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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.