Chapter Text
Sansa l -
The Dragon Queen was idly running a pink sprig of snapdragons between her fingers. She had been delighted at the name when she learned of it, demanding fresh cuttings from the glass gardens whenever convenient during her stay in Winterfell. When the Queen saw Sansa approach, she threw the sprig into the bed of flowers at her feet. The Dragon Queen had come to the gardens for peace and morning. She was reeling from her losses, with only one dragon left to her. She was vulnerable.
"I would give you my son, Your Grace." The only thing she had to bargain with. It was a cruel reminder to the Queen of Dragons as to what she could never have again. But Sansa would be cruel when faced with fiery destruction.
The glass gardens were temperate, more to the Dragon Queen's suiting. Bees and butterflies lazily floated about, unaware of the turning of the events that would shape the world. Sansa would have preferred the Godswood for such important discussions, but she needed the Foreign Queen to feel at ease. Wafts of steam gently rose up from the hot springs of Winterfell, ensuring the temperature of the most valuable resource in the North did not succumb to the coldness that would freeze the very breath in your lungs.
The Queen barked a mirthless laugh, placing the back of her hand on her lips as though sharing a tantalizing jape. Sansa's icy demeanour did not change. A smirk curled across the ethereal Targaryen face.
"Why would I want that? My dragon is my child.. All my subjects are my children. From Meereen to King's Landing, they are mine. Mine to love. Mine to cherish. Mine to discipline." She talked as though this would make up for being the last of her kind, the last of a dying dynasty.
"I suppose," Sansa continued, unimpressed with the older woman's declaration. "I suppose you can remember that when you're alone, sitting on that throne of swords. You will be high above everyone else. High above the world with no one to share it with. Loneliness is a powerful thing, and it can lead down unfathomable paths." Sansa paused for a breath; she needed to hurt this Queen at her most vulnerable point. Sansa knew a thing about being alone and the depravity it could breed.
"Lord Jon told me that a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Once you leave for the South, and Lord Jon returns North, you truly will be alone in the world, Your Grace."
Daenerys' jaw was clenched. Sansa could see the young woman seething and burning. The Queen's snowy complexion was turning red. It was true; Daenerys had made Jon swear not to tell anyone, on pain of his Stark family's death, that he was Targaryen. Rather, he was the bastard born of his uncle Brandon Stark and his brief time in the South. She made Jon swear not to make any claim on the cursed iron chair she coveted so dearly, for his love of her. She made him place his hand on the Heart tree in the Godswood, using what little knowledge she had of the North and its customs. Jon had returned from his aunt that night and wept in Sansa's arms as he mourned the last link to the other part of himself.
Daenerys had made herself well and truly alone in the world.
"Why would I want any son of yours? Planning to seduce your Lannister husband with that frigid cunt? At least it will be intelligent." Daenerys hissed. She was biting to draw blood.
"Because," Sansa said with a practised calm, "my frigid cunt has already seduced your nephew, and my equally frigid womb holds the last of your line." Daenerys does not sputter and shout or claw at Sansa as Sansa suspects she wants to.
"You lie," Daenerys utters. It is not shocking that Daenerys thinks Sansa is a liar because she is, but not about this. Jon once confessed, just after his first crowning, that he was sure he was unable to father children. He cited his death in his speculations. He must have disclosed this to Daenerys as a way to bond with her over something mutual. He held this belief so strongly that when Sansa told him of the child, he did not believe her.
He asked if she'd lain with others.
She had slapped him for the accusation.
"Why would you give me your son?" The Dragon Queen's fire burned out as quickly as it flared up.
"I will give you my son in exchange for our independence." There was one thing in the world that Sansa truly wanted, and that was freedom and security from the South and all its vicious existence.
"I'm Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; it's my birthright." An old, tired argument.
"You will be the Queen of four kingdoms; the Riverlands and the Vale have already sworn to me. And they will swear to Lord Jon. They will not stop your progress, South, and in fact, they will aid you in taking the Iron Throne. We, as a united force, will see it done. You will have conquered from Meereen to King's Landing, as you said."
"I could take it all anyway, Lady Sansa." Daenerys is self-assured and has the right to be so. She has won every battle and conquered every city and Kingdom she has encountered, and until a few moments ago, she believed she had the North.
"You could, with your last dragon, but if that is how we part today without being in agreement, I can guarantee that your dragon won't leave the North alive." Sansa was just as self-assured; she needed to be to face a threat of dragon fire. She refused to let her Kingdoms burn. Sansa had heard it was an excruciating way to die.
Daenerys scoffed, "Is that a threat, Lady Sansa?"
"Yes."
Sansa's head tilted ever so slightly, taking in the small Targaryen, wondering what made men and women fall to their knees for the vicious snapdragon. Power was alluring, and Sansa could respect that to a degree. But try as she might, she simply did not see the appeal.
But the South had no better option.
Sansa liked to know how people acted when they did not think themselves observed. It was telling as to who someone truly was. What Sansa saw of this Dragon Queen was not that of a terrible person. Sansa knew terrible people.
Daenerys was misguided.
But earnest.
Whispers had come to Sansa from Gilly that Daenerys didn't treat the small folk unkindly, though she liked to make a show of kindness by passing out personal belongings and playing with the small children. She seemed to like children. Perhaps from a lack of her own.
And Sam, who studied dutifully nightly, told Sansa that Daenerys would read volumes and volumes of books on Westeros late at night, borrowing from Winterfell's limited library to do so. She did not know the people of the land she was born to.
But she wanted to.
But most importantly, ravens bound for Essos had left the roost bearing messages of the need for foodstuffs and new livestock, done in Daenerys's own hand. Daenerys had made an error in coming North unprepared, but she was fixing her mistake. Sansa had quickly begun to organize raw materials to be gifted to Daenerys's cities. The ships with the food would be arriving in White Harbour in a week. A while after the Queen left for the South, she would not be around to hear the thanks from the Lords of the North.
Daenerys was trying to fix the mistakes she made after first misstepping with the Northmen; she could not afford to do the same with the South.
These are small things. These small things done without onlookers are what measure a woman.
Daenerys' face was that of ice at Sansa's confession. Unknowing what to say or do, possibly considering burning Sansa where she stood.
"I thought you should know at least," Sansa continued. "Lord Jon and I have engineered a plan to…deal with you. Every keep from here to the Stony Step has iron scorpions outfitted with steel arrows designed to break past a dragon's hide to the softness underneath. Manning the scorpions are Westeros' best archers."
"You plan my destruction!" Daenerys accused. Her jaw was trembling, saddened more than angered. Jon was her family, if not by name anymore; Sansa imagined it would be a blow to learn the plots of your family.
"Peace." Sansa raised her hand, palm out, to stop the outburst. "If we were planning your destruction, we would not be talking right now. Plans had been put into place when we heard you landed on Dragon Stone over a year ago. We did not know you or what you are willing to sacrifice to save Westeros." Sansa swallowed, feeling all too hot from the greenhouse air.
"If you agree to my terms, I will be your biggest supporter. And that is no small offer. The Vale and the Riverlands answer to me, not Lord Jon, though they will, once you make him King again. They will help you to the best of their ability and will follow my lead with their support."
Daenerys spun around to face Sansa and moved closer, gazing into Sansa's eyes. Violet met blue, determining the truth.
"Why offer your son?" A calm mask had fallen over the Dragon Queen.
She was considering it.
"Though I don't have the gift of Greensight like my little brother, I know how this ends. It's you on the Iron Throne, crushing all those in the games of power in Westeros. You will hear of my pregnancy, and your Hand will come to you with the suggestion of fostering the child when he is older as a show of goodwill. It will be only a few days, perhaps a week, before he approaches you again, suggesting the parentage of lord Jon. Yes, your Grace, he is aware of who lord Jon is, but he has fully put his weight behind you, or all the North would know that their lord is a Targaryen. He will suggest taking the child as the last Targaryen; this will be said in jest, asking you to make demands of lord Jon as his family. But it is no mere jest; he will believe that the baby should come to be in your possession. You will ask publicly, by naming lord Jon's heir as your own, A way of ensuring Northern loyalty with a Northman on the throne. But lord Jon will not give up his family. Our relationship may be the stuff of politics, but there is no less love between us. I know that he would go to war for me; this has been tested as true. What do you think he will do for his child?"
Sansa paused for only a moment, thinking carefully about her words. Measuring them.
"Jon is a Stark. In all but name. It is only in one way that he is different; he loves like a Targaryen."
Daenerys swallowed sharply before casting her eyes aside from Sansa, understanding her.
"Fire and Blood." The Snapdragon Queen whispered. The words of her house, meaning for the first time, more than conquest. Sansa nodded before continuing, seeing that she had the Queen's attention.
"In the end, you will have the baby, but it will come at a great bloody cost. It will not be you who destroys Westeros, but Jon. He will raze the earth of every Kingdom if he thinks they are responsible for the loss of his child." Sansa reached out to the more petite woman's hand and squeezed it. Daenerys looked at their clasped hands but didn't pull away.
"You say you're no Greenseer, but you have it all planned out. I will humour you. If I agree to this sale of your son," Sansa repressed a flinch. "How would this work? Would Jon know?"
"No, he will not know, nor will he ever; the secret will die with you, the hands that delivered him and me." Daenerys raised a brow but looked thoroughly intrigued.
Sansa had gotten further with the Dragon Queen than she thought she would.
"Jon will be away for the birth and will never meet his son, for his son will come into the world cold and not breathing. Buried in the crypts before he arrives home from a duty that requires a king's hand. We will mourn because we lost our son, and we will move on. The baby will be spirited to you by my most trusted servant, who will leave for Essos after seeing him safely into your hands."
"How am I to claim this mysterious baby as a family without anyone getting suspicious?" A good question that took long pondering.
"There was a maester at Castle Black. I believe he was a great uncle of yours, Maester Aemon. He would not be the first maester to have broken his vows. Claim the baby as his grandchild. Claim that he had a Northern mother and grandmother, for I have little doubt he will carry a northern look to him. But it will undoubtedly be from a dragon."
Daenerys pulled her hand from Sansa and looked away once more.
"I will have to think on it." It was more of a mutter than the commanding voice of a Queen. She had everything she had always wanted within her grasp, but now she had the opportunity for more. What Sansa offered would never be offered again, and Sansa did not have to voice that condition. Daenerys knew hard decisions; she knew choices that altered destiny.
Sansa stepped into Daenerys' space, not letting the Queen react before speaking.
"Daenerys," She began using the Queen's name to form a false intimacy, a trick learned a lifetime ago in a city as hot as the hothouse they stood in.
"The child of Jon will sit the Throne, as it was once his destiny." Sansa could see the repressed flinch from the other young women, reminded of what she took away from Jon. "Either by blood and fire or peace and a secret deal. I simply want to skip the hard part for us both. I confess I am selfish in my desire. I'm sick to my stomach thinking about the wars that are inevitable to come. You have until you leave to make up your mind. If you do, you will proclaim Jon King once more. You can claim it was a test to see if he was worthy; I don't very much care. But there will be no doubts about your actions."
With that, Sansa strode away, not giving the Snapdragon Queen a second glance.
It was with quick steps that Sansa retreated from the glass gardens. She was burning all over and could not wait for the cold embrace of the snow outside the glass walls.
Through the first door, then through the antechamber and finally to the outside and the cold. Sansa stopped but for a moment to take a breath. Air sharp enough to hurt the lungs and freeze water on eyelashes; this is what she had truly enjoyed about her home. And to think, it was nearly taken away from her once again because of foolish men and demonic, foul creatures.
Not wanting to stand out in the courtyard lest someone pull her away for her duties, Sansa made her way to the battlements, where she could truly be alone for a moment. People would think to find her in the Godswood, the crypts or her solar; no, here she could see the devastation and scars of her land.
Pyrès's still burned daily as people were felled by their wounds or sickness.
The only benefit she could see was that Dragon scorched earth was fertile like no other. Crops would spring from the destruction, feeding her people once again.
The clanging of swords drew her attention to the training yard behind her. Down below, young folk, those who were not old enough to participate in the Long Night or were not permitted either by lack of training or their sex, pushed against each other, breaking each other's stances, and throwing their partners to the ground. The yard was muddy as more people each day took up arms. They would not be caught unawares again. Small folk and nobles were encouraged to arm themselves, even though traditionally, soon after the Targarian conquest, small folk were not permitted to use steel.
Their way was the old way, and so moot it be that every person would have a blade in their hand.
On the far side of the mud yard, Ser Breanne was with the wildest of the bunch, Rickon. He had grown some since returning home, but not enough to appease Sansa. He had gone far too long without proper food, years in fact, until he was taken in by the Skagosi. They taught him their ways of savage fighting, never holding back, never surrendering to live another day, the near opposite of her own youthful education in the South.
Sansa could see Rickon growing frustrated at Ser Breanne's superior arm length as she tossed him about unapologetically. This was something they were working on; the focus and calm were needed to succeed. Not giving in to his bloodthirsty instincts to rip the jugular of every opponent. He had the Wolf Blood. But for Rickon, it was more than just a family trait.
It was in his soul.
Shaggy Dog had his head removed by a Bolton man, but Shaggy Dog did not die. He lived on in Rickon, driving the boy to live, to fight and protect his pack.
This was often seen in benign behaviours that were more wholesome than bothersome. He often would go hunting for rabbits or squirrels, not odd for a boy his age. He then would find her, day or night, regardless of where she was and present his prize with a grin. She had yelled at him the first time, but he had only taken her anger as a lack of love for the quality of the kill. The next time it occurred, he presented her with the most lush-looking rabbit she had ever seen. It was snow white and big enough to line the hood of a cloak. She had reluctantly accepted the gift, but she had never seen Rickon so happy. She had since directed him to the kitchen and guaranteed that his hunt would make it to their table. Eventually, her curiosity got the best of her, and she asked him why he kept bringing her gifts.
His brow furrowed in thought for a moment before carefully forming his words, struggling to express his thoughts in the Common Tongue rather than the Old Tongue, as the Skagosi taught him.
"You don't hunt." He said simply, almost sympathetically.
"No," Sansa answered slowly, "I don't, but I enjoyed hawking." A skill her lady mother had taught both her and Arya, a rare thing they both enjoyed. There were no hawks at Winterfell any longer, their roost having been burnt down during one of the past occupations.
Rickon shook his head back and forth quickly, his curled hair tossing this way and that.
"No," he paused, frustrated again at his lack of words. "No, I mean, no one is taking care of you, so I will," he said with determination and a sharp nod.
"I have plenty of people taking care of me, Rickon. We are well fed and very warm here in Winterfell. I have huntsmen just for our kitchens. So you needn't worry about such things anymore." Rickon looks thoroughly perplexed at the idea of not worrying about food, perplexed in the way he often did when he was more wolf than boy.
"But," he trailed off, and his frown deepened. Sansa then knew he was more wolf than boy this day. As concepts and ideas, he should be familiar with, would slip through his fingers.
He had let out a sound of frustration before throwing the three squirrels at her feet and running back out into the courtyard.
Sansa had not known how much of a wolf he truly was until the feast for harvest. Yes, they were preparing for the long night, but they must also keep their Lords happy, especially the more southern of the lot. Soon enough, the nights would be too cold for feasting.
The minor River Lord would not stop touching her, grabbing at her waist and her hands. Pulling at her as though she were a common tavern wench. She had wandered down from the dais to exchange pleasantries with the bannerman, only to be accosted by this lord. No one was watching. No one was paying her any mind. She was trying to be polite in her rejection of the man, but she should have learned by now that men like him did not understand nor want to understand that their advances were not appreciated.
"My lord, as I said," she forced his hands away in a thinly disguised shove. "You will remove your hands from my person." The man refused the shove and began to run his fingers along the belt about her waist.
Sansa could feel her heart begin to beat quickly and her vision narrowing. Her jaw clenched, trying to stop the panic that threatened to take hold.
The lord-not-worthy-of-his-name only laughed heartily and tried to shove a tankard of wine at her, sloshing the drink on them both. The smell was pungent and thick; Sansa repressed the urge to lose the contents of her stomach all over them both.
"You are a free lady now, are you not?" his words rolled about, tripping over themselves to escape his swollen lips and puffy cheeks.
"You're widowed, right? What was that young man's name? Harrold? Hen…somthin' I thinks. Didn't even last six months between you's, right?" He pulled her closer and leaned in as though to share a secret.
"Is it true he died on top of you?" he whispered, almost in a yell. "You off'd him, didn't ya'?"
Sansa felt her calm composure slipping away every second as the man kept talking of things he would never understand. It had been a while since she had even thought of her late husband, Harry and the plots, so many plots around them. The plots that set the boy up for destruction.
She pulled herself away from the here and now. The now was too hard, and her childhood spring was where she would rather be. But she could not let this panic take her as it wanted. No one could pull her out. Breanne was gone far away to slay a golden queen with her love, like a fairy story. Podric, to the west, as she bid him to. Jon had left her once again, gathering allies of anyone who would listen, a captured Other in tow. Her sister was sent far away from here because the kingdoms needed to be protected. Their needs outweighed her own, and the kingdoms demanded her family. They were all gone. Far from Winterfell, far from her. She sent them by her own design, and they were separated once again, and it was all her fault.
All her fault.
All her fault.
The wine was sickly sweet as her husband slumped in his chair at dinner. The wine was thick, making her limbs heavy, unmovable, allowing mockingbird claws to pull at her clothes and leave aches in her body.
Violently, Sansa was yanked from that place no one could reach her. The lord was at her feet, screaming as his lifeblood began to splatter across the hem of her gray dress. The din of the hall was silenced save for the sound of steel being drawn.
The lord screamed and screamed more. The man's arm was between Rickond's knees, rendering the man unable to move. Rickon held the man's wrist to the floor as he took his bronze knife to the fleshy hand. Carving away at it as one would an apple. First skin and then mussel, then tendons. All falling away from the white bone and joint.
The lord was no longer screaming.
The hall was no longer breathing.
The knife was no longer carving.
Shakely, Sansa stepped forward to her feral brother and reached a slow hand out in front of him to show she meant no harm.
"Rickon, my love," She whispered. "Please give me the knife." Her hands were shaking as the knife was given to her without protest. Sansa reached under Rickon's arm to pull him up and away from the lord on the floor. Sansa could not tell if the lord was even still breathing, but she could smell the piss and shit of the lord, adding insult to injury.
Sansa flicked her hand over the mess on the floor before turning around and heading out of the hall, Rickon still in hand. She did not turn her head as she heard the loyal staff of Winterfell hurry about behind her, nor did she look as she heard Rickon inhale sharply through his nose and let loose a spitball towards the soiled lord. She held her head high as they passed the lords and ladies, not sparing them a glance.
Calmly, they left the hall and walked as far away from others as possible. Rickon did not struggle as other children of his age might have; no, he was calm as could be and kept pace with her despite her longer stride. They soon found themselves at her chamber door. Sansa pushed her door open, knife still in hand, and startled the maid who was building up the fire in the hearth. She gave a yell at the sight of the two Starks, covered in blood. Sansa did not have a mind to soothe the young women as she might on most other occasions.
"Bring a basin of warm water," she demanded, but the maid stared on, eyes roaming up and down the little lord and young lady of Winterfell.
"Now," Sansa said strongly and paused for a moment before taking a breath, "Please." She mustn't forget her courtesies. The young maid stood up quickly and gave a bob of her knees before making haste from the room to do her lady's bidding, the door shutting behind her.
Sansa's hand was too tight around the bronze knife, feeling as if it had been lost in her fingers. It fell from her hand with a clatter to the stone floor, and her knees followed suit. She pulled Rickon to her in a tight embrace, muttering over and over again, "Why did you do it?" He did not know what wrath would now fall upon them from the river lands. They would need appeasing, they would want justice, but she would be damned before they took Rickon away from her.
"Why did you do it?" she asked again, pulling away from him, trying to see the boy in the wolf.
"Because he was hurting you." He said this with conviction and without remorse, giving a shrug that was so like Robb that it pulled a small sob from Sansa's throat. She ran her hand over his hair and pulled him to her once again.
He would never be Lord of Winterfell now. It was her and Jon's wish for it to pass to him when he came of age, but that was impossible now. Tonight demonstrated that the human in Rickon was long gone, replaced by a wild, dangerous spirit driven by fear and revenge.
In the yard below, Rickon managed to finally land, what would be, a fatal blow to the Lady Knight. She doubled over as the wooden sword met her stomach. Recovering quickly, Breanne grasped the wooden sword by the blade and yanked it from Rickon's hands. She swiftly swatted the boy on the bottom in good fun. He laughed at the fun the Lady Knight was having at him, looking more like a boy today than he had since the long night passed a bare month ago.
Sansa let a smile twitch her lips, but immediately regretted it as her brief happiness was interrupted.
"My little wife," greeted the smallest Lannister. She had hoped to delay their meeting as long as possible, to deny what she had done for a little while more.
"Have you done what we discussed?" He said all too jovially, a smirk crawling across his scarred face.
Sansa turned her head and stared down at the little before nodding once and looking away again.
She would not answer the one holding a knife to her throat.