.”

“My brother says it’s a sign of leadership,” Nora Strong says. “A man cannot expect his men to follow his commands, if he won’t stand by their side while they do.”

“It was reckless and dangerous,” Lady Cuy interjects.

“I think it was brave,” Alanna says loyally.

“It was all three of those things,” Sansa says. She’s aware that her voice is too full of affection, that gives much away with her response, but she can’t help. Because Jon is reckless. He often makes dangerous decisions. But he is one of the bravest men she’s ever known.

“Lady Sansa, this arrived for you.”

Sansa looks up to see a castle page standing in front of her. He wears the livery of House Targaryen and offers her a raven’s scroll. She takes a few coins out of her purse and hands them over along with her thanks. The scroll is sealed with the Targaryen dragon.

“Is it from my Uncle Daemon?” Rhaenyra asks, peering over to look at it. “Or do you suppose he lent his seal to Ser Jon?”

Sansa would prefer to retreat and read her scroll in private, but she has an audience who is as hungry for information as she is. She slides her nail under the seal and then unrolls the parchment. She can’t help her smile as she catches the first few words.

“Is that High Valyrian?” Lady Cuy asks.

“Your ignorance continues to show, Lady Cuy,” Jorelle Mormont answers. “That’s the Old Tongue.”

Sansa skims to the bottom of the parchment. It is signed by Ethan the Eagle. She knows no one by that name, but she has her suspicions of who it might be, regardless. She starts at the beginning of the letter.

Lady Sansa,

As promised, I write to you with news of Jon Targaryen, commander of the Winter Wolves.

Most of it is information she already knows, but this Ethan goes into more detail. He tells her Jon has stirred, has spoken out in his sleep, has seemingly gained consciousness for moments at a time, but he hasn’t truly woken yet. He assures Sansa he will send her updates as they occur and that as soon as Jon is able to hold a quill, she will receive a letter in Jon’s own hand.

“Well?” Rhaenyra asks, her impatience getting the better of her.

“The man who accompanied Shadow to warn your Uncle Daemon of the attack has written me about Jon’s condition. He did not burn in the flames, but they say he burns now as if he has a fever. He is severely dehydrated, but they are caring for him and are hopeful for his recovery.”

“He will recover,” Rhaenyra says with the confidence of a Targaryen princess. She reaches across Mina Tully so that she can give Sansa’s wrist an encouraging squeeze. “Silverwing has chosen him. She flew from Dragonstone to protect him. He is blessed by the Fourteen.”

Lady Cuy gasps and no doubt, there will be complaints about the Targaryens shunning the Seven over the next few days.

“We will accompany you to the godswood,” Elara Strong says, grasping her sister’s hand. “We will pray with you each evening.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says. She traces over the words Ethan wrote her. “And the news isn’t all so dire. He writes that Shadow is curious about the dragons. Or, concerned, might be better. Silverwing and Vermithor have remained coiled since they landed. Shadow has taken to hunting and bringing them offerings.”

“Do they eat them?” Rhaenyra asks.

“Not the first time.” Sansa laughs as she skims the paragraph about the dragons. “But after Caraxes snatched up the meat, Vermithor and Silverwing screeched at him and have eaten everything Shadow has brought since.”

Rhaenyra laughs as well, delighted with word about her uncle’s dragon. She gets her own faraway look in her eyes, as if she’s thinking about her uncle and misses him as much as Sansa misses Jon. She isn’t surprised when Rhaenyra leaves Ladies Court to go to the Dragonpit.

#

King Viserys enjoys the trapping of being king, feasting almost as often as King Robert did in Sansa’s first lifetime. As far as she can tell, there is no official reason for tonight’s feast; though, the king has hinted at an announcement that will be sure to draw all the nobles in the Red Keep to the event.

Sansa wears one of her simpler dresses. There have been fewer whispers about her plain styles now that gossip runs rampant about her epic love for Ser Jon Targaryen. Tyra Lannister comments that there is no one she needs impress with her beloved at war, and Sansa doesn’t bother arguing. While she does prefer the simpler styles, a reminder of home, another way to differentiate her time in King’s Landing now from her time before, there is also a practical reason. She doesn’t permit anyone to see her unclothed, even maids who might help her dress or bathe.

Jorelle Mormont is the only one Sansa allows to see her, and the Northern girl has yet to see Sansa completely bare. Scars adorn Sansa’s back, her thighs, her stomach, and she has no interest in the gossip those will spark.

Sansa secures her necklace, the gift from Princess Rhaenyra, and then studies herself in the mirror. She has done her hair in the Northern style, half up, the rest of it loose. She curls a strand of hair around her finger. It’s one of her few vanities, her hair. She knows the color, a rich, vibrant red, is uncommon. It stands out, attracts attention, and more than one lady at court has sighed enviously over it.

Kissed by fire, she thinks, remembering how Tormund referred to the both of them. Lucky, he claimed, and even after all she’s been through, she isn’t sure he’s wrong. She has suffered, gods know she has suffered, but there is still hope. Hope for a better Westeros, hope for surviving the Long Night when it comes, and, selfishly, hope that she and Jon will have a peaceful life together.

She has received more ravens from this Ethan the Eagle and even a few from Jon now. His first was almost entirely apologies for worrying her, for losing her favor, for being unconscious and unable to write her right away. His second was more informative, but it was heavy with guilt, for the men under his command this time. It was a last stand, he told her, the numbers not in their favor. He wasn’t sure how many still lived when the dragons came, but there were none alive afterward. Of all the Winter Wolves who came south, only Ethan the Eagle still lived.

Sansa hopes this war in the Stepstones ends soon, and she hopes all the work she and Rhaenyra have done will keep the Dance of Dragons from breaking out. Jon had told Sansa at Castle Black that he was sick of fighting. And then she dragged him to Winterfell to oust the Boltons. And then the War for the Dawn came. And now he’s fighting, again, this time on the Stepstones. He deserves his rest. 

Sansa arrives in Rhaenyra’s rooms to help the other ladies prepare Rhaenyra for the evening’s feast.

“Ser Otto is grumbling again,” Rhaenyra says once Sansa arrives. “Last week was charity funds, this week is the royal household. I had to remind him that as the future queen, I need to take on all these responsibilities so that I can learn and prepare. My father agrees, for now at least.”

Alanna Tyrell, who has learned politics well at Rhaenyra’s side in court, frowns. “And when your father marries her, and she becomes Queen? Will that strengthen her position?”

“I don’t see why she should become Queen.” Rhaenyra remains still as Laena expertly braids her hair in the complicated Valyrian fashion. “Queen-consort is already a meteoric rise for someone of her station.”

“Is that what you want?” Sansa asks.

Rhaenyra’s look implies she wants Alicent shipped off to the Wall, but she nods. “My mother was queen, and I shall be the next one. It’s an insult to us both if Alicent holds the same title.”

“An insult to me as well,” Laena says quietly. “Alicent Hightower wasn’t raised to even be a Lady Paramount, let alone Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I will keep the duties of the queen,” Rhaenyra declares. “Let Alicent do what she was raised to do—comfort old men and push out babes.”

Sansa’s mind starts spinning, even as the other girls giggle and gossip. This kind of maneuvering will be more of a challenge than what she’s done before, but it’s still doable. Lady Laena will be instrumental, as well as Rhaenyra herself, but it would be ideal if Sansa could find someone with a connection to the Faith.

She still remembers Joffrey’s cruel taunts, threats to marry her off to Gregor Clegane as she was the daughter of a traitor. But, daughter of a traitor or not, Sansa was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the blood of the Winter Kings in her veins. The High Septon assured her she had no need to fear, she would never be married to a man whose father had been a kennel master before he was elevated to Lord of Clegane Keep. The Hightowers are not nearly as low in station as the Cleganes, but it’s still an uneven match. Enough for the nobles to be uneasy. Limiting Alicent’s rise to queen-consort will help pacify them.

She wonders if she can recruit Cassandra’s help as well. The future Lady Paramount of the Stormlands has returned to Storm’s End with her betrothed to learn at her grandfather’s side. But Lady Cassandra Baratheon and Lady Laena Velaryon will go a long way to showing the king that if he wanted a queen, he should have married a woman worthy of the title.

“Sansa, stop thinking and join us,” Rhaenyra orders. “Tonight is a night of fun.” Rhaenyra’s eyes glint with a secret. She knows the purpose of tonight’s feast, and she’s withholding it. Sansa doubts it’s for any nefarious purpose. Rhaenyra is both delighted and vexed at Sansa’s knowledge of the Red Keep, and she enjoys when she knows something Sansa doesn’t.

“But I only care for needlepoint and the gods,” Sansa says in her most snobby, affected tone.

Rhaenyra giggles and motions for Nora to pour Sansa a goblet of wine. Apparently, they are going to begin the festivities early.

#

Rhaenyra sits at the place of honor next to her father, resplendent in a rich red gown with black paneling. It is a bit gaudy for Sansa’s tastes, decorated with rubies and onyx and other precious gems, but she is a Targaryen Princess, and she certainly looks the part. Her headband matches, glittering in the light of the hall and hiding the elaborate hairstyle she wore from view.

Contrasted to the princess, Lady Alicent who sits on the king’s other side, looks dull. Her gown is simple and modest, as if she doesn’t understand the importance of appearance. Sansa can dress as simply as she wants, because she is a lady-in-waiting with few ambitions, but Alicent is angling to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. If she wasn’t seated at the king’s side, she wouldn’t be noticed at all.

Lady Amanda is the only one of Rhaenyra’s ladies at the high table with her. Sansa and the others sit together at one of the closest tables in a position of favor. Sansa is glad for the refreshments Rhaenyra served in her rooms, because feasts always take far too long to get started.

King Viserys stands and the hall quiets. He smiles as if they are eager for his announcement and not eager to begin eating. “As you all know, I am currently courting the Lady Alicent Hightower and will be taking her to wife.” He beams out at the assembly, expression not faltering even as only muted applause meets his words. “I have an heir, a daughter and princess of the realm, Rhaenyra Targaryen, who was called the Realm’s Delight as a child and will one day be the realm’s queen. She is currently four and ten, but upon turning five and ten, I will permit courtship for her hand in marriage.”

Another pause, this one longer, and Sansa catches Rhaenyra’s eye. The princess grins, pleased with herself, and Sansa gives her a nod of acknowledgement.

“For a period of one year, suitors will be welcome to prove themselves worthy of my daughter.” King Viserys looks at Rhaenyra with love. “As a father, I’m not sure I will ever find such a man, which is why Princess Rhaenyra will be the one to choose her husband. They will marry after she turns six and ten and reaches the age of majority.”

Applause and cheers accompany the announcement. Sansa will have to tell Rhaenyra later that she is impressed. She has secured power over her own marriage, and she has arranged for the kingdoms to come and court her favor and prove their worth to her. It’s both a political and personal victory.

If only Sansa could orchestrate an end to the war in the Stepstones so that the princess’s preferred suitor will be home in time for it to matter.

As King Viserys takes his seat, it is Rhaenyra’s turn to stand. She holds her goblet in her hand and raises it. “To King Viserys the Peaceful’s wise judgement.” She smiles as the assembled guests raise their goblets as well. “And to a father’s love for his daughter.” She waits for everyone to drink before she grows more serious. “And while I am a cherished daughter and a princess of the realm, I will one day be more. My marriage is an important decision, and I will not choose my husband lightly. To prove this to you, I have a declaration to make. As you all know, I am sure, Ser Otto Hightower is Hand of the King. Lady Alicent Hightower is courted by the king. And Ser Gwayne Hightower serves in the Kingsguard. That is enough royal favor for one kingdom and why I will entertain no suitors from the Reach.”

Stunned silence meets Rhaenyra’s proclamation. King Viserys’s affable smile falters, and Ser Otto looks ready to spit nails. Sansa can see the sense in it, another way to turn Westeros against the grasping Hightowers, but there is danger in it as well.

“Mother will be furious,” Alanna Tyrell murmurs, a hint of fear in her voice.

“As she should be,” Sansa murmurs back. “The Hightowers have claimed nearly every royal position for themselves.” Lady Tyrell won’t recall Alanna, not when she is in the princess’s household, but more will have to be done. No, the Reach won’t see one of theirs married to Princess Rhaenyra, but it doesn’t mean there’s nothing for the Reach to gain. They seek power, influence, and to break the Hightower’s hold on the kingdom.

“It is not a decision I make lightly,” Rhaenyra tells the assembly. “Nor is it one I make gladly as my lady-in-waiting, Alanna Tyrell, speaks highly of the lords and knights of the Reach. But if I am to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I must show favor to all kingdoms and not only one. I invite the Reach to still come to King’s Landing and enjoy the festivities and the year of courtship. For while I can only marry one man, the capital will be full of ladies looking for husbands of their own.”

Rhaenyra ends her speech and takes her seat again. After Alicent leads them in a prayer to the Seven, food is served. At Sansa’s table and, she expects, all the others, the conversation is fixed on the princess’s announcement and what the fallout from the Reach will be.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Tyra Lannister says. “As the princess said, all the eligible men in Westeros will descend on the capital. We’ll all be married soon.”

“But then we’ll have to leave,” Laena says. “I don’t want to live in my husband’s castle, away from all of you.”

“Then claim a dragon and you can visit us at will,” Jorelle tells her. Of all the ladies at the table, she is the least interested in the announcement or subsequent gossip, but she is rarely drawn into their nonsense.

“Will you marry?” Elara asks, curious. Nora and Elara take turns teasing Mina over their brother’s courtship and longing for a man to court them as well. Laena is disinterested, Cassandra has already left them for marriage, Tyra is resigned to it, and Alanna is torn between romance and practicality. Jorelle, as Sansa knows, is interested but not in any of these southern men.

“Aye, I will,” Jorelle says. “But not until I return home. I will marry a Northern man.”

As will I, Sansa thinks, her heart clenching as she thinks of Jon.

“Will any of them come for the year of courtship?” Laena asks.

Jorelle laughs. “Unlikely. The North keeps to itself and everyone’s happier for it. Princess Rhaenyra won’t marry a Northerner, and it’s a long trip to make for empty flattery.”

After the main courses have been served, many people stand in order to mingle with others, a few brave souls even take to the dance floor. Sansa finds Tyra before she can run off. “Would you ask your cousin Tyland for a dance on my behalf?”

Tyra studies Sansa with suspicion.

“A conversation only,” Sansa promises. And then, drawing Tyra away from the throng she tells her a little more. “The princess cannot favor the Reach by courting one of their sons, but she can show favor in other ways.”

Tyra’s gaze drifts over to where Alanna Tyrell fidgets with her necklace and looks at Mina and Ser Harwin dancing with envy. “My cousin Jason is not nearly as gallant or chivalrous. But I suppose he’s rich enough to make up for it. Are you so certain Princess Rhaenyra won’t marry Lord Jason?”

Sansa intends to say this all to Ser Tyland, but it can’t hurt for multiple people to be whispering about it. “Do you remember when Lady Cassandra was named heir to Storm’s End? She couldn’t marry another heir.”

“Lannister pride runs deep,” Tyra says, a warning, before she goes to mingle, eventually winding her way to where her two cousins hold a captive audience of other lords.

Sansa sips at her wine and eats two slices of pear while she waits. She isn’t sure what Tyra says to her cousin, but it only takes two songs for Ser Tyland to find her and ask her for a dance. Sansa accepts with a bashful smile as the ladies around her titter. She keeps the smile even as she and Ser Tyland take to the dance floor.

“My cousin says you wished to speak with me,” he says.

It’s direct, not what Sansa is expecting, but she appreciates it. “Do you know why Princess Rhaenyra made the announcement about the Reach tonight?” Sansa raises her hand and presses it palm-to-palm with Ser Tyland’s.

They circle each other before Ser Tyland answers. “To turn public sentiment against the Hightowers?”

“Ser Tyland,” she scolds lightly, but her eyes are bright with the truth. “Male pride. Please don’t tell the royal family this, but I fear it is the only thing in Westeros more dangerous than dragons.” She catches his grin. “It would be poorly done to allow the Reach to prepare their suitors only to learn of their ineligibility when the courtship period begins.”

“Is that why you’re dancing with me, Lady Sansa? To prepare me for my ineligibility?”

Sansa’s smile turns a touch more genuine. The thing she learned about the Lannisters in her first life is that they were devastatingly smart. They would not be capable of as much as they were if they lacked the intelligence to devise the plans their gold and ruthlessness then allowed them to carry through.

“The Lannister family’s pride may equal that of the entire Reach,” Sansa says, allowing herself to tease. She’s rewarded with a huff of laughter and Ser Tyland’s hands on her waist as she jumps, and he lifts her. He carries her three steps to the left and then sets her back on the ground to continue the dance. “Lord Jason Lannister brings to his marriage Casterly Rock, but what does the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms need with even as grand a castle as the Rock?”

Sansa gives Ser Tyland a moment to think and that Lannister cleverness comes through yet again. “Lord Loren gave up Greenstone to marry Lady Cassanda. Are you saying Princess Rhaenyra will insist on her suitors doing the same?”

“The princess’s focus cannot be divided. When she marries, she will be Princess of Dragonstone. She is already the heir to the Iron Throne. Her husband must support her in what she has rather than trying to put forward his own holdings. I think your brother would find it difficult to set aside the position he was raised from birth to hold.”

“It would be seen as a slight if House Lannister didn’t court the princess,” Ser Tyland says.

“Aye. But I would appreciate it if you prepared your brother for not being selected. Or, you could put forward a different candidate.” Sansa shrugs as if it doesn’t matter to her either way. The song comes to an end, and Ser Tyland bows over Sansa’s hand. She loops her arm through his and guides him away from the dance floor. “You were direct at the start of our dance, and I will be direct now. The princess can only wed one man, Ser Tyland, but there are dozens of ways for her to show her favor. The Reach will learn this. It is my hope House Lannister will as well.”

Sansa drops the topic of conversation as she approaches her fellow ladies-in-waiting that aren’t currently dancing. She smiles at Alanna Tyrell. “I believe you already know Ser Tyland Lannister, Lady Alanna, but I’m not sure if you know what a fine dancer he is.”

Ser Tyland picks up his cue, showing his many years at court. “My lady.” He extends his hand to Alanna who accepts it with a faint flush on her cheeks. He glances at Sansa, something like respect in his eyes. “That first question you asked me, Lady Sansa. I do believe I had the correct answer to it.”

Sansa’s smile grows. Yes, Rhaenyra’s announcement was to stir resentment against the Hightowers. She knows it isn’t lost on Ser Tyland that he is dancing with Alanna Tyrell, daughter of the Lady Tyrell. She knows Ser Tyland understands her meaning when, after a single dance with Alanna, he makes an introduction to his brother and Lord Jason ends up claiming Alanna as his partner for three dances before the night is over.

Chapter Text

In the wake of the announcement regarding Rhaenyra’s upcoming courtship and then marriage, Sansa isn’t entirely surprised when the girl begins to swing wildly between trying to act much younger than her age and much older than it. There will be mornings she insists on pastel dresses and two simple braids and eats cake for breakfast. And then there will be evenings where she tries to convince Ser Harrold to escort her into the city, because she should know of men before she is to marry one.

It reminds Sansa of her own early years, when she would spend afternoons dreaming as she stared out the window or whispering with Jeyne and Beth only to then try and eavesdrop on Robb, Theon, and Jon to hear about what men spoke of. As if those three were men. They were boys, but Sansa still heard them talk about women and whores, using far crasser words than Sansa, Jeyne, and Beth did in their own whisperings.

She misses those days sometimes. She was truly, a very stupid, silly girl, but she had been happy. Her only consolation is the hope that she may one day be happy again. Her, Jon, and a peaceful life away from court. She will have it before she dies. This, she vows to herself.

She looks up ahead of her to see King Viserys and Alicent walking arm and arm but still with proper distance between them. Sansa preferred chaperoning the meetings in the king’s chambers, because she could use that time productively. Now, with the official courtship, she is often forced to accompany them on walks through the gardens, visits to the merchant stalls within the Red Keep, or even the occasional excursion out of the keep. The less said about the afternoon boating, the better.

Without her hands kept busy embroidering, she passes the time by running her plans through her head, turning them over for any weakness, for any counterplan she might need to put into place. It is Littlefinger’s lessons she adheres to now as much as Cersei’s. She must think of everything, everywhere all at once and be prepared for it.

Though, it is certainly Cersei’s influence that causes her to serenely follow behind Alicent as Sansa plots to curb her power. It has been a careful campaign, started in the Great Houses with word spreading eventually to the capital with concerns over ladies, or even men, following Alicent’s example and reaching too high. With enough voices and enough influence, the High Septon could not ignore what he was hearing, no matter how well the Hightowers line his pockets.

In fact, the High Septon is even meeting privately with King Viserys and Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, later this afternoon to discuss the issue. The king won’t forsake his promise to marry Alicent, but there are compromises he can make to appease the Faith and the highest of highborns. From what Sansa has gathered of the king’s personality, he will make those compromises.

He is a man who avoids conflict.

Sansa can’t help but think him weak.

He was a young man when he was named king, with a young wife, and a child already born. He should have claimed his kingship as if it were his right, but it was given to him instead, and he never seems to have found his footing. She wonders if Princess Rhaenys would have made a stronger ruler. She wonders if King Viserys realizes there are vultures circling his body.

If he realizes they’ve started tearing at his flesh before he’s even dead.

In her head, Sansa will admit to being one of those vultures. But the king doesn’t exercise his power. He allows those around him to leech it from him. And she cannot allow that power to fall into the hands of those she doesn’t trust with it. She must make sure as much of it as possible is concentrated in Rhaenyra.

Transferring the queen’s duties to Rhaenyra’s was an important step. Keeping them with Rhaenyra, even as the king remarries is the next step, but the plans are already in motion for it. After she sees the king and Alicent part ways, she goes to attend to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra seems surprised to see Sansa join her in the small garden she now favors. She says she cannot be in the godswood without being haunted by memories of when Alicent was her friend. “I thought I would not see you until supper. My father told me his entire afternoon is occupied.”

Ah. Sansa loops her arm through Rhaenyra’s and walks a few paces away from their assigned guards. They’re still in eyesight but hopefully not within hearing distance unless they are overly loud. “Your father has an important meeting this afternoon. I’m glad those involved took the secrecy seriously.”

“Secrecy from even his heir?” Rhaenyra asks archly but there is a little girl’s fear in her eyes, the fear of being replaced, of not being enough.

“Only in the lead-up,” Sansa promises. “Word could not reach the Hightowers that the king planned to meet with the High Septon. I expect your father will ask to dine privately with you this evening. After speaking with the High Septon and his Master of Laws, he will want to speak with you and hear your opinion.”

“On what?” Rhaenyra’s curiosity wins out over her hurt.

“What Alicent’s title shall be upon marrying your father.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t even pretend to look at the flowers. She turns to Sansa, giving her her full attention. Sansa doesn’t make her ask. “The High Septon has been fielding concerns from across the realm ever since the King of Westeros made his intention to marry the daughter of a second son of Old Town. The Hightowers are not a Great House and Ser Otto is not even his house’s heir. The inequality has left many disconcerted. Combined with the rumors of how this union came about…” Sansa gives Rhaenyra a knowing look. “The Faith is concerned it will lead to lowborn girls slipping into men’s beds and cause a crisis across Westeros. He is going to suggest your father not elevate Alicent all the way to Queen.”

“He will mislike that,” Rhaenyra says. “And Otto won’t stand for the insult of it; though, I would love to keep her Lady Alicent even after she marries my father.”

“That is out of our reach,” Sansa agrees. “But Queen-Consort is an option.”

Rhaenyra looks over Sansa’s shoulder and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as if she’s thinking hard about something. And then she sighs and looks back at Sansa. “I could try to puzzle out the answer or you could tell it to me. What should I say to my father when he asks?”

“Your mother was a Targaryen Queen, and you have taken on her duties since her death.” Sansa tries to gentle her voice as much as possible given the topic. “As her daughter and your father’s heir, you should be the next Queen of Westeros. Your father will marry Alicent as he promised, but she shouldn’t rise above Queen-Consort. She shouldn’t wear your mother’s title nor the one that is your inheritance.”

“Play to his sentimentality,” Rhaenyra says. She twists her lips. “And my own selfishness.” She laughs and waves off Sansa’s protests. “I know myself, Sansa. And so do you. Yes, I can say that to my father. I can even convince him of it. I will continue to prepare for my reign by doing a queen’s duties. It is an insult to my mother’s memory and an obstruction to my education if Alicent takes them up. Besides, comforting a king doesn’t prepare one to be a queen.”

Rhaenyra turns back to the flowers. She studies the pink and white blooms for a long moment. “Even being my father’s heir and raised at court doesn’t feel like enough preparation. I have seen Otto rule through my father for enough years to make me sick, but a strong ruler isn’t one who leads on their own. They are one who surrounds themselves with strength. They can see past flattery or even friendship in order to make the decisions that need to be made. I know my husband is a weighted, important choice, but he will only be one of many who I will depend on to help me rule. I hope I can count you amongst my advisors.”

“I will see you take the throne,” Sansa promises.

Rhaenyra smiles, bittersweet, as if she hears what Sansa carefully doesn’t promise. “You will not remain in King’s Landing forever. I cannot blame you.”

“One day, I wish to return home,” Sansa says. She cannot keep the wistfulness from her words. “Terrible things happened to me and my family there, but I want to reclaim it. I want to create happy memories so that when I think of my home, that is what I see.”

Rhaenyra reaches out to clasp Sansa’s hands. “I know I said earlier that I am selfish, and I am, but not quite so selfish as to deny you happiness and home. When you are ready, I will help you return. This I swear to you, as your friend and your future queen.”

Tears sting at the corners of Sansa’s eyes.

#

King Viserys marries Lady Alicent Hightower in the royal sept and thus makes her Queen-Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. With Rhaenyra keeping the majority of a queen’s duties, the main one remaining to Alicent is to produce heirs and, according to castle gossip, it is a duty she begins immediately if not enthusiastically.

Just lays there stiff as a board.

No sounds of a woman’s pleasure, just a man’s grunts.

Doesn’t last long and she returns to her rooms right after.

Sansa can’t help her grimace at each piece of gossip she hears until word of what happens, or doesn’t happen, in the king’s bedchambers stops reaching her. After what she has been through, she cannot listen to another woman’s suffering, even if it isn’t as bad as her or Queen Rhaella’s or even Queen Cersei’s. She can’t find it in her to try and twist the king’s carnal relations to a way that might benefit Rhaenyra.

#

Alicent is pregnant when word comes that the War for the Stepstones is over after Prince Daemon challenged the Crabfeeder to a one-on-one fight and then chased him into the caves and dragged out the man’s dead body when he tried to run. The city heralds him a hero and even King Viserys seems pleased with his brother instead of remembering that Daemon ran into this unsanctioned war half-cocked and took a few bloody years to end it.

No one’s happiness can compete with Rhaenyra’s. She turned five and ten only a few moons ago, and she has dutifully allowed herself to be courted by boys and men from across the realm. Anyone who thought they might have the princess’s interest would realize they didn’t the moment she hears Prince Daemon is returning victorious. Her face breaks into a bright, brilliant smile and it doesn’t seem to dim once as preparations for his return are made.

Sansa sends ravens to Jon and then, through Jon, to Prince Daemon as well, working out the logistics of the return. Rhaenyra helps by penning to one of Sansa’s letters do as my chief advisor says, Uncle, and Sansa’s work is much easier from there.

Her own happiness is tempered by Jon telling her his return will be delayed. He is taking his two dragons and their treasure to Winterfell so the Warden of the North can distribute the spoils won by the Winter Wolves’ efforts in the war.

She isn’t surprised when she reads his words. She wishes she could muster up some kind of anger or feeling of injustice, but she cannot. She loves Jon for the man he is. The stubborn, selfless, honorable man he’s grown into being.

She throws herself into planning Prince Daemon’s return as a distraction, and it works beautifully. There are enough moving parts to keep her occupied, enough Hightower cronies seeking to sabotage to keep her engaged, and before she knows it, she is at the docks watching as Prince Daemon disembarks.

As instructed, he is wearing his most ostentatious, his most Targaryen armor, the black somehow glinting in the sunlight. He is helmet-less, so his hair, quite short now, is on full display, along with his strong jaw and arrogant eyes. He saunters up to Sansa and his bow is almost mocking in how exaggerated it is.

“Prince Daemon,” Sansa greets coolly. “Welcome home.”

Daemon scoffs. “I’m not home yet, am I? And you seek to delay me even longer.”

Sansa ignores his pouting, he’s very similar to Rhaenyra in that regard. “As communicated in our ravens, Princess Rhaenyra has arranged a Hero’s Procession for you.” Sansa gestures to the snow white horses waiting for riders at the end of the dock. “Your path will wind your way through the city up to the Red Keep where you will present yourself before King Viserys and his court.”

Sansa watches as open, gilded chests brimming with treasures are loaded between horses per her instructions. Prince Daemon and other important men of the war will walk through the streets along with a fraction of their bounty to show off what has been accomplished in the Stepstones.

“And there, I will give him the Crabfeeder’s axe and crown and in return he’ll offer me a boon.” Daemon sounds almost bored.

“And you will ask for the same right as every other man in Westeros, save the Reach, has,” Sansa says. She ignores Daemon’s sharp look, the slant of his eyes that dares her to tell him what to do and live through the consequences. “Princess Rhaenyra’s courtship has begun. Forgive me for assuming you would wish to court her as well.” Sansa lowers her eyes and even curtsies in a fake show of modesty.

Daemon laughs at the display. “Why not demand her hand?”

“Because the Hand would call you a warmonger high on bloodlust and convince King Viserys to deny you. Therefore, you will court her as others do and show why you are the best candidate for her hand. Or not. I know not your desires, only Princess Rhaenyra’s.”

That brings Daemon up short. He squints at Sansa as if trying to ferret out her secrets. “I am Princess Rhaenyra’s first choice in husband?”

“Politically, you are one of her best choices. But you left a girl to go and fight your war, Prince Daemon. A girl with a fondness for her uncle, aye, but she’s a woman now, and heir to the Iron Throne. Court her, prove to her you love her as a woman and respect her as a future queen, and she will choose you.”

“And if I don’t?” Daemon asks, curious.

Sansa bares her teeth in an unfriendly smile. “Then there are other men she can choose from.” Threat delivered, Sansa allows herself to soften. “Truly, Prince Daemon, I am not your adversary in this. Princess Rhaenyra will not only be Queen Rhaenyra, first of her name, but she will be the first ruling Queen of Westeros. It will not be an easy undertaking, but she will do it. If you aim to help her, you will be a valuable ally and a treasured husband. If you aim to take what is not yours…” Perhaps, Sansa is not finished with threats. “The gods do not look fondly on oathbreakers and usurpers.”

Shadow chooses this moment to slink past Daemon and sit herself at Sansa’s side. Sansa smiles, genuinely, and scratches between Shadow’s ears and under her chin. Later, she will sit in the godswood and brush out Shadow’s fur for as long as Shadow will remain still for it. She has missed her wolf, almost as much as she has missed Jon.

“Spend the procession thinking,” Sansa advises. “If you do not desire Rhaenyra, then do not ask to court her. There are a hundred boons you could ask for from your king.” She looks to her right and motions for the men standing there to approach. They carry between them several ornate saddlebags, decorated in Targaryen colors, with the three-headed dragon. “There are coins inside, courtesy of Princess Rhaenyra. She asks that you shower the city with these coins so they know it is not only the king and his court who benefit from the victory in the Stepstones but all of us.”

Daemon peers inside the bags and then looks at Sansa with far more respect than he has before. “Princess Rhaenyra wishes it?”

Sansa smiles as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “She does. The crowds will hail you a hero and a Targaryen prince. Do not let it go to your head, Prince Daemon. It is Princess Rhaenyra who arranged this adulation for you.”

“With the help of her chief advisor, I’m sure.” Daemon has returned to looking amused. “Very well, Lady Sansa. I shall play the part my niece has written for me.” He starts towards the white horses before he pauses and looks back at her. “I did try and tell Jon to come here first.”

Sansa smiles at the apology. “I know Jon’s stubbornness too well to hold anyone else at fault for his choices. It is for the best. Once he returns, I will not let him leave me again so soon.”

Now, Daemon takes a step toward her. “It is clear from your warning to me that you have grown close with my niece and care for her. I will tell you I have grown close with Jon during this war. He is blood of the dragon, and our blood runs thick. If you toy with him—”

“I intend to marry him, Prince Daemon,” Sansa interrupts. “As soon as he’ll have me. It is why I do not weep that he isn’t on this dock with me now. There are many things in Westeros worthy of doubt and suspicion. My love for Jon is not one of them.”

“Well.” Daemon’s lips curve up in a smile. “Corlys owes me a treasure of my choosing.” He gives Sansa another somewhat mocking bow before he mounts the horse waiting for him.

Sansa returns to the Red Keep, shadowed by Ser Rymun, her heart beating loudly in her chest. Historically, the trip from the docks to the Red Keep has not been pleasant for her, especially when a crowd is gathered. It is different, an adoring crowd rather than a riotous one, Sansa has a dedicated personal guard, but still. A cold sweat breaks out across her brow, and she does not breathe easily until she is back within the Red Keep’s walls.

She enters the court room and stands with Rhaenyra’s other ladies near the front. Rhaenyra herself is atop the dais with her father and Otto Hightower. Sansa gives Rhaenyra a slight nod, and Rhaenyra smiles in response.

It doesn’t take long for the noise from King’s Landing to penetrate even the court room. Prince Daemon the people shout. Hero of the Stepstones they herald. Realm’s Delight and Princess Rhaenyra at times. There are even a few calls for King Viserys sprinkled in. There are, of course, no praises for Queen-Consort Alicent.

Sansa stands between Jorelle Mormont and Tyra Lannister and watches the reactions of the realm’s most powerful figures. King Viserys smiles a bit absently, as if he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on around him. Rhaenyra beams as if she is getting everything she has ever wanted. Alicent’s thin lips are pursed, making them look even thinner, and she seems to self-soothe by rubbing her hands over her protruding stomach.

The final person on the royal dais is the Hand of the King. His brows pull together more and more with each cheer from the smallfolk. Sansa allows herself to take delight in his frustration and impotent fury. He has spent his entire tenure as Hand denouncing and undermining Daemon Targaryen. It is not unlike the campaign Sansa and Rhaenyra have waged against Alicent. Otto Hightower is smart, he knows his power grows as Daemon’s wanes.

He also knows the city will never praise him as they praise Daemon. She knows Ser Otto had a hand in spreading Lord of Flea Bottom as Daemon’s unofficial title rather than Prince of the City. It backfired. The title is given lovingly, because the smallfolk do adore him, both within Flea Bottom and without. It is, after all, why Sansa is taking advantage of his popularity on Rhaenyra’s behalf.

The moment it becomes known that Daemon is courting Princess Rhaenyra, the city will celebrate. And while kings and lords don’t make their decisions based on the opinions of the smallfolk, they don’t entirely discount them either. Sansa bets there will be songs and puppet shows within the week celebrating the conquering war hero and his blushing lady love.

Finally, Prince Daemon is announced by the herald, and he strides into the throne room with all the swagger and arrogance Sansa expects from him. He clutches the Crabfeeder’s axe in one hand and allows the crown to dangle from two fingers. He tosses the axe at the steps of the dais. He takes more care with the crown.

He kneels before his brother and holds up the shabby crown. “I know there is only one king. This crown and the Stepstones are yours, your Grace.”

“Such formality,” the king jokes, clearly in a good mood. “Has the war done what the years cannot and matured you?” He rises from his throne. “Come, embrace me brother, you have been missed.”

Sansa notes Daemon’s surprise, but he quickly bounds up the steps and embraces his brother in front of the entire court. There is some murmuring, others intrigued by the display and wondering what it means.

“He is always so happy to see his brother,” Tyra murmurs. “And even happier to toss him out again.”

“You have given me the Stepstones, now I shall give something to you,” King Viserys declares. “Shall you name it now, brother, or think on it?”

“I ask not for land or titles or even royal favor,” Daemon says, projecting his voice so he will be heard by the entire hall. “I ask only for what you have offered to the rest of the men of realm. I ask permission to court Princess Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra’s delighted gasp is easily heard in the eerie silence of the room. King Viserys’s early joviality all but vanishes, a thundercloud claiming his visage. Otto Hightower looks prepared to protest, but Daemon speaks again before he can.

“I know what my detractors will claim, that I am grasping for power.” Daemon doesn’t look at Otto, directing his words to Rhaenyra. “I will say this in answer—I am Prince Daemon Targaryen. I was born a prince. I shall die a prince. I did not kneel in this very hall and swear an oath to Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the Iron Throne, while plotting to usurp her inheritance. If you should take me for your husband, princess, I will never rise above prince-consort. I swore a vow to see you crowned, and I will hold to my word.”

Rhaenyra looks as though she wants to accept Daemon’s suit and marry him on the spot. However, she gathers herself and speaks. “I accept your courtship, Prince Daemon. You are a late entry, but I trust you will make up for it.”

“Gladly,” Daemon tells her. “And I will start in this very moment.” Daemon doesn’t look away from Rhaenyra as a man hurries forward, a velvet bag clutched in his hands. He passes it to Daemon who opens the bag and draws out a gorgeous, glittering tiara.

“This is a jade tiara,” Daemon says. “It is said it was once worn by an Empress of Leng. I would see it worn by a Princess of Westeros.”

Rhaenyra steps forward and inclines her head, even though Daemon is tall enough to set the tiara without it. The gesture is enough, permission, acceptance, and more than one noble woman looks on with envy.

“I’m glad Ser Harwin and I have wed,” Mina Strong whispers. “I pity the women with foolish suitors who will try and outdo a prince.”

“Thank you for your gift,” Rhaenyra says as she straightens to her full height. “I welcome your courtship, Prince Daemon. You may arrange any outings through the royal chaperone. I believe you are already acquainted with her, Lady Sansa Stark.”

Sansa obligingly takes a step forward from the crowd. She curtsies deeply.

“She proved her honor and worth first chaperoning King Viserys and Lady Alicent,” Rhaenyra says. “She has been as steadfast in her duty now that my courtship is upon me.”

It’s a good move, and Sansa will tell Rhaenyra that later. By reminding everyone that Sansa first oversaw King Viserys and Alicent, it will be much more difficult to claim impropriety between Rhaenyra and Daemon. They can’t cast doubt on Sansa’s honor without casting doubt on King Viserys’s and Alicent’s.

Of course, Sansa expects most of her chaperoning difficulties will come from refusing to indulge Prince Daemon’s liberties. And convincing Rhaenyra not to let him take them. As long as everything proceeds smoothly and without scandal, Rhaenyra will marry Daemon. They will have an entire lifetime to enjoy each other’s company. In truth, it will only be half a year or a little more before there will be no restrictions on their shared activities.

But Rhaenyra is a princess, unaccustomed to being told no.

“I do not envy you,” Tyra Lannister whispers once Sansa is back amongst the ladies.

It is not an enviable position, Sansa agrees.

Chapter Text

Jon flies on dragonback and it is the best thing in the world. The wind whips at his face until his eyes sting and his curls are a knotted mess. His thighs ache from being clenched around the saddle and his hands are blistered from holding tightly to the chains. But it’s all worth it for being able to see Westeros from the air. For being able to cross from one end to the other in a matter of days instead of months.

He knows the words of his House—fire and blood—but the true magic of dragons for him is the transportation speed. Maybe it’s because he was the sole survivor of dragonfire or maybe it’s because the stench of charred human flesh will never leave his nose or maybe it’s because when he kills a person, he prefers to do it with a sword, staring them in the eye as he does it. Burning scores of men from the air is impersonal and it makes it dangerous.

Jon hears Eddard Stark’s voice in his head. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.

It’s fitting that he thinks of Lord Stark, Uncle Ned, as he lands Silverwing within sight of Winterfell. From the outside, Winterfell looks the same, but Jon’s chest pinches with the knowledge that it won’t from the inside. Anyone he might have known is dead. The Starks in this castle are distant ancestors of his.

He slides off Silverwing’s saddle and lands softly in the snow. It’s up a bit past his ankles, nothing too bad, and the snow around the dragons melts quickly. Dragons because Vermithor goes where Silverwing does. It makes Jon nervous, because he has no control over the Bronze Fury, and the damage an uncontrolled dragon can do is catastrophic. He hopes Silverwing tempers her mate and keeps him agreeable.

“There’s a party on its way to meet us,” Ethan says as he dismounts as well.

As the sole survivor of the Winter Wolves, Ethan has accompanied Jon to Winterfell to see the Winter Wolves honored and then, presumably, to meet up with the roving band still alive up in the North. Ethan and Jon work together to remove the heavy saddlebags from both Silverwing and Vermithor so that they are ready when the Winterfell party approaches.

The Northerners have brought a cart and so Jon and Ethan load the saddlebags onto it before hopping onto the cart themselves.

“Not a very grand entrance,” Lord Osric Glover says, even as he leads the party back to Winterfell.

“I flew in on a dragon,” Jon reminds him. “My pride can handle sitting in a cart.”

“You look like a dragon roosting on its hoard,” Ethan says, grinning as Jon aims a kick in his direction. “Keep that up and I’ll call every bird in range to come peck at you. You don’t have a direwolf to scare them off with.”

Jon’s own grin slips away at the reminder of Shadow. There was no way to bring Shadow with him, and he couldn’t keep Sansa’s direwolf from her any longer, but he wishes he was with Sansa. This is an important duty he’s undertaken, but he can’t help but wish it already over.

Ethan groans. “Didn’t mean to start you on your brooding.”

“I miss her,” Jon says simply.

Ethan rolls his eyes. “You think I didn’t leave anyone behind in the Neck? At least you’ll see your lady love again. She might even kiss you after she slaps you for delaying your return.”

“She would never,” Jon tells him.

“Kiss you or slap you?” Ethan cackles as he dodges another kick aimed his way.

“You left a woman to go to war?” Rodwell Cassel, the Winterfell guard captain asks. “I hope she waited for you.”

“She did.” Jon can’t keep the lovesick smile off his face. And as soon as he returns, he’s asking Sansa to marry him. It won’t keep him from being torn from her side should another war break out, but it will keep them together through nearly anything else.

“Does this lady have a name?” Rodwell asks.

“Uh.” Jon falters when he realizes he’s talking to Winterfell’s guard, and they may have an opinion on Jon’s feelings towards Sansa Stark. Rickon Stark claims her as kin, even though he knows that relation is distant at best. He isn’t sure how the rest of the North feels about Sansa Stark. Or even how many of them know of her.

Ethan laughs. “A dragon won’t get you out of this mess, boy.”

There’s nothing to be done but forge ahead. “Lady Sansa Stark,” Jon answers. He’s expecting the silence that follows his answer. He’s braced for Rodwell to haul him out of the cart and make him walk the rest of the way to Winterfell. He’s ready for threats or sneers that a bastard would dare look on Lady Sansa. And then he remembers—he isn’t a bastard. At least, not in their eyes.

“You think you’re good enough for Lady Sansa?” Lord Osric twists in his saddle to glare at Jon.  

“In her eyes, yes,” Jon answers, honest to a fault. “In mine own? Never. I love her true, though, and I’ll honor her for all the days we have together.”

“You swear it before the old gods and the new?” Lord Osric asks, somewhat mockingly.

“Aye, I’ll swear it before both but I only care for the blessing of the old gods.”

Ethan laughs at the looks on the men’s faces. “I forgot they haven’t spent two miserable years fighting at your side, boy. They haven’t realized yet you’re more wolf than dragon.”

“You came to King’s Landing via Volantis,” Lord Osric says. “I wouldn’t think they kept to the old gods or the new there.”

“He can speak and write the Old Tongue as well,” Ethan says, because he lives for stirring up trouble.

Jon decides it isn’t even worth the effort of trying to kick him this time.

#

In the courtyard, Lord Rickon Stark greets them along with his wife, Lady Gilliane Stark, formerly of House Glover. Their infant son, Cregan, is in the nursery, but Jon is promised an introduction to him as well at supper tonight. Jon fumbles his own introduction, almost calling himself Jon Snow instead of Jon Targaryen and then fails to hold up his end of Lady Stark’s small talk, too busy staring at the castle around him.

He knows it isn’t his Winterfell, but his ears still strain for Robb’s deep laugh and Rickon’s boyish giggles. He braces himself for Arya the Whirlwind to dash through and knock him off balance. He searches the heights for Bran’s scrabbling figure and it’s then that he notices it.

“The Broken Tower isn’t broken,” he says before his brain catches up with his mouth and calls him stupid.

Rickon Stark regards Jon with solemn, Stark-gray eyes. “Sansa said the same thing when she was here.”

“Oh,” Jon says inadequately.

Rickon spares him an interrogation. “You have traveled here after a war, you must be tired. There is a bath waiting for you in your rooms, and there are no obligations on you until supper.”

“Thank you,” Jon says. He remembers to bow to both Lord Stark and his wife before he accepts an escort to the guest rooms.

He hasn’t spent much time in this part of Winterfell before. The guest rooms were for, well, guests, and Jon was often kept out of the way whenever visitors came to Winterfell. His own rooms were in the main keep, even if Lady Catelyn ensured proper distance between his rooms and her children’s. It is difficult to be back in Winterfell, he reflects, as he enjoys the promised hot bath. It is no longer his home.

It's a sobering thought, especially when he realizes he doesn’t know where home is. It isn’t King’s Landing or his seldom used bunk in the City Watch barracks. It isn’t the Stepstones. It isn’t Winterfell or even the Night’s Watch. Perhaps, he is not meant to have a home. After his bath, he can’t remain trapped inside with his thoughts, so he layers up again and then goes to the godswood.

This, at least, isn’t changed from his memories. How many pleasant afternoons did he pass playing with Robb and Arya here? Or what of the rare occasions when all the children, Theon included, got up to mischief without Lord and Lady Stark watching? He recalls one time, Arya trying to coax Sansa to break the rules because their parents weren’t here to see. Sansa had replied that they were in the godswood which mean the gods were watching. They aren’t even your gods, Arya had snapped back. Everyone knows you keep the Seven to please Mother. Jon can’t even remember what trouble they were up to that day. He only remembers the stricken look on Sansa’s face, how she wavered on her feet for a moment as if she were about to faint before her eyes hardened and she clenched her fists at her side. Someone has to! Sansa had shouted. Gods know you don’t even try.

The cold of winter had nothing on the frosty atmosphere between the two sisters after that. It dragged on for days until Robb did something stupid and united them both against him. He did that often, Jon recalls. He was the peacekeeper of the household. Ironic that he went on to be one of the best military minds in recent history.  When Jon feels particularly low, he wonders how Robb would have fared in the War for the Dawn. Would he have seen what Jon missed? Would he have been able to secure a victory, whether it be through men or dragons?

Jon kneels in the snow until he loses feeling in his fingers. When he exits the godswood, his feet follow a familiar path, taking him to the kennels. Before, Sansa would pray in the godswood each morning. Sometimes Jon would join her at the tree, sometimes he would meet her at the gate, but he always joined her to walk to the kennels. She looked in each cage to confirm there were no people locked away, to make sure it wasn’t Ramsay’s hounds living within Winterfell’s walls. She had to do it every morning or else she couldn’t concentrate on the day’s work. Her shoulders were always tense, braced for Jon’s judgement or derision.

This Winterfell has never known Ramsay Snow’s cruelty or Theon Greyjoy’s treachery. The hounds here are proper hunting dogs, trained to bring in meat to fill the stores and supplement what can be grown during summer or bought when the roads remain traversable. Jon doesn’t linger long. He goes to the forge instead. The steamy heat hits him as soon as he enters, but he doesn’t shy away from it. That’s one thing he can say for surviving dragonfire. Heat doesn’t bother him as it once did.

He tells the smith his name is Jon and leaves off the Targaryen. The man assumes Jon is a northerner passing through, and they talk until the bell chimes warning Jon to head to the Great Hall for supper.

Jon isn’t as clean as he was after his bath, the knees of his pants are damp with melted snow, the scent of the forge—sweat, metal, and flame—clings to him, and he probably has a bit of soot somewhere he can’t see, but there’s no Lady Catelyn Stark to frown severely at him. It feels as though he’s getting away with something, and he has a boyish smile playing at his lips as he sits in the guest chair at the high table.

He makes small talk with Lady Gilliane and her brother. It’s a little strange he doesn’t exchange even a single word with Lord Rickon, but he shrugs it off.

It makes more sense when Lord Rickon invites Jon to his solar after supper for drinks and conversation.

Jon expects them to finally address the reason Jon is here, the spoils of war to enrich the North and honor the sacrifice of the Winter Wolves. He’s anxious to dispense with his duty so he can return to Sansa, but Lord Rickon doesn’t mention Jon’s purpose here.

“You navigate Winterfell well for a stranger to my castle,” Lord Rickon says.

Jon has never been one for subtlety or subterfuge. At Lord Rickon’s words, his entire body locks up tight. He knows his eyes widen, afraid. He knows Lord Rickon catalogues every reaction and comes to his own conclusion. Guilty. Jon is guilty.

“A stranger to my castle,” Lord Rickon repeats, with a new emphasis. “But not a stranger to Winterfell itself.” He takes a long draught of his ale. “Did Sansa tell you how I found her here?”

“The heart tree lowered her before you while you were praying.” Jon knows Sansa was full of appreciation for the Starks of Winterfell, but they had witnessed the gods’ miracle with regards to her. Jon’s story is equally fantastical, and he has no proof to back it up with.

“Do you know how she ended up in the heart tree’s branches?”

Again, the question is asked as though Rickon already knows the answer. It makes it easier for Jon to answer. “She was in Winterfell’s crypts.” Jon swallows thickly, because easier to answer doesn’t mean easy. “The Others and their swarms of wights overran us. She was in the crypts to offer herself in a bid to keep our ancestors at rest. She stabbed herself through the heart.” Heart’s blood, offered freely, from a line of kings stretching back eight-thousand years. Powerful stuff. Powerful enough for the gods to send her to the past.

“And where were you?” Rickon Stark asks. His gaze pierces Jon like Eddard Stark’s once it. It feels as though it’s flaying Jon open, exposing him and all his secrets.

“I was in the Great Hall.” Jon closes his eyes. “We lost the War for the Dawn, but it wasn’t like any other war I’d fought before. Surrender didn’t mean safety. It didn’t mean survival. I did the only thing I could for the people under my care. I made sure their death would be a final one. I set the Great Hall on fire. I burned them all.”

Jon opens his eyes now, expecting judgement or possibly concern for Jon’s state of mind if he’s claiming such wild things to have happened, but Rickon Stark’s gaze remains steady. He doesn’t flinch back from Jon’s words or purse his lips accusingly.

“You survived the flames,” Rickon says, prompting Jon to continue his story.

“Aye. I set the blaze in Winterfell, but when I emerged from the fire, I was in Volantis, nearly two-hundred years in the past. I can only figure the gods didn’t want the world to fall to eternal night.”

“Why now, then?” Rickon asks. “Were things truly unsalvageable in your time?”

Jon takes a moment to wonder what would have happened if he and Sansa had woken in their childhood beds with the full knowledge of what was to come. How long would they have convinced their family that they were normal children? How long until Jon admitted he knew who he was? How long until Robert Baratheon came for his head? Even if Uncle Ned believed them, what were they supposed to do? Spy on Daenerys until her dragons hatched and hope she would be easier to convince when she was younger?

Jon shakes his head. “The age I am now is the age I died, same with Sansa. If the gods sent us back in our own time, we would have been children, helpless to make any kind of impactful change. No one would have listened to us. There were two things we needed at the end; unity and dragons. The gods sent us to this time in order to give us a fighting chance.”

Rickon looks like he has a dozen new questions, but he takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “What can the North do?”

Stark history is full of stories about Bennard Stark’s treachery and Cregan Stark’s triumph and honor. Jon isn’t sure he’s heard mention of Rickon Stark, except that his death is what allowed Bennard to claim regency over Winterfell and the North. But Rickon is as much a Stark as Cregan and Brandon the Builder and Uncle Ned.

“If Sansa is right, and she often is, King Viserys will offer me a boon for my efforts in the war in the Stepstones. I am a Targaryen, but my mother was a Stark. With your permission, I will ask for stewardship of the Gift.”

Despite Jon’s stories about the dead, walking through flames, and time travel, this is what manages to surprise Rickon Stark. “The Gift?”

“It was neglected in my time,” Jon answers. “It was a source of contention as the Free Folk often raided it. My uncle, the Warden of the North in my lifetime, he always wanted to resettle the abandoned holdfasts to defend the land, but he said it was a project for after winter. He died before he could see it done.”

“The Gift isn’t popular.” Rickon presses his lips together as he considers his next words. After a moment, he braces his forearms on the table and leans forward. “What do you know if it?”

“Good Queen Alysanne felt Brandon’s Gift wasn’t enough and expanded the Gift in order to support the Night’s Watch. The Starks, as wardens, agreed, but the land never flourished the way it was meant to. Instead of being a boon to the Night’s Watch it became a burden.”

Rickon chuckles, but the look in his eyes suggests he isn’t amused. “That is what trickled down through time?” He shakes his head. “Queen Alysanne did decide to expand the Gift. In the south, they brag about her charming persuasion. We tried to find a way out of it. There were Northerners already living on those lands, good, loyal families who were uprooted because of a monarch’s whims. It strained our relationship with House Targaryen. Ellard Stark shocked the south by siding with Rhaenys Velaryon and her son Laenor during the Great Council, but no one in the North was surprised.”

And that loyalty led to Cregan Stark supporting Rhaenyra during the Dance of Dragons, Jon remembers. He knows Northern history is biased but he was raised believing Cregan Stark’s support is what ultimately won the war for Rhaenyra’s descendants. And it’s all because Queen Alysanne decided to meddle in Northern affairs?

“I’m not telling you no,” Rickon says. “Only warning you that the Gift is political, and it isn’t popular. If a Targaryen takes stewardship, it will cause some grumbling.”

“I’m not afraid of difficult work,” Jon says. “The Gift needs to be managed, and the Night’s Watch needs to be fully staffed and supported. As a Stark and a Targaryen, I might be the only one who can take stewardship without bloodshed.”

“I will support you if King Viserys grants your request.”

“Thank you. The land and its profits would still belong to the Night’s Watch.”

Rickon’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “I don’t expect taxes from the Gift. Nor do I expect the Gift to be the only lands King Viserys gives to you for your service. And if you know what’s good for your future, you won’t turn them down when he offers.”

“The eastern coast could use another port city,” Jon says. “Ideally, in the next ten years, the Gift is self-sufficient and even has enough surplus for trade. I want to establish a route between the North and Dragonstone. The more obsidian we can stockpile, the better.”

“If what you told me is true, you’re preparing for a war that’s two-hundred years out.”

“The gods didn’t give us this time for us to waste it,” Jon says. “I’ve seen them—the Others. I even saw the Night King. I watched him raise an entire Free Folk settlement after his wights slaughtered it. It—” Jon shakes his head. “There’s no way to explain it. Winter is coming. We will need every day between now and then to prepare for it. The stakes are too high for us to fail.”

“House Stark will stand with you,” Rickon promises.

“Thank you,” Jon says again.

#

Jon doesn’t linger long in the North. There are too many painful memories associated with Winterfell. Once he concludes his business, he mounts Silverwing again and flies for King’s Landing. After his meeting with King Viserys, he will know where his home will be. And then it will only be a matter of when he’ll be allowed to make it his home. He cannot move full-time to the North yet. The War for the Dawn is decades away. It’s more important to avert the Dance than start preparations for the Long Night.

Jon lands in the Dragonpit for the first time, but he doesn’t allow anyone to chain up Silverwing. Vermithor, of course, hovers above the pit as if daring anyone to chain his mate. Once Jon dismounts, Silverwing takes to the skies again.

“There will be some who won’t like their freedom,” Daemon says in greeting.

Jon injects a bit of Targaryen arrogance into his tone as he responds. “Why should I care for their opinion?” He allows Daemon to pull him in for a hug-backslap combination. “Lady Sansa’s brother had a direwolf too, you know. It was caged the night he was murdered.”

Daemon rolls his eyes as he steps back. “I see your trip North hasn’t improved your disposition any. Come, Viserys assembled the court as soon as you were spotted. There’s a full audience waiting for you.”

Jon’s thighs ache from riding on a dragon, his eyes sting after hours of wind drying them out, he reeks of dragon. He wants a hot bath and a long sleep. Even more than both of those, he wants to hold Sansa for the first time in years. He doesn’t want to make a court appearance.

Daemon ignores Jon’s grumbling, but he does stop by the City Watch barracks so Jon can take a quick bath and change into fresh clothes, so Jon dredges up a smile and doesn’t complain the rest of the trip to the Red Keep. Daemon continues to escort him once they’re inside, a good thing, because once Jon spots Sansa, he can’t look away. She stands near the front of the court, her red hair like a beacon in a sea of browns and blacks and blondes. Her dress is gray with a white direwolf—Ghost, his heart thinks with a pang—and her face brightens with a smile as their eyes meet.

Jon stumbles the rest of the way, only staying on his feet thanks to Daemon. He only tears himself away from Sansa when he stops before the dais and the king. He bows deeply.

“Rise, Ser Jon Targaryen,” King Viserys says. “You have done the Realm a great service.”

“Valar dohaeris, your Grace,” Jon says, echoing the words he said when he was first introduced to court. All men must serve. “I answered Prince Daemon’s call. It is through his and Lord Velaryon’s leadership we succeeded.”

“You learned flattery while you were at war.” King Viserys smiles, easygoing and pleased. “But service sometimes yields rewards, moreso when it is done without expectation of them. My brother asked for permission to court my daughter. What would you ask for in return for your contribution to the war’s swift end?”

“I would ask that you allow me to continue in my service to the Crown,” Jon answers. “I have spoken with Lord Stark, Warden of the North. With his blessing, I now ask your permission to assume stewardship of the Gift.” Jon’s desperate to look over at Sansa and gauge her reaction, but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the king.

“You wish for lands in the North?” King Viserys’s confusion would be insulting if Jon was the type to take affront at slights. “Not even for yourself?”

“The Night’s Watch is an honorable service, and if I can contribute to their success, I would consider my efforts well spent.” Jon cannot join the Night’s Watch in this life, he will not swear off taking Sansa as his wife, but he can still assist the Night’s Watch. He can build it up, strengthen it, and fortify it for the war to come.

“Stewardship of the Gift is yours,” King Viserys proclaims. “But the eastern coast has not been claimed by the Watch. You shall have a port city with a proper keep. It shall be known as Wolfsport, and you shall be its lord. Lord Jon Targaryen!”

The court takes their cue and cheers loudly. Jon smiles and bows, even as his insides churn. Lord Jon Targaryen. He isn’t sure which is more objectionable, lord or Targaryen. But he will have his port city, which means he can begin laying the groundwork for trade with Dragonstone. And if the obsidian is meant to arm the Night’s Watch, perhaps he can use some of the Gift’s surplus to begin the trading.

“You will dine with the family tonight,” King Viserys says, once the noise from the crowd has died down. “I should like to hear about your time in the Stepstones. Daemon has spoken highly of your command.”

“As you wish, your Grace.” Jon bows one last time and then attempts to slip into the crowd.

His efforts are marginally successful. He no longer stands in front of the throne dais, on display for the entire court to stare at, but there are plenty who stare as Jon strides purposefully toward where Sansa is surrounded by the princess and a few of her ladies.

“Lord Jon,” Sansa greets with a sweet smile and sweeter curtsy.

“Lady Sansa,” he replies.

Two of the girls giggle while another one produces a fan and uses it to hide her grin. It doesn’t hide the way she looks between Sansa and Jon as if she’s expecting something to happen.

“Well?” Princess Rhaenyra demands with an imperious arch of her eyebrows. “Haven’t you anything to say to the lady you wrote to while you were on campaign?”

“I—” Jon finds his tongued tied up in knots.

“The lady you worried with your heroic antics?” Princess Rhaenyra is ruthless.

Jon would have preferred to speak with Sansa in private, but she is here, surrounded by who he hopes have become her friends. She deserves every word he is going to say to her, and he thinks she also deserves for others to hear it. She might call him foolish, she might sigh deeply, but all of Westeros deserves to know she is worthy of love.

“I have you to thank for my life,” Jon says, finding his words. He’s aware of the ladies around Sansa falling silent, but he cannot tear his eyes away from her. He takes a step closer, as if she is pulling him into her orbit. “When we realized the pirates had sent a proper invasion force, we knew we could not hold the island. I—I pleaded with the gods to allow me to see you again. They heard my plea, and they sent Silverwing and Vermithor in answer. And now, I stand before you again, but I find that I am greedy. I want more than to see you, Lady Sansa. If you allow it, I will cherish you. I will honor you. I will love you.”

Sansa covers her mouth with a trembling hand. He can barely hear her words, muffled by her fingers. “Jon—are you—”

She cannot finish her thought. He has made her forget her courtesies, and it is a victory that makes him grin. “I am asking you to be my wife, Lady Sansa. To be the Lady of Wolfsport and Stewardess of the Gift. Will you accept me as your husband?”

“Yes,” Sansa breathes. Around her, the ladies squeal and Princess Rhaenyra laughs, delighted, but Sansa surges forward, barely restraining herself to only grasp Jon’s hands in hers. “I will be your wife most gladly, Lord Jon.”

Jon raises their joined hands. He kisses first her right hand, then her left. His ears burn as he realizes they’ve attracted an audience, but he can’t regret the spectacle he’s made. Sansa has agreed to marry him. Sansa is going to be his wife.

“Lord Rickon gave his blessing,” Jon says. “He hopes to convey it personally, if not at the wedding, then when we go North.”

“I look forward to seeing my kin again.” Sansa takes another step closer, until their bodies are so close, Jon can hear Septa Mordane’s horrified lecture. Sansa leans in to brush her lips over his cheek, a gesture that is both too much and, at the same time, not nearly enough. “Though, if you thought your pretty words mean I would forget you didn’t return home with the favor I gave you, I would like to correct that assumption now.”

“I carried it close to my heart.” Jon’s voice is nearly a whisper. His words don’t need to be loud with Sansa so near. “It burned along with everything else I wore when Silverwing and Vermithor came to my rescue.”

Sansa remains stern for only a moment longer. “You returned to me, which is what I prayed for twice each day.”

“Blegh,” Daemon says, announcing his presence. “The two of you will make me lose my lunch.”

“You should be taking notes,” Princess Rhaenyra tells her uncle, as ruthless with him as she had been with Jon.

“You want pretty words to go with your pretty trinkets?” Daemon asks, his voice dropping to a lethal purr. Jon feels vaguely uncomfortable to be standing so close to them. A glance at Sansa confirms this is normal behavior for the two of them.

Princess Rhaenyra tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I deserve everything, don’t you agree?”

Daemon’s smile is a curved, wicked thing as he takes Rhaenyra’s hand and raises it to his lips. At the last moment, he turns her hand over, so he presses a kiss to her palm. Rhaenyra gasps and sways closer. The girls around them giggle again, and Jon finds his own hands empty as Sansa steps forward and easily breaks the contact between Daemon and Rhaenyra.

“That is enough of that,” Sansa says.

“You spoil my fun,” Daemon says with a mock pout.

“Once you are married, you may have all the fun she allows you,” Sansa tells him, not intimidated in the least.

Princess Rhaenyra beams and loops her arm through Sansa’s. “I shall only allow him his fun if he is very well behaved.” She winks and then bursts into laughter as she pulls Sansa toward the side exit.

Jon watches them go with something close to envy twisting in his stomach. “I blame you for their early departure.”

Daemon just sighs and claps Jon on the back. “Your betrothed is a very strict chaperone. I look forward to getting back at her during your courtship.”

“What courtship?” Jon asks stupidly. “I have her family’s permission and now hers. As soon as I find another practitioner, we’ll go before the old gods and say our vows.”

Daemon laughs and ruffles Jon’s hair. “You’re a Targaryen by blood and now a lord of something in the North. You aren’t having a commoner’s wedding.” He laughs again, as if he thought Jon had been joking, and hauls Jon over to chat with some of the gold cloaks standing guard.

Chapter Text

Jon is surprised to find he isn’t nervous as he makes his way to King Viserys’s chambers. Perhaps he should be, King Viserys made him a lord this afternoon and gave him the land he wanted in the North and more. He could easily reverse his decision. And yet. Jon isn’t nervous. For the first time in his life, there’s no curl of fear in his gut.

He survived the Stepstones. Sansa has agreed to marry him. They will live their lives in the North, dedicate what time they have left to strengthening the Night’s Watch. He…he doesn’t have to battle against the Others in this new life. There’s a possibility there will be peace in his future. He remembers once telling Sansa he was sick of fighting. And then he fought, and he fought and he died and then he fought some more.

But now? Now, he might finally be able to rest.

He is announced by the Kingsguard outside the door and then ushered in. King Viserys is already present, along with his pregnant wife, and the Hand of the King. King Viserys isn’t seated at the table, though. He’s seated by a large model city that Jon can’t help but be drawn to. He remembers making snow cities in Winterfell’s courtyards, and he heard that in Dorne and on Westeros’s beaches some made sand cities, but this is…this is something else entirely.

“Old Valyria,” King Viserys says, catching Jon’s interest. “I’ve been scouring scrolls and books since I was a boy, so I could recreate its glory before the Doom. So much was lost when we fled to Westeros.”

Belatedly, Jon realizes we includes him. Wasn’t he proclaimed Lord Jon Targaryen only this afternoon? In his first life, he wanted nothing more than to be legitimized as a Stark. And now, in this second life, he has had to embrace his father’s family. It’s a struggle, but he cannot deny the model city is fine craftsmanship. And the details are so intricate it doesn’t surprise him it has been a lifelong project for the king.

“But so much was saved as well,” Jon says quietly. It’s odd for him to think that Old Valyria, this model city, the Doom, wasn’t very long ago. Jon and Sansa traveled further back in time when they went from the War for the Dawn to the Dance of Dragons. And in those decades, how much was lost? Time strips away the details. What makes it into histories is what’s considered important by the victors. What makes it into songs is what’s catchy and brings people to laughter or tears. How much of it is real?

“Dreams saved us from the Doom,” King Viserys says. “Dreams will save us again. Targaryens have power because we have dragons but we’re alive because we dream.”

A scoff from the doorway alerts them to Daemon’s presence. “Don’t go filling his head with nonsense, brother. It took me two hard years to train him the way I wanted.”

Jon, forgetting where he is, rolls his eyes. “I spent most of the campaign with Roddy and the Winter Wolves.”

“And you’re alive because of dragons,” Daemon says, his words clipped, but his sharp look is for his brother, not for Jon.

“He’s alive because of love,” Alicent says. She flushes as the men in the room all turn to her. She strokes her swollen stomach. “Word of your proposal has spread quickly. It’s very romantic.” Her eyes dip down, as if she doesn’t want anyone to see her longing for her own romance. “You loved Lady Sansa so much, two dragons answered your pleas to rescue you so you could see her again.”

“It does sound like something out of a song,” King Viserys says kindly.

“I only called one dragon.” It’s Jon’s turn to be uncomfortable with the attention of the room. He wonders where Sansa and Rhaenyra are. “But Vermithor didn’t allow his mate to go charging off alone.”

“Will we have a song about them as well?” Daemon asks but even though he’s teasing, it isn’t cruel. After a lifetime as the bastard of Winterfell, Jon knows the difference. “The Dragon’s Mate has a good ring to it. Though we’d have to make sure everyone knew it was about the dragons and not Jon here.” Daemon winks at Jon, but it’s Alicent who splutters and flushes even redder at the innuendo.

“Enough,” King Viserys says mildly. “Jon, I’ve already set up a meeting between you and Lord Beesbury, my Master of Coin. He’ll coordinate with you the expense account for your new lands, and he’ll assist you in budgeting for the project. Ser Tyland might join as well, since Wolfsport will be a port city.”

“I thought the Lannister was only interim Master of Ships.” Daemon examines his nails as if he isn’t interested in the topic. “Corlys is back from war. Is his seat not waiting for him?”

Jon can see King Viserys grow uncomfortable, as if he doesn’t want to oust Tyland Lannister. Jon remembers Sansa’s fears of the Lannisters in their previous life. He doubts they’re any less powerful or vindictive in this time.

“Perhaps Jon needs an advisor,” King Viserys suggests hopefully.

“The Manderlys or the Mormonts would be the better option if we’re discussing a Northern fleet,” Jon says as gently as he’s able. “But I would like for Lady Sansa to attend my meeting with Lord Beesbury. She’s good with figures, and one day she’ll oversee the households at both the Gift and Wolfsport.”

There’s a distinct throat clearing before Lord Commander Harrold says, “Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Sansa.”

The two women enter, and Jon knows they heard his last comment, because Sansa’s gaze seeks his out immediately. Her face, usually so carefully constructed at court is open, showing him her surprise in the wideness of her eyes and her pleasure in the pink that dusts her cheeks. He hears the echo of a memory. I never learn, Jon. I’ll always be a silly, stupid girl. Sansa’s voice had been filled with such loathing, all of it directed inward. He hadn’t been able to convince her otherwise, then. He will dedicate the rest of his life to showing her her true worth. She had been young once, yes a silly girl, but never stupid. Naïve, he thinks. But not stupid.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Jon greets, recovering. He bows to her and then he approaches Sansa and takes her hand in a far more familiar greeting. Sansa’s blush spreads until the tips of her ears turn pink. Jon makes it worse by lingering over the kiss he presses to the back of her hand. “My lady.”

“My lord,” Sansa returns, breathy and verging on improper. As much as Jon revels in cracking her composure, he knows they would both prefer if he did only when they are in private. Of course, as soon as he considers what he could do in private to make her eyes go wide and her cheeks flush and her voice rise and crack…well, his breeches are a tad more uncomfortable than they had been a moment ago.

“Young love,” Daemon sighs theatrically. “Fortunately, my future bride is young enough for the both of us.” He laughs at Rhaenyra’s pout and makes a show of kissing each of her hands. He doesn’t press his luck beyond that with his brother in the room. But he can’t contain his mischief, so he turns his smirk on Otto. “Will you bring a lady to our next dinner, Ser Hand? I fear you’re the odd man out.”

Jon watches as Otto’s spine stiffens until his posture looks almost painful. “I have no intention of remarrying. I am to be a grandsire soon, there is no need for me to be a father again.”

Daemon’s smirk grows. “A mistress, then?”

Alicent sucks in a breath between her teeth and glares at Daemon. It’s nearly the twin of the glare her father sends Daemon’s way as well.

“Come, sit,” King Viserys says, avoiding the conflict by; well, avoiding it. “I am ready to eat.”

“You’re always ready to eat,” Daemon mutters, too quiet for anyone but Jon, Sansa, and Rhaenyra to hear him.

They all take their seats, King Viserys at the head of the table, with his wife to his left and Otto Hightower to his right. Daemon slides into the chair opposite his brother, with Rhaenyra to his right. Jon pulls out the chair to Daemon’s left for Sansa and then seats himself between her and Otto. It leaves the chair across from him empty, a buffer between Rhaenyra and Alicent. Jon would have preferred sitting next to Daemon, but King Viserys mentioned he wanted to talk to Jon which means he should sit closer to the king.

Jon does his best not to gawk like a green boy as food is set before them. It’s rich, decadent, what he would expect on a king’s table, but nothing like what he ate in the war or in his previous life. The meat sizzles in grease, the vegetables are soaked in butter, and his stomach churns at the sight of some of it.

“Did Lord Stark receive you warmly in Winterfell?” Sansa asks. She, of course, shows no surprise at the spread, as if she’s used to dining with royalty. After a moment, he realizes that as one of Rhaenyra’s ladies she would be.

“He did, yes.” Jon isn’t sure why he’s suddenly tongue-tied and stilted. This is Sansa. But maybe it’s the audience that makes him uncomfortable. The things he wants to say to her—they made the same comment about the Broken Tower, the godswood was the only thing that remained unchanged, he couldn’t stand in the Great Hall without flinching—he cannot say with company. “They served kidney pie.”

“With peas and onions?” Sansa asks, a look on her face as if she’s remembering their childhood.

“And the thickest gravy I’ve ever had,” Jon answers. He shares a smile with her and promises himself he’ll find a cook for their household that knows how to make all their favorites. He’ll build her glass gardens as a wedding gift and make sure to import not only lemon trees but also limes and oranges as well. This new chance they have—she’ll never want for anything.

“But no fresh fruit,” Sansa says as if somehow she can see into his mind. She takes the bowl of fruit from the center of the table and scoops herself two large scoops of multi-colored fruit. She gives Jon three of the same. “Watermelon and cantaloupe from Essos, nectarines and grapes from the Reach, and berries from the Riverlands. A peaceful kingdom is a prosperous one.”

Jon spears a blackberry on the tines of his fork. Fruit in the North is a luxury and one they rarely get outside of apples or the berries that are hardy enough to survive constant frosts and snows. He happily eats his fruit as Sansa talks about the other dishes on the table, from all over Westeros, and portions him some of the plainer, less rich options. He can’t help but smile at her in gratitude.

“They make a good gravy in the North?” King Viserys asks.

Jon notes that while there is a spread of foods from Dorne, the Reach, the Westerlands, the Riverlands, even Essos, there is nothing Northern at the table. “I think so, yes.”

“After nothing but crab and salted pork, anything would have tasted heavenly,” Daemon says.

Jon shrugs. Daemon isn’t wrong, but Jon still prefers Northern food to anything on the table before him now. Except maybe the fruit. He’s never had cantaloupe before, but the orange melon is good. It’s even better when he pairs it with a cube of watermelon.

“Didn’t you oversee the storage garrison?” Alicent asks. Her plate of food is plain, and she sips at a goblet of wine that is more water than wine.

“We were guarding the supplies, not feasting on them,” Jon says. “And while we were extremely grateful for your support, the kind of rations which can survive long-term storage aren’t always the most appealing.”

Sansa places two rolls on Jon’s plate. Their tops are shiny, glazed with butter, and he can see the steam curling from them. He bets the insides are soft. If he never sees another piece of hardtack again in his life it’ll be too soon. This time, a look isn’t enough to convey his gratitude. Under the table, he gently squeezes Sansa’s knee in thank you. To his surprise, she makes a startled little sound and then bites her lip as if to keep another from escaping.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her blush has returned and—Jon quickly snatches his hand back. He didn’t know knees could be sensitive. And while she dresses simply, her skirts always have a lot of fabric. Could she really feel his touch through all of them? What will her reaction be if he touches her bare skin? What if he pressed his lips against the inside of her knee? Would she like that? Would she fist a hand in his curls and try to draw his mouth up higher?

“I’m glad our support made a difference,” Rhaenyra says, pulling Jon out of his thoughts. There’s a bite to her words, and the sharp look she sends both her father and Otto reaffirms what Sansa told him in her letters. The Small Council wasn’t united in aiding the war effort. It took Sansa’s political maneuvering and Princess Rhaenyra’s help to secure what paltry aid they even managed to do. Still, it was better than receiving nothing.

“What business did you have in the North?” Otto asks, ending the topic.

“A contingent of men from the Winter Wolves came south to fight in the war,” Jon answers. “I went North to thank the North for their support and deliver the spoils their men earned with their efforts.”

“With their lives,” Sansa says quietly.

“Aye.” Jon swallows past the lump in his throat. He pokes half-heartedly at his food, his appetite diminished. “Only one of them lived.”

“Another man would have kept their earnings,” Daemon says, uncharacteristically serious. “But Jon is a good man. An honorable one.”

“I’ve never heard of these Winter Wolves.” Otto doesn’t linger on respect for the dead or Jon’s command. His gaze is sharp and reminds Jon of when he was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and then men would assess him for any weakness or hesitation that they could twist and use against him. “Does the North have a secret standing army?”

“Why would you have heard of them?” Sansa asks before Jon can fumble an answer. “What does anyone in the south know of the North except that it snows, and we still keep to the Old Gods? There is more to us than that, but the south doesn’t care so long as our taxes still make it to the royal coffers on time.”

Jon isn’t the only one who stares, open-mouthed, at Sansa’s outburst. Even Rhaenyra, who might know Sansa better than anyone here but Jon, looks caught off guard. Daemon, of course, only lifts a sardonic eyebrow.

“The Winter Wolves aren’t a standing army,” Sansa says, quieter now, more subdued. “When times are lean, when the maesters predict a long winter, men across the North leave their homes with nothing but their leather armor and a weapon or two. They strike out into the wilderness to live until winter claims them. They are honorable. They put their families and their neighbors before themselves. They aren’t a secret army. They’re—”

“They’re fierce,” Jon says. “They’re brave. I was honored to serve with them. They’re the only reason I lived long enough for Silverwing and Vermithor to reach the island. You can call Northerners quaint or old-fashioned, but you won’t malign them in my presence.” For a moment, Jon’s voice dips, dangerous, as if he’s Lord Commander or Commander of the Living.

“You said one lived?” Alicent ventures, hesitant but determined to break the growing tension.

“Ethan the Eagle,” Jon answers. He even manages to make his voice sound normal again. “He took Shadow off the island at my orders. I needed him to warn Prince Daemon and the others, because we expected the pirates to overrun us.”

Alicent’s eyes are round and frightened. “You didn’t leave?”

Jon stares at her, uncomprehending.

“Jon would never leave his men,” Sansa answers for him. “No matter the risk or the danger.”

King Viserys looks alarmed, and he glances at Daemon who snorts and says, “See what I had to put up with?”

“You are Lord Jon Targaryen of Wolfsport and Steward of the Gift,” King Viserys says. “You are kin to royalty. You will never risk your life like that again.”

It’s an order, something Jon has always bristled against. More than that, it’s a royal order. Jon wants to tell Viserys he is no king of Jon’s. He wants to tell Viserys that it was his descendants who failed Jon and the living, but, of course, he can’t do that. He grits his teeth. “I cannot predict the future, your Grace, but I will do my best to never be in a situation again where I need to make that decision.”

“Jon.” Sansa rests her hand over Jon’s on the table. “You are brave, gentle, and strong. You were put in command, and you did as duty bid you. You will do your duty in the North as well. I think I speak for both myself and everyone else at the table when I say I hope there will be no war in the North. That doing your duty will mean overseeing the Gift for the Night’s Watch and growing a thriving port city on the eastern coast.”

“That is my duty to the North,” Jon says, his voice rough, his accent thickening as he turns his hand over so he can grasp Sansa’s fingers in his own. “But I will have a second duty. To you. To our family.”

Family, Sansa mouths, as if she doesn’t dare speak the word into existence, as if she’s afraid that if she hopes it’ll be snatched away from her.

“I hope you’ll be blessed as early as I was,” Alicent interrupts. She rests her hands on her stomach as if they’ve somehow forgotten over the course of the meal that she’s pregnant.

Sansa draws her hand back and sets to cutting her venison as if the moment never happened.

“I hope your husband doesn’t approach your marriage as a duty,” Daemon says, ignoring Alicent’s comment as he grins at Sansa. “Visiting your wife’s bed isn’t the same as marching off to war.” Daemon pauses, tilts his head. “In most cases. I wasn’t quite so fortunate in my first marriage.”

“I hope you won’t view our marriage as an unpleasant duty,” Rhaenyra says with an affected pout, but Jon thinks there’s a genuine concern in her tone.

Daemon seems to pick up on it as well, because he lifts Rhaenyra’s hand to his lips. “Our marriage will be full of pleasure and delights, no duty or obligation to be found.”

Rhaenyra’s turned to Daemon, and Jon catches a glimpse of the longing on her face. She looks as though she wants Daemon to tell her what kinds of pleasures and delights he’ll offer her. He glances to his left, at where King Viserys seems queasy, as if his meal isn’t agreeing with him. Alicent, he notes, looks torn between self-pity and jealousy. She strokes her stomach again, as if trying to convince herself her loveless marriage is enough for her.

Jon is glad he won’t even have to choose between doing what is right and doing what he wants. His marriage to Sansa will be full of duty, yes, but it will be full of pleasure as well. Full of love. He shakes his head at himself and his ridiculous notions. If Robb could hear him—no, best not to think about Robb. That life is over. It is him and Sansa now, the only two who know of that time.

One day, they’ll have a family, but it won’t be the same family they had before. There will be no Eddard Stark, solemn but proud of his children. No Catelyn Stark, strict but loving in her own way. No Robb trying to imitate his father’s seriousness without giving up his childhood joys. No Arya and Bran causing chaos. No little Rickon to act as a terror.

A new family. Children who might have red hair and blue eyes or even black curls and gray eyes. There might be similarities to their siblings of before, but they won’t be the same as them.

While everyone else at the table is distracted, Jon claims Sansa’s attention. “I love you,” he says quietly, his words only for her.

Her entire face softens, thaws like the first blooms of spring. “I love you too,” she tells him.

Jon’s heart swells in his chest until he feels as though it will burst.

#

Jon is glad he brought Sansa to his first meeting with Lord Beesbury, and he fully intends to bring her to all the ones to follow. The amount of money Lord Beesbury tells him is at his disposal is so large as to not mean anything to him. But Sansa simply nods, writes it down, and says they’ll start doing some rough calculations to see how far they can stretch it. Jon can’t quite believe that amount of gold could ever run out, could ever be spent, but he supposes there is a lot of work to be done to make the Gift liveable. And also to create a whole city of out nothing on the coast.

Suddenly, everything feels too big, too overwhelming, but Sansa rests her free hand on his and takes control as if she was born to do this. It makes him wonder what would have happened if things hadn’t gone so poorly in the south. If Uncle Ned never died. If Sansa had married Joffrey and become Queen. She would have been a good queen, he thinks. She doesn’t freeze up at large problems. She listens to the scope of them and then breaks them into manageable pieces.

Jon can do the same with battles and armies, but things like calvary, archers, infantrymen, those are quite different from renovations and new construction. If he was in charge, the Gift and Wolfsport would resemble Castle Black, military basics with the necessities and few amenities. Sansa made a note about a theatre in Wolfsport, or, at the very least, leaving an open space for one if they can’t afford to build one straight away.

“The North cannot remain isolated,” Sansa tells him as their first meeting winds down. Jon is aware Lord Beesbury is listening to them with interest, but he’s certain Sansa is too and so whatever she has to say, she doesn’t mind an audience. “We need to attract visitors. It might be trade at first, with Essos and the southern kingdoms, but eventually others as well. The North has endured on its own, but I want more than that for our land and our people. I want us to prosper.”

Once, Sansa’s brother was King in the North. Independence was declared, fought for, bled for, and by the time Daenerys Targaryen came to Dragonstone, Jon was King in the North. He gave up his kingdom in exchange for help he never received. He and Sansa had fought bitterly over it, even though she eventually admitted he was right to do it. She had confessed to him, crying, that giving up Northern independence felt like they were turning their backs on Robb. That they were invalidating what he fought and died for.

And now she is here, almost two-hundred years in the past, laying the groundwork to tie the North more tightly to the Iron Throne than it ever has been before. If they are successful, the North will never even consider independence. He wants to ask her if she’s certain. The North had been his kingdom once, but only in name. She was the true Queen in the North. And she told him he made the right choice giving it away, because they had to put their people before their power. Their people over their people’s pride. Just as Torrhen knelt for the greater good, so did Jon.

“We will,” Jon says. “Lord Rickon will help. Perhaps—” Jon’s voice grows thick as his throat tightens. “Perhaps, there will be no need for the Winter Wolves in the future.”

If they can build a North where there is enough, either through their own efforts or trade, then men won’t be forced to leave their families to protect them. The North can remain together, remain whole.

Sansa is quiet for a long moment as she looks over her notes. “We’ll need laborers for all the projects we have planned. Once we begin to firm up plans, perhaps you could reach out to Ethan. There are still Winter Wolves in the North. They’re strong men, aren’t they? Would they help with construction in return for fair wages and a dry, warm room to sleep in?”

“I’ll ask,” Jon tells her. Sometimes, he is amazed at how she has remained so kind after all she’s been through. She has told him she’s spoiled and silly and stupid, but she’s the most thoughtful woman he’s ever met. If Lord Beesbury wasn’t sitting and watching them, he would kiss her. Sansa’s eyes dip down to his lips as if she’s thinking the same thing.

“I believe that’s enough for our first session,” Lord Beesbury says. There’s a fatherly air about him as he smiles at them. “I look forward to our next one.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa says, perfectly polite.

“Might I impose on you for a bit longer?” Lord Beesbury asks. “After all this time inside, I would like to see the godswood, and I hear you are the resident expert.”

“Oh.” Sansa glances at Jon and then looks back at Lord Beesbury. “Of course, my lord. I would be honored.” She rests her hand on the crook of Lord Beesbury’s arm and the two of them exit the room together, shadowed by Ser Rymun, the knight that apparently has sworn himself to Sansa’s service.

Jon isn’t sure what to do with himself now. He had been hoping to spend some time with Sansa in the godswood, but he supposes with his proposal known to the entire Red Keep, no one will allow them any time alone until they’re married.

Before he can get too far into a sulk, Lord Strong enters the room. “Ah, Lord Jon, exactly who I was looking for.”

“Sorry?” Jon asks. He isn’t sure what business the Master of Laws has with him, but he suspects it’s nothing he’ll like.

“I am Lyonel Strong, Lord of Harrenhal.”

Jon stares at the man for a long moment before he manages to say, “Yes, I know. I served in the City Watch when I first arrived. I met your eldest son. And your daughters are friends with Lady Sansa.”

To his surprise, Lord Strong’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, rather than narrowing at Jon’s impolite response. “Not everyone in this city has as good a memory as you do.”

Jon doesn’t bother to hold back his eye roll. He’s a distant Targaryen relative who has made a name for himself in an unsanctioned war and asked as his royal boon to be given lands no one cares about in the North. He’s allowed to play into his brutish reputation. “What I’ve learned is everyone in King’s Landing has an excellent memory. If you’re slighted, it’s purposefully done.”

Lord Strong gives Jon another eye crinkling smile. “I can hear Lady Sansa in your words, my lord. Harrenhal, my seat, is just north of the Gods Eye. Have you heard of it?”

“The Isle of Faces is a sacred place.” Jon isn’t sure why this man wants to discuss religion with him, especially one that isn’t state-sanctioned, but he is interested in the history of the island. “They say it’s where the First Men and the Children of the Forest made their pact to end their war against each other. It’s why true godswoods have weirwoods with a face carved into them. It began there, when the Children wanted the gods to witness the pact.”

If anything, Lord Strong’s smile grows. “You keep to the old gods?”

“Aye.” Jon’s starting to feel suspicious. “But if you seek to use that against me, it isn’t secret.”

“No, I’m not one of them,” Lord Strong says. “I had heard you kept to the old gods, and I merely found myself curious. There aren’t many of us this far south. And I wouldn’t have thought Volantis would encourage interest in the old gods.”

“I only spent a bit of time in Volantis.” Despite Lord Strong’s assurances, Jon doesn’t trust him. It’s a clumsy interrogation, since he’s able to notice it, but it’s an interrogation nonetheless. Jon hopes construction goes quickly in the North, so he and Sansa don’t have to linger in King’s Landing for long. He’s eager to be home. Eager to be somewhere he doesn’t have to constantly look over his shoulder and question his every answer.

“And before you ask,” Jon continues. “I have no interest in R’hllor or the Red Priestesses.”

“Oh? Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“You truly follow the old gods?” Jon asks. At Lord Strong’s nod, Jon exhales deeply. “Then you know, the old gods, like all gods, require sacrifice. But it is the petitioner who must sacrifice, whether it is their best goat, their youngest lamb, their own blood or even, if they’re truly desperate, their tears. The Red Priestesses sacrifice others. Power gained at no cost to yourself…it’s a lie. The cost there is to your soul, and I will have nothing of it.”

Lord Strong’s eyebrows steadily climb throughout Jon’s outburst, but he doesn’t look judgmental. Only contemplative. “The Red Priestesses have no real foothold in Westeros. There are the old gods, of course, but the practitioners grow fewer and fewer in number with each passing year. Westeros is dominated by the Seven.”

Jon has nothing safe to say about the Seven. He always associated them with Lady Catelyn and so he never took to them the way he took to the old gods. With the Seven, there were certain deities for certain requests. It was too regimented for him. He prefers kneeling in the godswood and pouring his heart out to the old gods. Either they will find his request worthy or they won’t.

“I heard a bit about the Many-Faced God as well,” Jon says. “I still prefer the Northern gods.”

“Good,” Lord Strong says. “Should we visit the godswood and our gods?”

Jon is about to protest, ready to end this baffling conversation, but then he remembers Sansa had gone to the godswood earlier. Maybe she’s still there. He agrees and thankfully they walk in silence until they reach the small area. He knows the path to the weirwood by heart, and he’s so intent on reaching it and, perhaps, losing Lord Strong in the process, that he doesn’t notice the small party in front of it until he’s almost to the base of the tree.

When he spots Sansa, his breath catches in his throat. She’s in a gray gown with white and black direwolves chasing each other along the hem. Her hair is half-pulled back, flowing freely down her back in a spill of red as dark as the weirwood leaves. Had she been wearing this earlier? Has she changed her hair?

Lord Beesbury is still keeping Sansa company, but Jorelle Mormont has joined them. She grins when she spots Jon. She nudges Sansa who looks up. Her smile is beautiful. Jon can’t believe it is for him. His feet carry him forward until he’s startled to see Sansa scant inches from him. His gaze dips to her lips, and she parts them as if inviting him to kiss her. If they didn’t have an audience, perhaps he would.

Instead, Jon clenches his right fist tightly at his side.

“Ah, good,” Lord Strong says as he catches up to Jon. “Everyone is here.” He smiles at Jon’s confusion. “I keep to the old gods, remember? You’ll have to be married in a sept before the Seven to make it all official, but there’s no reason not to honor our traditions.”

Jon stares helplessly at Sansa, hoping she’ll make sense of everything. She arranged this? She wants to marry him? Now? There’s no cloak, either for her to remove or him to drape over her shoulders. But, he supposes, those touches aren’t needed. Cloaking, handfasting, those have been added to some weddings in order to blend Northern and southern traditions. But Lord Strong was right. All they need is a weirwood and a willing couple.

Shadow trots over and sits primly next to Sansa.

“Now, we can begin,” Sansa says with a smile of her own. She scratches between Shadow’s ears. Her smile, when she turns it on Jon, is a shy, reserved thing. “Only if you want. As Lord Strong said, it won’t be official, but—”

“I love you,” Jon says, hoping the words make up for how rude he’s being interrupting her. “I declared in front of the entire court my intention to marry you. This ceremony here is for us. Whatever happens later, with me a Targaryen and you lady-in-waiting to the crown princess, that will be a show. I don’t ever want you to doubt me.”

“I couldn’t. I can’t.” Sansa, always braver than him, clasps his hands. “I love you as well, Jon Targaryen. And I want to pledge my love before the gods today, so they know it as well. I know they’re the ones to thank for us being together.”

Because they sent her back with him, so he wouldn’t be alone. Because they allowed them to be together, even as they burdened them with a task that seems far greater than one two people can bear. Jon steps even closer and presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead before he turns to Lord Strong. “You know the words?”

“Aye,” Lord Strong says with a bit of a grin as he emulates Jon’s speech.

Jon takes a deep breath and stares into Sansa’s bright, beautiful eyes as he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who comes? Who comes before the gods?”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you married Jon without me,” Rhaenyra pouts.

Sansa, who has heard this complaint six times over the past three days, embroiders without looking up from her work.

“The south doesn’t recognize the ceremony. By Northern standards, we are married, but we will not take rooms together and I will not be addressed as Lady Targaryen until we’re married before the Seven.” Or until they move North, Sansa thinks.

“Your wedding will open the celebrations for mine,” Rhaenyra says. She doesn’t even pretend to work on her embroidery. She lounges in an armchair, her legs thrown over one of the armrests in an appalling display. “There will be seven days of celebration before Daemon and I are wed. You’ll be wed on the first day, with the welcome feast doubling as your wedding feast. Unless—” Rhaenyra frowns as if only now considering her plan might cause offense.

“I’m honored to be included in your celebration,” Sansa tells her. There are too many ladies of court around for Sansa to tell Rhaenyra she doesn’t care about the Seven ceremony. In her mind, she and Jon are married. What will come will be a show put on for the southern court. At least the Sept of Baelor doesn’t exist in this time. She has too many poor memories of that building, her father’s execution and then her ill-done marriage to Tyrion.

“Have you kissed?” Alanna Tyrell asks. She is officially betrothed to Jason Lannister and has grown increasingly curious about matters between men and women as her own wedding date approaches. Sansa isn’t sure if it’s her natural desire to be good at everything she does or her concern over Lord Lannister’s well-known reputation with women.

Jorelle scoffs before Sansa can answer. “He kissed her on the forehead before the ceremony and only gave her the briefest of kisses on the lips to end it.”

“The south doesn’t recognize our marriage,” Sansa says, continuing to embroider. “I will not ruin my reputation as my actions reflect on Princess Rhaenyra.”

“Do you want to kiss him?” Rhaenyra asks. She gasps at whatever expression she sees on Sansa’s face. “You do! He’s not my type, but I’ve heard plenty of ladies giggling about his rugged looks.”

Sansa reminds herself that Jon is hers now. Even if the south doesn’t recognize their vows, Jon does. He pledged himself to her and only her for this day and the rest of their days. It doesn’t matter who giggles over his curls or swoons over his eyes or daydreams about his strong arms. All they will ever be able to do is look.

“My brother says Jon spends a lot of time sparring at the City Watch barracks,” Nora Strong says with a grin of her own. “Says he has a lot of pent up frustration to get out.”

“He also says Jon doesn’t visit the sighing houses,” Elara adds. “He never has. The other men tease him about it.”

“Jon is loyal,” Sansa says. It’s one of his best and sometimes worst qualities. Jon is like that, she has found. His traits are so deeply embedded in him that they are the best of him until his stubbornness wins out and they cause him to stumble. Her father had been like that. Honorable until it killed him.

“That kind of restraint can be bad,” Tyra Lannister says, her voice dipping low, to keep the conversation as private as possible. “I heard if men hold themselves back too long then they become rough, wild things in bed.”

“What do you know about it?” Mina snaps, uncharacteristically bold. She darts a look at Sansa, as if she’s worried. “Lord Jon would never hurt you.”

“I know,” Sansa says. She looks up from her cloak long enough to give Mina a reassuring smile.

“Harwin doesn’t go to the sighing houses either,” Nora says with a nervous look at Mina. “He just hears about the other men going.”

Mina Tully—Mina Strong—smiles with some of that newfound confidence she has. It’s a woman’s smile, and Sansa can’t help but think it has been good for her to marry Ser Harwin. “I know.”

Tyra giggles. “She knows because Ser Harwin spends every night in her bed, not a whore’s!”

“Hey!” Nora cuts a glare at Tyra and looks as though she wants to cover Elara’s ears. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”

“He doesn’t hurt you?” Alanna asks. “Even though he’s so big? And they call him Breakbones?”

“He’s very gentle with me,” Mina answers. “He is a strong man, yes, but he knows his strength, and he’s careful with it. Lord Lannister will be good to you.”

“I’ll make him be,” Rhaenyra threatens.

Tyra shifts uncomfortably as the conversation returns to her cousin. There’s no way anyone would believe he doesn’t visit whore houses regularly. “He’s a bit of a rake, but Father says all men are like that until a wife settles them down.”

“You will be his wife and the mother of his children,” Sansa says. “No other woman will be able to say the same. That gives you power.”

Carolyn Thorne joins them, a half-finished handkerchief in her hands. She isn’t one of Rhaenyra’s ladies, but she doesn’t align herself with Alicent and the ladies from the Reach either. There’s a wicked sparkle in her eyes as she joins their circle. “Are you whispering about men? Because I overheard some of the guards talking the other day. Did you know men do more than stick their pricks in your—” she gestures downward. She waits for them all to lean in, interested. “Some put their mouths there.”

Elara shrieks and then claps her hands over her mouth.

“They call it a lord’s kiss,” Carolyn adds, looking smug.

Sansa can’t imagine Jon wanting to put his mouth there. She has an even harder time imaging wanting him to. She barely touches herself between her legs when she washes. If she doesn’t want to touch it, why would he? She glances around the circle to see a mix of shock and quiet contemplation from the other ladies. All of them except Mina, who has a thoughtful look on her face, as if she’s going to bring it up to Ser Harwin the next time they share a bed.

Sansa can’t help but hope Alanna dregs up the courage to ask Mina about it next time they’re all in Rhaenyra’s room. Maybe Mina will tell them if it is actually a thing men do. If it’s something they enjoy. If it’s something women enjoy.

Sansa, for all she has been passed from man to man, has very little experience for it. There were Joffrey’s kisses, too forceful, too slobbery, and then there was Tyrion and the gut-clenching fear that he would take what she didn’t want to give. And then, of course, there was Ramsay who did take. Petyr who wanted. She has heard that men and women are both supposed to enjoy what happens in the marriage bed, at least Myranda Royce claimed it was true. But Sansa supposes Myranda never engaged with them in the marriage bed, just beds in general. Or against a wall. Or on a desk.

She isn’t afraid to share a bed with Jon. She thinks longingly of his lips, and the sure way he wraps his arms around her, how safe she feels when he holds her. He would be gentle with her in bed, but she worries it’s because he pities her. He knows her past, most of it anyway, and she has too much pride for her husband to pity her. Sometimes, at night, when she thinks about the muscles in Jon’s arms and the feel of his lips against hers, she throbs between her legs. She’s pressed her hand there before, and it’s felt good, sinfully good, so she always stops. She wonders what Jon’s hand would feel like pressing against her. And if she’s his wife, then it wouldn’t be a sin. He wouldn’t have to stop. She would—

She isn’t entirely sure what she would do, but she trusts Jon. She trusts him, and she thinks that makes all the difference. He doesn’t want her for her claim or her name or as a stand-in for her mother. He wants her for her. He loves her. She’s never had a man pay her attention that loved her before he lusted for her. She wonders if that makes a difference as well.

“I bet your Lord Jon knows all about it,” Carolyn says, pulling Sansa out of her thoughts. Her grin is bright and teasing, and for a moment, Sansa is reminded of Myranda and nights spent whispering in bed together about Harry Hardying and Mychel Redfort.

“Oh, it wouldn’t be proper,” Sansa says, easily falling into her role as the devout, boring lady from the North.

“I bet he could make you forget all about propriety.” There’s something almost wistful in Carolyn’s tone, not quite jealousy but close to it. “If a man treats a woman right, she even forgets her name.”

Nora scoffs but the rest of the ladies look to Carolyn as if they’re hoping she’ll spill more secrets about the ways of men.

#

On Rhaenyra and Daemon’s next date, Rhaenyra bluntly asks Daemon about sex and if men truly stick their tongues where their cocks are meant to go. It’s bold, it’s completely inappropriate, but Sansa doesn’t chastise Rhaenyra or end the conversation. She knows Rhaenyra is nervous about sex and that pales in comparison to her fear of childbirth. If there are ways for men and women to enjoy each other without risking a babe…Rhaenyra has a right to know, doesn’t she?

“There are all kinds of pleasures to be found between men and women,” Daemon says with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Between anyone, really. Men and men, women and women, whatever grouping you prefer.”

They’re out of the castle, in the Kingswood, accompanied by Ser Erryk, Ser Rymun, and Jon, though Jon is less guard and more Sansa’s companion for the outing. She doesn’t dare look at Jon as Daemon stretches out on the blanket Ser Erryk carried with him.

“Women can—” Rhaenyra’s voice cracks and her face flushes a deep, brilliant red. She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Is it truly called a lord’s kiss?”

Daemon huffs and rolls his eyes. “I doubt many lords deign to pleasure their wives in that manner, but yes, I’ve heard it called that. Who’s been talking to you of such things?” Daemon’s ease shifts into something coiled, as if he’s ready to track down whoever is filling Rhaenyra’s head with talks of sex.

“Ladies gossip too,” Rhaenyra says, aiming for prim, and missing by about a league. “I thought marriage was all about babes, but a man can’t get a woman pregnant with his tongue.” There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as if she isn’t completely sure she’s right.

Daemon almost seems to slump, and he rests himself on his side as he looks over at Rhaenyra. She determinedly does not meet his gaze. “Your parents didn’t have a typical marriage. You won’t—I wouldn’t keep you pregnant for the rest of your life. There is joy to be found between two people, even pleasure, without the risk of children.”

“You didn’t have a typical marriage either,” Rhaenyra ventures softly.

Daemon speaks quietly about Rhea Royce, and how he was hauled to the sept unwilling and quite young. Sansa only half-listens, because this seems private, not for her. She thinks instead about her own parents. Her father, who had lost his father and brother in quick succession, suddenly not only Lord of Winterfell but also expected to slot into his brother’s marriage pact. Her mother, who lost her betrothed and was married to his younger brother as if they were interchangeable.

Jon complicated things, she knows, but her parents still found love. They built it slowly, carefully, sometimes with setbacks, but they had five children. More than that, they had each other. She remembers her mother always insisting on meeting her father in the courtyard when he returned from visiting the other lords or even going on hunts. She can recall soft looks at supper and her father’s teasing tone and her mother’s pink cheeks. They even danced together sometimes, not often, but they would linger in each other’s arms afterward, as if they were hesitant to part.

Sansa doesn’t need a grand love, something for songs or stories. She would be happy with a quiet love.

“I thought about taking you to a brothel,” Daemon admits, and Sansa glances at him, ready to intervene if needed. “I don’t want you to fear the marriage bed. I thought if I could show you the dozens of way people can come together, it would ease your worries.”

“They allow people to watch?” Rhaenyra asks. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted.

“You can do just about anything if you pay for it,” Daemon says.

“Will you bring me to a brothel?”

Daemon shakes his head. “I asked to court you instead. I’m trying to do this properly. If we were caught…Viserys would likely banish me for good, and it would jeopardize your claim. If you’re willing to be patient, I’ll show you everything myself.”

Rhaenyra’s smile, small and pleased, doesn’t last for long. “We will have to have children.” She looks to Sansa now. “And soon. There will be doubts about my suitability as heir if Alicent has a child and I wait too long for one of my own.”

Sansa tries to ignore both Daemon and Jon’s curious looks. Jon knows she advises Rhaenyra, and Daemon probably has his suspicions, but normally Sansa has these conversations with Rhaenyra privately. “Politically, it would be best, but you are not only a princess and heir. You are a person.”

Rhaenyra juts out her chin, stubborn. “One child, as soon as possible, and then I’d like to wait before my second. I am to be the first Queen of Westeros. I cannot afford to put Rhaenyra before Princess Rhaenyra. I have to be brave.” Despite the bravado in her words, Rhaenyra fidgets and stares at her hands.

“Whatever you command, I will do,” Daemon says. He shifts so that he can curl his fingers around Rhaenyra’s wrists. “If you want a child, I will give you one. If you want ten, I will give you ten. If you want me to go to me knees each evening and worship you as you deserve, I will do it enthusiastically.”

“I won’t be alone,” Rhaenyra says, softly, as if it’s a revelation. She looks up at Daemon, the hope and trust in her gaze almost too much for Sansa to look at. “I will have you by my side through everything.”

“Yes.”

Rhaenyra nods, seemingly to herself. Then, as if she’s afraid she’s been too vulnerable, she squares her shoulders. “Will you tell me more about pleasure?”

“Hmm.” Daemon traces patterns over Rhaenyra’s palm. “Have you discovered it on your own yet?”

Rhaenyra nods quickly, as if she can distract from the way she crosses her legs. Sansa frowns and debates how long to let this go on. They’re veering into inappropriate territory again, but she can’t deny that it’s good for Rhaenyra to know she doesn’t have to fear her marriage to Daemon.

“Then use your imagination.” Daemon’s voice dips to a raspy whisper. “Next time you please yourself, imagine my hands instead. Or, given your earlier questions, perhaps you’d rather imagine my tongue?”

At Rhaenyra’s little gasp, Sansa clears her throat, loudly. Daemon scoffs but he draws back, away from Rhaenyra, and puts a bit of space between them. Giving Rhaenyra a moment to compose herself, Daemon looks over at Jon. “You’ve been quieter than usual. Don’t have anything to add?”

Jon looks uncomfortable, as if he wishes they were discussing anything else. Sansa recalls a few times when Theon’s teasing took a cruel edge when they were younger, and Jon and him almost came to blows. Jon didn’t sneak off to the whorehouse like Theon and Robb did. He was too aware of his own birth, too afraid of siring a child that would grow up to be like him. Then, she thought it was a sign of maturity. Now, she thinks it quite sad. She wonders if he had gone to Wintertown, if the whores would have shown him how to enjoy himself without risking a child.

“My fears for the marriage bed are different than Rhaenyra’s,” Sansa says. She immediately regrets it, drawing the attention to herself instead of Jon. Even though she’s covered by her dress, she wants to wrap a cloak around her or pull her knees to her chest. She can almost feel Ramsay’s blade bite into her thighs. “And Jon has already put them to rest. I trust him.”

“I would never hurt you,” Jon tells her.

She nods because she knows. Jon isn’t Ramsay. He doesn’t want to maim her or claim her. He doesn’t want to hear her cry or laugh as she bleeds. He’ll be gentle with her.

“Have you never been with a woman before?” Rhaenyra asks Jon.

Jon’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He grits his teeth, and Sansa’s about to tell him he doesn’t have to answer, when he exhales harshly and says, “Just one. I learned a lot from her. She knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to take it.”

Daemon raises his eyebrows, as if he’s hearing what Jon doesn’t say. Sansa’s heart aches, but she doesn’t reach for Jon, afraid he’ll brush off her attempt at comfort.

“What happened to her?” Rhaenyra asks.

“She died.” Jon swallows thickly. “Might’ve been me who did it. I’ll never know for sure. The fletching on the arrows wasn’t mine but…battles are chaotic. I might’ve grabbed someone else’s quiver when mine ran out.”

“You were enemies?”

Jon grimaces. “She was my captive and then I was hers. I was infiltrating her people, searching for information and weaknesses. It was inevitable that we’d end up on opposite sides.”

Sansa hadn’t known that. There’s a lot she doesn’t know about Jon, and she suspects there’s a lot he’s leaving out of this story. Ygritte, his Wild—Free Folk lover. She’d heard her mentioned of course. She was kissed by fire too, and there were a lot of jokes about Jon having a type. Some of the jokes were kinder than others. She wonders at the guilt he feels over Ygritte’s death and his deception leading up to it.

But part of her also wonders at what he said earlier. She knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to take it. Maybe Jon understands more about what Sansa’s gone through than she thought he did. Now, she doesn’t hold herself back from reaching for his hand. She rubs her thumb over his knuckles until he unclenches his fist.

“It wasn’t like that,” Jon tells Sansa, as if he can see into her mind. As if he’s remembering how she watched as Ramsay’s hounds tore him apart. Sansa wants to tell him she knows for certain she killed her husband, while it’s most likely Jon’s guilt that makes him believe he killed Ygritte. “I never said no.”

Did you ever say yes? Sansa doesn’t ask the question. Instead, she leans in to brush a featherlight kiss over Jon’s cheek. We’ll be different, the kiss says. We’ll be gentle with each other.

#

Whatever progress is made toward alleviating Rhaenyra’s fears of childbirth is stalled when Alicent goes into labor and delivers a healthy son. It isn’t that the birth is difficult, in fact Alicent loudly claims that it was an easy birth, but the fact that it happens and that it is a boy brings back painful memories for Rhaenyra.

Sansa and Shadow spend many nights in Rhaenyra’s bed, comforting her as she cries for her mother, cries for her lost siblings, and trembles over what she will have to do with Daemon in only a short time.

“I can’t believe she named the brat Aegon,” Rhaenyra fumes as she paces the length of her solar.

“I can’t believe you convinced Viserys to withhold a cradle egg,” Daemon says.

Rhaenyra glances at Sansa and then quickly goes back to her pacing. It’s only Rhaenyra, Daemon, Sansa, and Laena in the room, all people Rhaenyra trusts to help her secure her future as queen. Jon is off on patrol, because he says he won’t shirk his duty to the City Watch even though his circumstances have changed since the Stepstones War.

“Alicent’s children will be able to try and claim grown dragons when they’re older,” Rhaenyra says, explaining the agreement Sansa pushed her to make King Viserys accept. “But I’m his heir. I told him remarrying and having children with Alicent would be a threat to my inheritance, especially if he had sons. None of her children are allowed to have dragons until I have children of my own.”

Now, Daemon also looks over at Sansa. She dutifully works on the cloak she’s embroidering for Jon. Instead of the typical Targaryen dragon, she’s stitching two, one silver and one bronze, facing each other. It is a commitment, but she’s confident she’ll be able to finish before their wedding.

“How did you manage it?” Daemon asks.

“I told him I needed his support,” Rhaenyra answers. “And that if he named his son Aegon, if he gave him a dragon, then he should just declare him his heir and get it over with. He said he didn’t know Alicent was going to name the boy Aegon. She did it before consulting him. He felt guilty, and I took advantage of it.”

“Was it Alicent’s idea, do you think?” Laena ventures.

“It reeks of Otto,” Daemon says. “And he won’t be satisfied with a vague promise of a future dragon. We’ll have to be on our guard.”

“I could marry him,” Laena says.

“Otto?” Daemon wrinkles his nose.

“Aegon,” Laena corrects. “He’s only a baby, so I would have over ten years to travel and explore and live the life I want. We would keep Valyrian blood in the Velaryon line. I would never let him usurp Rhaenyra’s claim.”

Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange a look as if they’re considering it. Sasna knows it’s too soon, but it isn’t a bad idea. They’ll have to then make sure Lord Corlys’s ambition is checked, but it would be a good way to keep Aegon out of the way.

“Well, he certainly isn’t marrying my Visenya,” Rhaenyra says. She scowls as she kicks at the settee. “Alicent knows I love that name. I told her since I never had a sister Visenya, I’d name my first daughter that. Do you think—” Rhaenyra frowns. “Do you think Alicent did choose the name? Because she wants to mend our friendship through our children’s marriage?”

“Or she wants to try and manipulate you in order to see her son on the throne,” Daemon says.

“It won’t work. Our friendship is in the past. It ended the first night she snuck into my father’s bed. I hope she likes being a mother, though. If she spends all her time with Aegon, then she’ll stop pestering me to give her some of the queen’s duties. There is no power left for her to grasp. Why doesn’t she get it?”

“She’s selfish,” Daemon says. He approaches Rhaenyra and she stands still long enough for him to embrace her. “Greedy.”

Sansa rolls her eyes as Daemon lists off all the horrible things he thinks about Alicent. Rhaenyra eagerly soaks each of them up, as if she’s vindicated by Daemon’s agreement. Sansa doesn’t care much for Alicent, her efforts to become the true queen or her failure to accomplish that goal, but she does, sometimes, feel bad for the girl. She entered a game she wasn’t prepared to play. She still hasn’t realized she lost before she could truly get started. Sansa learned from the best and while Otto Hightower is a clever man, he is no Tywin Lannister. And Alicent is certainly not Cersei.

While Alicent having a son before Rhaenyra is married, let alone has children of her own, has created difficulties, they are not insurmountable. Alicent’s power as queen consort is nearly nonexistent. Her son, King Viserys’s son, is a Targaryen but the king has affirmed that Rhaenyra is still his successor. The lack of dragon egg and lack of dragon will go a long way to showing the people that Aegon is not the preferred child. Rhaenyra, who is grown and beloved by the people, who soars above King’s Landing on Syrax, is their future ruler.

By the time Aegon is old enough for the people of King’s Landing to see and know him, it will be too late. Rhaenyra will have children and her children will have dragons. She will be the one both commoners and nobles alike equate with their prosperity. She will be the one organizing and leading every official function. She will be the center of everything, circlet on her head, and announced as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.

Anyone who wants to support Aegon will soon see it’s a pointless venture. Sansa will make sure of it.

Chapter Text

When Rhaenyra told Sansa King’s Landing had a visitor that required full court attendance, she didn’t expect Jon to be standing next to Prince Daemon, looking as though he wanted to be anywhere else in Westeros. Even after all this time here in the past, she still isn’t used to Jon Targaryen. She is used to Jon Snow, who was sullen and proud enough to dodge any event at Winterfell, because it was easier to ban himself than be told by Catelyn or even Ned that this feast wasn’t for him. She’s used to Lord Commander Jon who could train and lead an army but left planning celebrations to Sansa, because he didn’t have the patience for “the frivolity of the masses”.

Jon looks sharp in his black-on-black ensemble. His only color is the red dragon on his doublet and the embroidery there is thin, not nearly as bold as Daemon’s. He has his sword, Ghost, strapped to his waist, something he doesn’t always do. She knows he dislikes all the rules of court and that even when he’s forbidden from carrying his sword, he always manages to stash at least one knife on his person.

It’s odd, Sansa reflects as King Viserys takes his place on the throne. There have been no true threats since she came to court here. After the misery Joffrey and Cersei made of her time in King’s Landing before, after Petyr’s manipulations and Ramsay’s cruelty she has grown used to threats and danger. But here, the biggest threat isn’t to Sansa. It’s to Rhaenyra and right now that threat is only a few weeks old and spends most of his time crying, sleeping, and filling his diaper.

Aegon doesn’t attend court today, but Alicent does. She stands on the throne dais along with her father on King Visery’s right side. On the left are Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, both of them looking regal in their court outfits.

“Court is in session,” Otto Hightower declares, as if the king is incapable of speaking for himself. Sansa glances at the man, his smug expression, his fine clothes, the Hand pin secured just so on his doublet. He is the greater threat than Alicent or Aegon. Those two are shaped by him, the same way he has sought to shape King Viserys. She knows Daemon has unsuccessfully been trying to break the man’s hold on the king for years. Sansa might need to begin thinking of a plan of her own.

Before she can dedicate her mind to thinking through Otto Hightower, the court’s mysterious visitor appears. The crowd parts before her, and a woman Sansa would recognize anywhere slinks forward, her red dress billowing about her. Her hair is elaborately done, a few dark curls spilling from the updo for dramatic effect, but none of them cover or hide the large gem at the center of her necklace.

Melisandre doesn’t even bother to look at the king as she curtsies before the throne. Her gaze, and her smirk, are both for Jon. “We knew you would do great things.”

“Fuck off,” Jon says, growls really, and it sends the court into a flutter.

“How rude!” Lady Cuy exclaims, though she sounds delighted by it.

“His voice,” another lady practically moans.

“Who even is she?” Ser Tyland mutters, not the only man to be irritated with every woman in the court now interested in Jon.

“I am Melisandre, a Red Priestess of Volantis, devoted servant to R’hllor,” Melisandre says. She still hasn’t broken eye contact with Jon, though her gaze dips to his waist. “Word of your great deeds in the Stepstones War has reached Volantis. Is it true you survived dragonflame?”

Sansa knows this is a trigger for Jon, even if this Melisandre doesn’t know it was her in the future who burned an innocent girl alive so that Jon could be brough back to life, immune from burning himself for the rest of his days. She takes a step forward before she realizes there’s nothing she can do to help Jon with this.

Jorelle laces her fingers through Sansa’s, offering her comfort or perhaps reminding her that Sansa’s place is here, with Rhaenyra’s ladies. My place is at my husband’s side, Sansa wants to shout, but she has been trained too well to do so.

“He did,” Prince Daemon answers. He’s lacking his usual smirk. There’s something about the way he looks between Melisandre and Jon that makes Sansa think Jon might have told him something about how Jon got his immunity to fire. “What business of yours is it?”

“You weren’t the only one to survive the flames,” Melisandre continues, as if Daemon never spoke. Her eyes burn as if they are flames themselves, a zealotry that makes Sansa uncomfortable. “Your sword did as well, did it not?”

Jon’s fingers curl around the hilt of his blade. He looks afraid as he realizes Melisandre’s true interest, what drove her to travel from Essos all the way to Westeros.

“It glows, does it not?” Melisandre’s voice drops to a sultry whisper, but the hall is silent enough for her words to carry. “It is like a living flame, or so the reports have said. Forged in dragonflame during a moment of great sacrifice. You wield Lightbringer.”

“No,” Jon says.

Melisandre takes a step forward, as if she’s drawn to Jon, or maybe his blade. “We heard the king raised you to a lord, but he doesn’t understand, does he? You are not Lord Jon, you are Prince Jon. You are Azor Ahai reborn, the Prince Who Was Promised.”

“No!” Jon bounds down the steps, until he’s standing in front of Melisandre. She tips her head back to look up at him, and the idolization so present on her face makes Sansa’s stomach twist. She is a woman who wouldn’t mind if Jon ran her though with the sacred blade. She’d probably welcome it. “My blade’s name is Ghost. It survived dragonfire, because it is Valyrian steel. I am not—” Jon tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. “I am not yours. I am not your god’s. I do not believe in or serve R’hllor. Leave. You are not welcome here.”

Melisandre’s gaze finally leaves Jon. She looks over his shoulder at where King Viserys has leaned forward on his throne, enraptured. “I would speak with the Priestess Melisandre. Privately. Family may remain.”

Court is slow to disperse, everyone interested in this visitor and the king’s attention. Sansa hears more than one whisper about what this “prince who was promised” is all about and if Jon is going to be added into the line of succession. Sansa remains, even when Jorelle tries to pull her away, because she won’t leave Jon to face Melisandre alone. She knows what atrocities Melisandre committed in the name of her god. She knows how many of them weigh on Jon’s conscience.

Prince Daemon and Rhaenyra remain as well, of course. So does Alicent. And so does Otto Hightower. Finally, the court is cleared with Kingsguard stationed at the exits to keep the room secure.

“You know about the Prince Who was Promised?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice surprising Sansa. She has moved to stand next to the Iron Throne, looking as interested as King Viserys does.

“Princes and promises?” Daemon scoffs. “What is this nonsense?”

Rhaenyra tears her gaze away from Melisandre. She looks to Daemon, surprised, before her expression quickly gives way to guilt. She glances at her father, as if looking for help, but he cannot look away from Melisandre.

“There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world,” Melisandre says, her voice husky, yet lyrical, some kind of power in her words. She sidesteps Jon to approach the throne, appealing to the audience who is hanging onto her every word as if she truly is a prophet. “In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him. Azor Ahai, beloved of R’hllor, the Warrior of Light and the Son of Fire.”

There is a heavy silence, even Sansa’s breath is captured and held by Melisandre’s words, beautifully woven, performed for an audience. And then Jon breaks through.

“No,” he tells her again.

“Unsheathe your sword,” she dares him. Her lips curve into a knowing smile. “Show them who you are and embrace your destiny.”

“I am Jon Targaryen, Lord of Wolfsport and Steward of the Gift,” Jon says. “Winter is coming, but it is not yet here. I will not be the one to stand against the Night King and bring back the dawn. I can only prepare my descendants for the fight.”

“Your descendants?” King Viserys’s voice trembles. “Aegon was right. From my blood will come the prince that was promised and his will be the song of ice and fire.” Viserys’s hands shake as he grips his throne. “Your blood. You must marry Rhaenyra.”

“What?” Rhaenyra demands.

“Absolutely not!” Daemon looks ready to skewer Jon on his sword.

Jon hangs his head, miserable and burdened, exhausted like he had been at the end of the war in their previous life.

Sansa steps forward. “He cannot marry Princess Rhaenyra.” Sansa loops her arm through Jon’s, offering him what strength and support she can. “For he is already married.”

Jon jerks his head to look at Sansa, relief and surprise blooming on his face. He leans in until he can press his forehead against hers. He breathes in once, twice, and then he turns back to the throne. “Sansa and I have pledged ourselves before the heart tree in view of the only gods we recognize. I will not have another wife. I am hers and she is mine for until the end of our days.”

“Your marriage isn’t recognized unless it is before the Seven,” Otto Hightower says.

Jon bares his teeth at the man. “You may not recognize it, but I do and so do my gods. I will not break my vow. I will not marry, nor will I bed, another woman for as long as I live.” He turns to Melisandre now. “So whatever accident you were planning for my wife, it stops now. If anything happens to her, a single hair on her head even singed, I will come for you and your temple. We’ll see if your R’hllor protects you from dragonflame.”

“Lord Jon!” Otto’s admonishment is feigned, sick in its falsity.

“You are the prophesied one,” King Viserys says. “This is why you were found in Essos. This is why you came to King’s Landing. A lost Targaryen, but the most important of us, and found. If you will not marry Rhaenyra, you must be named my heir.”

“No!” Jon’s voice thunders through the room, the word echoing off the walls. “I am not the Prince Who Was Promised. Maybe, a descendent of mine will face off against the Night King. Maybe, a descendent of mine will use Ghost to defeat him, but I’m not my descendent. Winter isn’t here yet.” He turns his glare on Melisandre. “Which you know. You are here to stir up trouble. One would think you wanted my throat slit in my sleep.”

“I wanted to behold our savior,” Melisandre says.

“Your father was a Targaryen and your mother was a Stark,” King Visery tells Jon. “You are the song of ice and fire.”

Sansa’s stomach plummets to the floor as she realizes what she must do. Because Jon is right, they’re still two-hundred years too early for the War for the Dawn. Jon isn’t Azor Ahai and not only because she isn’t certain she believes in Melisandre’s prophecies. But it’s telling, isn’t it, that the Priestesses of Volantis, the Targaryens of Valyria, even the North all tell of a time when the Long Night will come? How many other peoples and religions seek to prepare for when darkness falls?

She knows that part is true, at least. She felt the cold and saw the Others with her own eyes. She and Jon made it their mission in this time to keep the Targaryen line united and strong. Jon cannot be the wedge that weakens their rule and condemns Westeros to eternal night.

“You said ‘from my blood comes the prince that was promised’,” Sansa says softly. Her fingers curl against Jon’s arm, bracing herself on him. “You speak of a song of ice and fire. The danger with prophecy, your Grace, is there are so many ways to interpret it. Jon doesn’t have to sit on the throne for his bloodline to be royal.”

“No,” Jon says, his voice a whisper, desperate, and he turns Sansa’s face towards his, anguish written into every bit of his expression. “You don’t have to do this.”

“We do,” Sansa tells him. They have survived what never should have been survived. They have been given a chance to strengthen Westeros for what is to come. They have sacrificed, but dying in Winterfell didn’t mean their sacrifices were over. They are tools of the gods, and the old gods always demand that the cost is personal. “We do, Jon—” She can’t do it without his permission. It isn’t only her affected by what must be done.

Jon closes his eyes in defeat. A tear leaks out and rolls down his cheek. “Sansa,” he whispers, heartbroken, furious, but he doesn’t protest.

“Jon will not sit on the Iron Throne,” Sansa says, stalling for time, drawing her strength. “He vowed that he would not seek it when he first arrived in King’s Landing. Later, he vowed to see Princess Rhaenyra succeed her father as his successor and heir. He is double bound by oaths, and he is as Stark as he is Targaryen. He will not break his vows.” Sansa swallows thickly and gathers her courage. “If you are determined to see his blood on the throne, then I propose a different marriage pact. A child of Jon’s to marry Princess Rhaenyra’s heir.”

Her son might be king. Her daughter might be queen. Sansa trembles and turns her face into Jon’s neck, unable to remain strong or unaffected. She will lose one of her children. Her place is in the North, and she longs to take Jon and escape King’s Landing. She wishes they had gone earlier, because now she will have to leave something behind. Someone. A part of herself will remain in King’s Landing. Will her child be safe? Is there as much danger for Stark-Targaryens in the south as there is for Starks?

“We accept this pact,” Rhaenyra says. She grips Daemon’s hand in her own. “We will seal it in the old way, with blood.”

“Then we shall do it in the godswood,” Jon says. “Blood for your gods and a promise for ours.” He bows his head and takes a deep breath. “I will do this on one condition. The Red Priestesses are henceforth banned from Westeros by royal decree.”

“You cannot,” Melisandre says.

“Can’t I? I know about your blood magic, priestess. You sacrifice others for your own gain. Even now, it is me and mine who will pay for this prophecy you speak of. It is your turn to sacrifice. You will not step foot on Westeros again. Perhaps, you will use that trinket about your neck to prolong your life, and you will hear trickles of stories from the Wall. You will learn from rumors how a united Westeros turned back the Others. You will not see it with your own eyes. You will not burn little girls at the stake, because their fathers declared themselves king. It is banishment or I will dedicate the rest of my life finding every one of your order and driving Ghost through their hearts.”

“It would be an honor to be claimed by Lightbringer,” Melisandre says, proving she either has no self-preservation instinct or has sacrificed all her sense to her god.

In a moment, Jon has left Sansa’s side. He has a dagger pressed to Melisandre’s throat, just above her choker, and a thin red line of blood wells up. “Then I will do it with a common blade,” Jon hisses. “I am not your pawn or your plaything. I will raise my sons and daughters to be sword fighters. I will strengthen the Night’s Watch and restore it as a place of honor. I will equip every man, woman, and child in the North with obsidian weapons. But I will do it for humanity. It is not for your god or your prophecy or your delusions. It will be so that when the time comes, Westeros and the rest of the world is not plunged into eternal darkness.”

“The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways,” Melisandre whispers. “He will use you as you are needed.” For a moment, she leans into Jon’s blade, before she steps back. She smiles as Jon lets her. “May I see it before I leave? Lightbringer?”

Jon holds out for a moment before he sighs and draws the blade. It isn’t a flaming sword, not like Thoros of Myr had in the tournament Sansa saw him in, but the blade ripples like a flame, as if there is an ember in the steel that heats it and makes it glow like the end of a fire. She wonders if it will grow brighter as the Long Night approaches. She shivers at the thought and wraps her arms around her waist.

“It is beautiful,” Melisandre whispers. “I shall return to Volantis. We shall watch you and your descendants in the flames, Prince Jon. It is our blade and our champion who will battle the darkness and prevail. We will prepare for this day, as you and yours do the same. May you walk forever in the light.”

Melisandre curtsies deeply, offering Jon more respect than she had King Viserys. And then she leaves, without waiting for permission.

“Fuck,” Jon says once the doors close behind her. He sheathes Ghost, or maybe Lightbringer, Sansa isn’t sure. “Fuck!”

“How about a spar instead,” Daemon offers with forced levity. “As you aren’t married before the Seven yet, it would be improper for you to fuck your wife.”

Jon whirls on Daemon, as if all he needed was an excuse and a target.

“Or a dragon ride,” Sansa suggests. “Princess Rhaenyra tells me there’s nothing better for clearing one’s head. And Jon—” Sansa hesitates because they have an audience. “I wouldn’t want you to risk hurting anyone.”

“A dragon ride, aye.” Jon exhales slowly. He presses a lingering kiss to Sansa’s forehead. “What would I do without you?”

“Charge into a fight you cannot win,” Sansa answers with a smile. She lowers her voice, her next words only for him. “I love you, Jon Snow.”

His fingers curl around the back of her neck, a strong, steady grip. “I love you too, Sansa Stark. I will not be gone long. But I cannot remain here.”

“I know.” It’s permission and forgiveness all in one. “Clear your head and then return to me. I will miss you every moment you are gone.”

Jon’s gaze flicks over to where the royals are clustered around the throne. “I shouldn’t leave you alone.”

“This is my battlefield,” she reminds him. “I can handle it. Go. Take Prince Daemon with you. Whatever Targaryen prophecy Viserys and Rhaenyra spoke of, he didn’t know it. Let him bellow his rage somewhere there won’t be consequences for it.”

Jon nods. He steps away from Sansa even though it looks as though it pains him to do so. “Fancy a race, Prince Daemon? I bet Silverwing isn’t only prettier than Caraxes but faster as well.”

“As long as you don’t cheat,” Daemon says. “If Vermithor tries to take a bite out of me, we’ll be having words.”

Jon’s laugh is only slightly forced as the two of them exit the throne room. It leaves Sansa, Rhaenyra, King Viserys, Alicent, and Otto left in the room. It would be impossible to ignore the tension between Rhaenyra and her father.

“You tried to give away my birthright,” Rhaenyra says quietly, as if Jon and Daemon took all the rage with them when they left the room. “You tried to supplant my claim with Jon.”

“Rhaenyra.” Viserys pleads with his daughter, but when her expression doesn’t soften, he sighs. “You know the importance of the prophecy.”

“What about my importance? I’m your daughter! Your heir! Are you going to try and replace me with Aegon next? He has the name of the conqueror. You claim you chose me, but it seems like you named me your heir as a placeholder, until you found a better candidate!”

Viserys rises from his throne, but when he takes a step toward his daughter, she takes a step back. Both of them freeze at that, neither willing to make things worse, but both afraid now to try and make things better. Sansa glances at Alicent and Otto, on the other side of the throne, heads bent together, observing, no doubt plotting how to use this to their advantage.

Sansa intends this to be the death knell to their plans. She ascends the stairs until she can stand next to Princess Rhaenyra, the perfect image of a lady attending her princess. She rests a hand on Rhaenyra’s arm, drawing the girl’s attention. There are tears in Rhaenyra’s eyes, ones she stubbornly keeps from falling. She turns to Sansa and grips the back of Sansa’s neck, drawing them closer together.

“I would never take Jon from you,” Rhaenyra tells her.

“And I would never take the throne from you,” Sansa promises. Once, she was betrothed to a prince, and she filled her head with dreams of being a queen. Those dreams had turned to nightmares. She has no intention of revisiting them. “You will be Queen of Westeros, that is what every lord and lady of standing has vowed before you in this very room. Your father has promised you your choice of husband, and Prince Daemon is committed to being your prince consort.”

“A child of yours will marry my heir,” Rhaenyra continues. Her grip tightens for a moment, as if she knows Sansa wants to tear herself away. “My father is right. The prophecy…it is bigger than me or my wants. It foretells not just a prince, but a savior.”

“I know.” Sansa’s heart clenches, but she sets aside her feelings and fears for when she has the time to properly examine them. “In the North, we whisper stories of the Others and prepare for the endless winter. In Volantis, they speak of the Great Other and terrors that lurk in the dark. Your family has passed down a prophecy. They are the histories and preparations of peoples across the known world, all preparing for the same battle. It is greater than any one of us. I—” Sansa steels herself with a deep breath. “I will not lie to you. The thought of promising an unborn child to a life in King’s Landing, away from the rest of their family, surrounded by danger and ambition is a difficult one. But if that is what it takes for you to sit the throne and for Jon and I to bolster the North, then that is what I will do.”

“You believe in me,” Rhaenyra says. Her gaze flickers for a moment, as if she wants to look at her father but doesn’t.

“I do.”

“Jon said winter isn’t here yet.”

Sansa has to be careful here. The Targaryens believe in prophecy, perhaps too much, and she cannot afford to build up Jon any more in their heads. She can’t hint at time travel or lives already lived. She is glad Jon left to fly on his dragon. He isn’t as good at lying as she is.

“I think we would know,” Sansa says. “The Night’s Watch guards the Wall, because on the other side of it is where the Night King was banished after the first Long Night. If he was stirring, there would be signs. Jon has trained in the sword his whole life. If the Night King does rise, he will face him in battle. But he’s equally prepared to strengthen the North and ready the next generation for the war. Winter is coming, those are the Stark words, but not even the Starks know when. All we can do is make sure the threat isn’t forgotten and that we are ready when it comes.”

“That is my role as well,” Rhaenyra says.

“Yours, in some ways, is more difficult,” Sansa tells her. “The North remembers. Jon will introduce new weapons and new training, but it will be adopted quickly. Your task is to keep Westeros united and strong. Because when the war comes, there can only be two sides, the living and the dead. If the kingdoms are at war, if the monarchy is weak, then we will lose.”

Sansa only ever heard of Daenerys Targaryen, she never met the woman. She heard about how she freed slaves in Essos and claimed a khalasar of her own. Jon returned from Dragonstone claiming the woman wanted herself to be known as a savior, not just a queen. But she had prioritized the Iron Throne over the War for the Dawn. When Rhaenyra steadily meets Sansa’s gaze, Sansa sees a commitment there, a maturity Rhaenyra hadn’t had when Sansa first met her.

“The first ruling Queen of Westeros will face opposition,” Rhaenyra says. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, as if she’s contemplating naming Daemon her king consort, giving him more power to appease the nobility.

“Better you prove a queen’s worth now than risk the first ruling queen occurring when the prophecy triggers.”

“I will be strong to ease the way for my descendants,” Rhaenyra says, testing the words as she says them. “They will fight battles I cannot even comprehend, so I will fight what battles I can, so they do not have to face those as well.”

Rhaenyra’s grip has loosened enough that Sansa is able to dip into the deepest of curtsies. “The North will stand with you, Princess Rhaenyra.”

“The song of ice and fire,” Rhaenyra murmurs. She touches Sansa’s arm, urging her to rise. “It is about unity. I would like to attend your meetings with Lord Beesbury regarding the development of the Gift and the construction of Wolfsport. The North is one of the seven kingdoms, but it has been neglected for too long. That will change.”

Otto Hightower clears his throat, reminding Sansa and Rhaenyra that they have an audience. “You have done very well with the queen’s duties, Princess Rhaenyra, but now you are infringing on the king’s.”

Rhaenyra finally turns to face her father. “Do you disapprove? I assume you do not, as you were willing to make Jon your heir.”

Sansa would caution Rhaenyra not to antagonize her father, but she thinks Rhaenyra has to push. Viserys has expressed doubt before, and Rhaenyra cannot pour her entire being into preparing to be queen if it is only going to be snatched away.

“Rhaenyra.” Viserys sighs as if he hopes looking small and guilty enough will earn himself Rhaenyra’s forgiveness. When Rhaenyra doesn’t immediately offer it, he hunches his shoulders, making himself even smaller. “I named you my heir. I am sorry for what I said earlier today, but if Jon is the Prince Who Was Promised—” Viserys shakes himself. “I am sorry, and I will not waver again. You will be Queen of Westeros when I am gone.”

Rhaenyra steps away from Sansa, taking a step closer to her father. “You gave your word in front of court, and you presided as the lords and ladies swore their oaths of fealty, but—” Rhaenyra wrings her hands in a show of anxiety. “You named me your heir, and you told me it was because of my suitability, not Daemon’s lack. But then you tried to immediately remarry. The only reason you didn’t was because of the scandal surrounding your haste. And then, once you were married, you wasted no time in getting a child on your wife. You finally have the son my mother suffered and died trying to give you and you named him Aegon. How can you not see what that looks like?”

Viserys reaches his hand out and when Rhaenyra doesn’t back away, he cups her cheek in his hand.

“If you wanted a son to inherit after you, you never should have named me your heir. No one would have questioned Aegon inheriting over Daemon or a daughter. But you made a choice. You declared to all of Westeros that regardless of how things had always been done, you wanted me to be your heir. You gave me your word, yes, but your actions contradict it at every turn.”

“That was never my intent,” Viserys whispers, his gaze shuttering, the image of a broken man.

Sansa feels no sympathy, especially as his display means the burden to fix him is on Rhaenyra’s shoulders.

“Intent is important, but perception matters more,” Rhaenyra says. “You are the king, and you are my father. I need you, twice over. I need your support, your teachings, your faith. If you continue to doubt me, how will Westeros ever believe in me? I know I have Syrax, and we both know Daemon’s reputation, but I don’t want to rule through fear. Please, father. Help me.”

Sansa sees the moment Rhaenyra’s victory is assured. Alicent may have a dozen silver-haired, purple-eyed boys, and Otto may spend the rest of his life plotting, but Viserys will never be an unwitting pawn again. He cups Rhaenyra’s face in both hands now, and he draws her in until he can kiss her forehead. His hands tremble, but Rhaenyra grips her father’s wrists to hold him steady and complete the circle.

“Anything you need,” Viserys tells his daughter. “Ask and it shall be yours.”

Sansa looks away from the pair to look at another father and daughter. The jealousy on Alicent’s face is too much for Sansa to look at for long. Otto doesn’t bother to hide his sneer, since both Rhaenyra and Viserys’s attention is occupied. But beneath the curl of his lips and the hardness in his eyes is something else.

Fear.

Sansa will have to be on her guard now that Otto’s realized the king will no longer be an easy pawn to move about the board. She knows the man is ambitious, but she doesn’t know where that ambition ends. Cersei Lannister was willing to blow up the Sept of Baelor to rid herself of her competition. Petyr Baelish threw the entire realm into chaos in order to reap the benefits. She doesn’t think Otto Hightower is like either of them, but she will prepare for it anyway.

With some, ambition only ends with their deaths.

Chapter Text

Jon flies on Silverwing long enough to drain away his impulse to hunt Melisandre down and kill her, or at least Sansa hopes he does. He has joined Sansa in the godswood where they have been given the privacy to talk through everything that happened this afternoon.

There is a furrow in Jon’s brow and a tightness in his features that suggests he is still angry, but he kneels next to Sansa and blows out a deep breath. She doesn’t recall ever seeing Jon truly angry before the throne room. She has seen him weary, seen him defeated, seen him grimly resigned but anger like what he directed at Melisandre?

No, never. She wonders if he’d been furious with Daenerys when she refused to come North. By the time Jon had returned North because he couldn’t shirk his duty, he had no energy for anger. All of his focus was on the Others and how to defeat them without southern aid.

Even now, with the anger drained, he hunches his shoulders and stares at the sword in his lap. “What if it Lightbringer?”

The sword is partially unsheathed to show how the blade ripples with its inner fire. Jon stares at it, captivated, but not with the awe Melisandre had. No, there is something raw and painful in Jon’s expression as if the blade has betrayed him somehow.

“Maybe it is,” Sansa says. She isn’t an expert on prophecy, especially not foreign ones. “But you aren’t Azor Ahai, the original or the reborn. You’re Jon.”

“If it’s true—” Jon pauses, swallows thickly, tries again. “If this is Lightbringer, then it wasn’t forged until Silverwing and Vermithor doused it in flames. It means we never stood a chance, Dany or no Dany.” Jon grinds the palms of his hands into his eyes. “It wasn’t our fault.”

She understands what he implies. There was no secret battle plan he failed to uncover, no strategy he failed to implement. They were always going to lose the War for the Dawn, because they didn’t have everything they needed. Sansa isn’t sure if she wants to scream at the injustice or weep because they never stood a chance. She reaches out and grips his hand.

“I may not be Azor Ahai, but the gods did choose me,” Jon says. He doesn’t look at her. He tries to pull his hand away once but when Sansa tightens his grip he doesn’t try again. “They have brought me back to life twice now. I failed to be the savior Westeros needed and so they’ve sent me back to prepare for the true savior.”

“Jon,” Sansa says softly. She offers him forgiveness she isn’t sure she has a right to grant. Or even that he would accept. She understands why so many in Westeros turned to the Seven. The Seven offer the Father, stern but responsible and dutiful, strong enough to pick his children up when they falter. The Seven offer the Mother, loving and caring, willing to soothe any hurts. The Seven humanized the gods. The old gods don’t care. They don’t feel. They simply are. They will use Sansa and Jon to accomplish their ends with no regard for Jon and Sansa’s feelings.

“Sometimes, I miss when my greatest concern was how to keep the Kingsguard from beating me too badly,” Sansa says. She seems to realize that doesn’t help Jon’s red mist of rage, so she reaches out to cover one of his hands with hers. “I just meant—it seems unfair to have the Battle for the Dawn and the War for the Iron Throne happening at the same time. There should only be one major crisis allowed at once.”

Jon laughs even though none of this is funny. He looks up at the faceless tree and wonders if it can be a conduit for the gods without a face. “Do you hear that? Human problems or inhuman problems. Only one allowed at a time.”

Sansa giggles and shakes her head. When her laughter fades, she feels too old, too serious. She rubs her thumb over the back of Jon’s hand but doesn’t look at him as she speaks. “It’s why they sent us back, Jon. We’re here to lay the groundwork. Make sure there will only be inhuman problems when the dead rise.”

“Unity through marriage,” Jon says. It’s his turn to offer comfort, drawing Sansa in until he can wrap an arm around her shoulders.

Sansa allows him to coddle her. “Parents aren’t allowed to keep their children,” she says, for her own reminder more than his. “Fostering and marriage take them away from home if parents are lucky. Death steals them away if they aren’t.” Sansa has never been good at lying to herself, and Jon sees through her more easily than anyone else. “I’m scared. Terrified, really. I know how dangerous King’s Landing is for Starks. We don’t have a choice.”

No one can protect anyone she wants to say. Even though it’s true, she can’t bring herself to be so cruel. It isn’t Jon’s fault they will have to part with one of their children sooner than they’d like. It isn’t his fault that one of their children will rule Westeros.

“We will remain here for a while,” Sansa says. “We should see Rhaenyra on the throne before we settle too deeply in the North. I don’t trust Viserys not to waver again. But we will have to be on our guard. The more he supports his daughter, the more dangerous Otto Hightower will become.”

Jon leans in until he rests his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to spend another day in King’s Landing. I want to whisk you away to a keep I built with my own hands, staffed with only those I’ve vetted and trust personally. I want to keep you safe and protect you from the machinations of this damned city.” Jon shushes her before she can do more than draw her breath to answer. “I know. No one can protect anyone. And what are my wants when balanced against the realm’s needs? I just—”

Jon sighs deeply. “King Viserys isn’t old. It might be that Rhaenyra doesn’t become queen for another twenty or even thirty years. I know the gods returned us our lives and so we belong to them but—”

“I know.” Sansa does know. She doesn’t like King’s Landing any more than he does. She longs for open space, for the view of the mountains, and the cold bite of winter. Ever since she was reunited with Jon at Castle Black, she started to dream about what it would be like to raise her children in the North. To hear their laughter echo through Winterfell’s stone hallways, to see them throw snow at one another, to gather as a family in front of the hearth.

“At least all this talk of prophecy will make it easier to ship obsidian from Dragonstone to the North,” Jon says.

Sansa twists to smile at him, because that is her Jon, finding the positive buried amongst all the negative. She threads a hand through his curls and guides him down to meet her lips in a kiss. It is brief but sweet, tender, and she brushes a second kiss over his cheek as she pulls back.

“Is it alright if we don’t think about the future for a little while?” Sansa asks.

“Of course.”

Jon shifts so he can properly hold her in his arms. She allows herself to lean on him, trusting him in a way she had thought lost to her forever after Father’s death, Cersei’s cruelty, Mother’s butchering, and Ramsay’s brutality. She knows Jon cannot protect her from the gods’ whims or the actions of others, but she also knows she doesn’t have to fear him.

#

It’s only the four of them, Sansa, Jon, Princess Rhaenyra, and Daemon present for the ritual. Sansa would have thought King Viserys would have been here to bear witness, but he isn’t, and she doesn’t dare ask Rhaenyra. Once again, the relationship between king and heir is damaged, but Sansa can’t dedicate the time or energy to fixing it yet. She has her own struggles. It surprises her less that Otto Hightower isn’t here. Does he believe the promise will have no legitimacy if he doesn’t witness it? He will not sit idly by as power is concentrated in Rhaenyra’s line. Sansa cannot ignore the threat he presents for much longer.

All that she has to do threatens to overwhelm her, but Jon kneels beside her in front of the weirwood, and he clasps her hand in his, a reminder that she doesn’t have to do this alone.

Rhaenyra kneels facing Sansa, and Daemon holds the blade they’ll use. It’s Rhaenyra’s own dagger, but Sansa suspects there’s a deeper history to it.

“It is Aegon’s blade,” Jon murmurs as Daemon heats the metal. “His prophecy is written on it.”

And now they’ll use the same blade to make their vows to uphold the prophecy. Sansa isn’t sure the combination of the Stark and Targaryen lines or a burning sword is enough to turn back the Others. She does know that Westeros has already failed once, and that the stakes are too high not to try. Even if the solution is one which causes her great personal pain.

She will have to give up a child, trust them to King’s Landing. As silly as it sounds, dying in the crypts had felt easier than this.

At Daemon’s direction, first Rhaenyra, then Sansa make a vertical cut along their forearms. It’s painful, but Sansa only hisses out a breath and squeezes Jon’s hand. They drip blood into a ceremonial bowl. It isn’t until they each speak their vow that they’re allowed to bind their wounds. Jon is careful, gentle, as he wraps Sansa’s arm. The cut will scar, another mark to add to the ones which already decorate her skin. It’s an important reminder, she knows, that she has given her word and is expected to keep it. She presses two fingers to the white bandage and flinches at the pain.

“None of that now,” Jon chides. He holds her hands in his. He lends her strength, steady and stalwart Jon. She searches his expression for any hint this hurts him as much as it hurts her. She knows he never wanted illegitimate children after a childhood feeling the burden of his own illegitimacy. At some point, she supposes he must have given up on the idea of children at all.

He and Sansa are married now. In the past, there’s no Night King or Lannister revenge to cut their lives short. Is a child of theirs the price for this chance at the future? Is it really so steep a price to pay? Is she selfish if she rages and mourns? Is she selfish if she accepts the bargain? She is not even pregnant yet, and she feels as though she’s failed as a mother.

“Sansa,” Rhaenyra ventures, her voice uncharacteristically timid.

Sansa wipes her eyes, which is when she realizes she is weeping. She shakes her head. “There is nothing to be done but duty. I have given my word before the gods, and I will keep it. But I do not want to discuss it.” She doesn’t want Rhaenyra’s sympathy, well-meaning as it is. She doesn’t want her guilt. Sansa has made this bargain, because it is better than the alternative. It doesn’t mean she can, or will, celebrate. Nor does she have any interest in being comforted when it is Rhaenyra who will benefit from Sansa’s sacrifice.

“Very well,” Rhaenyra says. She sounds strained, no doubt because this is the first rift between her and Sansa, and it isn’t one that can heal. They will have to learn to work around it. But it can’t fester or grow larger, either. Sansa knows Otto Hightower will search for any kind of weakness. She cannot allow him to capitalize on this.

“We will have to plan for Ser Otto’s response,” Sansa says.

“Tomorrow,” Jon tells her. “Today, we will rest.” And mourn, she hears as he leans in to brush his lips over her forehead. Sansa allows herself the weakness of closing her eyes. From a certain perspective, everyone and everything they knew was the price for them to be in this time with a chance to save the now future lives of those she knew. What is one child compared to that? And it isn’t as though the gods demand her child’s death. It is their life the gods want. She isn’t naïve enough to believe there is safety for anyone in King’s Landing but she still has enough faith to pray her child will have a better time of it than she did in King’s Landing. Rhaenyra will be kinder than Cersei. And neither Sansa nor Jon are as unpracticed at court as Ned Stark had been. Sansa and Jon will be able to protect their child, even from up in the North. Jon’s dragon means the trip to King’s Landing will take days rather than moons.

“It will be different,” Sansa says, a vow of her own.

“It will,” Jon agrees, as if he knows where her thoughts linger. “I will build you a keep worthy of your governance. We’ll fill it with children—our own and our vassals’. There will never be a moment of quiet to be found.”

“Like Winterfell,” Sansa says. One of the reasons she kept to the Seven was that her mother’s small sept was the only peaceful place. Or, that’s how it felt at times. Sansa wants the chaos, and the joy, of a full household. No matter how many children there are, whether they be noble or smallfolk, Jon will spoil them all terribly. “Tell me, Jon. What will it be like?”

She tucks herself against Jon’s chest allows him to cradle her with such gentleness, she feels as though she’s exposing a weakness. He tells her his plans for the Gift and the port city. He spins tales of children scolded for not helping with the effort and then set free to race around underfoot. He tells her of the imports—lemons, oranges, watermelon, and cantaloupe. Lace from Myr and silk from Qarth. He even tells her about the theater and how it will host both plays and musical performances. She will hear her favorite ballads and love songs as often as she likes. The future won’t be perfect, she knows, but she’s looking forward to everything Jon described.

Chapter Text

Melisandre’s visit doesn’t get much attention, because Alicent and the Hightower contingent try to direct all conversation to Aegon, King Viserys’s first, and so far only, son, while Rhaenyra attempts to overwhelm the entire court with wedding planning. Sansa is taken off preparations for her own wedding when Rhaenyra decides Sansa isn’t thinking grandly enough.

But Alicent’s long public walks with Aegon and Rhaenyra’s menu planning both fade to the background when Laena returns from a visit to Driftmark, not via boat, but on the back of a massive dragon.

“Her name is Vhagar,” Laena says at Ladies Court, her eyes still shining brightly from her flight.

“She’s the biggest claimed dragon,” Tyra Lannister says with an equal mix of pride and fear.

“She’s perfect,” Laena says. Boldy, she reaches over and clasps Rhaenyra’s hand. “I can’t wait to go flying with you. I’ve ridden with someone else on their dragon, but having my own…there’s no comparison. I almost didn’t come back. There are so many places to go, and I now have the ability to travel to them.”

Lord Corlys had written to King Viserys, bragging about his daughter’s accomplishment, so none of them were caught off guard by Laena’s arrival. Still, no amount of prior notice could have prepared Sansa for the change in the girl. Laena is…radiant. She is full of new confidence and purpose. She sits amongst the ladies of the court and doesn’t shy away from the attention. Before, it was her father’s fortune or her mother’s family name which drew attention and perhaps she didn’t feel as though she earned it. But after claiming a dragon, Laena is transformed.

“You’ll have to come on my morning flights with me,” Rhaenyra says. “Some mornings, Daemon and Jon come as well.”

Jon asked if Sansa felt left out. He would be happy to let her ride with him, but Sansa is content to keep her feet on the ground. It will be a good way for Rhaenyra and Laena to bond. If Sansa was someone else or more insecure, she might worry. Laena will no doubt be a confidante and close friend. She might one day prove herself to Rhaenyra by marrying Aegon to neutralize him as a threat. But Sansa’s child will marry Rhaenyra’s heir. And Laena simply can’t compete with Sansa’s understanding of court politics. Sansa’s position is secure, even if she is looking more and more toward the day she can leave King’s Landing and court behind.

It will be difficult to go North, she knows. Winterfell won’t be her home, and she won’t be its lady, nor will she be Queen in the North. She and Jon will forge a new future, one different from what they had before. Of course, that future is on hold until Sansa can solve the Hightower problem and see Rhaenyra secure on her throne. Jon will no doubt begin construction, but Sansa won’t live in their new home until her work here is done.

Laena will be an important part now that she has a dragon, and one with such a storied history and imposing presence. It will be a careful balance, giving Laena enough power to curb Alicent’s ambition for Aegon, but making it clear to Corlys and Rhaenys that Laena is not going to sit the throne herself. Sansa doesn’t think Laena herself has any ambition, but Corlys has it in abundance, and Rhaenys still feels the sting of being passed over for Viserys. Laena no doubt has an uncomfortable few years ahead of her as she has to prove her loyalty to Rhaenyra and hold off against the pressure her parents put her under. At least now, if she’s pushed too far, she can fly away. And, at least in conversation, she has no qualms in doing just that.

Sansa is glad Jon was able to claim a dragon, even if Silverwing frightens her. It means the Targaryens and Velaryons have the same number each and helps maintain the balance of power. She can draw comfort too from the fact that Ser Otto’s manipulations to land his daughter queen mean it’s highly unlikely there will ever be a Hightower-Velaryon alliance to worry about. It doesn’t mean she won’t worry, but she won’t dedicate large amounts of time to counter measures.

Unlike Aegon and the Hightowers. Long term, Sansa is hoping to use Laena to neutralize Aegon as a threat, but there are still short-term measures to be taken. The first is thrice-weekly visits to the nursery. Sasna accompanies Rhaenyra to visit her half-brother, and King Viserys joins them. It’s a good reminder that King Viserys has a grown child and heir already. His presence also put an end to Ser Otto’s attempts to keep Rhaenyra away from her brother. Alicent hovers anxiously, wringing her hands as if she’s afraid if she so much as blinks, Rhaenyra will snap the boy’s neck.

Sansa isn’t sure if it’s a mother’s natural concern or something worse, but Alicent never relaxes while Rhaenyra is in the same room as her son. Part of it is a mother’s concern, because Sansa’s heard reports that Alicent resists her father’s attempts to parade the boy through the city, nervous to take him anywhere outside the safety of the Targaryen family wing of the Red Keep.

Sansa has also heard from servants that the king has started asking when his wife will return to his bed. Sansa pities Alicent for the man’s attention and hopes for her sake the maesters don’t give their blessing yet. Of course, for Rhaenrya’s sake, Sansa hopes they never do, but she knows better than to think that will happen. Alicent will give King Viserys more children. And each one will put pressure on Rhaenyra to have children of her own. At least the wedding isn’t too far away. Alicent might be pregnant for it, but she won’t have a second babe in hand.

“I’d be honored to take Aegon on a flight once he’s old enough,” Laena is saying when Sansa tunes back into the conversation. Still talking about dragons. She hasn’t missed anything important.

“As his sister, I have the right to his first flight,” Rhaenyra says. “But I’m sure he won’t turn down having two people to take him flying.”

This is an important part of their strategy. King Viserys has already decreed no cradle eggs for his and Alicent’s children. It means Aegon’s exposure, and access to, the Targaryen symbol is through Rhaenyra. If the people of King’s Landing see him on dragon back, it will be cradled in front of his older sister, on her dragon, a reminder of who Viserys’s heir is. Not to mention, it will be powerful motivation for Aegon to seek his sister out and maintain an amiable relationship, regardless of what his mother or grandfather wants.

It is difficult for Sansa to apply her strategy to Aegon. He is a child and the manipulation leaves her wanting to take multiple baths and to scrub her skin raw. She comforts herself with the knowledge that these aren’t malicious manipulations. She isn’t planning to harm Aegon. In fact, if she’s successful, then Aegon will be far better protected than if he is used as the figurehead of rebellion.

“He’s still just a babe,” Lady Cuy says, disapprovingly.

Rhaenyra scoffs. “I’d taken my first flight by his age, but it is his mother’s prerogative. She didn’t grow up with dragons the way Queen Aemma or Princess Rhaenys did, so I understand her unease.”

But Rhaenyra clearly doesn’t share it, as her tone suggests. It’s another reminder that Alicent married into the family. And if she’s hesitant and wary of Targaryen traditions, how is Aegon to be seen as a contender for the throne? Rhaenyra is a true Targaryen, a dragon rider with all the arrogance that comes with it. Aegon is a babe with an overprotective mother.

It won’t last forever, though. Babes grow up, and all Rhaenyra’s accomplishments will fade the first time Aegon is seen as a stropping young man. It won’t matter if Rhaenyra has ruled Dragonstone well or has six boys of her own. Once Aegon isn’t a child, the realm will look to him. Rhaenyra needs to be queen before then, ideally within the next ten years. Sansa isn’t sure how to make that happen without the kind of drastic measures she refuses to take.

Jon, she knows, is more willing to consider regicide. It doesn’t surprise her, because Jon is the one who set his crown and kingdom at Daenerys’s feet. He believes in the common good over the pride, or even life, of an individual. That the individual in question is the king doesn’t bother Jon the way it bothers Sansa.

She prays every morning for the gods’ wisdom and a different solution. At night, frustrated without a stroke of brilliance, she is more willing to consider the extreme option. Only, that would create too many issues. If Rhaenyra succeeds following her father’s death, Otto Hightower will claim foul play and blame Daemon’s ambition.

But…what’s to say Ser Otto won’t do the same even if King Viserys has a natural death? Sansa isn’t sure it’s possible for Rhaenyra to become queen following her father’s death. Not if she wants to rule uncontested. It is King Viserys who made the unprecedented move to name his daughter his heir. Therefore, he must also be the one to crown her queen. Sansa will have to convince King Viserys to abdicate in favor of his daughter.

“Lady Sansa?” Mina Strong rests her hand on Sansa’s to claim her attention. “You look pale. Are you well?”

“Overwhelmed by wedding planning, I’m afraid.” Sansa’s smile is too forced, but it helps sell the lie. “I need some air.” She stands, ignoring the curious or concerned looks from most of the ladies as well as Rhaenyra’s narrowed eyed-gaze, the one that promises Sansa will tell her the truth later.

“It can be a lot,” Mina says, surprising Sansa as she stands as well. “A walk and some fresh air is the perfect cure.”

Sansa doesn’t have the opportunity to protest as Mina locks their arms together and guides Sansa out of the room. It isn’t until they’ve reached the godswood that Sansa manages to say, “You didn’t have to leave.”

“I wanted to. We all talk, you know. You’re planning more than a wedding. And I know I can’t help with it, but I can give you room to breathe when you need it.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to help. I’m only allowed to stay in King’s Landing until I’m with child. I’m looking forward to being a mother, but I will miss everyone.”

“Especially your husband?”

Mina manages to look both fond and exasperated. “Lord Strong thought marrying me would force Ser Harwin to settle down. Now, he says a child will. Harwin does good work with the City Watch, and he enjoys it. I don’t blame him for wanting to stay. And I don’t want him to blame me as the reason he has to give it up.”

“It is a bit hypocritical for Lord Strong to order his son home to rule while Lord Strong himself remains in King’s Landing.”

“A topic I’ve heard much about.” Mina laughs and turns Sansa down one of the paths. “Lady Strong writes often.  I think she is equally lonely and worried my presence will disrupt her domain.”

“Relationships between women are complicated,” Sansa says. Cersei certainly hadn’t been kind when Sansa was announced to one day marry Joffrey. She was envious, convinced Sansa would usurp her power at court and her favor with Joffrey. Women are set to compete against each other and it rarely ends well.

“My mother warned me to guard my heart when I accepted my place within Princess Rhaenyra’s household,” Mina says. “She feared I would expect friendship and be met with disappointment. It wasn’t like that. In large part, because of you, I think.”

“Some of my dearest friends have been women,” Sansa says. “And so have some of my fiercest enemies. The capital is cutthroat. It’s dangerous to even be a spectator while others play the game of thrones. With all the danger, it’s important for us to support each other.”

“Sometimes, you speak as if you’ve already lived an entire lifetime.”

“Sometimes, I feel like I have. One day, you will live at Harrenhal, and I will live in the North. I hope we continue to be friends.”

“We shall,” Mina proclaims. They walk in silence for a bit, each preoccupied with their own thoughts.

Sansa appreciates the space to think. Her next task, King Viserys’s abdication, looms over her, but it doesn’t seem quite so daunting out here in the godswood. The gods gave her the experiences in her prior life, terrible awful experiences, to teach and prepare her for this. She has an ally and confidante in Jon. She has the buy-in from Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon as well as their considerable power. She even knows what she needs to do. It’s simply a matter of orchestrating events to make it happen.

This lesson, as much as she hates to give him credit, she learned from Petyr. Cersei understood power, understood relationships and manipulation, but Petyr was patient. He knew when to bide his time, knew that sometimes the best move was nothing at all. Sansa knows what she needs to do to see Rhaenyra on the throne. The trick now is to figure out the timing. Acting too soon will be as consequential as acting too late.

For Viserys to agree to abdicate, Rhaenyra needs to be well on her way to being queen and Viserys himself will need a new purpose. It will have to wait until after Rhaenyra’s marriage. It may even need to wait for her first child. Once the heir has an heir, once Viserys is a grandfather, Sansa will lay the groundwork for abdication. They’ll convince Viserys he wants to be a doting grandfather rather than a king. He’ll still have all the trappings of a monarch but without all the work. Rhaenyra will be a key part in this campaign. And Ser Otto will need to be kept out of the way.

“I know there are things you can’t talk about,” Mina says, as if she somehow knows where Sansa’s thoughts are. “Lean on us for the things you can delegate. We want to help.”

Sansa won’t—can’t—trust anyone like she trusts Jon, but it doesn’t mean she has to do everything on her own. She’s surrounded Rhaenyra with daughters from powerful families. It would be foolish not to make use of them. “All I do is done to see Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne.” Sansa had confided in Cassandra but after she became Lady Baratheon and returned to Storm’s End, Sansa has been without a close ally amongst the other ladies-in-waiting. Perhaps it’s time to change that. “Every decision made; every word spoken is considered through that lens.”

“I want to learn,” Mina says. “Alana does too. We want to support Princess Rhaenyra, whether we are at her side in King’s Landing or in our husband’s home.”

“Then I will teach you.” And Sansa’s lessons will be far kinder than Cersei or Petyr’s had been.

#

As the weddings approach, Sansa becomes less involved in the minutiae and more involved in the big picture. She reviews seating arrangements, entertainments, color schemes, and finds the opportunities for a message or victory. She explains each move to Mina and Alana who soak up her teachings eagerly. Alana, especially, commits to learning. She will be a Lannister one day, she tells Sansa, and she must play to win.

When they find out the Hightowers intend to spurn the grays, blacks, and reds of Sansa’s wedding, Sansa laughs and says, “Let them and record the name of every person who wears green.”

Sansa herself can’t do it, too busy participating in the wedding as the bride, but if the Hightowers want to self-report, she won’t let the opportunity pass her by. The Hightower contingent stand out, even those who tried to hedge their bets by wearing a deep, dark green. On another day, it might pass as black, but not on this one.

After opening the dancing with Jon, now her husband before the Seven, and dancing the second with Prince Daemon, Sansa makes her way to Alicent’s side. Sansa and Rhaenyra, using King Viserys, managed to keep Aegon from the entire seven-day wedding celebration. Alicent tried to argue his inclusion in some of the daytime events, even wanted him in Rhaenyra’s ceremony itself. Her desperation was evident when she pleaded with Viserys to allow Aegon to participate in his sister’s wedding, but Viserys held firm against her.

There is no Aegon, no hint that King Viserys has a second child during the celebrations for his firstborn. All future speculation is on how quickly Prince Daemon will get a babe on his soon to be wife. No one is talking about Aegon or whether he should wear the crown over his sister.

“Your Grace,” Sansa greets. She curtsies to Alicent. At her sides, Mina and Alana do the same. “You honor me with your presence.”

Alicent’s smile is tight, unfriendly, her lips pursed into a thin line. Supposedly, she tried to get out of attending, but Rhaenyra said the queen could hardly skip the opening of the heir’s wedding celebration. “I understand this was simply a formality,” Alicent says.

Sansa allows the insult to slide off her back. “I admit I’m surprised to hear you say so, your Grace. While I follow the old gods, I thought you’d place more importance on a wedding before the Seven.” Sansa’s smile is as equally false as Alicent’s. “But you are correct. Jon and I were married before the gods in the godswood many moons ago. Now, our marriage is recognized by men as well. We have the blessing of the Seven and King Viserys.”

“Will there be a bedding? I know you’ve expressed discomfort with it in the past.” Alicent’s fake concern is heavy-handed and stifling, but this doesn’t hit its mark either.

“Prince Daemon and Ser Harwin promised Jon, on their honor as fellow City Watch members, that they would allow no one to take liberties with me. I shall be quite protected, but I thank you for your concern.” Sansa turns to leave and then pauses as if she’s had a new thought. “Queen Alicent, you appear to have forgotten the color scheme for my wedding. It will be easily dismissed, but take care you don’t forget Princess Rhaenyra’s. It is one thing to wear green in envy of a mere lady-in-waiting. I would hate for you to offer an insult to Princess Rhaenyra.” Sansa curtsies deeper than necessary and then leaves Alicent to the company of her ladies.

“She isn’t wearing green for envy,” Alana murmurs. “The shade she wears is the color of the flame when Oldtown lights its beacon for war.”

“For Alicent’s sake, I hope she isn’t that foolish,” Sansa says. “She’d be entering a war she lost years ago.”

Ser Laenor approaches Sansa for the next dance, interrupting her circuit of the room. It begins her obligation to dance with a male relative of each of Rhaenyra’s ladies and concludes with a set with King Viserys himself. He hands her off to Jon, her reward for her patience. Every smile of the night proves false as she beams at Jon, unable to contain her joy as they’re reunited.

Jon, her Jon, her husband. “I love you,” she says. She hopes to never lose the thrill of saying it or hearing it in turn.

“This day and for all of my days, I love you,” Jon tells her.

Tonight, after the dancing, Jon will take her to their shared chambers for the first time. When they kiss, there will be no fear of being caught and no need to stop as they grow more amorous. Mina Strong had a stilted, well-meaning conversation with Sansa over what to expect tonight. It is an open secret that Sansa has had negative experiences with men, but she doesn’t fear Jon. She trusts him.

He twirls her around the dance floor, a furrow of deep concentration in his brow. She knows he practiced endlessly leading up to tonight, afraid to embarrass her or ruin the evening. As if a few missed steps could accomplish that. Tonight, after a lifetime of loss, she has gained something.

When the song ends, she is held in Jon’s arms and has no desire to move. She stares at her husband instead. His black curls are glossy, tamed, but he is unmistakably Northern. He shaved the length from his beard, but his chin is still stubbled, and he regards her with Stark gray eyes. He wears the finery and sigil of a Targaryen, neither of them sitting with ease on his solid, muscular frame.

“It is too soon for you to look at me like this,” Jon rasps, his voice barely above a whisper.

“How do I look at you, Jon?” Sansa doesn’t recognize her own voice, breathy as it is.

“As if you wish we were the only two in the room.”

After Joffrey and Ramsay, Sansa thought desire, like love, was another lie naïve girls believe in. Joffrey’s kisses repulsed her, and Ramsay’s touch only brought torment and pain. Men’s flirtations were a threat or an opening to a careful manipulation, but there is nothing threatening about Jon. Not to her, at least. He is comfort, he is care, he is this deep well of yearning that says not enough. Tonight, he will give her more, they will share their bodies, but she suspects even that won’t be enough. Jon has awoken some hunger inside of her, and she is eager to try and sate it with him.

“Do I truly look so wanton?” Sansa asks.

“I cannot look away from you to see how others react, but to me you are beautiful. Passionate. The best bride—the best wife—a man could hope for.”

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa sighs, overcome as ever by his unintentional romance. He doesn’t speak with a courtier’s honeyed tongue or a bard’s practiced lines. He is honest, earnest, and all the more devastating to her for it.

“Good lords and ladies of Westeros!” Rhaenyra shouts to be heard over the crowd, and they obligingly quiet for her. “While our celebration is far from over, our newly wed couple has been patient long enough. We will see them off to bed and then continue our merriment!”

“Hear, hear!” Lord Lannister shouts in response.

Sansa clings to Jon for a moment as Prince Daemon and Ser Harwin come to spirit her away. Despite her brave words to Alicent earlier, she is frightened.

“You’ll be reunited soon,” Rhaenyra promises, all her softness reserved for Sansa. To Jon, she commands, “Off with your doublet, Lord Targaryen, or my ladies shall tear it from your body.”

“You ruin our fun,” Tyra Lannister says with a mock pout.

Sansa loses track of Jon as Ser Harwin lifts her easily in his arms. Prince Daemon keeps the grasping lords at bay and drowns out their complaints with a song bawdy enough for Ser Harwin to apologize thrice along the journey to Sansa’s new chambers. Sansa clings to Ser Harwin without shame, grateful for his protection. Someone snatches one of her slippers but that’s as undressed as she gets before Ser Harwin sets her on her feet, just outside the chamber doors.

Prince Daemon holds the rowdy men where they are in the hall so Sansa can slip into the room. The heavy wooden door shuts with a satisfying thud. The sounds from the other side are muted, though there’s enough of them for her to know there’s still a crowd gathered. She paces the receiving room, still missing one shoe, until a surge of noise alerts her to something happening.

The door opens and Jon stumbles through to hoots and hollers. The door closes behind him, but he doesn’t move, as if he’s trying to get his bearings. Unlike Sanas, he looks ravaged. He is down to his undershirt, torn and exposing one shoulder. His smalls protect a fraction of his modesty. His cheeks are flushed red under his beard, and his curls are riotous and untamed. He blinks slowly and seems to finally recognize he isn’t alone in the room. His gaze takes in Sansa’s appearance. He frowns at her missing slipper which, compared to his lack of clothing, makes her laugh.

“Prince Daemon and Ser Harwin guarded me well.”

“Good.”

“It does mean I’ll need assistance disrobing. This dress isn’t designed for the wearer to put it on or take it off.” Sansa waits for Jon to approach, but he remains where he is. “That was an invitation. Or I can call for the maids.”

“I can do it.” Jon hurries forward, only to hesitate as he catches sight of the long row of pearl buttons that seal her dress closed. “Or maybe I can’t.”

“Go carefully and you’ll be fine,” Sansa tells him. She could call the maids, but she’d prefer for Jon to undress her. She has been surrounded by strangers all night, gracious and polite as a bride should be. She only wants Jon now, especially as she is about to make herself vulnerable. Sansa pulls her hair over her shoulder to give Jon full access. His fingers are hesitant, unsure at first as he pushes the pearls through their holes.

“They’re Riverlands pearls,” Sansa says to fill the silence. “No one understands why, and I can’t explain that they remind me of my mother, but they do. None of our parents were here, but I like to think they would have approved.”

“Rhaegar would have.” Jon’s hands only fumble once at the mention of his father. “Seeing as I managed to marry a Stark without plunging the realm into war.”

“Ned would have approved too,” Sansa says. Jon always craved Ned Stark’s approval. “You are everything he wanted in a husband for me and this marriage will see me returned home to the North.”

Neither of them mentions mothers again. Sansa doesn’t know much about Lyanna and any further reference to Catelyn risks ruining the evening. Once Jon undoes enough buttons for Sasna to step out of the dress, she does. She drapes it carefully over the large wooden desk. And then, self-conscious of her undergarments, she moves to the bed chamber.

Jon follows her in. He shuts that door as well, another layer of protection between them and the outside world. She reaches for the straps of her undergarments but Jon eases her hands away. And then, instead of continuing to undress her, he kisses her.

They have snuck enough kisses for this to feel familiar, but it doesn’t make it any less enjoyable. And now, when she presses against him, desperate to be closer, he groans loudly, and they don’t have to spring apart. They’re married, allowed this intimacy. Sansa curls her hands over Jon’s shoulders, but it isn’t enough. She is the one to move to the bed and pull him down with her, until he covers her with his body.

That—the weight of him presses her into the mattress—is what she needed. Jon is solid above her, but he doesn’t crush her. His weight is a comfort, a reminder to be present in her body and enjoy what is to come.

“Jon,” she breathes, turning his face so they look each other in the eye. “My husband.”

Chapter Text

Sansa wakes in the morning, held warm and secure in Jon’s arms. She closes her eyes again, lingers in the moment even though this is now her future. A thousand, ten thousand mornings waking like this is what she has to look forward to. Jon is adorably scattered in the morning, bleary-eyed and slow—both to move and to think. It isn’t until he splashes cold water in his face that he begins to wake up and take note of his surroundings.

“Of course you’re a morning person,” he says.

Sansa ties her dressing gown and goes to the outer room where servants have set out an impressive spread of food. “They know there’s only two of us, right?” She raises her voice so it will carry into the bedchamber.

“You’re hungrier than you realize,” Jon says. He follows her in, a flush on his cheeks, which means his words reference last night’s…activities. Sansa’s own cheeks heat up. She had enjoyed last night. She doesn’t understand how she blushes after Jon was inside her last night.

They eat mostly in silence, passing each other dishes based on looks rather than words. It isn’t uncomfortable, far from it, an ease and intimacy that makes Sansa smile so often her cheeks ache by the end of the meal. Their quiet morning ends soon after. Today is the second day of Rhaenyra and Daemon’s wedding celebrations, and it’s being hosted by the Velayrons, which means a day spent on the water.

Sansa braids her hair to keep it from getting windblown and hopelessly tangled. She dresses for the day, sneaking looks at Jon as he does the same until she remembers they’re married, and she boldly watches him instead. When he notices, Jon fumbles the ties on his undershirt. He turns red, his cheeks, his throat, the sliver of chest exposed by his open shirt.

“Sansa?” he asks, half question, half concern.

“You’re my husband,” she says because there’s no need to hide her realization. “I don’t have to hide my interest. Unless…” Sansa’s had her fair share of unwanted attention. “I can be more subtle if you prefer.”

“No.” Jon’s voice is raspy, and he coughs to clear his throat. “No, it’s good. Just. Unexpected.”

Sansa stares at him as she struggles to understand. “You’re surprised by how I feel?” She thought she was obvious—painfully, embarrassingly obvious.

“No. I mean, yes. Maybe?” Jon stops even playing with the strings on his shirt. “I know you love me. We’ve married, twice, but I still have a hard time believing it.”

“Oh, Jon.” Sansa steps forward to tie the laces of his shirt. “I will tell you every day. I will watch you long enough to make us late for every appointment we have. It isn’t a hardship to show you how much I care.”

“May I do the same?” Jon cradles her face in a calloused hand. At Sansa’s careful nod, his lips quirk up in a smile, and he leans in to press a kiss to her forehead.

Sansa can’t help her pout. At the sight of it, Jon groans, a quiet sound that reverberates between them. “If I kiss you properly, we’ll be far later than either of us want to be.”

“Then I’ll patiently wait for tonight, when the only place we’re expected to be is our bed.”

Jon closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath and then steps back to pluck his doublet off the chair it rests on. There’s something powerful about knowing how deeply she affects him and something comforting in the control he shows. It makes her giddy, eager for tonight, and she has to force herself to return to her own dressing.

They exit their rooms arm in arm. Lord and Lady Targaryen of Wolfsport. That is what they will be called, but Jon and Sansa know the truth. They will always be Starks of Winterfell and the North. When they enter the banquet hall, last night’s tables are now laden with food for a casual morning meal, they attract the attention of the early risers. Princess Rhaenyra isn’t among them, but Prince Daemon is, and Jon leads them over, a hesitation in his step.

“You’re here earlier than I expected,” Prince Daemon says. He bows over Sansa’s hand. “I hope my protégé didn’t leave you unfulfilled.”

Sansa’s clever words abandon her, a red blush her only response. She knows how to speak in innuendo, a language of implications, but last night was her wedding night. Everyone knows what happened. To obfuscate would be silly.

“Oh?” Daemon asks, amused. The look he slants a Jon suggests a teasing interrogation to come later, but he spares Sansa and lets the topic rest for now. “Eager to get on the water?”

“Lord Corlys has every reason to be proud of his fleet, the pleasure ships as much as the war galleys,” Sansa says. “And Princess Rhaenyra was gracious enough to give both Jon and myself a place at her side today. We shall be spoiled with both sunshine and company.”

“Some of the company will be more welcome than others,” Daemon says. He looks across the hall at where Alicent attempts to hold an unofficial ladies court since both Princess Rhaenyra and King Viserys are absent. “There will be no squalling infant at least.”

“You’ll have a squalling babe of your own soon enough,” Sansa says.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Daemon’s face betrays his longing for a child. “Few things would please me more. Though the two of you have an unfair head start.”

“It’s only a few nights,” Jon says. “And no, we won’t abstain out of solidarity.”

“We’ll have to spend a week not leaving our chambers in order to catch up.” Daemon sounds as if he’s looking forward to it. Sansa hopes Rhaenyra finds as much joy and pleasure in her marriage bed as Sansa has. She wonders if Rhaenyra will want to talk about it. Will Sansa be able to speak of Jon’s affection without stumbling over her words? Is he comfortable with her sharing their intimate details with Princess Rhaenyra and the other ladies? Will Jon be expected to talk about Sansa when she isn’t in his company?

She must stiffen or give herself away, because Jon slides a comforting arm around her waist. “My companions know better than to expect stories from me,” Jon tells her.

“After all this time abstaining from whores, we thought we’d finally get proof of your working prick,” Daemon says.

Jon rolls his eyes but doesn’t engage more than that.

“Would you like me to keep silent as well?” Sansa asks. It would be unfair to ask Jon to withhold bragging to his friends while she gossips freely with hers.

Jon glances at Daemon as if he’s weighing what to say in front of company. “For men, it’s bragging about their own prowess and often demeaning or embarrassing to the woman they’re with. For women, it’s one of your few opportunities to learn about intimate encounters. I trust your discretion. If you’re comfortable sharing with your friends, you have my permission.”  

“Thank you.” How much had Sansa learned from Margaery and then later from the girls in the Vale? Ladies can’t visit pillow houses or have pre-marital dalliances. They can only learn what to expect from their married friends or family.

Daemon looks between Jon and Sansa as if by staring he can learn all their secrets. He wouldn’t be the first to wonder at the depth of feeling between them when they’ve only known each other a handful of years, the majority of them spent apart, with Jon in the Stepstones. There’s no way to explain the truth of their relationship. Neither does Sansa have any desire to hide her love for Jon. Let people speculate, they’ll never stumble upon the truth.

#

Sansa is glad she and Jon discussed his comfort levels with her sharing their intimate moments, because Sansa is asked about it as soon as they’re on the pleasure barge. Rhaenyra holds court with her closest ladies, all of them sprawled on soft pillows, an array of snacks and sweets laid out for them to nibble on.

“Well?” Rhaenyra asks once they each have a little plate of something. “I didn’t notice you limping.”

There are a few giggles from the unmarried ladies, though Laena looks alarmed, as if she’s afraid intimacy requires rough treatment or pain.

“Jon was gentle with me,” Sansa says. “I am sore from a new activity, but there’s no pain. He—” Sansa debates how much she wants to say. “He made sure I felt cherished.”

“I knew you were a romantic, but Jon being one comes as a surprise,” Rhaenyra says.

“Men have tender hearts too,” Mina says. “They only pretend they don’t.”

“It truly didn’t hurt?” Alana asks, her voice barely above a whisper, aware they’re on the open deck of a ship.

“He called the penetration the final act,” Sansa says, finding her courage in Alana’s curiosity. “There were many others before it. He didn’t rush. When it happened, it was strange at first, but my body grew accustomed to it. And by the end, it was enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable enough that you’re eager for tonight?” Rhaenyra asks.

Sansa’s answering blush leads to loud laughter and gentle teasing. Mina takes a turn in the hot seat, her shy confessions met with mock disgust from Ser Harwin’s sisters. Even Lady Cassandra, in King’s Landing for the wedding, volunteers tidbits from her own experiences. Rhaenyra eagerly absorbs it all, casting more and more frequent looks at where Daemon holds court with his own close circle of men.

“Soon,” Mina assures her. And then, a wicked smile on her lips, she adds, “but you must pace yourself. You have a lifetime ahead of you. You don’t need to do everything on your wedding night.”

“It’s best to always hold something back,” Cassandra advises. “Leave him wanting more, and he’ll return to your bed each night.”

Rhaenyra looks to Sansa as if for confirmation. “I’ve only been married for one night,” Sansa reminds her. “But—” Sansa bites her lip, stalls, before she gives her most intimate confession yet. “I was thoroughly satisfied and that will bring me back to our shared bed.”

“Thoroughly satisfied?” Mina grins, her eyes dancing, as if she can guess a few of the things Sansa and Jon did together. “I hope Prince Daemon acquits himself as admirably as Lord Jon apparently did.”

There is another round of giggles and enough looks toward the men for Daemon to take it as an invitation to join their group. He saunters over, confident in his reception. He bows, over the top, and kisses the hand of each lady. His grin grows with each giggle or blush, until he’s outright smirking at Rhaenyra.

He kisses the back of her hand and then turns her hand over to press a kiss to the palm as well, assuaging her ego and drawing a pretty pink flush to her cheeks. Ser Harwin steps forward as if to follow in Daemon’s footsteps.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Mina says, earning peals of laughter from her arch tone and then Ser Harwin’s hangdog expression. Ser Harwin kisses his wife on the mouth, a chaste kiss, but one that earns whoops and cheers.

Alana and Tyra both watch the displays of affection with open envy. Laena, unsurprisingly, stares at the skies as if hoping their dragons will join the celebration. Sansa can’t hold back her smile as Jon comes to stand behind her. He rests a hand on her shoulder, and she covers it with her own. If she closes her eyes, she can see how they must look in the reflection of her parents. Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn stood like this often. In fact, it was rare for them to be in the same room without touching. A hand on an arm, the brush of shoulders, quiet intimate moments.

“Where is Queen Alicent?” Ser Harwin asks.

“She’s on the other ship,” Rhaenyra answers. “We didn’t want her ruining our fun. She knows she can’t wear green for the rest of the week, so it’s her cheeks that carry the color today.”

Jorelle helpfully mimes retching for those who didn’t know that Alicent suffers from seasickness.

“I can’t believe she wore a green dress to your wedding,” Tyra tells Sansa.

“She’s the queen,” Sansa says, an excuse not to comment and a reminder that only Rhaenyra and Daemon can get away with blatantly disrespecting King Viserys’s wife.  

“Only because she traded her place at Rhaenyra’s side for her father’s bed and her mother’s crown,” Cassanda says.

Silence descends over the group, people frozen, unsure whether to laugh, to insult Alicent, or scold Cassandra.

Jon squeezes Sansa’s shoulder and then says, “I’m glad you chose to marry me and not the king.”

It’s a ridiculous comment, one that breaks the silence. Daemon brags about Targaryen virility, Jorelle argues for Northern blood, and Sansa turns her head to press a kiss to Jon’s fingers.

“I’m glad I married you too,” she says softly.

“So glad you did it twice,” Laena says. “I’ve never seen a ceremony before the old gods. Is it true it can only be done on the full moon?”

“Oh yes,” Harwin answers, nothing but mischief in his big, happy grin. “How else would you be able to see the blood?”

“Blood?” Laena echoes. Her gaze darts to Sansa’s, questioning, but Ser Harwin easily recaptures her attention.

“Of course, blood,” he says. “Godswoods in the Riverlands and beyond are true forests. The groom leads a hunt in the days before the wedding in order to provide meat for the feast. But we don’t believe in waste outside of King’s Landing. Meat for the table, aye, but furs to trim the wedding cloaks, and blood because that is all else the bride and groom are permitted to wear.”

“You painted yourself in blood?” Laena asks Sansa. She shakes her head as if she can’t picture it. “Ser Harwin, you’re having me on.”

“He’s a shameless liar,” Mina says. “Next, he’ll have you believing that mermaids are real.”

“Any sailor worth their salt has seen a mermaid,” Laena says. She entertains them with stories of beautiful women—half fish, whole adventurer—free to swim and explore their seas. Laena is undeterred by teasing questions or sly smiles. Dragons exist, she reminds them, so why not mermaids as well?

#

The days blur together, entertainment and feasting, parties and gossip. Each night, Sansa eagerly welcomes Jon into their bed and then into her body. But even with a packed schedule, it’s impossible to forget what it’s all leading up to.

Princess Rhaenyra weds Prince Daemon in a ceremony that would put the Lannisters and Velayrons to shame if those two Houses ever joined. Sansa was involved in the planning and yet, it didn’t prepare for her the sheer opulence. Rhaenyra drinks from a ruby encrusted goblet as she bathes first thing upon waking. She lingers in rose scented water and then is rubbed down with oils and creams to make her skin soft and fragrant.

Her dressing gown and slippers, both new, cost more than Sansa’s entire wardrobe, including the custom gown she has for today’s celebration. Sansa’s gray dress is embroidered with pearls in the shape of Silverwing, with rubies and garnets forming the flames from the dragon’s mouth. It is—mostly—Stark colors, but still shows her married family. It is extravagant and luxurious and still looks almost drab in comparison to Rhaenyra’s splendor.

The morning is spent with Rhaenyra, an exercise in patience as she is giddy, eager for her wedding and considers every moment until the ceremony a personal attack. The ceremony itself takes place outside, both to accommodate the huge crowd as well as the dragons. Both bride and groom arrive on dragonback, a reminder of Targaryen power. Despite the show, the ceremony itself is heartfelt. No one could watch Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange vows and doubt their sincerity. Yes, this is a consolidation of Targaryen power, but it’s also a match grounded in affection.

Queen Alicent stands stiffly at King Viserys’s side, clad in Targaryen black and red. The red is muted and the pinch of her lips makes her look as if she’s here in mourning, not celebration. By contrast, King Viserys openly weeps overcome with emotion for his daughter.

Indulgence flows freely at the wedding feast. Tables are piled high with food, cups are never empty, and the laughter in the hall is only ever interrupted by music or by speeches. Rhaenyra and Daemon open the dancing, both of them glittering with jewels and captivating the room. Sansa sits with Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting, but husbands are allowed for those who are married. Sansa leans against Jon’s side and watches the couple dance with a smile, remembering her own wedding feast.

“Will you be dancing tonight, Lord Jon?” Mina Strong asks, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“Princess Rhaenyra has already claimed a dance,” Alana says. “It would only be fair to dance with each of us as well.”

They all know of Jon’s reticence to dance and find it amusing. And while Jon grumbles about it sometimes, he knows it’s a necessity. And better to dance with Rhaenyra’s ladies than Alicent’s.

“My first dance is promised to my wife and my second to Princess Rhaenyra, but none are promised beyond it.”

“We should make Jon a dance card,” Laena giggles. “How else will he remember all his commitments?”

“You can come fetch me from the table when it’s your turn,” Jon says, prompting another round of giggles. Jon knows his reputation for being court-averse, and he plays into it, the sullen, ill-mannered man in contrast to Sansa’s elegant lady. He isn’t nearly as brutish as he pretends to be, but Sansa’s friends love to tease him regardless.

“Lord Jon prefers bold women?” Cassandra’s smile is positively wicked as she slants a look at Sansa. “Do you run his life as efficiently as you run Princess Rhaenyra’s?”

“Marriage is a partnership,” Sansa says with false piety, knowing it will cause more laughter. She rests a hand on Jon’s thigh. “Jon recognizes I know best and allows me to do as I like.”

Ser Harwin’s booming laughter dominates the table. There are a few bawdy jokes over whether Sansa’s control extends to the bedchamber before talk turns to Alana and when they can expect the next wedding to take place.

Sansa eats, drinks, dances, and laughs until she isn’t sure she can anymore, glutted on joy. It is then that Rhaenyra finds her. Rhaenyra, who had been resplendent all evening, a shining beacon at the center of the celebrations, a reminder of Westeros’s bright future. Her cheeks are flushed, leftover from dancing, but her eyes are wild, full of poorly hidden fear.

“Tell me it will be enjoyable.” Rhaenyra’s fingers dig into Sansa’s arms, hard enough that Sansa will have bruises later. “Tell me I have nothing to fear. Don’t lie to me.”

Sansa draws Rhaenyra further away from the crowd, though there’s no true privacy in the ballroom. “Prince Daemon loves you. He wants you to enjoy yourself tonight. He wants you so overcome with pleasure that you’ll come to crave your nights together.

“But pleasure is fleeting. He’ll put a babe in my belly and what if it kills me the way it killed my mother?”

Your mother was killed by a weak husband, Sansa thinks but doesn’t say. “Prince Daemon loves you.” Sansa repeats herself. “He will prioritize you above everything. Your pleasure over his, your crown over his, your life over anyone’s, whether it’s his or your heir’s. If you aren’t ready for a babe, there are ways to prevent it. He won’t rush you.”

“The realm will. Westeros needs me to have a child.” Rhaenyra, who had been so bright and joyous earlier, trembles with fear now. “How do you do it? I always thought myself so superior, because what was there in Westeros for me to fear? But true strength is facing fear and refusing to yield. By that definition, you are the strongest person I know.”

“I’m not sure my experience will help. Whenever I am faced with a choice, I ask myself what is the worst that can happen? And then I ask myself if I can withstand it. The answer has aways been yes. And rarely does the worst happen. But marriage, starting a family…it isn’t only myself now. Now, I ask myself if Jon and I can withstand it. And with his strength and support, there are fewer things for me to fear. You and Daemon can be the same.”

Rhaenyra looks as though she wants to believe what Sansa says but isn’t sure she can. Sansa brushes a few loose wisps of hair from Rhaenyra’s forehead. Her heart aches with the loss of Queen Aemma, who should stand here in Sansa’s place. Her heart arches for her own mother as well, Lady Catelyn, who missed so many momentous occasions in Sansa’s life.

“Daemon has already chosen you over the throne,” Sansa reminds Rhaenyra. “All of Westeros would’ve sworn that’s what he wanted above all else, but they were wrong. It was you. He won’t harm you now that he has you. He will love you, cherish you, for this day and the rest of your days.”

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. She smiles as if she can will herself into being happy and unafraid.

“You are joined together now,” Sansa adds. “He will be your greatest ally and friend in the times to come if you let him.”

Rhaenyra nods decisively. “Shall we call for the bedding, then?”

Nerves still linger, but Sansa has done all she can. Only Daemon can assuage Rhaenyra’s lingering fears. Sansa squeezes her friend’s hand in support and then moves out of the way as the crowd surges forward for the bedding. Jon reaches Rhaenyra first and sweeps her into his arms. On the far side of the room, Daemon jokes with the ladies and tosses articles of clothing into the throng as they shuffle him towards the bedchamber.

By lingering behind, Sansa finds herself in the company of King Viserys. Understandably, he doesn’t travel with the raucous crowd trailing his daughter or his brother.

“I should be happier than I am,” King Viserys says. His gaze remains on the doors his daughter was carried through. “My daughter is grown and married, yet, this is not the husband I would’ve chosen for her.”

“The difficulty in being not only her father but her king,” Sansa says before Alicent can poison King Viserys’s mind more. “She is your daughter, yes, but also your heir, and heirs have more leeway to make decisions. They don’t have to be quite so obedient as daughters.”

“Were you an obedient child?”

“Excessively so. It was a source of conflict between me and my siblings.”

“She is too young to be a mother,” King Viserys frets. “I tried to tell Daemon to abstain, but he laughed in my face.”

“They are married now,” Sansa says, as gently as she’s able to. “They are beholden to each other before anyone but their king. And, forgive me your Grace, but you cautioned Prince Daemon as a father, not a king.”

“King Viserys breathes out deeply, kin to a sigh. “The crown is a heavy burden, is it not?”

“I imagine so,” Sansa says. She files this conversation away to use later when working to convince King Viserys to abdicate.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s wedding opens the floodgates. Jon feels as though he attends weddings for half the realm in the subsequent moons. They blur together in Jon’s mind, only a few standing out. There was the Alana Tyrell—Jason Lannister wedding, notable for its extravagance, but the only one he enjoyed was Jorelle Mormont’s. Jon took Sansa on her first dragonflight in order to travel to the North and attend. After the wedding, Jon took Sansa to Wolfsport to show her the progress being made before they stopped at Winterfell.

It was in Winterfell that Sansa put Jon’s hand on her stomach and whispered her suspicions. It was Winterfell’s maester who confirmed Sansa was, in fact, with child. It was Winterfell’s godswood that heard their prayers for a healthy child and bore the brunt of their anger that this child may not be theirs to keep.

Jon has already committed himself to loving this child as deeply and full as he’s capable. Sansa is more guarded, and he understands her reasons. But Jon was raised motherless and then found out as a man that he had grown up fatherless as well. He never knew his father and, given Ned’s lies, he isn’t sure he ever truly knew the man who called himself Jon’s father. Jon doesn’t have an example to look up to in terms of becoming a father himself.

Or…maybe he does. Sam was a father—loving, caring, and fiercely protective. And he did see Ned Stark with Robb, he can still recall his jealousy at seeing them together. But ultimately what will drive Jon’s own fatherhood will be what he had wished he’d had as a boy. So, he will love this child, even if it means a more painful parting.

And, as he will tell Sansa when she’s ready to hear it, Jon has a dragon. The distance between Wolfsport and King’s Landing can be measured in mere days. Visiting will be far easier. She isn’t ready to hear it yet, and Jon doesn’t push. They have both experienced loss in different ways, and the way they’ve reacted is different as well. He is glad Sansa doesn’t put up a front with him, that she allows him to see her rage and her fear and her sorrow. He wishes he could help. He hates to see her hurt and unhappy.

When they return to King’s Landing, the entire capital is buzzing with rumors of Princess Rhaenyra’s pregnancy.

“I will have the tongue of every gossip in the city,” Prince Daemon growls as he stalks through King’s Landing.

Daemon is still Commander of the City Watch and Jon is still a captain. They could be vanity titles, but he and Daemon both patrol, train with the other members, and buy the first round of drinks when they can. Jon feels more kindship with the third sons of minor or disgraced houses than he does with his royal family. Sansa tells him it’s important for Prince Daemon to retain his godlike image with the Watch. A private standing army is nothing to scoff at.

Jon tried to argue once that the City Watch was hardly an army, but Sansa silenced him with a look. And then pitied him with an explanation. Despite being a prince and future prince-consort of the Seven Kingdoms, the people see Daemon as one of their own. The City Watch is almost fanatically devoted to him. Otto Hightower recognized the danger. It’s why he’s constantly trying to remove Daemon from his position. It’s why he had his own son join the Watch, but that has backfired. The men talk about the Hightower who traded his gold cloak for a white one, no honor or integrity to be found.

The existence of the City Watch will make any kind of hostile takeover difficult. Add to that the dragons the Targaryens have and a military coup is all but impossible. It doesn’t mean the threat is over, Sansa cautions. Hightower will continue to undermine and discredit Daemon where he can. Jon is supposed to help mitigate Daemon’s most impulsive behaviors.

Like now. “Our shift isn’t long enough for that,” Jon says. He can’t be certain Daemon is joking, because he has dismembered large numbers of King’s Landing residents in the past.

“Too many people talking about something that isn’t their business.” Daemon kicks a basket against the side of a house. It bounces harmlessly off.

Jon would argue that the future of Westeros is the people’s business, but he understands the point Daemon is making and the source of his anger. Queen Aemma was plagued with complications related to childbirth. This early into Rhaenyra’s pregnancy, there’s a chance she’ll lose the child, and that isn’t even factoring family history into it. Now, if something happens, everyone will know, and gossip will follow Rhaenyra.

“What’s the strangest food Princess Rhaenyra has asked for?” Jon asks, hoping to distract Daemon with a lighter topic. This has been an unexpected boon from the news that both Sansa and Princess Rhaenyra are expecting. Jon has someone to discuss impending fatherhood and pregnant wives with.

“Pickles dipped in honey was an odd one,” Daemon says.

Sansa’s had her own sour-sweet combinations Jon didn’t understand, but thankfully, he didn’t have to. He didn’t have to share her unique concoctions either. His meals are influenced by hers, but there’s no need for him to mix his food the way she does. Lately, food cravings have given way to exhaustion. It’s fairly common for him to stop by their shared chambers and find Sansa sleeping. The maesters and midwives assure him it’s normal, but it doesn’t completely assuage his worries or Sansa’s frustrations.

“I’d rather watch her eat strange creations than not eat at all,” Daemon continues. Their patrol route winds through parts of the city that are rowdy with merriment rather than trouble. “I thought she’d vomit up the babe in the early months, but that’s passed. And I let the maester be the one to tell her eating her weight in lemon cakes wouldn’t be good for her or the child.”

“Unkind of you,” Jon says but he grins as he says it. He’s used the maesters as a buffer once or twice himself. The midwives warned him pregnancy would cause Sansa’s mood to change often and without warning, but it didn’t prepare him for the reality. Her temper is vicious, her sobs heart-wrenching. And her frustration at not being in control of her own responses…Jon thanks the gods every day that he will never be pregnant.

“Have you thought of names yet?” Jon asks.

“Visenya for a girl,” Daemon answers. “A boy would be both easier and more difficult. There isn’t a lot of originality in the Targaryen line.”

Jon is pretty sure history originally had two Aegons during this time, one a son of Alicent and one a son of Rhaenyra, so he has to agree with the lack of creativity in his birth House. Not that Visenya is new or original either.

“I imagine Sansa has lists prepared,” Daemon says.

“She does,” Jon admits, because Sansa has approached pregnancy with the energy and planning she tackles all major endeavors with. “If the babe is betrothed to yours, we intend a Targaryen name; otherwise, we’re picking from the Northern list.”

“You indulge your wife too much.”

Jon doesn’t bother to hide his laughter. “No one could believe that accusation coming from you. Besides, I brought Sansa into my House, but I don’t intend to erase her past or her Northern connections. You have no perspective, because you went for the Targaryen-Targaryen marriage. Most marriages involve compromise.”

“Do you suppose we intermarry because we’re bad at compromise or that we’re bad at compromise because we intermarry?”

It’s a light-hearted question but Jon doesn’t give a light-hearted answer. “I think the power of kings and dragons is why you’re bad at compromising. And the intermarrying is to keep a tight hold on that power.”

Daemon’s look is an assessing one. “Sometimes, I think you resent being part of our family.” He stresses our as if to remind Jon that he is part of the dynasty he so often criticizes.

“Sometimes, I am resentful,” Jon says. He has never been a good liar, and he rarely sees the benefit in it. “And sometimes, I am grateful. It is not always an easy family to be a part of.”

They break up a tavern scuffle before it can devolve into a brawl. The owner, grateful no furniture was broken, gives Daemon and Jon each a pint in thanks.

“Are you upset about the dragons?” Daemon asks, picking up their conversation instead of letting it end with the interruption.

After Viserys’s children with Alicent had dragon restrictions—no cradle eggs, no attempts to bond until Rhaenyra’s heir has a dragon—Jon expected restrictions on his own children. The only child of his who will receive a cradle egg will be the one betrothed to Rhaenyra’s heir. His other children will be allowed to claim Silverwing or Vermithor but no other dragon. Multiple people have told Jon he should be insulted by the restrictions, but he isn’t.

He also can’t tell prince-consort Daemon Targaryen that he cares so little for their House’s symbol and source of power. “Dragons don’t belong in the North,” Jon says. “Most of my children will have hounds or perhaps direwolves if the gods favor us. It’s fitting that the only one of my children to have a dragon will be the most Targaryen of them.” Jon can’t help but shake his head at Daemon’s continued incomprehension. “Have you forgotten who my wife is? I have a front row seat to the power dynamics in King’s Landing. I know why it’s dangerous to allow non-Targaryens and even Targaryen cadet branches to have dragons. I cannot promise that Silverwing and Vermithor will return to the Dragonmont upon my death, but I don’t seek additional power for myself or my family.”

“You could rule the North with a family of dragonriders.”

“I don’t seek to rule the North.” Even when he did rule the North, it wasn’t because he sought power. He was chosen, and he accepted because they needed unity to defeat the Long Night. He has never been the kind of man to seek power simply for power’s sake. His lordship and ties to the Targaryens will allow him to protect the North which is all he’s ever wanted.

“Do you seek to strengthen their independence?”

Jon doesn’t need Sansa here to tell him they’ve entered dangerous territory. This is why he is eager to leave King’s Landing behind. He is not made for the artifice and politics of the capital. “I seek to see Princess Rhaenyra queen of the Seven Kingdoms. My knowledge, my skills, my wife, they all make me well-suited to the North. It is a neglected kingdom, but I am far more worried about Dorne than I am about the North.”

“The Stormlands will riot if we make concessions to Dorne.”

“They won’t be conquered,” Jon says, because he remembers learning House words as a boy. “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. If you want to rule all seven kingdoms, you’ll have to find a way to draw them back into the fold. Thankfully, that will be someone else’s problem. I will be dealing with Northern problems.”

“Do you anticipate problems?”

“Yes. I am a foreign Targaryen making my home in the North and preparing for a conflict that, gods willing, won’t come to pass in my lifetime. I have married a daughter of House Stark, but it will take years to build the goodwill and trust I need to see my mission through.”

“You have two dragons,” Daemon says as if Jon needs the reminder.

“The North can’t be conquered any more than Dorne can. Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon. The North can only ever be given. And I don’t want it given out of fear because it will only build resentment and strife. I want a strong North united with the other six kingdoms behind Targaryen rule and the promise of aid when the Long Night comes.”

“It’s probably best that you live in the North,” Daemon says. “You wouldn’t survive long in the capital.”

There’s nothing to be said to that and they finish their patrol in silence.

#

Having a dragon at his command means Jon can do things like visit Wolfsport and oversee construction without being away from Sansa for long stretches of time. He likes his trips, both for the excuse to escape King’s Landing and because he feels it’s important to personally contribute to his future home.

His future home’s subjects as well as the Starks always make sure his saddlebags are full of gifts for Sansa when he leaves. She exclaims over the preserves or the furs each time and writes thoughtful thank you notes. Sometimes, if the gift is fabric or furs, she will include a sketch of the garment she intends to make.

This time, Jon returns with a wooden, hand-carved cradle. It is a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, Northern motifs lovingly carved into the wood. Weirwoods, leaves, wolves, and snow squalls all decorate the sides. Sansa bursts into tears at the sight of it, not unusual these days as she cries for joy, for sadness, for anger, and sometimes for no reason at all. She won’t let the cradle out of her sight, and she embroiders until her fingers are red and raw in order to fill it with gifts for their child.

When Princess Rhaenyra starts her labors, Sansa makes sure Jon is in the room under the pretense of escorting Sansa to her princess’s side. Jon doesn’t think it’s quite pretense, because Sansa is supposed to be in confinement this close to her own labors. Still, Jon is there with three weapons on his person, in case he needs to interfere the way he couldn’t with Queen Aemma.

The birthing chamber quickly turns into a warzone. Maesters insist on artificial light only, shuttering windows and filling the air with the heavy smoke from candles. The midwives sneer and blow out the candles as they pull curtains aside to let in both natural light and fresh air. Jon stays in his corner, unnoticed, waiting to see if Sansa calls him to action.

Sansa herself sits at Rhaenyra’s side, murmuring reassurances and dabbing at Rhaenyra’s flushed skin with a cool cloth. And then…they wait. Jon didn’t realize how much nothing makes up the birthing process. He regrets the thought as soon as the true labor begins, as Rhaenyra screams and rages and howls when the pain gets to be too much.

Jon doesn’t know how Sansa can be so calm when Rhaenyra’s agony is a preview of what Sansa will soon experience. He doesn’t understand why women ever have more than one child. They may be ignorant for the first but the second? Lady Catelyn endured this five times.

Rhaenyra shouts curses and insults at Daemon, who can no doubt hear them through the door barring him from his wife’s side. The steady stream keeps up, impressive in its variety, until it’s time for her to push and then Rhaenyra only has the breath to groan in agony. Jon can’t pace, afraid of distracting anyone in the room, but he is restless, his body begging for escape. This is not a place for men, not a place for him. There is nothing he can fight, he can only stand by, helpless, useless. He can only imagine how much worse it will be when it is Sansa in the birthing bed.

“Push, your Grace,” the midwife says.

Rhaenyra snarls, but it’s weak, her strength flagging after hours in this room.

“Rhaenyra. Princess.” Sansa takes one of Rhaenyra's hands in hers. “You are a Targaryen, descended from Aegon the Conqueror himself. You are the youngest dragonrider in history, and you will be the first Queen of Westeros. This is your heir. Dig deep, Rhaenyra, and find the strength for your child.”

Rhaenyra’s scream is painful, and Jon fears for her as her voice wavers, but as she falls silent, the midwife exclaims, “A girl, your Grace!”

Rhaenyra’s eyes, half-lidded, track the midwife as the babe is rinsed, swaddled, then returned to her mother.

“Visenya,” Rhaenyra whispers as she accepts her daughter into her arms. “My precious Visenya.”

#

After the congratulations and initial celebrations, Jon finds himself alone with his wife.

“The gods are good,” Sansa says, half-statement, half-plea. She curves her hand over her own swollen belly. “This babe will be a boy Jon. He will marry Visenya and rule as king-consort. The gods won’t ask me to leave a daughter alone and unprotected in this cesspit.”

Sansa collapses in Jon’s arms, overcome with exhaustion and tears.

#

With Sansa sequestered, Jon is supposed to be her eyes and ears at court, but he doesn’t want to upset her at such a delicate time. Unfortunately, she always knows when he’s learned something.

Today, he holds out under her patient stare for a three-count before he breaks. “Rhaenyra’s daughter is named Visenya, and Alicent’s son is named Aegon. All the court can talk about is when the betrothal will be announced.”

“That was the risk in delaying our next move. I need Laena and Princess Rhaenyra, if you please.”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Jon says. At Sansa’s look, he dutifully goes to find someone to take a message for him. He props Sansa up in bed, gathers her lap desk and writing materials.

It doesn’t take long for the two women to arrive. Daemon accompanies them, but Sansa barely looks up from the notes she’s writing to acknowledge him. “Despite being aware of the blood pact, the Hightowers are pushing for your heir to marry Aegon,” Sansa says. “Laena, where are you with your parents’ approval for your match to Aegon?”

“They’re still resistant,” Laena says. “Father says it’s an insult. He’s still angry that I was passed over for Alicent.”

“And he’ll know that Aegon will be pushed outside the line of succession. It doesn’t help I’m sure that your brother remains unmarried. For someone like your father, heirs and legacy are a constant concern. If you marry Aegon, it will be many years before there’s a child.”

“Which is why I want this match,” Laena says. “But no one cares for what we girls want, do they?”

“Remind your parents that a marriage to Aegon is the only way to keep dragons in your line past this current generation.”

“And that they’ll have the future queen’s gratitude for neutralizing a threat.”

Sansa winces. “Don’t phrase it quite like that. Marrying Aegon will keep dragons and the Targaryen name tied to the Velaryons. That should be enough to bring your parents to the table. Rhaenyra has softened King Viserys toward the match, reminding him that he’s the one who slighted the Velaryons to begin with. He will overcome Alicent’s objections.”

“I’ll remind Corlys that I fought beside him in the Stepstones while Otto Hightower sabotaged our efforts,” Daemon says. “And that there isn’t a better match to be had in Westeros.”

“He knows there isn’t. He’s in talks with Braavos.” Laena looks glum and disheartened. “If I have to marry, let it be to a babe that can’t bother me for ten years at the very least.”

Jon frowns as Sansa rapidly writes down whatever this discussion has prompted her to consider. The midwives say some mental stimulation is good and necessary but this late in the pregnancy, Sansa should be focused on rest.

“If I’m carrying a boy, the immediate issue is solved,” Sansa says. “We will have a very public betrothal and send notices throughout the kingdoms. If I do not have a boy first, we will need a strategy. And we’ll need another for Aegon if the Velaryons reject the match between Laena and Aegon.”

“All those plans will wait,” Jon says firmly, letting Sansa knows his indulgence is at an end. “They are all contingencies depending on the birth of our child, so a healthy babe should be the priority.”

“You fuss too much,” Sansa tells Jon, but she gives up her writing materials without a fight. “Perhaps, we can foster Aegon out. Surely there’s a loyal family looking to curry favor.”

“I’ll have the other lades investigate,” Rhaenyra says. “Jon is right. You need your rest. You have a battle ahead of you, one that will take all of your strength.”

“Very well,” Sansa concedes with ill grace. “Are the Hightowers attempting to grab power in other ways?”

“Not since Alicent failed to take my duties with I was ‘indisposed’. Cassandra is at court, and she won’t give Alicent any quarter.”

“Good.” Sansa fights back a yawn, but Jon can see her struggle to keep her eyes open.

“That’s enough for this session,” Jon says. He snaps his fingers and Shadow trots up to the bed and jumps on, careful not to jostle or bump Sansa. Sansa tangles a hand in Shadow’s fur and smiles tiredly as her guests take their leave.

#

If Jon had felt useless during Rhaenyra’s labor, there’s no word for how he feels during Sansa’s. He is not permitted inside the chamber this time, relegated to pacing outside her door, his ears straining for any hint of how it’s going. He knows now that it is a long, painful process, and that there is nothing he can do to assist. He paces. He stands with an ear to the door. He waves off Daemon’s suggestion he rest or Harwin’s plea to at least eat something.

Finally, the door opens. Jon spins around, halfway to the midwife before she can draw breath to speak.

“Congratulations, Lord Targaryen, you have a son.”

“And do I still have a wife?” Jon demands.

The woman smiles and waves him inside. “She’s a strong one, your wife. You’ll have many children.”

Jon can’t imagine going through this again any time soon. He rushes to Sansa’s side, alarmed at how pale she is and at the sheen of sweat on her brow. She turns her head to look at him. Her smile is slow to come and her eyes are distant, far away.

“Visenya has her husband,” Sansa says.

“And you?” Jon presses. “How are you?”

“Exhausted. Triumphant. We should name him Rhaegar.”

Jon’s next words catch in his throat. They had discussed a Targaryen name for the future king but…Rhaegar? Truly? How long has Sansa been considering this particular name? Why didn’t she tell him earlier?

“You don’t think it’s cursed?”

“I don’t believe in curses, only the wrath of the gods. And the gods have given us this boy for a reason. I refuse to believe they’re so cruel as to take him away.”

They’re drifting too close to a conversation they can’t have in a room full of people. Jon pushes Sansa’s damp hair off her forehead and presses a kiss to it. “We shall call him Rhaegar, then.”

“He will ride a dragon and play the harp,” Sansa murmurs. “He will marry Visenya, and, one day, his descendants will defeat the Night King.”

“Just so,” Jon says. “Have you held him yet?”

A midwife bustles over with a swaddled babe in her arms. Not just a babe, Jon thinks, frozen as Sansa accepts the bundle into her arms. Their babe. Their son.

“Hello, Rhaegar,” Jon murmurs. The babe is wrinkly, red-faced, with a little tuft of nearly translucent hair. His eyes are closed, and his little nose and cheeks seem impossibly small. “I can’t believe he was inside you.”

“I can,” Sansa says with a laugh that lacks any humor. She taps Rhaegar on the nose. She smiles as he scrunches up his face but doesn’t open his eyes.

“We have a son,” Jon says, still struggling to believe it. He has died and been brought back to life, he has traveled through time. He’s never been a father before. He never thought he’d have the opportunity. He is a husband, a father, he has a family here, on and around this bed. A family that will grow rather than shrink.

“Here.” Sansa eases their son into Jon’s arms. “I’ve carried him for nine moons, and I am tired.”

“We are partners in this as we are in all things,” Jon says. “Rest. I will watch over our family.”

“Family,” Sansa murmurs. She drifts off to sleep, a smile softening her features.

#

Rhaegar has blue eyes like most babes but they change to Stark gray as he grows. His hair, thin and wispy, continues to grow, until it’s clear it isn’t blonde but silver. Prince Daemon says it’s proof that there are Targaryen features hidden in Jon’s blood. Others suggest it isn’t Jon who frequents Sansa’s bed but a different Targaryen.

Jon grits his teeth against the accusations and focuses on his son, the little tiny human that he and Sansa brought into this world. Rhaegar grows alongside Visenya in the royal nursery with no understanding of how their futures are linked.

Despite Rhaegar’s Targaryen hair and father, his heritage is questioned when his cradle egg doesn’t hatch right away. Neither does Visenya’s and Rhaenyra frets over it despite Daemon’s attempts to reassure her. Rumors swirl about the two babes. There are those who wonder if this is a sign from the Seven that they don’t favor Rhaenyra’s inheritance. Sansa doesn’t worry until the first whispers that an egg should be placed in Aegon’s bed reach them. If dragons made the Targaryens kings, some say, then the first child to have a dragon should inherit from King Viserys.

It's stupid, of course, Jon thinks. Because Rhaenyra has a dragon, but everyone conveniently overlooks her. He wonders how many wish Rhaenyra’s firstborn had been a son so the crown could be passed from Viserys to his grandson, rather than to his daughter? The fact that Visenya Targaryen will marry Rhaegar Targaryen will help solidify succession and consolidate power, but Jon knows dragons would really drive the point home.

In the absence of dragons, they hold a formal betrothal ceremony when Rhaegar is only six moons old. It is a lavish affair, with all the major lords and ladies of the kingdom required to attend. It is ludicrous, Jon thinks, because the babes are too small to understand what’s happening or to truly participate. It is Prince Daemon and Sansa who act as proxies, entering into the betrothal on behalf of their children.

They seal the union with a kiss that they then each bestow upon their child. Jon is anxious for both Sansa and Rhaegar to return to his side. They spend most of their time in the nursery or the Targaryen wing of the Red Keep. This is a large crowd, and it makes Jon uneasy. He doesn’t realize how on edge he is until the doors burst open, and his fingers curl around the hilt of his sword.

The maid who gasps for breath in the doorway is one Jon recognizes. His body goes tight with fear. Did something happen to the nursery? The children are both here—he checks on Rhaegar to be certain—but what could have Marianne in such a state?

“The eggs are hatching,” Marianne manages to say.

Eggs, Jon things. Plural, as in both Rhaegar and Visenya’s. His son will grow up with a dragon. He doesn’t need Sansa to tell him the importance of the future rulers having dragons. Nor does he need her to explain the significance of the dragons hatching during the betrothal. Already, he hears whispers about this being a sign, proof of the gods’ blessing.

There is a rush toward the nursery as everyone wants to witness the dragons’ birth for themselves. Jon pushes his way through the crowd to be at Sansa’s side. She glances at his right hand, still gripping his sword, and doesn’t offer him Rhaegar.

In the nursery, the two eggs have begun to crack, steam seeping out since they’re both still tucked away in their respective egg warmers. Daemon and Rhaenyra go to Visenya’s egg. Sansa and Jon stare at Rhaegar’s as the shell continues to crack. Sansa gasps when a little snout pokes its way through the opening.

“Look,” she breathes. She jostles Rhaegar, who had tried to fall asleep after the betrothal. “Rhaegar, this is your dragon.”

Rhaegar blows a spit bubble and tucks his face against Sansa’s chest as if he’s hungry. Sansa laughs quietly before she returns to staring at the dragon egg. There is far less fluid in a dragon’s birth, Jon reflects. As the pieces of shell drop away, the tiny dragon is revealed. It is black with red markings as if irrevocably stating I am Targaryen. Its eyes, when they blink open, are a burning gold.

“Do we name it?” Sansa whispers.

“Viserion,” Jon answers, as if the name was pulled from his mouth. He knew three dragons in his lifetime; Rhaegal, Drogon, and Viserion. His son’s dragon can’t be named after him or a Dothraki warlord. Is it strange to name him after King Viserys or will it be seen as an homage?

“Viserion,” Sansa repeats. The little dragon cocks its head as if it recognizes its own name. Sansa leans against Jon’s side. “Our son has a dragon.”

He doesn’t blame her for the stunned disbelief. He has a hard time accepting it himself. “And a royal betrothal. Busy day for him.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s asleep again.” Sansa smiles indulgently at the, now sleeping, babe. She trails a finger over his silk-soft cheek. “This is real, isn’t it Jon? Dragons, royalty, all of it? This is our life.”

“It’s strange to think about. Remember how I used to sulk as a child? I was kept from feasts in the Great Hall and now I’m part of King’s Landing’s court.” His son was publicly betrothed this morning to the heir’s heir. It’s a long way for a bastard to rise. Even if he turned out to be a bastard prince in the end. “Our children will never doubt that I love them.”

“I know.” Sansa leans more firmly into his side. Then— “Children? How many do you see us having?”

“Twelve at the very least,” Jon says, just to make her laugh, sharp and bright, as if it was startled out of her.

“Twelve might be a little ambitious, but I wouldn’t mind a large family. Winterfell was always full of such joy. That’s what I want for Wolfsport. Children’s laughter echoing through the halls.”

“Then we’ll have a large family,” Jon says as if it’s that easy. He presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead. “Rhaegar is betrothed, he has a dragon, it won’t be much longer now until we’re in Wolfsport building our home and our family.”

Sansa’s smile wavers at the reminder that Rhaegar isn’t theirs to keep. She bends down to kiss their son’s silver hair. “Soon,” she says.

Chapter Text

Sansa sits beside King Viserys in the sprawling garden and smiles as Rhaegar and Visenya take stumbling steps toward each other. On another bench, Rhaenyra and Laena sit, their heads bent together, whispering and giggling as they watch the children as well. Occasionally, Aegon comes over with a book in hand and an earnest expression on his face.

He doesn’t understand what his betrothal means yet, but he does know that Laena pays special attention to him. She indulges him with sweets, with presents, by reading to him or playing blocks with him. Sansa, personally, doesn’t understand it. She thinks if she helped raise her husband from the cradle she would never be able to do her duty, but Laena has a very different future than Sansa does. She isn’t looking forward to marriage the way Sansa anticipated her marriage to Jon.

Alicent tries to block Laena’s access to Aegon, her only way to protest the betrothal that King Viserys overruled her on. Lately, she’s had less success, confined to her rooms more and more often as her second pregnancy takes its toll. She tires quickly, which the maesters claim is the sign of a robust son. Sansa knows it doesn’t matter whether Alicent gives birth to another son or to a daughter. Rhaenyra is the future queen of Westeros. The Hightowers won’t be able to interfere.

“There used to be so many of us,” King Viserys says as Rhaegar and Visenya collide then fall in a tangled heap of limbs. “I feared the Targaryens were dying out, but we are multiplying again.”

“There is strength in our family,” Sansa says. “Do you enjoy being a grandfather?”

“I wish I had more time for them.” King Viserys sighs wistfully. “I am king, the most powerful man in the kingdom, but I cannot choose how I spend my time. What is power if I can’t bend the world to my will?”

“Is that what you want?” Sansa asks. “To give up sitting on the Iron Throne? To hold your granddaughter and spoil her worse than her father does? To sit with Rhaegar in your chambers and tell him the history of Old Valyria? He understands you, you know. When he builds with his blocks, he babbles to himself. I’ve heard him mention Valyria.”

“I have been a king,” Viserys answers. “I want to be a father and a grandfather.”

“You can be,” Sansa says.

“No monarch has willingly given up their crown.”

“No king in Westerosi history has passed his crown to his daughter.” Sansa doesn’t look over at King Viserys, even though his gaze bores into her. “If you wanted to ensure a peaceful transfer of power and to unequivocally show your support for Rhaenyra, you could pass your crown to her while you still live.”

“It would be unprecedented.”

“And so, your name would live forever. You didn’t enter Westeros into the war in the Stepstones, because you wanted to be known for a peaceful reign. Forgive my assumption, your Grace, but I assume you want that peace passed down to and continued by your daughter. What better way to cement your legacy than to guide it as an advisor to the queen?”

“I could spend more time on Old Valyria,” King Viserys muses.

“You can teach your son and your granddaughter the history of our family. And you have another child on the way. I doubt you’d have difficulty filling your days.”

“I never wanted to be king,” Viserys admits quietly. “I never expected to be. I took the crown amidst tragedy. Ser Otto guided me well, but it was truly he who ruled the kingdoms. Rhaenyra is ready. Marriage, a child, they have matured her, and they have settled Daemon. I used to fear what Westeros would look under them. Secretly, I was glad I wouldn’t have to see it. Now, I want to.”

“You can make it happen.” Sansa has to be careful not to push too much, but Viserys is weak-willed enough that she must push to some extent. She will be glad to leave King’s Landing behind. “I know I would feel better leaving for Wolfsport, knowing that Rhaenrya and Daemon have your full support. It is nearly time for me to make the North my home again, but I have been at Rhaenyra’s side for so long, I am hesitant to go.”

“You have been a most faithful advisor and companion,” King Viserys says. “Truly, a blessing from the gods.”

More than you’ll ever know, Sansa thinks. “My son will marry your granddaughter. He will one day rule beside Visenya and carry on the Targaryen legacy, but my other children don’t belong here. I don’t belong here. The North is in my blood, your Grace. It’s calling me home.”

“Rhaenyra will be sad to see you go.” King Viserys smiles as Visenya thrusts a handful of wilted flowers at Rhaegar. “Do you suppose Ser Otto will remain in his position? I would not have ruled successfully without him.”

“I think Ser Otto was your trusted Hand and Rhaenyra respects his knowledge, but he would shift to an advisory role. Part of forging her own path will be the selection of her Small Council, and no decision is more weighted than choosing the Hand of the King, or Queen in this case. I doubt Ser Otto will leave King’s Landing, not with his children and grandchildren here, but an advisory role would allow him to spend time with them. I’m sure he craves that time, same as you do, your Grace.”

“He is angry still with me over Aegon’s betrothal.” King Viserys sounds dejected, almost like a child in his sulking.

“Ser Otto knows as well as anyone in King’s Landing that the Velaryons were slighted when you took Lady Alicent to wife instead of Lady Laena. It is fitting for your child to repair that relationship. And Laena is quite sweet with the boy.”

“She takes him on a morning dragon ride each day. He’s taken to it quite naturally. I believe it’s a sign he’ll claim a dragon once he’s older.”

All the better for Rhaenyra to be crowned in the next year, Sansa thinks. “It’s the difficult truth of ruling that you will never please everyone. Even when you make the right choice, there will be those who dissent or complain. It is a heavy burden, the weight of ruling.”

“It is.” King Viserys seems to slump under this discussed weight. “Some are born to wear a crown on their heads and some wear it as a necessary duty. It was never supposed to be my time and yet, I wore the crown. Is there anything truly so wrong with passing to Rhaenyra?”

“You have worn the crown far longer than you ever expected to,” Sansa agrees. “If you feel you were its custodian, then perhaps it is time to pass it one to the one born and raised to wear it.”

“Rhaenyra is a remarkable girl, isn’t she?” King Viserys asks, pride evident in his voice. “When she was born, Aemma and I knew she was destined for greatness. We thought she’d be the strong, proud wife who would guide her husband, the king, but we were wrong. She is the strong, proud queen, who will guide all of Westeros. No.” King Viserys shakes her head. “She isn’t a girl any longer, is she? She’s married now, a mother, Lady of Dragonstone. She has grown out of her childish temper and into a woman. She doubts me still, you know.”

Sansa makes an affirming sound but doesn’t speak, afraid of interrupting King Viserys’s train of thought.

“I know why she does. I have wavered too many times and lost her trust. She will continue to doubt until the day I die unless I do something to prove my belief in her. If I gave the crown to her while I still live, she would know that I have chosen her, this day and for the rest of her days, to rule over Westeros.”

“When she doubts, it is your voice she hears,” Sansa says softly, planting the thought in King Viserys’s head.

“And it is my fault she does so. But I have the power to fix this.”

“You do,” Sansa agrees.

“I am King Viserys Targaryen, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and if I name Rhaenyra, not only my heir, but Queen then Westeros will listen.”

“You will have a permanent place in the history books,” Sansa tells him. “Not only the man who kept Westeros at peace during his reign but also during the transition to the first ruling Queen of Westeros.”

“That would be a legacy to be proud of,” King Viserys says.

“Your will be done,” Sansa murmurs and lets the subject rest.

#

“My father, King Viserys, first of his name, has ushered Westeros through a time of uncertainty and upheaval,” Rhaenyra says, her voice steady and commanding as she addresses the gathered crowd. “It was you, or your kin who chose him to wear the crown at the Great Council. He has stabilized the realm, kept us at peace, both within and without our borders. Today marks the next step in his legacy. You all were present when King Viserys named me his heir. You swore your oaths to me as the future Queen of Westeros. The future is now. Today, King Viserys will pass the crown to me, and I will begin my reign as Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name. At my side will be Prince-consort Daemon Targaryen. Already, we have an heir, Visenya Targaryen, who is betrothed to Rhaegar Targaryen. The future of House Targaryen is strong, which means the future of Westeros is strong.”

Cheers meet Rhaenyra’s proclamation. The majority of the realm favors this change and the minority who don’t sulk in silence, very few avenues for protest available to them. Sansa knows Rhaenyra won’t have an easy reign, for there is no such thing, but she is ready for it.

“My daughter is correct.” King Viserys steps forward, his turn to speak. The crowd obligingly quiets for him. “I became king amidst a question of succession. I stand before you now to ensure there will be no question of who should rule after me. I named my daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, my heir and every house swore to serve her as queen. Today marks the first test of those vows. I know this is unprecedented. I know there are traditionalists who grumble at a ruling queen. But today, you will renew your vows, not to the heir of the Seven Kings, but to your queen.”

King Viserys seems to steel himself before he lifts the crown from his head. The assembled audience, packed tightly into the Great Hall, is silent as King Viserys sets the crown on Rhaenyra’s brow.

“I present to you, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Long live the queen!” someone shouts and the cry is taken up by the assembly until the room echoes with the words.

Rhaenyra lifts a hand and the room falls respectfully silent. “I will be a good queen. I will be just and fair. I will take the peace my father has left to me and coax it into prosperity. And I will begin today.” Rhaenyra sweeps her skirts out and sits on the Iron Throne. “Those with petitions, please remain, and I will hear them. The rest of you are invited to Aegon’s Garden for refreshments and entertainment.”

Sansa takes her cue and glides forward to extend her arm to King Father Viserys. “Will you be my escort, your Grace? I heard they’re serving your favorites.”

Jon, more grudgingly, approaches Lady Alicent, who is heavy with her second child. She turns her nose up at Jon and chooses her brother to escort her instead. It had been a long, tense negotiation as to titles after the transition. King Viserys becomes King Father, an acknowledgement of his role in the kingdom and Rhaenyra’s life. He will receive the care and pension of a royal, entitled to the luxury he’s enjoyed as king. Alicent, as wife to a former king, is no longer queen-consort. Both Alicent and Ser Otto had protested, and they almost swayed Viserys to their side. But Rhaenyra stepped in, assured Viserys that his children would be princes or princesses through him but that while he was Rhaenyra’s father, Alicent was not Rhaenyra’s mother and so Queen Mother would be inappropriate. Viserys agreed and the topic was closed quickly after.

The Velaryons, sour over Laena’s betrothal to Aegon and Viserys passing his crown to a woman after Rhaenys was passed over for being a woman, are mollified at Viserys’s children falling into the line of succession ahead of Jon and Sansa’s. Sansa doubts Aegon will ever wear the crown, but if the possibility is enough to keep the peace, then she’ll keep quiet.

Sansa and Viserys lead the procession into the garden, but they aren’t the first to arrive. Per Sansa’s meticulous planning, the nursemaids are already here with their charges. Aegon, the oldest of the three, is the first to notice Viserys and the quickest to rush to Viserys’s side.

“Papa,” he says with a beaming smile.

Not to be outdone, Visenya and Rhaegar toddle over. Visenya picks up speed as she goes and crashes into Viserys’s legs, nearly knocking him over.

“Up,” she demands, extending her arms to her grandsire. From the sticky pink clumps on her fingers and cheeks, she’s already gotten into the sweets.

“Mama.” Rhaegar tugs once on Sansa’s skirts. “Up, please.”

Sansa lifts Rhaegar into her arms as Viserys does the same for Visenya. Without prompting, Jon approaches Aegon. Aegon studies the dragon brooch pinned to Jon’s doublet for a long moment before he consents to be carried. They take their respective charges through the buffet line and then Sansa leads them to the place she set aside for Viserys. There is a canopy to provide shade and a dozen large pillows to comfortably recline on. In short order, Viserys is seated with all three children around him, demanding stories, snacks, and his attention in any way they can get it.

Viserys’s smile is as bright as Sansa has ever seen. It helps ease the guilt she feels at manipulating him into giving up his crown. She doesn’t think he was a good king, but he wasn’t horrible, not like Joffrey. He could have ruled until his death, but Sansa is selfish. She wants to go to Wolfsport with Jon and begin their life there. She couldn’t leave until Rhaenyra was unquestionably Queen of Westeros. Now that Viserys has passed the crown to his daughter, Sansa and Jon can make their arrangements.

It will be difficult to part with Rhaegar, but it’s the best for him and Westeros if he is raised a Targaryen in King’s Landing rather than a Stark-Targaryen in the North. Jon has promised to fly Sansa to King’s landing whenever she wants to visit. She won’t be completely cut off from her son. And, one day, gods willing, her son will be king. She hopes he’ll be a better king than the ones she’s known. Robert was a boor, Joffrey was cruel, and Tommen never truly got to rule. Viserys wasn’t bad, but he was weak and ineffective. It was Otto Hightower who ruled, and Sansa knows they will have to keep a close eye on him. Those accustomed to power struggle to see it slip away from them. And Ser Otto won’t be contented with arms and lap full of children and grandchildren.

“You have your thinking face on,” Jon says. He offers Sansa a plate of meats, cheeses, and two lemon cakes.

“There’s still so much to do.”

“It will get done. And not all of it requires our presence. Daemon won’t let his guard down around the Hightowers.”

“What if he retreats to Oldtown to scheme?”

Jon tucks Sansa against his side, as if he can protect her from even her own thoughts. “The Tyrells are reasserting themselves as the power in the Reach, and they have the favor of Queen Rhaenyra. And now that Alana has married Jason Lannister any move against the Tyrells is a threat to Lannister power, and you know they won’t stand for that.”

Sansa nods. There are pockets of resistance, not everyone is pleased to have a woman sitting the Iron Throne, but Rhaenyra has allies in key positions. Cassandra Baratheon, Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, has her kingdom well in hand. The Riverlands, while prone to infighting, are loyal to Rhaenyra through the joining of House Tully and House Strong. The Vale will always support Aemma’s daughter, and Sansa and Jon will see that the North supports their new queen.

The Crownlands will see some dissent, along with Hightower loyalists in the Reach, but steps are being taken to neutralize the threat. The Westerlands will always hinge on Lannister ambition but, for now at least, they know it’s in their best interest to align with Queen Rhaenyra. And Dorne…Dorne will be difficult. The wayward kingdom may stir up trouble to the north or encourage another war in the Stepstones. If Rhaenyra can bring Dorne fully into Westeros, that would be quite the accomplishment, but Sansa won’t hold her breath for it.

“I don’t want to be afraid all the time,” Sansa says. In her first life, she was naïve and then she was afraid. She doesn’t want to live in ignorance, but she doesn’t want to live in fear, either. “Do you think it’s possible for us to be happy?”

“I already am,” Jon says with such sincerity that Sansa can’t do anything but lean further into him. He continues to disarm her with his honest, open way of speaking. That he loves her is something impossible for her to doubt, even as she struggles to believe it. He twists her up, makes a mess of her orderly thoughts, but she loves him too much to resent him for it.

“Once we’re in Wolfsport, I want another babe,” Sansa says. They have avoided acts that would lead to pregnancy, but they haven’t avoided their shared bed since Rhaegar’s birth. Sansa has learned that some men truly do use their mouths down there and it’s more enjoyable than she thought it would be. She misses the feel of him inside her, though, the knowledge that they are as close as it’s possible to be.

She is greedy for her husband but Jon never makes her feel ashamed or wanton for it.

“All the more reason to leave this place,” Jon says. He dislikes King’s Landing even more than she does. He has taken frequent trips to Wolfsport to oversee its construction, and he is eager to make it their permanent home. It’s Sansa who keeps them here, because she wants to be certain of Rhaenyra’s crown before she leaves. But with Rhaenyra now crowned, Viserys’s full support, and the existence of an heir, things are as secure as they can be.

“Soon,” Sansa says, a promise to them both.

#

“If it weren’t for your son, I’m not sure you’d ever return to King’s Landing,” Rhaenyra says as Sansa prepares to leave.

Sansa and Jon had the time to make plans, to pack, nothing like the frenzy when her father told her they were fleeing or the chaos of slipping out during Joffrey’s wedding. This is a different life, a better one, but Sansa has to acknowledge the truth in Rhaenyra’s words. Even if this has been a better King’s Landing experience, the capital is not a place Sansa wants to be. She is eager to go North and leave the south behind. If it were only Rhaenyra, Sansa would be content with letters, but she is leaving her son here when she goes, and he deserves more than words on a page.

“If that is true, it is only because King’s Landing doesn’t need me anymore,” Sansa says. She knows this is a far more difficult change for Rhaenyra than for Sansa herself. Sansa arrived just before the worst time in Rhaenyra’s life. She has been at Rhaenyra’s side through the loss of her mother, the neglect and remarriage of her father, through Rhaenyra growing into herself and her power. But Rhaenyra has her husband, her heir, and her crown. She has allies and advisors. She doesn’t need Sansa anymore.

“You’ll be here for each of his name days and mine,” Rhaenyra says, halfway between a command and a plea.

“If I am able,” Sansa promises. “And you can reach me via raven in the times in between. I am still your friend, and I will be your advisor when requested. Distance won’t change that.” And, to remind Rhaenyra that this isn’t solely a selfish venture, Sansa reminds her, “I am expanding your influence in the North.”

“I know why it is necessary. I still don’t like it.”

Sansa explained to Rhaenyra the frustration in the North over Queen Alysanne’s decisions. The North is loyal, they will obey their monarch, but resentment will grow if the monarchy continues to make decisions that seem out of touch or prove that that the king and queen don’t understand their Northern kingdom. Sansa and Jon will act as an envoy to the North, a source of communication between the Iron Throne and the distant North. Both Sansa and Jon know that resentment can lead to independence and they’re both focused on a united Westeros.

“At least I will have Laena. I feel as though everyone else has left me.”

“We’re all still your ladies,” Sansa promises. “And as you said, we’ll be reunited each year for your name day.”

“If you’re well enough to travel. I know you intend to get with child as soon as you’re in Wolfsport.”

It’s a touchy subject between them, children, one that must be navigated with care. “I want a large family,” Sansa says. “Jon does as well. Who knows, maybe Shadow will find a mate, and my children will have direwolf pups.”

“I will tell Rhaegar every day that his mother loves him,” Rhaenyra blurts out. She crosses the room and grasps Sansa’s forearms, as if she knows Sansa will try to flee the subject. “He will know, I swear it.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “And I know Visenya has obligations as your heir, but if you wish to foster any of your future children up North, our home will always be open.”

“Will you take Helaena?” Rhaenyra asks, referring to her half-sister, Alicent’s second babe.

“Her mother would never give permission, but if she did, yes. Westeros is stronger when it’s united and fostering is a good way to connect kingdoms and families. Mina and Harwin may send one of their children to us. Jon went overboard designing the family and guest wings.”

“He knows you flourish when surrounded by people. I have a gift for you before you go. Jon told me about your glass gardens.” Rhaenyra, still holding Sansa’s arms, tugs her into Sansa’s solar, which is full of potted trees. There are oranges, limes, and, of course, lemons. It is a thoughtful gift and tears sting at the corners of Sansa’s eyes as she pulls Rhaenyra into a hug.

“Thank you,” Sansa says. “Now, I won’t have to give up lemon cakes entirely.”

“You should have everything you want,” Rhaenyra says, with the kindness of a friend and the naivety of a spoiled girl.

Sansa smiles, because she appreciates the sentiment and because she has learned to keep her wants small. She was once a spoiled girl, who didn’t even realize how spoiled, until she was alone and friendless in a world that wanted to bleed her dry of what little she did have. Now, she has Jon, she has the North, and Jon has promised her a family to fill each of those rooms he built in Wolfsport.

She will not be Lady Stark of Winterfell or even Queen in the North, but she is content to be Lady Targaryen of Wolfsport, wife to Jon Targaryen, and mother to their many children.

“I know that look,” Rhaenyra says, and even as she smiles, her eyes are sad. “Go. Find your husband. There will be a proper sending off ceremony before you go.”

Sansa and Jon will fly ahead on Silverwing, with their possessions traveling with a small guard on foot. Sansa lingers a moment, long enough to press a kiss to Rhaenyra’s forehead. Rhaenyra isn’t a lost, scared girl any longer. She is a queen, a wife, and a mother. She is the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. She doesn’t need Sansa to hold her hand and guide her through her decisions.

And that means Sansa can finally go home.

Sansa lingers in Rhaenyra’s embrace and then searches through her rooms until she finds Jon standing next to an open trunk. She throws her arms around him, startling him, not with her presence but the openness of her affection, something she usually reserves for private moments.

“Take me home, Jon,” she says, her arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Aye, as my lady wife commands.”